To the beat of my buns

I’m in a bit of a blubbery state at the moment. I came to this realization after a visit to the airport the other day, where I was seeing The Brit off for yet another trip, this time to South Africa. For reasons that are less than fascinating and verging on the ridiculous, I had to run the entire length of the international airport four whole times to go back and forth to my car twice. In heels. And aside from being really disgruntled that I had to run to get the camera charger in the first place, and then being really pissed off that I’d gotten the charger and somehow left the camera, and then being really whiny about the fact that I was clearly developing a world-class blister…I was terribly out of breath. And the next day, I was sore. SORE!!!

Oh jeez, what has become of me? Well, if what I’ve become is even remotely related to what I’ve been eating lately, well, then, I’m a hunk of triple crème brie and maybe a few slices of extra sharp cheddar. Ok, more than a few slices, but whatever.

I looked back over the last few months and realized that amidst the three work trips to Houston, DC, and San Antonio, the Thanksgiving holiday, the big Christmas dessert party at our house, having the family over for the week of Christmas, the NY trip for New Years, the worst three-week cold of my life, my annual surgery exam in January, the impromptu Japan trip recently, the treintañera in San Diego, the Oscars party, and work in general…I’d completely stopped exercising. I hadn’t been to the track to run, nor the indoor climbing gym to climb, nor my usual Tuesday night or Saturday morning Afrobrazilian dance class since at least early November. And now I was sore after a mere jog. A pissed off jog, but a jog nonetheless.

This explains why, rather than just staying home and eating cheese last night, I decided to go to dance class. And I’m glad I did. I’d almost forgotten how much I love the sound of live drums in a dance studio, not to mention how much I love shaking it to the sound of live drums in a dance studio. So, aside from a few old lady groans made by some of the other dancers yours truly during the warm-up stretches, and aside from the fact that though I managed to keep time with the music my ass consistently lagged one count behind, I’d say it was a wild success.

Operation Blubber Be Gone starts here.