Sweatin’ with the Oldies

Know what I hate more than anything about going to the gym? It’s not the pain, it’s not the time out of my busy child-rearing/husband-wrangling schedule, it’s not even the increased risk of contracting necrotizing fasciitis… it’s having to socialize while I’m tired, sweaty, stinky and nasty. Shoot, if I wanted to do that, I could just stay home and have sex with my husband. Nothankyouverymuch. 

But alas, it’s almost swimsuit season and I’ve got to firm up these buns and thighs before someone tries to throw me on the grill and baste me at the Memorial Day Pool Party.  Besides, my extensive team of psychiatric advisors tells me that daily physical activity is good for all that ails me. And by daily physical activity, they mean more than just lifting my wine glass to my mouth repeatedly and/or kicking my dog. Dammit. 

So on Monday, I shoe-horned my ginormous post-partum goodie basket into a pair of high-waisted yoga pants and headed off for the YMCA… a.k.a., the “Y-ABC,” according to my scrumdeli-icious toddler “Bucket Head.” And after a very concentrated and effective 30 minutes on the elliptical and three sets of “ow-this hurts” on the machines, I managed to make it almost all the way to the front door without having to chit chat with anyone while pretending there wasn’t a big ol’ pool of sweat collecting around my camel toe, when what did I hear but, “Iris? Is that YOU?” 

Fuck. 

Oh, of all the people. It was Saint Margaret. She is seriously, no joke, one of the nicest people I have ever met in my whole life. And for some unknown reason, she likes me. She really likes me. And we hardly ever see each other anymore, what with all her volunteer work, and church-going, and tennis lessons and my rampant alcoholism, and clutter hoarding, and therapy appointments. 

But there we were, sweaty face to sweaty face, doing the “So, what’s new with you?” dance. I was clearly in a hurry to skedaddle and extract the lycra from my crotch, so she suggested we meet again later this week and do a class together.

“Uh… I don’t really do the classes, Marg.”

“How come?!”

“Well, the last time I did one, it totally kicked my ass. I couldn’t walk for days. And not only that, but it was humiliating. I couldn’t keep up and I was embarrassed. I ended up slinking out before the end of the class with my tail between my legs.” 

“That’s why you have to do the classes! The peer pressure forces you to go further than you normally would on your own! And if you do it with a friend, you will be less likely to sneak out before the end of the class! You’ll see results so much faster!”

“Ugh… really?”

“Yes. Do a class with me. It will be great! Only three more weeks until summer!”

“Oh…kay.” (with a heavy sigh) 

And so less than 48 hours later, there I was, back at the gym with Saint Margaret, walking into a class called “Stability Ball.” 

I know what you’re thinking… but don’t worry, apparently being stable isn’t a requirement. And they supply the balls. 

Neither of us had done this class before and had no idea what we were getting into, but we guessed it was going to work our abs and I’ll do anything to reduce the size of my stretch-marked-muffin-top… well, anything except refrain from eating an entire bag of Boy Scout “Unbelievable Butter” microwave popcorn every night in a reclined position while The Gatekeeper flips back and forth between Law and Order SVU or SUV or SUX and Law and Order Criminal Intent and Law and Order Mail Fraud Division. Whatever.  Just fucking shoot me. 

Now this next part is going to sound a wee bit agist, and it is. So to my more mature readers, I apologize in advance. When Saint Margaret and I got to the class, I noticed a few, ahem, “older” ladies getting settled in. With the exception of seeing their varicose vein covered legs ballooning out of their lycra short-shorts, having them there gave me a great deal of comfort. If the cast of Cocoon can hang with the Stability Ball class, hopefully, so could I. Maybe I wouldn’t have to sneak out halfway through and spring for a new tube of Ben Gay.

Anyhoooo…. two things. First off, I now see why they keep the music up so loud in these classes: to disguise all the noises coming from the vajayjays in the room. Seriously dudes, can’t someone design some workout clothes for women that include some kind of cork-like apparatus for the hoo hoo? No? Too misogynist?  Well then, how about some soundproof yoga pants? Hey, that is a great idea! I need to patent that. You heard it here first, peeps. 

And number two… why do instructors save all the really hard moves for the end of the class? It started off so easy… we were each sitting, SITTING, I say, on a big rubber exercise ball, lifting little three pound weights up and down, up and down. I especially liked the sitting part. Piece of cake! Then we were doing sit ups with our backs on the ball. Also, not so bad. I was hanging in there! But then, the class got a little bit harder. No more sitting, we were suddenly on our bellies, rolling forward on the ball, doing PUSH UPS with our hands on the floor and only our feet on the ball. I kid you not. You know you are doing something dangerous when the instructor says: “Watch your faces!” Yikes! Excuse me, but any kind of exercise where I have to watch my face is not eligible for the Bearded Iris Seal of Approval. 

I was pretty impressed with myself that I could hang with the modified pushups. I looked at the clock… only ten minutes left! YES! I was going to make it! And then, we entered the Sudden Death Round. Seriously. After 45 minutes, who has the energy to take it to the next level? This crazy bitch instructor (who could not only do all these moves while talking, smiling, and squealing “Whooop-Whoop” to the music) told us to lie on our backs, hold the balls straight up in the air with our feet, and pass the balls back and forth to and from our hands, like inverted jack-knives opening and closing. I never felt so stupid in all my life… including Senior Prom Night 20 years ago, but that’s another story. Nor did I know that I could sing the Star Spangled Banner with my other lips, but apparently I can, and this was just the move to prove it. 

To add insult to injury, not only could I not do the ball handling jack knife move, but one look in the wall-to-wall mirror showed me that everyone else in the class was doing just fine with it, including the one who looked like Kathy Najimy and the three Golden Girls. I’m only 39 years old, and every single person in that class could have kicked my ass with one liver-spotted arm behind their back. Dammit. No wonder my Wii Fit Age enables me to receive a virtual AARP discount card.

But am I a quitter? Especially with the end so near? You betcha. Once I realized there was no way in hell my arms, legs, back, abs, and hoo hoo were going to cooperate with that jack knife move, I snuck outta there faster than you can say “queef.” I was like the old timers at church on Sunday who take communion and keep walking… right to their cars… you know, to avoid the traffic. I’ll just tell Saint Margaret that I sprung a leak and had to go change my Poise Pad. Maybe if she thinks I’m incontinent, she’ll be less likely to invite me to another class and I can go back to exercising the way I like it: alone and without shame, pain, or embarrassing noises. If you don’t hear from me for a while, just assume I pulled a muscle and am nursing myself back to health. Later, taters! 

xoxo,

-Iris

©  2009 The Bearded Iris

Where There’s a Will, There’s a Way

Well, The Gatekeeper put the big kibosh on my spending. Dammit. Always the practical one, he’s a little concerned about the state of our economy. He actually told me, and I quote, “You have to stop buying things.” I’m pretty sure he means clothes and shoes and makeup, and not things like the economy size bucket of Oxy Clean required for fighting the omnipresent stains in his drawers. (Note to self: it appears as though saving grocery money by serving lots of bean burritos only increases the laundry expenses… something to consider when planning our weekly menu and budget.) 

So, always wanting to be an obedient concubine wife, I needed to find a way to get my shopping fix and save money at the same time. I don’t use coupons… even when I go to the trouble to find them, and clip them, and bring them with me (and that’s three strikes against me right there), I invariably forget to hand them to the clerk during checkout. Never fails. 

Nor do I wait for sales. Timing isn’t my thing. Neither is patience. Or self-control for that matter. 

Luckily for me, I have discovered the perfect outlet. It’s a little ol’ thang called Goodwill. I know, I know, it’s a thrift store… ick! Honey, listen, don’t get yer panties in a wad. It is totally different than it used to be. Thrift stores are not just for homeless people and Halloween costumes anymore. They are veritable treasure troves of goodness! Yes, it is true, you may have to dig a bit to find that buried treasure, but believe-you-me, it is so worth it.  

You see, there are two coexisting trends right now that are working together to create the perfect shopping environment! First of all, people are desperate for ways to cut back and save a buck. Being thrifty is totally hip right now. It is the new Green. And secondly, people all over this nation are striving to simplify their lives. They are glued to shows like Clean Sweep and Clean House and some poor schmucks are even sending pictures of their cluttered homes to Oprah in desperate hopes of landing a free clutter-busting-makeover from Peter Walsh himself. Suckahs. How desperate can you get? Bygones. Anyhooo, everywhere you turn, people are filling their SUVs with STUFF they no longer want or need and are dropping them off at thrift stores left and right. And wouldn’t you know it? Some of that STUFF that people are just dying to get rid of is pretty darn nice! We’ve been a nation of excess for so long, charge-charge-charging our way into this economic crisis, that many of us who are “drowning in clutter” are actually drowning in a pretty fancy sea of Pottery Barn knick knacks that just have to go! 

And here I am, smack dab in the middle of a perfect storm of clutter-clearing, treasure-hunting, bargain-shopping, and husband-evading. The air is ripe with possibilities. 

My goal is to take more to Goodwill than I bring back home with me, but so far I’m about dead even. I feel pretty good about my purchases though and have strived to buy only things that I think we truly need.

Here is one of my favorite purchases to date… it is a hand painted lampshade that I procured for about $2.00. 

Isn’t it purdy? Only problem… I figured out pretty damn quickly why someone got rid of it…

Here’s what it looks like when you turn on the lamp:

Fugly. Oh well. I still like it during the day. And for two bucks? Shoot. Can’t beat that with a stick! 

One thing I’ve figured out is that not every Goodwill store is the same. Here in North Georgia there are a few Goodwills that are much nicer than others. Sometimes they are very disorganized and it is hard to find what you want. At other stores, you walk in and I swear you can hear angels singing. Have you ever seen organization in a thrift store like this?

Seriously ya’ll. That is so pleasing to the eye, ain’t it? All the clothing racks in this particular store are like that. They must have Rain Man managing it or something. Me likee. 

Another thing I’ve noticed at these thrift stores is the plethora of discarded teacher appreciation CRAP. Por examplo:

This tells me two things:

1.) teachers do not appreciate this junk. You should see the number of “World’s Best Teacher” coffee mugs lining the shelves of these thrift stores. I know you love your teacher, but he/she does not want another apple-shaped Christmas ornament, coffee mug, or pencil holder. If every parent in the class pooled their $5.00, that hard-working teacher could buy something they really want and save themselves the hassle of making another trip to the thrift store to drop off all the clutter they keep receiving from you people. 

2.) if you insist on buying this tacky shit for your teachers, go buy it for pennies on the dollar at the Goodwill! Then, put a gift card or a nice crisp five or ten dollar bill in that hideous mug and know that you are supporting a local charity and your teacher in a way she’ll appreciate. Trust me on this one. 

And speaking of teachers… 

Damn. Where are Stacy and Clinton when you need them? And Richard Simmons too. 

Which brings me to my next point. If you are new to thrifting, you might want to stick to housewares and books. It can be difficult to find clothes you like or want at thrift stores. There is a lot of stuff like that dress above. I did find a fabulous “like new” winter coat for $4.00 that I am just tickled about… and hopefully once I wash it in extra hot water it will be much less likely to tickle me back. I also found a really great pair of pajama pants. They were the right size, a good brand, a great fabric, already broken in and soft, and in great shape:

… at least I thought they were in great shape, until I lifted one of the pant legs to check for rips and discovered this:

 

Look closely at the crotch (like you usually do, ya cheeky monkey!).  D’ya see that? Yep. It is a big ol’ blood stain. Ewwww. Ladies, ladies, ladies. How could you? Didn’t your Mama ever tell you that you can’t just leak your monthly moon juice all over your PJ pants and stick ‘em in the Goodwill bag?! For Pete’s sake! That is why God invented Oxy Clean, honey. Gross. 

Yeah. I bought ‘em anyway. So what? 

OK, one last tip. Don’t take your kids with you when you shop at Goodwill unless you are well medicated, have a strong stomach, and are in the mood to negotiate. For starters, as you well know, kids are nasty little varmints. Maybe that sounds a tad negative. What I mean is that children, being so trusting and adventurous, and enthusiastic, don’t necessarily mix well with “previously owned” housewares. In other words, if your kids are anything like mine, you can bet that they’ll stick used Scooby-Doo sippy cup straws into their mouths and lick dusty artificial fruit while simultaneously trying to convince you to buy these items for them. Or they’ll grab a hideous dusty figurine, hold it up to their little face, and plead: “Oh MOM! Look how cute! How could anyone part with this?”

Yep. You guessed it. I am now the proud owner of this sad little cow. Don’t worry, he’ll be back at Goodwill sooner than later, I hope. Along with those previously stained pajama pants, once I get my fill of them. 

Happy Thrifting! 

xoxo,

Iris