Proving once again that I am not the only person in Greer/Taylors, SC who has taken leave of their senses, 7 victims showed up VOLUNTARILY to personal Torture at 7:30 this morning: Little Bride, Sister-in-Law, Jersey Girl, Demon Diane (aka Hurricane), Shy-Town and Blog Girl (Moi). And, of course, Shona (I used to be a white girl). These are our Shona names.
Shona claims to have been born white and baked black by the sun. This may be true, cause she was singing country songs during class, and not too many bona fide Sisters like country music. She warned Demon Diane and Jersey Girl that they, too, would soon become irreversibly black if they didn’t watch out. They sport nice tans. I don’t know if they’re gonna turn black or not, but they’re both skinny, so I couldn’t help but wish a few wrinkles on ’em. That wasn’t very Christian of me, I know. But it’s hard to think pretty thoughts about skinny women when you’re Voluptuous.
Shona is Voluptuous like me. She claims that her man runnoft with a Big Girl, because Shona wasn’t big enough for him. Brothers like big women, she says. So here is my question: Why is she submitting to Personal Torture, and why does she want a picture of Demon Diane to put on her refrigerator for motivation? There is nothing remotely Voluptuous about Demon Diane. I asked Shona to clarify this, and she said it has something to do with Diane’s shape…her protuberant derriere. I have never personally noticed that Demon Diane had a protuberant derriere, but who am I to question a Sister’s judgment in such matters?
Speaking of Demon Diane…in yet another act of self-punishment, I stayed for her class. When will I learn? There is just something bad wrong with a woman who can dance till the sweat is positively running off of her–and I stand on the front row, so I can see it puddling up–and still have enough breath to cue every move with nary a gasp for air. Casey’s like that, too. I have a theory on this: I think they’re both aliens. This would also explain why they can eat and still be disgustingly thin. I mean, it could be all that exercise, I guess. But I personally would find it much more satisfying if they turned out to be aliens from some planet where all the women are disgustingly thin, beautiful and flat-chested.
Casey was lamenting her almost A’s just this morning. I feel so bad for her, BLESS HER HEART. As I have informed her on several occasions, I would trade my ample bosom any day for her almost A’s if I could have the rest of the package to go along with it.
Just now, as I typed that, this sarcastic little alien voice started whispering in my ear, “If you’d exercise like you’re supposed to and stop eating all those Mega Moo Mocha Moolattes, you’d be fit, too.”
Maybe, oh Queen of Pain…and maybe you’re an alien.
By the way, for those of you with OCD, you’ll be relieved to know that Myra straightened the mats during Demon Diane’s class. Poor Myra…she could be an alien, too, I guess….she is thin, beautiful and flat- chested….and I have seen her eat…they’re taking over!!!
I Feel Skinny Already
Thanks to Casey’s little green book–in which every morsel that passed my lips in the last week has been recorded–and, of course her Personal Touch torture sessions which should seriously be considered for interrogating terrorists, I have lost 1.8 pounds in one week. Yippee!!
This in spite of the fact that I ate like a pig at the trough at a dinner party Saturday night. The day I turn down homemade cheesecake and strawberries dipped in chocolate is the day you will know I have been kidnapped and replaced by a clone. It just isn’t going to happen. But apparently, I was careful enough the rest of the week that I still lost a little, even if I didn’t reach my goal of losing ten pounds the first week.
The last week hasn’t been a good one for writing. Too much static in my life. Also, I am trying–with limited success–to get my body to accept 5:45 Jazzercise. This means getting up at 5am, which would be okay if I could get to sleep by 9pm, but that’s not likely. So, I’ve been operating on 5 – 6 hours of sleep which makes me fuzzy headed and not very creative. If my brain function doesn’t stabilize this week, I’m going back to 9:20 classes.
Someone suggested that I should take one of Julie’s classes, so I could blog her. Let me tell you, back in the days when I first started going to Jazzercise–over at the Faux Greer center–I took hundreds of Julie’s classes. And actually, I have taken a few more recently in Taylors. Julie is a breed apart. Julie is hazardously perky. If the energy behind her Jazzercise routines could be harnessed and used to power cars, we would be forever free from middle eastern oil.
The danger, to the average Jazzercizer, is that that perkiness is infectious. It causes one to exert more energy than one actually has in the tank, which can lead to passing out. This has only happened to me personally twice. Just kidding. But all that effervescence does induce me to over-exert myself. I’m better off with the mean instructors.
Having given you the scoop on Julie, that only leaves me with two un-blogged instructors at the Taylors Jazzercise Center: Donna and Jenny.
Donna is Wendy’s sister, and I’ve only taken a couple of her classes. She usually teaches at 4:30. She gets teachers after school’s out. Most of these ladies, as you might imagine, have frustrations to work off. But Donna is the most serene of all the instructors. This defies logic since she is a school teacher herself.
Jenny is the newest of the instructors. She is one of those young women about whom people say things like, “She’s just so sweet,” and “Isn’t she just the cutest thing!” Both of these things are true, but more relevant is this: she’s Casey’s sister-in-law, and is being trained by the Queen of Pain herself. Just wait. Remember what happened to sweet little Michelle when they gave her a microphone. It’s only a matter of time before Jenny-the-cutest-little-thing morphs into Jenny-the-Jazzer-Nazi.
On a more sober note, it’s been 27 days since my last Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte. Having discovered that there are 884 calories in one of these divine dairy and caffeine concoctions I have sworn them off. I resigned myself to ordering Starbucks venti non-fat mochas instead. Then I found out there are 375 calories in one of those. How do they do that? How can coffee and non-fat milk have 375 calories? I think there is a conspiracy afoot to make Americans fat. Extra calories (probably in the form of lard) are being stirred into everything we eat. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.
Talk to y’all tomorrow. Meanwhile, beware the lard conspiracy. You never know when your physique is under attack.
Peace, out…
Michelle The Maniac
Shame on all of y’all who did not believe that I would actually drag my VOLUPTUOUS patottie out of my soft warm bed at 5:00 am to make the 5:45 Jazzercise class on a Monday morning. I was there…me and the roosters and those folks just dragging in from an all-nighter were awake, along with a few other bleary-eyed dawn dancers. I might not actually have made it, even though I woke up at 4:19 this morning. I made a deal with myself that if I fell back asleep before 5:00, I wouldn’t have to get up. I did not figure in the Michelle factor.
When I first met Michelle, she was working in the Jazzercise nursery. You know how some people are just as sweet inside as they are beautiful on the outside? (A Melanie Wilkes–only not as mousey–not a Scarlett O’Hara). This was Michelle. Butter would not melt in her soft-spoken mouth.
Then, they gave her a microphone. That does things to people. I did not recognize this at first. When she called me at 5:00 (something Casey put her up to on account of I made the mistake of telling Casey that I really felt like God wanted me to go to the 5:45 class because I keep waking up at 5am for no apparent reason), it sounded like sweet old Michelle on the phone. She was all “Casey told me to call..I’m so sorry…you don’t have to come.”
Well, of course I felt like I had to, even though I had just nodded back off. I mean, she was so nice and all. I would have felt like I kicked a kitten or something if I didn’t go. She might have felt bad about calling, and she’s sooo sweet…
Well, Sweet Michelle did not show up for class. On stage this morning was her alter-ego, Maniac Michelle. With a microphone.
Maniac Michelle is a mean woman. She had us doing all those hyper-speed songs that look like someone has a Jazzercise tape on fast-forward. It’s hard to be quick when you’re not fully awake. Well, hard for everyone but the Maniac. She had no trouble at all operating in overdrive. And she was perky, of course, and well, still beautiful, which is especially infuriating when it’s still dark outside and you yourself have porcupine head and pillow case creases on your cheek.
After the fast songs, she did a series of demented pilates pretzel routines and then, the worst, push-ups. To an Elton John song. Y’all know I can’t do push-ups–I’ve explained the whole gravity thing before. The only thing worse than push-ups, is push-ups to an Elton John song. I really don’t particularly care for Elton John. Actually, I used to, way back in the Crocodile Rock era. But his newer stuff is just way too gushy for me.
The Maniac nearly killed me this morning, but she gets and ‘A’ for entertainment, which is, after all the most important factor in a Jazzercise instructor. Does she keep your mind off the fact she’s killing you with her witty repartee, sarcasm, and general stand-up comedy routine? The Maniac was quite adept at all that, and she sang karaoke as well. She’s actually got a great voice, for a maniac. And she had the courtesy to sweat with the rest of us. I just think it’s so rude when an instructor doesn’t break a sweat.
Anyway, I got my workout out of the way for the day, so I have a lot more time to write. Well, until nap time anyway…
Peace, out…
I Hate It When Casey’s Right
Y’all might have noticed, but the whole ‘being accountable to myself via blog’ isn’t working so good. This became crystal clear when, on the first warm day of spring I tried on last year’s capris. Having been hanging in the closet for several months, they had, of course, shrunk a little. You know how fabric tends to do that, right?
So I laid down on the floor and wiggled (Official Jazzercise move) into the capris. Although it made a blister on my right index finger, I was able to get the zipper up. It was a short lived victory, however, because when I stood up, the part of my stomach that flattens out when I lay down came crashing through that zipper. This was not a pretty sight.
Time for plan B.
Okay, so next week I start Personal Touch. This is where I pay money for Casey to cause me great pain and agony and also monitor everything that goes into my mouth because quite a lot of stuff is apparently sneaking in there when I’m preoccupied with other things. It’s a month into spring. My summer clothes don’t fit. I am a desperate woman. Next week, I will be a cranky woman.
I will try to focus on how good being not-so-fat feels. I would tell you that I will focus on how good being thin feels, except I haven’t been thin since I was five, and I really don’t remember. Wait, there were a couple of years in high school when I was in size sevens (and some fives). But I still didn’t feel thin. I have been obsessed with my weight my entire life and I am frankly bored with it, which is why I have started ignoring it and put some of the weight I’d lost back on. I guess I’ll have to go back to being obsessed.
This morning I went to 9:20 Jazzercise and Myra committed an attempted homicide by Jazzercise. I think she’s sneaking in a couple of extra fast songs, because there was one point right before we started cooling down when my arms were tingling and I was hallucinating. I could have sworn there were two Myras on stage. It was probably just all the sweat dripping into my eyes. I think Myra got tired , too, because she stopped dancing and said, “I like to watch.” Right. That’s what instructors do when they’ve worn themselves out. They stop to watch and make sure we’re doing it right. We’re on to that trick.
Anyway, I have an addition to the list of Jazzer-body parts: taillights. I bet you can guess what that is. Today, we kept our headlights up and worked our taillights off. Peace, out…
These Things Ain’t All They’re Cracked Up To Be
Okay, not all Jazzercise instructors are infuriatingly thin, but most are. Casey is, bless her heart. She is obnoxiously gorgeous, but we all love her anyway. But, like most women so thin they have to buy their clothes in the children’s department, she has plenty of growing room in her A cups. She just got a new haircut and some highlights, (which made her even more nauseatingly beautiful) and maybe because of the new look–or maybe because the poor woman is having a reaction to some medication that effects her eyesight–someone in class tonight told her she looked voluptuous. Because Casey has the microphone, and was proud of her compliment, she made the mistake of sharing it with thirty women. Tsk, Tsk. When you’re that pretty, other women will take a shot when they have it. My eyebrows must have shot up to my hairline in mid-chanse, because she promptly told me I could lower them. She has the microphone. In my house–in my whole extended family, actually–voluptuous is a code word for pleasantly plump. When you are chubby and the man in your life wants to compliment you on how you look, he tells you you look voluptuous. It’s a good thing there’s no margin for confusion in Casey’s case.
Anyway, last song she had us doing push-ups. Ahem. When you carry as much weight on your chest as I do, push-ups are simply not logistically possible. Really, they’re not. So I do the modified version. But my point is this: these things are not all they’re cracked up to be. No matter what your husband says, if you are mammary-challenged, thank your lucky stars. Trust me. As a matter of fact, I suspect that all that weight on my chest is the source of my breathing problems. Think about it. My lungs have to lift forty pounds just to get a get a little oxygen. And they get in the way. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dropped food on them. And you can’t buy an exercise bra to lock these things down, I don’t care what the ads say. Large ta-tas are just not practical, so be thankful if you are not voluptuous.
One of Casey’s favorite wisecracks is, “be careful what you say to the woman with the microphone.” I have another bit of wisdom for her: Be careful what you say to the woman with a blog.
The Pitfalls of Dancing Before the Chickens Are Up
Woo-Hoo! I made it to 5:45 Jazzercise. Casey (Jazzercise instructor extraordinairre) graciously offered to call and roust me from my slumber due to my unfortunate tendency to hit the snooze button. What I found out, is that the anticipation of a phone call will keep me awake just as good as the actual call. As I move slowly before daylight–a natural biological reaction to being up at unnatural hours–I have to get up at 5 in order to be out the door at 5:30. I assumed that Casey would have to get up even earlier because she has to get their early and she lives farther away. I was wrong. As she informed me when she called at 5:20, she gets up at 10 after and is in the car by 20 after. Add this to the long list of her amazing feats.
You might be surprised to hear me say this, but there are a whole lot of positive things about 5:45 Jazzercise. The biggest thing is Casey. There is a very short list of people I will get up at 5am for. She is on it. Casey makes me forget I’m exercising. She’s part stand-up comedienne, part aerobics instructor. Also, I like her music choices: she almost always punts in some funk. Casey has a special place in my heart because she was my first Jazzercise instructor, and saw me through a 40 lb. weight loss. (I haven’t gained all of it back. I wouldn’t have gained any of it back if she hadn’t gone missing on me, but that’s another story.) Anyway, she encouraged, cajoled and browbeat me out of 40 lbs, and became my friend in the process. Also in the positive column, there are some great people who show up at 5:45. Connie, who I met in faux-Greer Jazzercise several years ago. Connie always adds a lot to a Jazzercise class. Why, just this morning, she had the brilliant idea that we should shoot all the skinny people. Unfortunately, as satisfying as that might initially be, it would leave us woefully short of Jazzercise instructors. I met my new best friend for life, Deanna, this morning. Deanna is skinny, and she is a fellow Mocha Moolatte fan (although she gets the regular, not the Mega Moo). Deanna gives me hope. One day, when I am skinny, I can drink Mocha Moo Lattes with impunity. Also, fellow blogger Vondra is in the 5:45 class. Her blog (30minutesofwonderful) is inspirational. Check it out!
However, although there are all the wonderful things I’ve been going on about, there are pitfalls to Jazzercise at 5:45. For one thing, I’ve been starving (and eating like a horse) all day. Also, I was yawning at 7pm, and ready for bed by 8, which is just not practical.
Maybe next week I can get my body clock reset. But, tomorrow is Friday, and we’re going to Charleston! See y’all on Monday!!
In The Beginning
So, last night halfway through Jazzercise, when Casey was holding forth about accountability and trying to sign us all up for ‘Personal Touch’ (which I absolutely cannot afford at my current rate of pay as an unpublished writer), I decided to create a blog. I figure, I can be accountable to my blog for free. And there are so many things I need to be held accountable for, not just exercise, although that is a biggie. When I started pondering the list of things I felt like I should do (and be held accountable for), I had a panic attack, so decided to pick the three biggies: making church on a regular basis, getting my oversized derriere to Jazzercise and writing every day.
I’m not an experienced blogger. I’ve read through one or two, but this is new to me and I’m learning as I go. If anyone actually reads this stuff, please be patient with me (and help hold me accountable). For the record, my name is Susan Boyer. I am of legal age, and that’s all I care to say about that. In the interest of fairness, I have to tell you that I have a long way to go to become a skinny anything. I am 5′ 7″ inches tall and weigh…wait a minute…I’ll go get on the scale right now…NOT. I am overweight, okay, let’s just leave it at that until we get to know each other better. Two years ago, the company I worked for for eleven years went belly-up, and I decided that if I was ever going to be a writer, it was now…then…whatever, I’m still working on it. I write most days, but some days I get distracted, going off on tangents researching this or that literary agent, conference or contest. Those are important things if one ever wants to get published, but some days I spend too much time surfing the internet and not enough writing.
Today is Thursday, and I will write for at least four hours, go to Jazzercise, eat healthy and plan what I’m going to wear to church on Sunday so as to have one less excuse. Peace, out…