Let's Do the Twist

The hubs and I have never been on vacation together. Alone. Sure, we've taken weekend trips to the mountains and went camping, but we have never really had a holiday where we can kick back, relax and pretend we aren't married. With children.

It's been a long time coming. Yet, after ten long happy years of marriage, three kids and a mountain of debt, the time has arrived. This winter, my Boo and I are planning on jetting off to someplace warm and tropical to do absolutely nothing but drink martinis, play in the sand and do some serious people watching from underneath our palm tree.

Good times, my friends, good times.

However, a trip such as this requires planning. Boo has yet to get his passport, we are still arguing over where our actual destination may be and we haven't even thought about where our children are going to go while we frivously cavort on some tropical beach.

As long as they're not with us, I'm a happy girl. I mean, it's hard to act romantic and sexy when your ten year old son is kicking sand in your face and your daughter is playing chicken with the ocean waves.

Because time has taken it's toll and we aren't as young as we once were (re: I'm fat and wrinkled) we've both taken action to try and better ourselves. I don't want to be the fat girl on the beach. The one everyone diverts their eyes when I walk past them.





She was pregnant. I AM not.

We've hit the gym. Separately, of course. He pumps iron up north while I jiggle my way to fitness out here in the sticks. Boo is taking this fairly seriously. He's not in bad shape to begin with (because the asshat never had to squeeze three large babies out of his nether regions) so he's primarily sweating for sweat sake.

Unlike me. Whose belly button is slowly stretching across her abdomen, threatening to swallow her whole. However, unlike him, I'm not taking this so seriously. Sure, I joined a gym and am trying to quit smoking. (I could try harder I admit...) I'm actually going to the gym on a regular basis. Four times a week. Me and my geriatric fitness freaks, sweating to the oldies.

Good times.

But unlike Boo, my heart isn't in it. Because unlike Boo, I'm physically unfit and enjoying the jiggles every time I move. They bring me comfort. I never feel alone when I'm feeling the ripple with my lard.

However, as an olive branch to my darling husband, who works tirelessly to support me so that I may sit around, read blogs and eat till my jiggle is content, I go. I bitch about it the entire time, but still, I go. After all, I'd much rather be the hot chick in the bikini on the beach than the pasty white girl who looks like an advertisement for why people should just put the donut down.





So I may be raising the bar a little high. But a girl can dream, can't she?

Until yesterday. The kids and I had optometrist appointments and I didn't feel like getting up at the crack of dawn just to go and sweat. I figure Boo will be home this weekend for four days, I'll get my exercise then. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Like he does every day, he called at noon to see how my workout went. Nothing like cracking the whip through the phone.

He handled it well when I told him I was skipping a day due to parental obligations. Or at least I thought he did, until he made some passive aggressive remark about how it was my body, and I'm the one who is going to have to walk around in the bikini, looking like that.

Excuse me? What the fuck?

"What does that mean, dickhead?" I asked, slightly hostile.

"Nothing. I would just think you would want to look your absolute best if your going to walk around wearing dental floss on some beach where other people can see your body." He's back pedalling now, but not nearly as quick as I'd like.

"And just what is wrong with my body, Mr. Schwarznegger?"

"Nothing. Sheesh. Don't get all defensive. You know I love you no matter how you look." Keep pedalling my darling asshat.

"And just how do I look? Do I embarrass you? Is my ass too wide? Because I'd like to see what you look like after carrying three kids--"

"Hold up," he interjects. I could tell I had him by his grapes now. "YOU asked me to make sure you go to the gym and hold you accountable for your actions. I'm simply trying to be your cheerleader. You know I think you look great, I like the extra weight you've put on, your boobs are fantastic-"

"Did you just call me FAT???," I screeched into the phone.

"Sigh." There was a moment of silence on his end of the phone while he tried to evaluate where the hell he went wrong to begin with.

"Because it's not exactly like you are Mr. Fitness yourself. You're no Daniel Craig in a speedo my friend."





My kind of candy. Yummy.

"I never said I was. Sheesh." He was sounding awfully resigned now. "You just said you wanted to look you best-"

"Are you saying I don't?" I can't help myself. I know I'm egging him on, but he just makes it so damn easy.

"No. Look, I've gotta go. Somebody glued their hardhat to a door knob or something. I'll call you later. When you're rational." Oh, a parting shot. He's getting feisty on me.

"So now I'm fat AND crazy, eh?"

Click.

All right. Perhaps my body image is a sensitive issue. Most thirty-something mothers don't prance around in bikinis on a regular basis. Perhaps instead of twisting my husband's words to watch him dangle in the wind, I should get my ass to the gym and twist my body into some yoga-like position.

But it's just not as much fun.

Maybe I'll just buy a caftan and do my best Mrs. Roper imitation. Let some other chick worry about stretch marks, jelly roll bellies and dimpled thighs.





Come to think of it, I see a resemblance.

After a few drinks, I'm sure they'll all start to look the same any ways.


***Edited to Update***Y'all seem to have this delusional idea that I'm tall and thin and would rock the bikini. While I appreciate the (deluded) cheerleading, let me tell you, the rolls that hang around my middle and the dimples on my ass can attest to just how out of shape I have become. While things can always be worse, and I could look like one of my aunts (four feet tall and three hundred pounds), things could definetly be tighter, toned and more fit.

Which is what I'm working towards. Right after I have my iced cappucino and cheese croissant. Wink, wink.***

Feeling the Pain

I used to enjoy being physically active. Back in the days when I was svelte, childless and free to pinch any man's ass. It was not a big deal for me to strap on my running shoes and go pound pavement. All through my school years I was the track star. If I wasn't running in circles on a track you could find me dribbling a ball and shooting hoops on a court.

Slowly my enthusiasm for sweat started to deteriorate. Somewhere around the third child. It became progressively harder to motivate myself to move. Why get up early to go for a jog when I would be running my ass off all day chasing small children?

It's been a few years since I've swung a bat, tied up my laces or treaded any water. Since Bug's passing, I've become a model couch potato. My cushions on the sofa can prove it. Unfortunately, so can my ass cheeks. Which have slowly started to spread and recently, I've heard murmurs of a plan for global domination.

To the outside world, I look fit. That would be because I squeeze my lard-like thighs into a denim casing and hope that I don't rip a seam. Which I did this weekend. As I bent down to pick up a hammer, I busted out of my pants. Literally. Good thing I was wearing underwear or it could have been really ugly...

But looking trim and being fit are two different things. I can always buy bigger pants and a stronger girdle. (Shudder.) However, that isn't going to help me stop huffing and puffing up my drive way or allow me to actually bike ride with my kids without wishing for a car to run me over and put me out of my misery. Anything to stop the pain.

It is time to embrace fitness. In actuality and not just theory. Time to get off my duff and start moving before the jelly rolls I call my stomach stage a coup d'etat and start a cult worshipping the donut. It is time for me to join a gym.

So I did. Reluctantly. And petulantly. While wishing I was one of those trim beings who could inhale whatever they wanted and still look like a starving supermodel.

As I was filling in my application form, I eyed the few people who were working out. There was one girl who looked like Twiggy. Bitch. The few others ranged in ages forty upwards. That would work. Surely I could run circles around the grannies.

Right? Wrong. Those seniors could beat me down with one osteoporosis-riddled bony arm tied behind their back. I decided that is how I want to be when I grow up. A pumped up Grannie.

Focusing my attention back to the forms before me, I dutifully filled in the questions about my health and lifestyle.

What inspired you to pay an arm and a leg to join our gym and publicly humiliate yourself amongst others?

The jiggling of my ass kept calling to me. I couldn't make out if it wanted me to go to a donut store or join a gym, so I just took a stab in the dark.

What results are you looking to achieve after months of dues being taken out of your account without you actually darkening our door?

I'm hoping to be able to bend over with out splitting my pants in front of my husband ever again. He's likely to laugh about that and hold it over my head for a long time. It wouldn't hurt to be able to actually be able to walk up my drive without huffing like I just ran a triathlon either.

What part of your body would you like our trained professional body Nazi's to target and beat into shape for you?

Any part that jiggles. Except my boobs. I've grown to love my new B-cup status. The fat seems to firm them up and they don't droop as low as they once did.

Scanning the documents to see if I answered all the questions and signed my life away entirely, I handed the papers back to the fitness guru standing before me. I handed over my credit card, made a mental note to buy some yoga pants that fit and a new sports bra and looked around for the exit.

My jelly rolls need to be eased into activity. Right now they think exercise is something I do in the dark, in bed when my husband is home. I want to break it to them gently.

I figured I'd start on Monday. I was winded just by signing the credit card charge. I don't want to overdo it right off the hop and experience any permanent damage.

Hand Me a Paper Bag Will You?

I'm not a comfortable hostess. Shocking, I know. The thought of people other than my children or my husband coming into my home, my space, makes my blood pressure rise and my boobs droop.

Well, okay, my boobs droop any ways, but I like the idea of blaming it on visitors.

When we planned the floor design for our home, we thought for about a split second of having a guest room. And then I laughed merrily and thought why encourage people to stay over? Our home is a comfortable size, it fits me and my family nicely.

But there is no room for others.

Others that plan on spending the night, using my shower, poking about in my pantry and finding my hidden alcoholic stash.

Which is why I'm sitting here, breathing deeply, trying not to obsess over the fact that for the first time in our ten plus years of marriage, we are having overnight guests. For two nights. Three days. In my home. My home with no basement and no place to hide, except perhaps in the back of my closet behind Boo's seldom used suit.

Deep breath.


 

I love Boo's family. Really. I do. (I keep chanting this in my head, it's become my mantra.) It's just that I have never had to share space with them in my home. Sure, I've drunkenly imbibed while playing board games at their homes. Sure, I've stumbled on more than one occasion into their guest bedrooms and used their guest linens over the course of the years, but I've never invited them to return the favour on my turf.

Because I was smarter than that. Until now. Dammit.

So with eight adults and twelve kiddies set to arrive in a mere few hours, I'm hyperventilating. Where the hell am I going to put everybody? With no guest rooms. In my small house.

Double damn.

In my head, I know this will work out. I'm kicking all but the youngest kiddies out of the house and banishing them to face the wilderness in my yard. With nothing but a nylon tent and a flashlight between our precious children and the beasties that like to call my yard their home. I figure they can run fast. The kids that is. I'm hoping the beasties will mosey like drunken, disoriented creatures.

I'm going to refrain from mentioning that Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever, and I saw a brown bear mosey through our woods not more than thirty yards from where we stood scratching our asses on Tuesday.

What they don't know won't hurt them, right?

That's right. I'm setting the kiddies up to be bear bait. Could I be a better mother and auntie?

Boo came home in the middle of the night last night, to lend his support and serve as barbeque-er extraordinaire and official bartender for the masses. He's good like that. He knows I would have to kill him in a slow and painful manner if he left me to face his family by myself.

As he was pouring his morning coffee and I was checking my email for the latest penile enhancement advertisement, he asked how my day went yesterday.

My children chimed in before I had a chance to answer.

"Oh Mom, she had a little fit." Frac. Bugger. Remind me why I decided to have a second child?

"A fit? What was that all about?" Boo asked while looking at me curiously.

"Oh, it was more than a fit," Fric chimed in. "It was more like she unleashed the hounds of hell on Frac and I to clean up our rooms. It wasn't fun." The poor, abused child actually shuddered while she remembered me standing in her room with a garbage bag in one hand and a cross look on my face.

"I wasn't that bad. I was just making sure they cleaned their rooms properly, instead of shoving things under their beds." Sheesh. Talk about exaggeration. Where in the world do these kids get this from???

"You were that bad Mom! Dad, she told us if we didn't clean our rooms properly she was going to put us in a box, mark it 'Free to a Good Home' and drop us off at the dump. And she wasn't joking."

All right. Maybe I was that bad. But still. There are still only so many rotten apple cores, dirty socks and broken toys a mom can handle. Right?

"You know, honey, my family are coming to see us, not the house, right? They're not going to put on a pair of white gloves and inspect the place." He looked at me like I was some pathetic, socially-unfit, obsessive personality.

Completely unfair.

"At least, not in front of YOU," I retorted huffily.

"Aw, my sweet. I love you, even if you terrorize my children when I'm gone. Just relax and have fun. It will work out. Enjoy yourself. It's all good," and then he kissed me on my forehead like the patronizing ass he'd become.

Fine, I won't worry about this. I won't freak out over the fact that I forgot to order water and we may run out. I won't freak out over the fact that his family is arriving in three hours and I still haven't bought groceries to feed the herd. And I certainly won't worry about the small fact that there is only one half roll of toilet paper in the main bathroom. I'm just gonna hide the only extra roll in my bathroom to make sure I don't run out.

We're surrounded by trees. There's a lot of leaves available to his family.

I don't think the MIL will mind at all. She's a nature lover.

And if anyone complains, I'm just going to point to Boo and tell them all to relax. Enjoy yourselves. It will all work out in the end.

After all, it's all good.

I love my inlaws, I love my inlaws.

Now excuse me. I've got some cleaning to do.