OH. mygosh. Yesterday, for the first time in months, I pulled out my old, homemade tall wooden box, my old dinky weights covered in purple rubber, and popped my old videotape of the "The Firm" exercise routine for legs and butts into the old VCR. I began to workout my old body.
Did you catch the theme in that paragraph? O-L-D.
I am so, so, so sore. I am walking like Tim Conway's old man character on the Carol Burnett show. This morning, I opened a piece of gum and threw the wrapper away and watched it float breezily past the rim of the trash can and land on the floor. I just stood there, estimating the pain I'd have to go through to pick it up. I decided the house wouldn't implode if I left it there while I was at work all day. And going to the bathroom--I can lower just so far, and then it's a muscle spasm free-for-all; I just drop and howl. And nothing makes you look or feel older than getting in and out of a Camaro while moaning and groaning about your achin' muscles. Oh the pain. And the longer I sit, the worser I git.
I'm not a mean person who holds grudges, but by the end of these tapes, I could seriously beat up the instructors in their white '80s leotards with their belts and slouchy socks and permed hair. I feel like I've been a slave on one of those boats where the mean guy cracks the whip and yells, "Row!" when the slaves are dropping like flies. These perky women have no mercy. Not even those whip-crackers smiled and hollered, "Feel the burn!" to those poor slaves, but these aerobic Flashdance instructors growl it at you over and over.
Children, what is the moral of this story? Forty-four year old women don't realize what those numbers mean. Before they jump up on their tall boxes, they should have to sit down and count out forty-four Cheerios, forty-four buttons and forty-four marbles so that they can get a visual about how many years old their bodies actually are. And then they could proceed at their own risk.
"The Firm" ad says you can see a visible difference after 10 workouts, but the way my backside feels tonight, I could swear that one session miraculously lifted my heiny clear up to my shoulder blades. I'm done.
Bonus Picture: Today is Zoe's 5th birthday. She's my wittle Beanie Baby that came to life! Think of this as a "Shoebox Greeting:"