How Candy Almost Killed Me!

I have managed to claw my way back to 130. Tim and the kids were home today for a snow day. The cake is gone, thank goodness (though I miss it already) so it can tempt me no longer. I did pretty well today - bowl of turkey chili for lunch, chicken salad (no mayo - just non-fat yogurt) on lettuce and one bowl of soup for dinner. Two bites of Stina's ice cream when I was cleaning up. (Mint chocolate chip. Delicious!)

Today, however, I would like to tell you how Candy almost killed me.

Our friend Mdme. E suggested that Mdme. L and I attend workout classes at the YMCA with her. (After Mdme. L and I started going to classes at the Y regularly, Mdme. E promptly quit. To paraphrase a quote from Groucho Marx, I think she felt "I would never belong to a fitness club that would have K and L as members.")

There are many advantages to working out at the Y:
1) It is clean, has good equipment and is located nearby.
2) If you are really attractive, you are not welcome at the Y. This makes it a much more comfortable experience for the rest of us "normals." No one wants to work out with a model or a professional athlete. Well, don't worry, there is no danger of that at the Y!
3) They watch your kids for you while you work out. They enclose them like the little animals they are in a room full of toys and babysitters. The children are not allowed to leave unless you sign for them, and by now we know all the staff, most of whom are local mothers. This sounds like a small thing, that you are allowed to lock your children in a safe room that smells faintly of pee. Anyone who has had a child sitting on them while they are trying to do a push-up knows how revolutionary this is, however. This is actually the only reason I go -- to get away from my kids. If I were capable of it, I would work out for hours to get free babysitting.

The classes we take are taught by a woman named Candy who has almost killed me about ten times over the last six months. Two days after a class with Candy I say "Whoa, Nelly!" or "Holy Mackerel!" every time I move. This is because: 1) I grew up with a father who thought he was a product of the old west; and 2) I am in terrible pain.

You are picturing your typical Candy-the workout-goddess -- Blond, slim, 25 years old, lycra-encased lush body, french manicure and peppy personality. Our Candy is blond and slim, but the resemblance ends there. As far as I can tell, Candy, a tom-boy in her mid-thirties with the body of a fifteen year-old, has no nerve endings. I have never seen anybody move so fast, or so well, every damned class. She's also really nice the whole time, though she does yell at Mdme. L for talking too much pretty regularly. For an hour she makes us jump, lunge, run, step and lift. Picture the energizer bunny on coke, and that's Candy. I would hate her with glee if I thought she did nothing but workout, but she has four little kids she's home with full time, so I limit myself to just resenting the hell out of her.

I spend the classes sweating, trying not to pass out and exercising with goofy vigor to embarass Mdme. L. Mdme. L does not let her elbows fly when she runs. She doesn't imitate a rocket or a typewriter. She doesn't quack during the duck walk. I do.

Today we were kept from Candy's step class by all the snow. I love the step class, because even though Candy doesn't add any flourishes with her arms (being a jock with a horror of aerobics), I do and it makes the class seem like a big dance-off. Mdme. L finds it boring because she just phones it in. So tonight, after I finish this, I am going to go in my dank basement and walk on the treadmill while I watch reruns of "the Closer." Not only do I love Keira Sedgewick, who I would like to play me in the movie of my life, but I am hoping that this will enable me to pick up my socks tomorrow without saying "Dag nabbitt." Then, if Mdme. L doesn't wimp out, we can give Candy another shot at kicking our butts.