Cleared to do serious exercise, I did what my doctors told me to because I’m like that. I follow directions. But I honestly hate exercising with a passion. The only way I’ve found to make it easier on myself was through the empowering music of Beyonce.
Now I’ve fallen into a Beyonce hole, and I cannot (nor want) to climb out of all this fierceness. I needed Mrs. Carter to get me through all of this horrible sweating and moving garbage that is supposed to extend my life. I swear it feels like it’s going to end it. I am not exercising because I want a sexy bathing suit body, or to wear a size two. Nothing crazy like that, I just never want to see another heart surgeon ever again.
So, I’m exercising…begrudgingly, with Yonce’s help.
I can’t do a pull up. Not even one. This is a serious problem. What happens if a wild animal is chasing me through the woods, and the only way to escape being mauled beyond recognition is to pull my fat little body up into a tree? I would only have to do it once, but I’d keep from being some feral dog’s brunch. A little sparkling creek water, a little fat lady thigh.
“Mmm, the gristle is my favorite part of this thigh”.
Why do I have gristle in this morbid fantasy? No, I can’t lie. I probably got gristle on me somewhere. You can’t eat the delicious trash I eat without having lots of gristle in ya body.
My good friend Ciel invited me to do zumba last night, and although I could think of a million things that would be more enjoyable, like having my husband watch me bleach my mustache/beard combo, or a dry leg shave in a public bathroom, I said yes anyway.
Beyonce would be very proud that I turned down wine and a swiss roll for zumba.
I would like to say that I went, and gently perspired while dancing in the most coordinated way possible, but that’s not what happened. I was sloshing my sweat all over the ladies around me. It was like an unsexy version of Flashdance in there. They didn’t realize they agreed to being in the splash zone when they stood close to me. Sorry ladies, you’ll know better next time. My face was beet red while I tripped over my own feet, and swore under my breath. The phrases “my hips don’t work that way!”,
“My ass doesn’t shake like that!”,
“I have no ass to shake!”, and my favorite
“Wait, how the fuck?!” were muttered a lot.
It was pretty much a success. As long as we weren’t shaking, or rolling body parts sexily I did alright. I’ve agreed to continue torturing myself with zumba. It was fun. I like swearing and almost knocking other people over while pretending that I have control over my body. It’s exciting.
I’m going to look so good in my freakum dress.