Jeans and Bikinis and Dressing Rooms, Oh my.

Let me begin by saying, there is absolutely nothing worse for damaging your self esteem as a dressing room.

I hate trying on clothing. 99% of the time, I purchase the clothes that I think will fit and try them on at home. 98.5% of THAT time, I end up needing to return what I had purchased.
I haven't quite figured out why no one in clothing store corporate America has figured out that if a women looks good in the clothes she is trying on, she is more likely to purchase. Seems easy enough.

Two days ago I was at one of my favorite stomping grounds...TJ Maxx. I came directly from the gym so was feeling pretty good about myself. After perusing the isles for a good 45 minutes, I had managed to fill my cart with six bikinis, three pairs of jeans and two dresses. ( I'm the only one who shops here and gets the max for the max)

I have learned, that, unless absolutely necessary, you DO NOT look into the mirror until the clothes are completely on your body. (I'll explain why shortly) I don't need to try the dresses on, but jeans and bathing suits are pretty tough to fit.

I start off with the jeans. I turn my back to the mirror, slip off my workout stretch pants, and thank the lord that I decided to wear underwear this day. (jeans do not normally come with the plastic undercarriage protection sticker). I had grabbed this pair from the juniors department.

(side note: Pants from the Juniors department is cut much differently than women's. I think prior to turning 2o, they assume your "down there" is shorter. I say this because the crotch rise is completely out of kilter. Aside from the most insane camel toe EVER, the top of the zipper is about 1.7 inches long. "jean people.....even juniors have pubic hair. Come on.....lengthen the zipper so the top of our girls pants don't look like zoomed picture of Tony Soprano's chest. )
Also, young girls have higher and firmer rear ends. So apparently, it doesn't matter that the jeans are designed with a super taught backside. For someone like me however, this jeans do nothing but pancake my ass.

Anyway, I wasn't sure what size I would be in Juniors. The real issue, which I learned quickly, is that I don't belong shopping in Juniors...unless is stretchwear. I grabbed a size which I thought reasonable. (You know me well enough to know that I actually grabbed a size that was unreasonable.)

Every woman, at some point...at many points, has tried on jeans that are too small. This I am certain of. I am no exception to this rule. What I did learn about myself, is that at this point in my life, if I try just a tinge to hard to pull up jeans, the urine release gadget within my body is activated. Yes. With one hard yank, I peed my pants just a little. (in my defense, I had just guzzled a small bottle of water before getting into the store) Luckily, it was not enough to penetrate my underwear, and therefore, there was no need for me to panic, or rush into the ladies room to dry off the crotch with the hand dryer....not this time. I did get them up and managed somehow to get them buttoned. It was and ugly scene. Gangster in the front, Ihop in the back.

Five minutes later, I was out of this dreadful pair of pants. I decided to waive my right to try on the next two pairs.

Now onto the what could be the most damaging dressing room trauma. Not much tops the stress of jeans shopping...only swimwear is worse.

First of all, getting into something that for some, is more revealing than your underwear and bra and is made for the public to internally judge you.

Secondly, the majority of the time, swimwear shopping is done pre-beach season. As such, chances are you are at one of your most untan of the year.

Thirdly, you cannot avoid looking in the dressing room mirror unclothed.

I turn as I put on the bottoms. I always put the bottoms on because they are the number one deal breaker. If the bottoms fit and look good enough, you can pretty much make the top fit (with me, too small is not an issue...too big can be cutlet'ed up, or straps can be severely tightened)

I don't think the bottoms fit properly, and were clearly designed by the same asshole who fashioned the pee jeans I tried on just minutes before. They may have been lower in the front than the jeans. And the backside, i firmly believed, was designed using a cabbage patch doll as a model.

I hold my breath and turn to the mirror. Now, here goes my issue with dressing rooms.

The size of the dressing room. Where you need to stand in relation to the actual mirror. No one is going to look proportionate when trying to look at themselves close range. Maybe its because your eyes go a little cross eyed.(?)

Next, its the lights. I think they use the same lights that the dermatologist uses to scare the melanoma out of your face. I mean really. I see things in this mirror that would give freddy kruegar nightmares. Granted, I assume there will never again be anyone eyeballs this close to my ass who isn't starting off with the phrase "this is going to feel cold". But still. Its scary.

Needless to say, I couldn't even get an accurate depiction of what I actually looked like in the suit because of the two negative factors mentioned above. Unless, however, I ventured out of my box -o- horror, and walked to the three way mirror at the end of the dressing room. (Clearly, the dressing room construction genius decided that the most flattering mirror in the dressing room should be located at the end of a green mile aisle.) I guess I could throw one of the sundresses on and give a quick flash once I get to the mirror. I had never before ventured out in the hall before.

So that's what I do. I get down to the mirror (of course my dressing room was closest to the exit, and therefore furthest from the public mirror) I position myself so as to have the perfect view of all sides. I lift the dress.

What the hell was I thinking. Why did I think I needed a rear eyed view of my ass in a too small bathing suit? I quickly rushed back to my closet, turned my back to the mirror and put my own clothes back on.

In that instance I learned a valuable lesson. Maybe the dressing room design team was not that stupid afterall. I went in there, saw a fuzzy and bad image of myself in their swimwear, and blamed it on the dressing room mirror and lighting.

In the past, I would buy the suit, put it on at home, and assume that my severely slanted mirror covered in nasty little handprints and hot breath finger painted pictures was giving me an accurate look of myself. And I was perfectly happy with this. (also, the lighting in my room is very poor)

I mean....I'm not really complaining about my body. All I'm saying is let a girl walk out of a dressing room feeling good. Get some good fun house mirrors and dim lighting....maybe an attendant serving up shots.

At any rate, ill go back to my old ways of bringing clothes home to try on. If I am going to have a body dismorphic issue, Id rather it be a positive one.

Is that a Banana in your Bikini?

Several few weeks ago, after chasing a bunch of two year olds around at a birthday party, I noticed a lump in my groin area. I immediately thought is was a swollen lymph node, and within seconds, had myself diagnosed with giardia. (giardia is a parasite that lives within your intestines...our new puppy had been diagnosed with it just a week prior).

I got extremely dizzy...and sweaty at the thought. ONE, because the vet told me that it would only be transmitted through the puppy's feces to mouth. TWO, because I thought if I called the doctor, he would make me poop in a jar.

I quickly called my bff nurse practitioner. She had lovingly replaced WEBMD several months ago as my "go to" medical source. Granted, she deals with primarily vaginas, but to me...that qualified her to handle almost any and all medical issues I might have.

She agreed to come over and give me the once over. I layed on the couch and raised my shirt....I had lowered my pants, and thankfully, had chosen to wear undies that day. (unfortunately, this day was NOT lawn maintenance day (sorry T) ) Anyway, she rubbed, pushed, prodded. She had me lay flat, sit up, etc. It was the most action I had seen in weeks...and frankly, if I hadn't thought I was acting as host body for thousands of parasitic creatures, I may have enjoyed it (more) )

'Well, Jenny, its not a lymph node..I think its an "in -gwin-nal" hernia". "A what? What the heck is that? " I couldn't even pronounce that word. At first, I wasn't sure if that was better, or worse than a parasitic micro worm. I would later discover that for me it was worse...much worse.

When I finally made it to my bed later that night, I opened that lap top, and googled "inguinal" (that is the proper spelling) The first thing I did was learn how to pronounce it. The second thing I did was google images, so I could determine for sure that that was what is was.

After perusing the photos for 10 minutes or so, I noticed that all the photos were that of men. I decided that maybe I should be reading...and not just looking at the pictures. (afterall....this wasn't the newspaper...it was my health)

After further reading, I discovered that inguinal hernias are very common in MEN. In MEN. Very uncommon in women. Of course they are, if there is a small margin of occurrence for anything , I will fall into that category. I am a a statistical wonder.

Panic set in...panic that I would be unable to resume my intense workout schedule. I had finally sculpted my once soft physique into a lean (er) and muscular frame...just in time for summer...and for the fist time since June, 1999.

I couldn't bare the thought of letting up on my routine. The next morning, I awoke to find the lump has dissipated. The wandering intestine that busted through my muscle wall had sunken back into the inguinal canal. I ignorantly convinced myself that it had gone away, and I was fine.

I took this one day off from the gym....just in case. Monday rolled around, and I decided to resume working out. I figured I would lay low on lower body exercises, or even standing ones that put undue stress on my lower half. I also laid off any lower ab work. I was in the clear....so I thought.

Not two weeks later, the lump once again reappeared. This time, instead of a golf ball appearance, it was more peanut shaped, and protruded horizontally across my lady front. Once again, it disappeared over night, and I followed the lay low routine.

However, it appeared AGAIN, only several days later. The recurrence was becoming more frequent....and my peanut was growing larger. As I look at the bulge, a light bulb went off in my head. "What must this look like to others...wait...its almost bathing suit time!"

I whipped my pants off and slipped on one of my new bikini bottoms. What I feared was so. It looked as if I had a penis...hanging to the left. I ran down to show Dave, who for once in his life, took a page out of my book. He laughed. He found it amusing that I was ranting that I looked like a transvestite. Oh my God. I am going to look like a man on the beach. With my new muscles, no boobs, and penis.

Even the girls got in on it. Ava is old enough to know (damn TLC) that there are people who are transgendered and asked what they are called. Not realizing she is half my DNA, I told her. "hermaphrodite". She then proceeded to call me this for the remainder of the night.

I went to the Doctor. As he felt around the area, he instructed me to do something I myself had made jokes about to my male friends. " Ok Jen, turn your head to the left and cough. Ok, again, Ok, cough again". Is this a hernia or a testicle? Maybe I am a hermaphrodite.(?)

I was informed that surgery is the only option in repairing the hernia. This has left me with a conflict that I cannot seem to resolve. (Both of which are narcissistic, I realize.)

1. Have the Surgery Within the next few weeks

Pros: 1. "Penis" is gone; 2.Probably get a small supply of Pain Killers; 3. Might be able to save on anesthesia and get a tandem boob job in time for summer

Cons: 1. Out of commission for 4 weeks...that means NO GYM. 2.Risk losing the muscle tone I have worked so hard for to get ready for the summer; No pain killers.

2. Have the Surgery POST Summer

Pro: 1. I can continue to maintaining my summer physique

Con: 1. I risk looking like a he/she on the beach, ...or resort back to my skirted bikinis.

I guess I will give it a few more weeks and gauge the size of my peanut when it gets closer to beach time. Until then, I will endure the family ridicule, and welcome the curious gropers. (hey, gotta take it when you can get it, right?)

How to NOT get a job.

Since switching jobs from full time office slave, to fuller time mommy slave, I have gone back and forth as to whether I should, in fact, get a paying job. Mostly, when the weather is cold and wet or when I am shackled to the boob sucker do I most feel as if I need to get out and get a life.

For the most part, it has been a matter of want, and not need. Recently, however, the mortgage business has slowed, and financially, things have gotten a bit tight. As such, and so my husband literally does not die of a heart attack due to stress, I feel as if I should at least see what is out there.

As I perused the want ads on monster.com, I got increasingly light headed, and at one point I think I passed out due to anxiety. I have grown comfortable in my current position, especially since I began "working" at the gym. When I wanted a job, and not needed a job, I didn't have this feeling of angst.

After an hour or so of searching, I was having little luck finding something that tickled my fancy. It wasn't long after that did I realize that maybe I was being a bit to picky. I love to tell people that "beggars cant be chooser's". I am admittedly one of the worlds biggest hypocrites.

The only job that half way interested me was in pharmaceutical sales. I envisioned a job where I could wear sexy little suits, pretty makeup and flirt with doctors on my own schedule. And as a bonus, I could possibly write off my pending boob job as a business expense. I would schmooze and bullshit my way to success. I'm still waiting for the call back.

Next, and per the employment good fortune of a friend of mine, I decided to give craigslist a go. I specifically searched for "work at home" or "part time".

The first group of jobs were nothing but fast food, 3rd shift jobs. I remember back in the day being jealous of the burger king girl.as i drove up and paid for my burger and fries kids meal on my lunch break....and thinking her life must be so stress free. And just the other day, as I was driving though a dunkin donuts, a young employee was coming out the back door with a garbage can and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, and for a fleeting second, I was jealous of even her. No. I cannot go from waiting on four spoiled kids to waiting on hundreds of teenagers, stressed out moms, and business people who don't have time for a decent sit down meal at Olive Garden. Next.

Hmm.....looks interesting... a spa job. I like spas.

"PART TIME: New massage and spa seeking woman between the ages of 18 and 25 for all male clientele" (followed by a disclaimer that no sexual acts, or illegal or illicit behavior is allowed or expected at the establishment).

I missed the age cutoff on that one by a few years. Next.

AS I read on, I was ill qualified for almost every job

"PART TIME" Local animal shelter looking for responsible person to assist in daily operations.

NOPE. I need diversity and I basically live in an animal shelter.

"PART TIME" DAYCARE working for children ages 1 - 5.

Are you fucking kidding me? Have you not read half my blogs? I'd end up in prison for sure.

Then, I found something I think I really WOULD do. Egg donation. At 10 grand a pop I could make a killing and wouldn't have to change my life hardly at all. I mean, what would be more satisfying than getting paid to help create a bunch of little JENs? It would be like a cruel little joke on all the future husbands of the world, not to mention all the eventual little JEN offspring.

Then, the fine print. Maximum age : 30. No exceptions.

That's two jobs that exclude me due to my age. What the hell happened to the age discrimination law?

After that discouraging hour, I have decided to try and put off the job search.......all I really want is to try and stall through he summer, anyway. I can liquidate some assets if things get really financially difficult. (ie return the dozens of shit you people make fun of me for leaving tags on), and I can start making my own coffee....and I can stop the incessant shopping.

I am not above sacrifice. Hell, I can sell my milk to third world countries if It comes down to it. (wait, they buy it right...it isn't something they expect donated??)

Lastly, if anyone is purchasing home, or wants to refinance, message me.

"REFINANCE WITH DAVE, AND SAVE ME FROM THE WORLD OF THE GAINFULLY EMPLOYED.....PLEASE"

Goodbye Sally and Brittney

Do you ever wonder if your kids are weird? I know, I know, seems harsh. Maybe weird is an inappropriate word to be used...especially coming from a mother. Different. Different seems better. (ok, lets be realistic. "Different" just sounds nicer than saying weird.

One of my children, to me, is a little "different". She has an imaginary friend named Sally. At first, I thought she was just playing around for the day...then I realized, after a couple of weeks, that "Sally" was here for the duration.

We have all seen how imaginary friends are portrayed on TV. You always take the side of the poor child who is lacking something in his or her life to feel the need to "create" an imaginary friend. We feel for the child, and want desperately to reach out to the tv parents and tell them why little Suzy feels she needs to make up friends.

I don't know why MY child needs Sally. She has friends, siblings, pets.....a life. Maybe its my fault for not liking to administer physical affection. Or my all to often use of the F word. Either way, Sally was here.

At first, it was annoying, as she insisted Sally be included and "spoken" to as she were, in fact, in the home. I even had to make her a plate of food at mealtime. After a couple of days, however, I figured out how I could use Sally to my benefit...and make her leave. (I have enough kids...I really didnt need another one)

I mean, I could basically do and say all the things I wanted to "Sally" without any DCYF ramification, right? Soon, poor Sally became the recipient of a little bit of child abuse. Sally had gotten sat on, pillow smothered, her hands caught in door jams, etc. It was mean, but eventually, caused Sally to run away. ( I'm assuming she ended up in a shelter.)

More importantly, she proved to be a good poster child for subservient behavior.

Not long after Sally "went away", Brittney entered the picture. I heard my daughter speak Brittney's name on several occasions, however, out of fear of feeding the fire, I ignored it...and refused to ask who "Brittney" was.

Of course, I couldn't go on....I had to ask. Despite the annoyance of another imaginary friend, I had to find out if Sally had been replaced. It was worse than I thought. Even though I had thought imaginary friends were weird, at least I knew they were a bit normal. But this, this DEFINITELY constituted being referred to as "weird".

You see, "Brittney" is a wart on the upper right portion of my daughters forearm. Yes...she has a wart, and named her Brittney. She likes her.

I explained that she could NEVER EVER tell anyone that she named her wart. It was too late. Apparently, she has introduced Brittney to all of her friends. This, for sure, would get her a lonely spot in the lunchroom.

I told my daughter that we had to make Brittney go away, and gave her the choice of freezing, or a good old fashion lancing. (I would've let it go for a while....but she began drawing a body around Brittney. So you see, I am trying to save my daughter from being beaten in the school yard....or in her own home)

This caused much dismay. There have been tears, name calling, and tantrums over the inevitable demise of Brittney.

I had to pull out my best mothering tactics for this one. Two nights ago, when my daughter and Brittney slept soundly in bed, I swiftly, and stealthily sneaked in to deliver a note:

"Dear Brittney, you must leave immediately. I know that you are evil and will soon begin to multiply....and love to have your sisters live on faces rather than arms. I don't want my best friend covered in little Brittney's. Even though it is safer for me to live where I live, I still love my bestest friend. Let the mom take you to a dr or I will come and get you myself....and It will hurt!

Love, SALLY"

I'm a genius. We have a dermatologist appointment next week. (and a therapist appointment the following week)

This is how it is. PERIOD.

Its getting close to that time, when the inevitable "birds and bees" discussion will be warranted with my girls. But for now, I will stick with stage one. The "period".

Based on the almost unnaturally close relationship I have with my daughters, it surprises even ME that I am so unnerved by the entire subject matter. Today was the puberty talk in health class, where the boys and girls are separated and each explained how their bodies will be "changing" and working in the next year or so.

Luckily for me, Santa brought her a book about the girls body and puberty this past Christmas. Creepy and inappropriate, I know, but even HE know my uncomfortableness over the situation.

Actually, that is not entirely true. I don't have that much of an issue talking to them about the monthly "issue". I realized I would have to broach that subject when I found them in my room one day (Liza, 3 and Ave, 5.5) wearing my heels and walking awkwardly to try and keep the maxi pad in between their legs, whilst twirling tampons in the air.

I let it be, and didn't jump on it instantaneously. I wanted to think long and hard as to what I would say and how I would say it. They were fairly young, after all.

I thought I could avoid the egg/fertilization deal for a couple of years, so decided to come up with a more understandable explanation.

"Just like babies and really really old people, mommies sometimes need diapers too. Because I carried you in my body, my tinkle tummy is broken. Mommy sometimes likes to wear tight pants, so a whole diaper would look weird and it would embarrass daddy. So, they make skinny little diapers. The tinkle comes out when mommy sneezes or laughs too hard. Oh, and sometimes it bleeds because your nails were too long and you left a big scratch in there". (Lucky for me, that was confusing enough that they didn't even THINK to ask about the tampon)

This seemed to suffice....for a couple of years. I then decided to be a responsible mother of daughters. And I told most of the truth.

There is an egg. Your body makes an egg and it sits in your body and waits. If God wants you to have a baby, the egg turns INTO a baby. If not, then your body has to get rid of it. That's what a period is. I even went so far as to tell them what a tampon was. I just couldn't watch them pretend to "smoke" them anymore. And when I told them where it went, the look on their face was priceless (especially since I told them when they were sticking out of their mouths)

Unfortunately, I think that if you have daughters fairly close in age, the younger one will undoubtedly know things before her time. So I need to keep that in mind.

Up until recently, Liza stopped believing that I purchased her on the black market in Africa after she was being raised my hyenas...similar to Mowgli in "The Jungle Book". She finally put two and two together with the pregnant pictures and all. (i must admit...I am glad. I was beginning to think that she may have a learning disability)

I am satisfied that for now, the period discussion is handled. Well, half of it anyway. I cannot for the life of me get to the mans role in the continuation of the human race.

After all, Liza still firmly believes that Emma was created by her deceased Nana...who wanted so badly to have one last grandchild. (Emma was, however, conceived miraculously...almost "Mary-ish" just months after Nana's passing)

Ava, I am sure knows more. I just haven't been able to figure out what exactly she DOES know...without directly asking.

During all of this, television has become my nemesis. With commercials such as his and her fire and ice condoms being aired in early eventing, and teen mom (which I tell them is not a real show because teenagers cannot have babies) my moment is coming....quickly.

However, with woman such as Angelina, Madonna, and Sandra, I can at least keep the "some babies are purchased in other countries (like you, Liza)", and the Duggars who preach out loud that children are a blessing by God (enforcing my above explanation) I figure I have at least another year before I need to tell them anything close to reality. Lets hope I get to them before HBO.

Hooker Jen - THIS BLOG IS RATED R

HORNY: adjective
definition: (vulgar slang); desirous of sexual activity


Ok, although this may be wildly inappropriate, it is nothing that anyone who reads this, or who BREATHES, has not thought of, discussed with friends, or thinks about. I'm just putting pen to paper here.

The cliche has always been men wanting sex, and their wives have a headache. Or, husbands creeping up on their wives, who then pretend to be asleep.

I attended the Movie "HALL PASS" the other night. Besides the fact that it was incredibly funny, I couldn't help but think that I related more to the men than the woman....at least as of late.

The premise of the film is that the wives inevitable catch their husbands leering at beautiful, young woman as they pass by, inevitably, leaving them to feel badly about themselves. They then decide, at the suggestion of a therapist friend, to give their men a "hall pass" from marriage for one week....you know, to get it out of their systems.

Let me insert a disclaimer here....its only fair:

My husband works hard all day, takes care of the kids at night, does homework duty, does dishes and laundry and keeps after the animal menagerie I have forced upon him.

Ok, now that Mr. Wonderful has been outed (hence making me look like a slacker) I will continue.

Back to me thinking like a man.

I have always taken a more masculine role, or what society may think is a more masculine role. I love athletics, I always thought I could beat people up, I really am not very maternal, and I thrive on being a tough guy.

Lately, the "man" in me has reared its ugly head in a new way. It is probably the fact that I lost the 800 lbs I put on over the winter and am feeling better about myself. Or maybe the fact that nature is setting in by way of the spring season being around the corner.

A friend suggested that It may be an increase in testosterone levels from building muscle? I don't know....but whatever it is, has turned me into a housewife version of Stifler.

Unfortunately, my husband and I are like two ships passing in the night. He comes home from work, I run out shortly thereafter. I come home and he is sleeping like a baby...with the baby. And honestly, you could throw a grenade down his pants, and if its between the hours of 10pm and 2am, he would not budge.

This has resulting in me taking my sexual frustration out on one of my girlfriends. (ha...not like that...I "sext" her my woes")

She is a good friend to "listen" and I think in some way finds it amusing. Actually offering to booty call my husband for me to tell him to wake up and go to bed. (this, after my texting to him was falling on deaf ears) Sometimes, Internet porn just doesn't cut it.

I have to resort to middle of night/ post 2am sexual assaults. This is all fine and dandy, except while he goes back to sleep within 30 seconds, (shocking) I am left wide awake for at least an hour.....thinking back to the reality that in a few short hours, I will no longer be hooker jen, but nursing, poop wiping, lunch packing mommy jen.

My husband should feel lucky, I think. However, I don't think he has caught on yet. The hanging out at home my tight workout pants (the cheap/thin ones) that show my thong isn't doing it. He is just too tired, has a headache, or pretends (actually is) to be asleep. I even went so far as to take an innapropriate camera phone picture...and ALMOST sent it to him. (it was very blurry hence making my ass look pretty good) This is NOT something that would have even occur to me in the past!

Moreover, going to the gym for me, is like him hanging at the Foxy Lady. I get to look at sweaty young muscle boys, and he gets to reap the benefits. At least he SHOULD (another reason I think I am more masculine.....they say woman are more into romance, sweet talk, yadda yadda. hell no....keep all that BS away from me. Its a total turnoff)

I think I am going to have to resort to a more direct approach. I may have to dig into the back of the drawer. Or the shoebox that has been collecting dust up in the closet. I may have to kill the children.

All I know, or that I pray, is that this is not some sort of sick joke bestowed upon me by the powers that be to get me pregnant.

(PS. In completing this entry, I am already longing for the fall of darkness...somebody get my the anti viagra...please)

COUNTDOWN TO "BAM"..1 week Down.

Today marks one week since I began my new exercise regimen.

The first day I awoke excited to don my new workout apparel. I was, for the first time in two years, up and dressed before the kids. I wore black yoga pants, and a black workout tank, which I covered with a black hoodie. (i figured if it didn't go well, I could hold up the Mcdonalds across the parking lot for a crispy chicken value meal..supersized, of course)

As I walked into the gym, I felt a bit self conscious and out of place. I scanned the room and felt as if I were the only novice in the building. Everyone looked as if they new exactly what they were doing, and where they were supposed to be.

I made my way to the back of the gym and tried to remember where the entrance to the woman's locker room was. It only took me two tries to find it. I was already dressed, however had to put my coat away and put my sneakers on. Something about this made me reminisce about Mr. Rogers. That was until an oddly shaped NAKED woman came around the corner. I was a bit taken aback as it has been some time since I last saw a naked woman in real life. I was glad she was in worse shape than I was, because I would have obsessed about it if she hadn't been. (although later, I would learn that I would obsess about her unmanicured lawn)

I walked back into the gym area. I scoped out the cardio equipment and carefully picked out he one I thought would work best for my first time. I stepped up onto it...and after a few awkward seconds, realized there was no "on" button. Luckily, there was a nice old man on the machine next to me. He was slightly overweight and bald, and very unintimidating. I had no problem asking him for direction. Not missing a step of his own, he directed me as to how to use the machine. He told me I had to input my age and weight. (Thank God he was a bald old man...otherwise I would've had to lie on both fronts, thereby fucking up my entire first day workout)

At approximately 3 minutes in, my legs began to hurt and I wanted to stop. I couldn't believe that I was THAT out of shape. I mean, how did my "mom and baby/pig at home pilates" not have given me at least enough stamina to make it three minutes on an eliptical machine?

I tried to lower the resistance, only to find out it was already set at the lowest. Drats.

I pressed on. At minute 5 it occurred to me that the reason I was having so much difficulty was that I neglected to bring music. Once I realized this, it made the session even more boring and horrific. At 10 minutes, my friend had left his machine. I was also beginning to sweat enough that I remove my hoodie. Doing this while NOT stopping proved to be difficult and awkward. As I nearly fell off the machine, I whipped off one arm, then the other, getting it caught on the moving handle bars. I was thankful I didn't drop it in the mechanical parts.

Now that my sweatshirt was off, I could think of nothing else except the fat that I knew was protruding from the racer back tank. I wondered who was behind me....and if they were thinking I was new...or just terribly out of shape. (as I think back, they were probably neither...and it was just my gym virgin paranoia).

I finished my 20 minutes and proudly walked out of the gym. I went immediately to Walmart to purchase an ipod, whereas I came home and loaded up on the most fun 1980's tunes I could think of!

Day two, I decided to take a pilates class, since the schedule said it was only a half hour...which is about my maximum attention span given this type of arena. I chose a cute black and pink ensemble for this class. My problem today was that I had no underwear that was appropriate as each pair caused fat spillage and panty lines under my yoga pants. And, as I would later regret, I chose to go commando.

I walked into the class, this time with a little less hesitance. There was a good mix of ages in there, and I felt confident given my last few weeks of home pilates. The instructor asked that we get a weighted ball, and an elastic band. Hmm...I thought. She then apologized for the error on the schedule and told us the class was, in fact, an hour long. God damnit...I couldn't even leave at that point.

Class started and I was fairing well. My abs are strong under the layer of fat. All was well, until my mind started getting the better of me. As I lay on my back, legs open and in the air, I began to get classic camel toe paranoia. Why hadn't I just worn underwear. What is the lesser of two evils? Panty lines or camel toe. For I did not know the answer, but at that moment, panty lines. I focused on almost nothing else as I pulled at the crotch of my pants for the remainder of the class. I am almost certain that the class thought I had crabs.

That night, I headed to the GAP and bought 5 pairs of thong underwear. Contrary to my earlier protest regarding thongs, I figured I could bare it for 1 or 2 hours a day.

Two days later, I decided I might want to expand my horizons and attempt a Zumba class. I have rhythm and I like to dance. I was pleasantly surprised to see my old cardio kickboxing instructor was the Zumba teacher. Even more pleasantly surprising was the old lady that took the spot next to me. I was sure to look ok next to her (right). As we got started, I realized this was going to be more difficult than originally anticipated. I could mostly get my feet to do the right thing, but as soon as I attempted to add my arms, it all went to shit. Ten minutes of dancing and I literally thought I was going to go into cardiac arrest. Then, I noticed "her" . She was in the corner of the room. With a wild bandanna, stark white cat eye glasses, and Pippy Longstocking braids, she could nearly keep a beat. I found her most amusing, and staring at her tripped me up even more. All of a sudden, it occurred to me that my boobs were hurting more than anything else. As I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror it hit me that the built in tank top bra was doing little more good than a tightly pulled, single plied, piece of toilet paper would have. I frequently tried to hoist and separate as nonchalantly as I could until the much anticipated end of the class. I will NOT be "Zumba'ing" in the near future. (I did however, go to Walmart and purchased a few Dansko fully cupped sports bras that, if I do say so myself, make my pre-silicone boobs look fantastic.)

Up until this point, I had been to the gym EVERY day, however, with the exception of the painful use of bands, I had not done any upper body work. I had been focusing on the lower, rounder half. I was waiting for professional guidance. This I would get for Hew, my assigned personal trainer (yes...I got TWO whole free personal training sessions)

Hew had an adorable accent..he is from Wales. He sat me in his office and began to assess the situation. "What are your goals"? That's easy "I want the body I had in 1999. Next." He chuckled. "No really, that's what I want. I want to be able to bench my body weight (not my current body weight), and I want to have 10% body fat. Thank you." Clearly he recognized I have early onset dementia.

He then told me to step on the scale. I told him I would rather not. He insisted. I stepped on backwards as I felt this legit scale would not coincide with my $10 one I got at Walgreens. He began to slide the thing...I stopped him. I took of my sweatshirt. He proceeded. "WAIT!". I flung my glasses on the chair...and took off my wedding ring. I definitely would've taken off my pants if I felt he wouldn't have kicked me out of his office. Much to my pleasant surprise...he informed me that my weight was exactly what I told him it was at home. ( I somewhat think he lied since I never turned to look myself. At any rate, it kept me sane) Next, he said he was going to take my % body fat. I DEFINITELY was not cool with that....but I conceded. Imagine my dismay to learn that I was almost in the obese category. This test was most definitely skewed.

He brought me to a new elliptical. I began to "pedal" only to realize that for some reason, I 100% could not get my feet to work in a "running" fashion. No matter how hard he tried to make me do it, my feet just couldn't. I don't know why...it was totally embarrassing. I matter of factly told him to pick something else, it wasn't happening.

We went to the free weight area...what I have been longing for. Although what mostly bothered me was that I was not "buff". I was walking in there with flabby arms, untoned back, shoulders, etc. I had been thinking about this and had previously decided that I would NEVER be without a long sleeve, covered up shirt/sweatshirt while in the weight area. My master plan here included dressing like this until I was well on my way to Ms. Fit America...than, without warning BAM...I would unzip my sweatshirt and emerge like David Banner during a temper tantrum. (The Incredible Hulk, circa 1978)

Hew had me do, chest and back and shoulders, finishing with squats. For this, he had me hold a 45 lb bar across my chest while I complete two sets of 12. It was challenging, but I did it. This completed my first week.

Later that day, as I reveled in the fact that I had done it...familiarized myself with the facility, almost learned how to use the equipment, and not missed one day, I sat to enjoy a diet coke and magazine. I stood to get a snack, a felt a stinging pain in the ass. After all the hard work I endured, my very last endeavor, the "squat" left me later running to the store before the anticipated snow storm for..not milk, but Preparation H. (clearly, God misunderstood my prayers for a little bulge...I SAID BICEPS....BI...CEPS....).

My new thongs will just have to wait. The camel toe cometh. BAM.

PS: Someone said I looked skinny today......10 lbs and a week of neurosis has paid off.....