Last night Joe set his beer can derby project aside and buckled down to do some bills, and I was left with the need to workout and no buddy to exercise with me. I need to lose a few more pounds before Halloween, because I suffer from FOCT: Fear of Camel Toe. I resorted to the big screen, scrolling through the options on ExerciseTV for something a little more interesting than my usual. Abs Anytime Anywhere? Biggest Loser? (I like those ones because they make me feel small, until I realize they can totally kick my comparatively diminutive ass on some of their exercises.) Arms of Envy? Buns of Envy? BootCamp Cal Burn? I’ve had dance music in my head for a week now, (more on that later, perhaps), so I decide Booty Beat sounds intriguing. Apparently part of the Flirty Girl Fitness series. Okay, I’ll give it a go.
Enter a world of predominantly pink, a handful of twenty-somethings, all tanned abs and sultry smiles. I gamely join in and within 5 minutes, oh yeah, I’m Madonna. I’ve been shaking this booty years before these wanna-be strippers were even born. Watch my booty sway, sweetie. In fact, watch the bookshelves next to me sway. Hair flip? I am the Mistress of the Hair Solo. This thigh thing is a new move, consisting of turning the inner thighs out, knees bent, swooshing up along the thighs with your hands while simultaneously pushing your bottom way out back, to like, the neighboring county, cleavage round, shiny and prominently displayed like a box of apples at the Farmer’s Market. And I know I can use this Party Girl move, after a few drinks miraculously remove 20 years from my inhibitions (common sense).
Suddenly, there’s a sports drink ad on screen, and I think it’s over. I turn it off before I find out if it really is – I’ve had enough of the bootylicious burn. As I walk out to get a drink of water, Joe asking, “What was that? It sounded horrible!” I tell him and bust out a sexy move. Only to crumble to the floor in pain because of an excruciating, oh-my-god-I’ll-never-walk-again hamstring pull. I writhe about like an NFL linebacker, no wait, I mean Madonna after an arduous dance rehearsal. It subsides a bit, and I limp around the house, only to discover more mysterious pains, like when I go downstairs to get the laundry I’m particularly aware of the strongly complaining muscle on the front of my thigh just above the knee. And later when I go to bed the middle of my stomach starts twitching violently, and I’m sure Alien is about to burst out in all its slimy glory. Pain is gain, baby, pain is gain.
I seem to have survived the night, without any serious repercussions, or more importantly, Alien births. Next time I’m looking for a little change, though, I’m thinking the Real Housewives routine might be the one for me. I wonder if there are vacuums involved? I’ve got an awesome swing dance routine worked out with my Dyson.