My Assassin Wears Pink Jazz Pants

"What's your favorite exercise?" "Suduko."

Do you need a ‘get on your mark, get set, go!”?   Do great intentions lazily jog warm up laps around in your head, but would never flex their muscles if there wasn’t a starting line?  On some things, I need the motivation of the starter’s pistol pressed straight into my temple to scare me into doing it.

I casually let the New Year slip, knowing I have until Jan 16th to keep my spot on my comfortable couch nice and warm while I plot and plan what all I’m going to accomplish in my break from a normal work schedule.  There’s no stopping me from things I’ve had on layaway for years.  The most dreaded on the list: getting into shape. If you’ve read my blogpost Feeling the Burn you know this is my nemesis.

In the meantime, I enjoyed my time.  I kindled to my heart’s content.  Wiled away hours on Pinterest.  Crafted masterpieces. No worries.  I had time until my adventure was to start.

This morning I woke to my target day.  Oh yuck!  As the bed tempted me to stay tucked in longer, I know I could get into a bad habit, so I bail out of bed and rip open the brand new aerobic DVD I bought.  Breaking the plastic to break into the disc was enough of a challenge this out of shape gal to almost consider the wrestling match my work out.  Had it not been for several seasons of watching Dancing With the Stars and fooling myself into thinking ‘with a little work and the right partner, I could do this”, I would succomb.

Adding to my DWTS dream, I choose to block that I have the rhythm of a richocheting b-b and coordination to match.  Somehow during the purchase process Common Sense distracted my attention from the jiving dance music.  “Stay away from anything that may put you in traction.  Go with ‘easy’.”  Ok, party pooper!  No Sambas for me.

As a perky little gal starts in with her arms going one way and her ‘tap-tap’ steps the other, my body would not cooperate with what she was doing.  Not good when this was “Step one to warm up!”  Grrr!  Even after several reps, I had to rewind to study this again.  Back in the day, it took no time to catch on to the Saturday Night Fever moves as we practiced in Romy’s drive way, her parents’ car 8 track blaring.  Now, I feel like I’m looking in a mirror,  running a curling iron the first time.  Nothing is working in tandem. Oh, DWTS’s Max would cuss loudly when drawing my name from the contestant hat, tearing  it to shreds right there under the mirror ball.  What am I doing?

Then we ‘pick it up” and “amp up” the speed.  Some moves start to gel.  Ok, I’m with Senorita Jazz Pants now.  I may be stomping like a Clydsdale, but I am grooving until…..

She adds something that I can only describe as an ‘arm rodeo’.  Is she serious?  I grab the box.  What?  ‘Full body’ workout?  I walked a few miles with Leslie Sansone and she seemed fine with my arms the way they are.  A five year plan of legs, then arms, then moving them at the same time sounds like a much better idea.  Miss Jazz Pants disagrees firmly.  I stomp and flap like the dance of the whooping crane until some guy I would swear was on crack comes through the studio back door.  He flies into the group that Jazz Pants is leading amidst her adding some whirling dervish moves.  “Single, single, double, triplicate’ she pops off as I struggle to follow.  He gets her attention by breaking into the scene and yelling “Pump it up! Pump it up!”  She acts so surprised, when we all know she’s not.  “Oh Kirk,’ she swats at him while keeping in perfect step and not a bit winded.

On the other hand, I am distracted, confused, and trying to get her attention that I’m two heartbeats from needing a difibulator.  She’s busy visiting with ‘Kirk”.  Lucky for me, he finally vaporizes after encouraging us to “keep it up, up, up” like he has some kind of aerobic Ghost of Fitness Future, making his rounds on a very tight schedule.

Jazz Pants decides she’d best get back to us again and asks me questions: “How ya doing?”  When I answered she didn’t even miss a beat, let alone get out an oxygen tank like I requested.  “Yes, I feel the pull!  Yes, my muscles are going to set up like concrete the minute I stop.”  She just laughs like she hears that from her out of shape studio friends.  She’s shoved them on the back row to make the set look full.  She’s getting a kick out of our struggle. In fact, she’s probably trying to keep from giggling unmercifully as she watches me dodge a coffee table, footstool, and my cat.  Charlie is flicking his tail with a big smirk on his face, planning to attack a loose string on my pajama pants when I least expect it.  He is her wing man, I can feel it. Traitor!

I finally concede to let the gals go on without me.  It used to be I’d give up with discouragement, but no more.  I’ll do what I can do.  At least I’m moving and I will get it some day.  Kind of.  Maybe.  Who knows?  Who really cares but me?  Actually, “Me” isn’t locked into perfection, but into improving for my good.  I’m going to laugh along the way until I can ‘tap, tap, right, left, bounce for 4’  to something better than I’ve been.  Yes, a fit ‘masterpiece in the works.”

“Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial because he had stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.”  James 1:12

Photo credit: http://momstakeonthings.org

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