Are You Supposed to Cry in Cycling Class?

Once, about three years ago my sister talked me in to taking a cycling class at her gym. Twenty minutes in, sweat dripping off me, and gasping for air, I found myself performing the Lamaze breathing technique to calm myself. Without a thought to the impression I was giving my fellow cyclists, I got up and walked out. I couldn’t take it.

Now it’s my friend Suzanne that’s trying to coax me in to a class. “You’ll love it,” she insisted. “It’s a great workout and half of our neighbors are in there. It’s like happy hour.”

Still stinging from my initial experience, I evaded her overtures. “Um, yeah, I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” I hedged.

But she kept pushing and since I have trouble saying “no” to peer pressure, I caved.

Joining Suzanne in the back of the class, I asked the instructor for help in setting up my bike. Thankfully she was no “John the Jerk” and cheerfully welcomed me and showed me how to adjust the bike. (See John, that’s how it’s done. It’s called KINDNESS.)

Does Redecorating Count As Exercise?

Ah, summer. A time for flip flops, beach trips, hot weather, cool drinks, and home improvement projects. At least that’s what’s happening in my house.

Michael and I promised the kids we’d repaint their rooms and now seemed like a good  time. Amanda, tired of her headache-producing neon green and blue color scheme, would like a more peaceful blue. Yeah, no kidding. Grant has outgrown the adorable, but babyish spaceship themed wallpaper. And Janelle would, of course, like something pink.

So far we’ve moved furniture, vacuumed, washed walls and baseboards, stripped wallpaper, and scraped wallpaper adhesive off the ceiling. Yes, the ceiling. The previous owners put a blue, starry wallpaper on the ceiling. It looked really cute, until we decided to remove it. I have plenty of words to describe it now and “cute” is not one of them.

Fruit Rollups Are Not Fruit

A few years ago I remember having an argument with my daughter Amanda about the nutritional value of Fruit Roll Ups.

“It’s got fruit in it Mom. It’s a healthy snack. Can’t we please get them?” she begged me.

Reading the ingredient list, I felt otherwise.

“Amanda, it’s not really fruit. It has a tiny bit of fruit concentrate and the next three ingredients are different types of sugar.” I responded. “It’s sugar masquerading as fruit.”

“But there’s some fruit in there,” she reasoned, “It’s not all bad.”

I paused for a moment, got out my soapbox and adhered my Nutrition Nazi badge to my shirt. Clearly she had forgotten whom she was addressing. Secure atop my platform, I proceeded with my lecture.

Father's Day a/k/a Excuses Day

For some reason I convinced myself that I couldn’t exercise on Father’s Day. My excuses were varied, creative, and highly effective. The mind is a powerful thing and I put it toward evil purposes on Sunday. Take a gander at some of these beautiful reasons for not working out.

Excuse #1: I needed to be around in case Michael wanted to go somewhere.

Even though Michael told me his plan was to watch the U.S. Open all day, I felt it necessary to be at home to take over parenting responsibilities on the off chance he changed his mind and wanted to, I don’t know, go to Taco Bell or something. So I was at DEFCON 1—on high alert all day, prepared to handle the children while he went out to enjoy a Volcano Burrito. But no parenting/Mexican food emergency arose. (Big surprise.)

I Think I’m Growing Up. Bummer.

Broken glass littered the dance floor. Adults and children crammed onto a small patio, pulsating wildly to Play That Funky Music, Shout, and other classics.  Beer bottles and wine glasses clinked in the background as toasts to the bride and groom resonated throughout the crowd.

It was your typical non-Baptist southern wedding—plenty of dancing, drinking, eating, merriment, and stuff breaking. At least it felt familiar to me, but I’m from Georgia. We invented the phrase, “It ain’t a party until sometin’ got broke.”