Dance Fever

Cardio is one of the vital exercises that contribute to weight loss. I wrestle with my metabolism which seems to be winding down like a wheezing tortoise with a flat. I determined not to be those wives that allow themselves to get tubby just because they agreed to love through thick and thin and for better or worse. I am going to keep fit for as long as I can, because as soon as I start popping out those snot nosed ankle biters, it’s all down hill. I want to savor the morsels of being fit and slender and in control, because muthahood is right around the corner and than I will declare war on my kids and my body fat.

I’ve been taking hip hop classes three to four times a week for the past two months. Personally, I have fallen head over heels with the art. I would never have thought in a thousand dog years that I’d be taking dance lessons. It helps me to focus! Muscle memory versus living in my cerebral temple. Muscle memory occurs when we practice things enough times until we can do them automatically, without conscious thought. See each move and tick includes simultaneous leg, hand, head, booty movement in counts of 8 seconds. A mere hesitation on your next move, and you will find yourself blurred in a whirlwind. Not only is it challenging, but it allows me to embrace the fact that it’s totally chic to be imperfect. The first few weeks, I was definitely a loaf. Just when I thought I knew my left from my right and up from down as sure as the sky was blue, I was a dexlexic defect. Literally. For some odd reason, I did everything backwards or opposite. All due to analyzing the next move in my cabeza.

Secondly, it’s amazing to be surrounded by a medley of styles and impressions. My favorite aspect of hip hop is that your allowed to put your personal pizzaz on the basic moves. Your allowed freedom, yet in synchronicity. The adults that attempt to keep up with modern culture speckle the mesh of dancers. There’s a few children in the mix bumping and grinding to the provactive lyrics as their parents watch on from their seats. The two front lines are the spotlighters young, fresh and feisty their ghetto fabulous gear bling, strutting their “I wanna be a backup Usher dancer” attitude.

I found comfort in the last row, but soon realized that I could never see the instructor, which explained why I was always lost. Eventually the teacher eased me to switch lines and move forward, but I was a like a tick on a dog’s back, I wouldn’t budge. Are you kidding? I didn't want to at my reflection in the mirror doing all these fly moves. A month and half flew by and I’ve removed the cobwebs from my confidence cabinet and moved forward two rows up to the far left of the room. In the past two weeks, two teachers had pat me on the back on my progress as if I had just been potty trained. In a room of about thirty dance maniacs, I didn’t think that they’d notice.

I would highly recommend a hip hop class to anyone young or old. It deflates stress and puts a smile on your face. It increases your heart rate. It's hot and sexy. It triggers laughter. What is better than shaking your booty at the end of a long hard day? I feel that humans should dance and laugh more, it will bring them eternal joy and a slim waistline!

Lesson: Grasshoppers always remember that line dancing are for maggots and leave the jitter to the bugs and the hop to the bunnies, but always remember that determination is for everyone.

Let it Snow!

The past few weeks have been an enormous holiday snowball of tree trimmings, spiked eggnog, buttered rum, warm company and good cheer!

Flashback:

1977 December

Dear Santa and reindeers,

Hi. I been good. I went to church every sunday accept that Sunday my stomach was sore. I help mom do the dishes and laundry. Daddy spanks me when he is mad. He is mad a lot. Laurie pulls my hair and kick me off the top of the bunk bed. My brothers hit (not my youngest brother Nolan). Steven chases everyone around with knives when mommy and daddy are not home.

For Christmas, please can daddy be happier? Please make mommy rest more. My brothers stop hitting and calling me dubm? Please make me strong so my sister will stop being so mean. Um and please make Steven stop playing with knives & please help him to control his temperature. Oh and please look over my sister Mabel she does not live with us. If you can, I would really love jacks for christmas. Thank you.

Love,
Shellie

I love Christmas, because it’s a time for jubilation, kindness, enlightenment and forgiveness. Christmas provides me with a moment to overlook all the bad, foul, and the ugly. It helps me to remember and to never forget. Humble. It’s a time to put my qualms in check and move forth. I wish others the best in good thoughts and intentions and peace of mind.

Lesson: Grasshopper should always look both ways when jumping.

All I Want for the Holidays...

Shane’s been under the gun in search for the perfect gift for me. So much so that his teeth are going to rot and fall out and his eyeballs are going to shrivel up and plop out of sockets, if he doesn’t stop these ridiculous stress seizures. I don't want anything for Christmas. What could I ever want? He's fluent in managing my bliss. He flipped the coin for our wedding. He's building our dream home. Plus, he volunteered to be my prisoner for life without any coerce. I know, hurl on my circus, I'm getting soft! But really, he's pretty much covered me for the next ten years...well, alright maybe for the next five years. Giggle.

Flashback: April of ninty four roommate's friend inquires on my whereabouts the Tuesday of last. He vaunts that my boyfriend was at DNA with an asian girl. My hearts sizzles on a dirty griddle. Cursed! Damnit heaven and hell! I've caught my cute boyfriend with english accent in a lie. I psychotically page him, if I could I would have paged him many series of f*ck you(s), but instead settled for numerous 911(s). He finally calls with calm tones of "lets talk about this your jumping to conclusions". I threaten his illegal existence with deportation subsequent to my snipping his balls off first. Finally, he admits to the two year affair. Indeed, three months into our two year relationship. Instantly, rearing it's wretched head from the depths of my darkness is the lunatic female. Pity the next few boys after this guy for they have suffered the wrath of my new enemy; insecurity.

I have found the best heart to burrow my happiness into. I have a man that makes me laugh in the middle of the night, because he converses in flatulence. He adores me even in the shadow of my dorkiness like when I purposely sing off key just to drive him up the wall. My husband lets me cry when I'm feeling down and engulfs me in his arms and tells me that tomorrows a new day. Indeed, he listens to my whims, whines, and worries and his candidness, most of the time, is sincere. He is my neutral when my PMS is in overdrive.

All I have ever sought is simplicity. Just when I thought aliens didn't exist, he entered my galaxy. I am thankful, because everyday with him is a holiday.

Lesson: Grasshopper if you can grasp that a knot is just a series of circles and loops than you will solve the meaning of life.

The Gift that Keeps on Giving

There’s been many medical studies where in fact, the holidays raise the bar for blood pressure, bankruptcy, bad credit, divorce rates, wrinkles, gray hair, waistline, and depression.

I, myself, have discovered the stress that consumes others. Since I suffer from Shop Paux, the uncontrollable urge to purchase beyond any sane means, shopping for the holidays has been quite difficult. For instance, as I shop for loved ones I suddenly feel the magnitude of the shoe department howling to me like a sick curse, “Look at me! Try me on! I’m uncomfortable! I will slender and shape your calf muscles! Oo la la.” Suddenly those sleek torture chambers are sitting in the front line of my closet like a marine waiting for battle. Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes Shane keeps discovering new coats, handbags, boots hidden way in the back of my closet like a bulemic hides her stash.

Random thought: I wonder if I’m a direct descendant of Imelda Marcos? Gulp.

Naughty. Hiss. Shame on me. In the past two weeks, my wardrobe has increased by a third. My wardrobe is like a wet Gremlin, it just keeps multiplying. This is why it is impossible for me to go through the holidays without positive reinforcement. I’m that junkie that requires all the fix’ns. When do I say enough is enough? Truly? Like what is my damage? Am I causing any damage?

Flashback: Please Mom, I really want these jeans? Please. Please? Please. I pleaded like I hadn’t been fed in weeks and these jeans was my breadstick. All the girls were wearing the horse with the wind blowing through its mane. This was an absolute imperitive; Code Red. I could feel my jaw tighten and a pout was mere nanosecondth away. Mom looked at me and said, “Twenty dollars? Child, it is not what you wear, but how nice you are on the inside. What good is all this when you can’t take it with you when you die.” She yanked my hand and plucked me from profanity. I felt myself shrink like salt on a slug.

Drop the phone. Save your Dr. Phil schpeel for the masses. I don’t have to create a crop sign to know why I find shopping so centering. There are worse things in the world like finding little boys attractive, or vegetarians or even more vile, vegans. I am very generous at heart so I like to nurture my inner child, who doesn’t?

Lesson: Grasshopper you can bundle yourself in a thousand fine silk threads, and it will never be as rich as the kindness you show others.

Christmas is Coming!

Christmas is my all time favorite holiday. Christmas is like warm chamomile wrapped in cashmere. From the cold crisp air to the scent of the Christmas tree to the warmth of a fireplace to the department store display windows, it’s definitely my favorite time of year. It helps me to overlook matters that are absolutely trivial like who invented sugar cubes and where do sugar cubes come from? Instead, I reflect on what is conducive to a happy lifestyle, perhaps another pair of wedge heels before they go out of style next season.

Flashback: A week before Christmas, I was a senior in high school and I couldn’t wait to bust loose from this small town mentality. The rage against all conformity was at full blast. I spat on corporate capitalism and the U.S. Government. I despised fashion and cigarettes. My first boyfriend was an athiest irish punk rock kid with a six inch mohawk whose mom's been married seven times. Finally, I refuted the birth of Christ and all his miracle whip. Mom attempted an indirect exorcism and prayed to Jesus and all his cronies to chase the evil that grows in my heart like a black weed.

Shane has come to loath the holidays. He can’t see beyond the assault of shopping madness. Secondly, he's allergic to previous engagements, hence the succession of christmas events really cramps his style for spontaneity. He suffers from "Giftolitis" which come with a trainwreck of symptoms such as abdominal discomfort, tightness in the chest, diziness, frequent urination, the inability to concentrate, insomnia all due to the pressure of finding the perfect gift and getting it shipped out on time. The pressure he puts himself under? It's amazing he's still regular much less seize the spirit of Christmas. As my mom always said, "it is not about the gifts, it's about the birth of Christ." I'm not a full hundred percent about the birth of christ, but I concur on the the gift aspect.

I am hoping that I can provide Shane the luxury of peace of mind this year and years to come.

Lesson: Grasshopper, always stand upright like cardboard when standing stark naked in the falling snow and it will warm your heart forever.

Wash that Lazy out of my Hair!

Time and time again, I need a reality check like I need my two front teeth knocked out a me. Living in the "all about me" mentality can really get ugly. Once in a while, if I'm lucky, I'll catch myself committing one of the mortal sins; taking my husband for granted.

While we moved into our new house, Shane did most of the lifting, the transporting, the unpacking, the cleaning. Meanwhile, I assisted in the move, he did the bulk. I admit that I am a sofa spud, and I do things at the pace of a slug. I can’t help it? I was born that way. Shane is no couch superstar. On the contrary, he is, to say the least, a hard worker that gives his 110%. If I turn my selective hearing off, I can muster up his distaste for my sloth style. I, on the other hand, am not that appealing. I enjoy leaving each stone unturned. I embrace my disorder like it was my first born.

He has always supported my delusions I like to call extracurricular activities. After returning from hip hop class, I walk into a home that was absolutely cozy clean. Shane, in his work ant mode, has been busy putting away the pantry goods, categorizing my wardrobe, breaking down boxes, sweeping, cleaning the counters. As I seek my daily cardio workout, he's been at home making sure our house was a home. I am a piece of turd on a stick. I have sinned on the highest level of all sins. I am guilty of being a lazy lard.

I have to do something quick! This is just not cool. I will try my best to make his life easier and you know that I will have to struggle, but it is something that I must do to rid me of this guilt. I need to make my sweets happy with joy.

Lesson: Grasshopper must always wash, rinse and repeat in order to achieve ripeness.