I approached my adult gymnastics class with a new vigor yesterday.
I just closed my eyes, and suddenly I was 90 pounds of pure muscle dressed in a little red leotard with a star on my ribcage. I was Lysa Lukin for the U. S. of A. wahhhhhhhhhh- the crowd goes crazy.
And then class started.
And not one part of my body could move like an Olympic gymnast y'all. No matter how hard I pushed. No matter how hard I strained. No matter how hard I grunted.
I couldn't stretch like an Olympian. I couldn't move as fast as an Olympian. I couldn't jump as high as an Olympian. And have mercy, I definitely couldn't make my body do any kind of flippy thing like an Olympian.
Sigh.
And let's not even go there with the little red leotard. Oh honey, if I squeezed my body into that people would ask "those" kind of questions.
You know like: When are you due? Are you having twins?
Very figure affirming questions. And that just wouldn't be good for my competition mindset you know.
So, then I started wondering if there is any Olympic sport I could still do at my age with my current post baby body times 3.
Beach volleyball?
Are you kidding? Seeing me in a bikini jumping up and down would not be suitable for young viewers. But it would be a good abstinence promotion as flat bellied teens everywhere would suddenly be thinking twice about you know what which can lead to you know what.
Swimming?
I have two preventative words for you: Southern hairdo. Can you imagine me trying to fit my hair underneath one of those little, tiny, squishy caps? I've had too many years sitting under the tutelage of the 'Vidal Sassoon' and 'Big Sexy Hair' cans of spray. The confines of a swim cap would simply be unthinkable.
Track?
I'm too slow.
Weight lifting?
I'm too weak.
Soccer?
I'm too directionally challenged and feel certain I couldn't keep it straight which goal to shoot towards.
I wonder if they could ever have mothering as an Olympic sport?
I mean we get up at the crack of dawn to start training, get pushed to the brink of exhaustion, and have mental and physical challenges that I dare say rival any recognized Olympic sport.
And our uniform would consist of clothing that covers left over baby fat, cellulite, and spider veins while simultaneously keeping ones' hairdo away from humidity.
Oh yes ma'am, where do we sign up?
Speaking of signing up, I'm scheduled to speak on a cruise next February. And I was just thinking about how much fun it would be to have lots of my bloggy friends join me. I think we could have a total blast.
If any of you are remotely interested, let me know and I'll post more information.
In the meantime I'm off to leap tall loads of laundry in a single bound. "Look at that toe point and the arm extension she gets!" And the crowd once again goes, "wahhhhhhhhhhh!"
I just closed my eyes, and suddenly I was 90 pounds of pure muscle dressed in a little red leotard with a star on my ribcage. I was Lysa Lukin for the U. S. of A. wahhhhhhhhhh- the crowd goes crazy.
And then class started.
And not one part of my body could move like an Olympic gymnast y'all. No matter how hard I pushed. No matter how hard I strained. No matter how hard I grunted.
I couldn't stretch like an Olympian. I couldn't move as fast as an Olympian. I couldn't jump as high as an Olympian. And have mercy, I definitely couldn't make my body do any kind of flippy thing like an Olympian.
Sigh.
And let's not even go there with the little red leotard. Oh honey, if I squeezed my body into that people would ask "those" kind of questions.
You know like: When are you due? Are you having twins?
Very figure affirming questions. And that just wouldn't be good for my competition mindset you know.
So, then I started wondering if there is any Olympic sport I could still do at my age with my current post baby body times 3.
Beach volleyball?
Are you kidding? Seeing me in a bikini jumping up and down would not be suitable for young viewers. But it would be a good abstinence promotion as flat bellied teens everywhere would suddenly be thinking twice about you know what which can lead to you know what.
Swimming?
I have two preventative words for you: Southern hairdo. Can you imagine me trying to fit my hair underneath one of those little, tiny, squishy caps? I've had too many years sitting under the tutelage of the 'Vidal Sassoon' and 'Big Sexy Hair' cans of spray. The confines of a swim cap would simply be unthinkable.
Track?
I'm too slow.
Weight lifting?
I'm too weak.
Soccer?
I'm too directionally challenged and feel certain I couldn't keep it straight which goal to shoot towards.
I wonder if they could ever have mothering as an Olympic sport?
I mean we get up at the crack of dawn to start training, get pushed to the brink of exhaustion, and have mental and physical challenges that I dare say rival any recognized Olympic sport.
And our uniform would consist of clothing that covers left over baby fat, cellulite, and spider veins while simultaneously keeping ones' hairdo away from humidity.
Oh yes ma'am, where do we sign up?
Speaking of signing up, I'm scheduled to speak on a cruise next February. And I was just thinking about how much fun it would be to have lots of my bloggy friends join me. I think we could have a total blast.
If any of you are remotely interested, let me know and I'll post more information.
In the meantime I'm off to leap tall loads of laundry in a single bound. "Look at that toe point and the arm extension she gets!" And the crowd once again goes, "wahhhhhhhhhhh!"
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