Jump Around!

We watch Women's Basketball!

I personally care more about hula hoops than women's college hoops, but the DNB's team is in the Sweet Sixteen, so we cheer them on.

Until one of the commentators mentions a player's "One-Step Vertical." It's 36 inches.

"Three feet? WTF??" I exclaim. "I wonder how high I can jump."

I fly through the air, tucking my legs up under me.

"No good," the DNB comments dryly. "You pulled your legs up. You have to keep them straight." He gets up, to demonstrate.

"Okay, wait," I say. "I'll sit here and measure with my hand how high you jump."

He jumps. "Sweet! That's like 18 inches!" he shouts, looking at my hand. I don't tell him, but frankly I have no idea how high he jumped. I just kind of randomly moved my hand when he jumped.

"My turn!" I say.

He lays on the floor, practice-measuring one inch.

I stretch my legs and jump in place. Confident, I step forward and leap into the air.

"Three inches," the DNB declares, his hand barely off the carpet.

"WHATEVER," I say in a huff. "I did it wrong."

"Did it wrong?? How do you not know how to jump?" the DNB asks. "Did you miss that day in kindergarten?"

"NO," I reply. "It was before 'No Child Left Behind' and I GOT LEFT BEHIND."

"I bet our President AND a number of Special Olympians could jump higher than you."

Watercise

I go to Water X Aerobics class!

I immediately feel out of place when I realize I'm the only person with both of my original hips. Should be called Water LXXII Aerobics.

I'm Not Meant to Work Out.

I have an ipod incident!

Well, rather, a series of incidents. They all go something like this: I'm warming up on the treadmill. My ipod Nano is resting comfortably in the waistband of my pants. It's about two years old, which means it's HUGE compared to the current generation. It's practically the size of a car phone. Anyway, I'm doing my thing, I'm jamming, my underwear is firmly in place.

And then, in one sudden motion, the ipod works its way out of my waistband and falls toward the treadmill belt. My ear buds are ripped out of my ears, and the ipod hits the belt and goes shooting off the back, skittering across the floor before coming to rest between two elliptical machines.

Trust me, there is no fake exercise that can disguise the squat-crawl I have to do as I dodge elliptical arms and retrieve the errant ipod.

Wardrobe Malfunction Mars* Big Workout Program

I go to the gym!

I am wearing my slightly too-short yoga pants and an old t-shirt. What I do not realize at the time is that I am also wearing a pair of underwear that has gotten too big.

It's either that or the combination of slippery material and SWASS,** but as I near my tenth minute on the Crossramp, I feel my panties start to slide. Downward. I try to wiggle a little bit, trying to scooch them up. Doesn't work with panties like it does with a hula hoop, mental note. They're halfway down my ass, which means that at this point I can't really hike them back up without totally sticking my hand down my pants.

If I were a member of, say, Gold's Gym, this would be no problem. But the Y is family-oriented. I glance at the rules posted on the wall near me: "No swearing or threatening language. No food or drink permitted in the workout area. Appropriate attire and non-marking gym shoes must be worn." I look around. The free weights and circuit training areas behind me are busy. Not that I care if some pumped up 'Roid Rager watches me pull my panties up, but I decide to leave it and hope for the best.

And YES, by the way, I had thought of just getting off the Crossramp and dashing to the locker room. Except that the last time I tried to pause the machine, it totally turned off and deleted my calorie count (I went ahead and assumed 1,000 burned). Also, I try to avoid the locker room because a lot of older women seem to have no modesty. Speaking of, I'd like to remind those women to NOT SIT ON THE BENCHES BARE-ASSED.

The panties continue to slide. They finally end up in a pathetic bunch right under my butt cheeks. I pull my t-shirt down.

At last, my workout ends. I come up with the brilliant idea to exit the main room with my back to the wall. That way, mostly no one will have to see my lumpy rear. Except as I'm sliding along, I realize how totally weird I look. So I kind of bend my legs and squat so it looks like I'm doing some super-effective sideways fitness move. In fact, this one lady looks like she's going to comment on how awesome my move is, except then she has a coughing fit and can't.

The whole thing is traumatizingly familiar.

* It's "mars," not "marrs." Get it right, people.

** Sweaty Ass. Or for my mother - when your rear end perspires.

Taaaaaap it in

I take golf lessons!

I gather with the other students. They have brought their shiny, unused clubs with them. They wear visors and polo shirts. I have opted for flip flops.

"YOU WORE FLIP FLOPS?!" the DNB shrieks, later.

"Well, I didn't know. I thought we'd be in a classroom or something, starting with a textbook or a chalkboard. I didn't know we'd be playing the very first day, sheesh," I reply.

The instructor asks what kind of golf experience we've each had. Two years, one woman says. Three years, replies another. "Miniature?" I say. This is not going to go well.

He gives me very little feedback during the lesson; it borders on ignoring me completely. I assume this is because I am already doing everything so correctly. I always was a quick learner.

At the end of an hour, I've managed to pop a blood vessel in my right hand. Muscles are tired that I didn't know I had. It is small consolation that my grip is good.

"You need to get a glove," the woman next to me suggests.

I gaze down the row of golfers at the driving range. Everyone is wearing one. Of course, that's what I'm lacking! It's probably totally messing up my swing.

So I buy a glove, and when I get home I wear it around the house for a little bit pretty much the entire day and DUDE, I totally look legit now. I'm all, here's me getting the mail wearing my Fancy Golf Glove. And now I'm typing a blog post, and I think the Fancy Golf Glove may even be helping me type faster and with better form. Here's me moonwalking while wearing my Fancy Golf Glove.

It is so on at my lesson tonight.