You in the islands... part 2

UPDATE: 1/20/09 (5 months after this post) I have found "Marie," my little aerobics instructor who helps me pretend that "you in the islands..." And I am learning her samba and "sunshine walk," and "roll-out, roll-out," like a pro. And I found some pilates workouts I like.

It's a nice investment: $8.99 with unlimited 1-at-a-time DVDs and unlimited instant watching activities (haha, i'm a commercial) with Marie and all her aerobics ab-o-rific friends. Soon, I'll dig up the Jane Fonda aerobics queen in me that I didn't even know existed...that's right...I'll become a middle-aged white Barbarella with a mean hip grind...



or a mad mean fish-sauce eating machine...we'll see...

So what does that say about me

Daylight hits my face after a deep sleep and having dreamt about being at a Miley Cyrus concert (that is NOT one of my real dreams, I would like to state for the record), I move a leg.

FRIGAN OUCH.

I am sore from head to toe. My arms ache, my legs ache, I think I've found a muscle that I didn't know existed.

Oh, I am so mad at Bikram.

It is 11:23 PM and you know what? I still feel the SAME way I did this morning. But damn it, instead of being a blabbering idiot about this, what does this really say about me?

The last time I did Bikram yoga it rocked my world, enough so that I showed up to class again the next day. It made me feel refreshed, open, detoxified. This was in 2005 or 2006, about 3-4 years ago in SF, CA where I walked everyday, maybe 1-2 hrs. everyday, without even thinking about it. It was before my pregnancy and before the baby. Before suburban-car-driving life where my only daily exercise is daily chores and any other exercise has to be done consciously. It was before my body transformed into a "post" something or another. It didn't actually transform, it kinda became a new creature by default and reclaiming this skin is taking me some frigan time. I've retained the 10 lbs that I got from being pregnant. I really can't call it a post-pregnancy body anymore b/c my baby's almost 2. And what the hell am I complaining about when I only have 10 lbs to lose??? I live in America for goodness sakes, these people here have like, 100's of pounds to lose!!!

So what does it really say about me?

Am I just a lazy-ass?

Do I just love food too much? (oh lordy do I love food)

Do I not know how to do this?

----OR----

DOES MY FAT JUST REALLY LOVE ME TOO MUCH TO LEAVE ME????

I don't know. I don't know what it says about me. All I know is that if it's hard for me to fight this little battle that seems like a war, I know that the way my world is built around me doesn't help it. But that doesn't mean there aren't ways to climb out of here. I've got my mini steps set up. I guess I just wanted to be bitch-slapped by somebody besides myself and it took Bikram to remind me why this has to be done in the first place, this physical health thing.

So this is my next message to Bikram: Thanks for the bitch-slap.

A Message to Mr.Bikram: Thanks for creating HELL on earth

Somethings don't mix. Like fish sauce and mayo. Like beer and wine. Like Flava Flav and weird big clocks. Like a fatass in the middle of a Michigan winter and Bikram yoga.

Imagine: It's the middle of winter and it's 30 degrees outside and your scarf is keeping you toasty. You're body's 3 months into this weather. Recently, your sweat glands have been nicely massaged by Netflix Instant Watch aerobics with "Marie," You're used to just enough bending where the next morning you feel a tinge of muscle sore.

Then imagine opening the door to: HELL.

It is 105 degrees inside, humidity level probably 110%. Breathing makes you want to choke. Then, you are introduced to the instructor- a cross between Madonna's grandmother and a leprechaun: wicked ripped for her 60+ age, with a face of a beat-up hooker (way too much make-up), and curly red hair that fell all over the place.

And it gets worse. The room is packed. There's a yoga mat every 8". I am the last student. I can barely fit between two old-timers. "Bend, breathe in, breathe out, put this here, put that leg there, stretch, stretch..."

I...Am...GOING...TO...(water)...DIE!!!!!!!!! This thought occurs about every other minute. 90 minutes of this, that makes it 180 minutes of, SHII, I AM IN THE MIDDLE OF HELL ON EARTH. And I paid $15 bucks for it.

But I survived it. Right now I am in my bathrobe, 4 hours later, doing absolutely shit, trying to recuperate. Bitter. Body confused. Internal organs still cooking but toes cold. My sweat glands are in shock. All this makes me want to smack a leprecaun then kick it up Bikram's butt. And I would tell him, "Thanks for creating HELL on earth. And having it curated by a Madonna' leprechaun grandmother."

You in the islands...

So I was young once. And in those days I used to dance. A lot. To poppy hip hop stuff. And I danced well. I danced on tables. I danced on chairs. I danced with friends. I mean, I could do hard grinds that would make you wonder if I really did work around the corner in the dark alley. Only my drunk ghetto dance friend could rival me with her grinds that were done with her hands on the ground and her butt still shaking in the air. I gave her props for going down that far, but I had my limits. Bar floors are dirty.

If you know me you are wondering if I am a liar because most people have never interpreted me to be THAT cool. Where did I do all this? This was all done on the land of Frodo where no one knew me or would ever hear of me again...no seriously.

And why all this nostalgia? Because recently I have tried to combat post-pregnancy fat with a ten-minute dance blast mix that I got on Netflix. The routines are simple. The white girl in it is skinny. Her abs are rock solid. I go with it. But wow, her inability to dance is contagious and soon, I am just a little blob of jiggly things doing a jazz square. Oh lordy.


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