I just got off the tread mill and unplugged myself from the iPod that is essential to a happy and productive workout for me. I have workout playlists filled with 30 to 45-minutes worth of songs that not only motivate me to keep moving, but fill my head with rich fantasies of Lori as Rock Star. Short, plump, perimenopausal, little me mimicking Mick, Bono, Bowie and Iggy! This is why I exercise at home– the (sometimes dangerous) stage-dance moves and passionate vocals (I’m told when you’re running/dancing and singing with ear-buds in you sound different to outsiders than you do in your head…), and the occasional exuberant drum solo on the console that sometimes knocks the safety key out shutting the treadmill down resulting in loud expletives, would just not be acceptable in the moisture-rich, spandex-filled environs of a gym where all the skinny, blonde, vitamin-water chuggin’ women would look down their silicon-injected mounds at me. So I act out my fantasy of being a flaming red banshee of rooster-struttin’ rock diva down in my basement in the safety of my own home. In my baggy Russell sweats and hand-me-down Guns n’ Roses tee shirt.
In reality Joe is the musician of the family. This year for Christmas I looked into signing him up for Rock & Roll Fantasy Camp down in Vegas. I was practicing my acceptance speech for Coolest Wife of the Year award when I clicked on the cost tab. So much for my husband playing sax in the back-up band for Roger Daltry, and begging him for a picture of his bare chest for the wife back home. If you can cough up the cash it sounds like they’ll take just about anyone, talented or not — even someone like me!