True to my word, I was up early. I got out of bed this morning and went to a Zumba class for the first time ever. My husband always teases me about having a “popularity complex.”
If everyone else likes it, he says, Alicia hates it.
Oh come on. He’s only MOSTLY right. And, as Billy Crystal has told us all time and time again, “It just so happens that your friend here is only mostly [right]. There’s a big difference between mostly [right] and all [right].”
Zumba has been sweeping the nation, and so, naturally, I shunned it. The novelty has worn off, and now I’ll venture out and explore. It’s 2005 all over again, when I wrapped myself up in the Harry Potter books even though everyone else had already read most of them. All it took was three entire books for me to say, “Hey, they’re great. I’ll watch the movies instead.” Nothing against the author. A million props to her! I just prefer boring books where the plot line is soooooooo sloooooowwww that you can speed read 3 pages before actually hitting something of significance. ALSO: I prefer to keep action in a book to a minimum. If it isn’t, it takes all the relaxing out of reading.
This, by the way, is also why I haven’t bothered with The Hunger Games. I can handle 3 hours worth of action in movie form. But stretching it out over days and possibly weeks?! Forget it.
Back to Zumba: I showed up to work out in my PJs. Truth: I don’t own any legit work out clothes. So there I stood in my pink plaid PJ pants (say it ten times fast. Dare ya) and my pink John Deere shirt… and I gangta danced to Latin music. Sort of. I mean, have you ever seen a farm girl try to shake it? I’ve only EVER shaken like that when a field mouse crawled across my bare foot. EEEEEEEEEEEEkkkkk!
I definitely need some new gear if I’m going to keep my work out routine up. I’ve wondered if I should for a few weeks now, but coming home with a blister today confirmed my fear: my shoes aren’t new anymore. I don’t know what my deal is, but when I buy new clothes they seem new to me for years afterward. I once whined that a pair of Charlotte Russe pants that I had JUST bought were wearing holes in the seat of them. My mother-in-law gently pointed out that I had purchased the pants over a year prior.
Wha…?
They weren’t NEW?
Confession: I’ve had the same hair brush for 5 years, and before my husband bought it for me, I hadn’t owned one since I don’t KNOW when. Gross, I know.
Confession: the last time I bought a good pack of socks was 6 years ago, and even then I only bought them because I was about to board a plane and realized at the last minute that my socks were at home. On the flip side, my husand buys new socks about twice a year, like a normal person.
Confession: I still wear some clothes from high school and completely forget that they are at least 10 years old.
Confession: I hate buying clothes for myself unless they fit perfectly and are extremely affordable. This means I shop exclusively on clearance racks. and Goodwill racks.
I don’t know what my DEAL is, but if I don’t work through this I’m going to wear holes in my “new” shoes that keep giving me blisters. In fact, yesterday I found a bloomin’ hole in the new shoes my husband gave me for Christmas 4 years ago!
The audacity. Shoes just don’t hold up like they used to. *sigh*
My issue maybe MIGHT stem from my being raised in Wrangler. After about 7 years of wearing a pair of good, sturdy, western Wranglers, you finally start being able to bend your legs at the knee.
FYI: Most every Western store has a clearance rack, but there are hardly ever any good western clothes on Goodwill racks. Why is that, do you think?
Western clothing is legendary. It never. dies.
On second thought, maybe I’ll stick with my John Deere tee as a work out shirt…
Completely unrelated and possibly SCADS more interesting than everything I just wrote: I came home from a personal morning devotional this morning (in the which I drove out to the Arizona desert equivalent of the Boondocks and watched the sun rise… sweet bliss) and cooked breakfast with my son. He is my BOY. We both love mornings, and we both love laughing.
This morning, I set him up on a chair and had him help me cook breakfast. Since I had tried Zumba for the first time, I decided to try something else for the first time: make frog-in-the-hole.
I didn’t get a picture, so I’ll borrow from Google.
Mira:
via kahakaikitchen.blogspot.com
My son’s imagination ran rampant with the whole “frog” thing.
“Frogs don’t pop out of bellies, huh Mom?” He asked.
“Nope,” I reassured him.
“Can I crack the frog and puddit inna hole?”
“Sure,” I handed him an egg and prayed a little.
It landed RIGHT in the hole with only ONE teeny tiny shell piece. No yolk breakage. He’ll be a regular Bobby Flay yet!
Once it had cooked, I plopped it on a plate for him and started cutting.
“MOM!” He started to slightly hyperventilate, “You can’t just CUT the fr- I can’t EAT the frog!”
I didn’t say a word… I just kept cutting the egg. I watched his brain work as it switched from imagination to reality, and it was downright darling.
“It’s jussa egg,” he remarked as he tilted his head thoughtfully and looked down at the oozing yellow frog.
“It’s just an egg,” I shrugged.
And just like that, I stifled his imagination. Because I’m an awesome mother.
At least I don’t fix his inside out jammie top that he put on ALL BY HIMSELF. So that’s something.
I have the same hairbrush that I got when I was a Junior in high school. A pink nylon Avon brush, and I throw it in the wash with the towels and bleach once a week.