work it out baby

i am hopelessly attracted to two men who have shown little more than lukewarm interest in me. Both of these men are VPOP – "virtually perfect on paper" — and (purely coincidentally) both will be out-of-country for at least the next year.

I see this as a sign from God. So I joined a gym.

I figure--I got a year to get hot. Or more correctly: hot – ter.

Now (for those who don't know me) I didn't join Bally's or 23-hour Fitness (remember President's First Lady? My grandma belonged there in '78)…. I've had two children by C-section (if you're a woman you know what I'm talkin' about… I may never wear a bikini again…)… I joined my neighborhood gym: Lifetime Fitness.. it's a ritzy YMCA.

Anyhoo…I've learned a few things from this week at the gym.

1. My body is not as rotund and repulsive as it could be: God bless these people, PUH LEEZ. I just about had to take a Xanex when I thought about putting on workout clothes. I haven't had anything on this tight fitting since Pat Benatar was in the top 20. But I am encouraged by the courage of the people at this gym. There are people at this gym who richard simmons would adopt. I feel within-normal-weight-range here.

2. The Stairmaster is Evil: Have you ever gotten onto one of these things?! ! If you don't repent before your fateful day, I predict you will find yourself handcuffed to a stairmaster for a time dependent on your sin here on earth. The stairs keep coming down, down, down, and you keep climbing. But you get nowhere. By the end of it, you're sweating, your legs are shaky and the thought of a big drink of water makes you want to throw up. --a lot like internet dating, actually--

3. I am a female chauvinist pig: I hate exercise. I love the sauna, but I hate what I have to do to reward myself with it. HOWEVER! I've found a little secret to my torture: there is an elliptical machine strategically located in perfect viewing vacinity of the weight lifting "arena." (Arena meaning 4-walled mirrored area where dudes watch themselves lift dumbbells with scrawny shirts on).I find that if i secure that particular elliptical, I'm able to tread 3 – 4 minutes longer than I do with the dumpy elliptical in front of Fox News (now, get Shep Smith on a pull-up bar, we might be talkin'). It's a stereotype I know, but men in camouflage or full-arm tattoos just work it a little sexier. … sad, but true.

There are other things I've learned while doing my time at the gym: the fountain in the locker room has colder water than the one on the workout floor -- never follow a fat chick into the sauna if she has only one towel -- remember the stall with the dinner-plate showerhead, it makes a difference. And most importantly: don't undress with teenagers around… they will laugh. (another sad but true)

My goal is to shave the fat off this ass and be a woman who men might stalk on myspace. You've seen them: they post pictures of themselves sitting on the edge of a skiboat in a polka-dotta bikini-- they have margaritaville as their song. Bitch-es. Yeah, I want that to be me.

Actually, I'm working out so I can look good at my 20-year high school reunion. How lame is that? Who am I? My mom?! But I've got until mid-october to be 80's era – ish. like a virgin and all that ...

Then again, if just one of those two particular guys gets back next year and goes from lukewarm to tepid … I'm thinking Martha Stewart-style: it's a good thing.

The F Word

When my divorce went down I was hurt. No doubt. I was humiliated, embarrassed, heartbroken. completely broken. Still -- I'd get over it. I mean, it's not like I'd never been hurt before. He wasn't my first boyfriend.
Okay, my first husband. My first…everything. Anyhoo--my heart would mend. It had before.

I'd be fine.

And I was. Life went on. Made my own way.

I did it right: two years of therapy; reunion with God; transitional relationships; self awareness…thumbs up. I carved a niche in my space of the world and I was beautiful in it. STill, it gnawed. Always I was in touch with my chunk of rotting soul meat—anger festering behind tupperware marked 'regret' and 'guilt'.

I had to. clean it out.

For me.

I'm not giving in!

He was not justified.

He was wrong.

I was right!
All of which got me nowhere.

So now, I'll tell you something: The F word.

we push away as from the sides of a pool, to swim in the murk. Anger feels powerful.
The strongest will throw it down. Clinch real freedom. Embrace the power of the F Bomb. The F word you need to know. forgiveness . All of it

I sat in a chair—not a pew—easter Sunday 2006. This little baptist church, who dropped the moniker and fashions itself non-denominational; i liked the smallness of it. The anonymity. the pastor is georgeous. So he was talking about peter, how he denied jesus. He asked us--all 80 or so--"has anyone ever really hurt you? I mean really cut you all the way to the core?" immediately I thought "hell yeah!" not exactly your typical easter Sunday sermon, but gosh, he was so cute: gotee, always cool clothes …. Then God spoke to my bone marrow: "I don't mean YOU. Think deeper."
Ugh.
I didn't want to think deeper….i like to feel sorry for myself. I HAD been cut all the way to the core. Listen to my sad story!"

He was totally wrong, and I was totally right and no one ANYWHERE at any time would dispute it! …yeah…! so …
God again,

"I'm not talking about you! ; think about
how much you hurt.
your spirit is dying from this anger."
That so hit me. Because my spirit rocks.
I had to let the gate up / hear God speak to me: "it's now, honey. It's time." silence from mind to soul. "you have to forgive them, now!" He said so clearly within me that it was my own voice. outside of me; it was me. I just threw down. "okay," was all I could really get out.

But it left me. I felt it go and I actually smiled for him… and her.
Pretty much.

So it was at this little suburban new wave church, I laid down the anger and the horrific realization of his ultimate, earth-catapulting infidelity. And you know what?

Tomorrow was totally cool. The sun came up. In fact, it was sunny and bright and perfect that whole rest of the day. I actually had forgiven my ex husband and his (now) wife for flagrantly disrespecting the vows of my marriage.

I myself have racked up quite a list of … sins… especially lately. We're human. Wow.

I dropped it in that moment. I dropped the dumbbell of resentment that hung from a leathered band around my neck. And by God, I was free.

It's not like walking on air, more taking off a heavy coat you forgot you were wearing. In june.

it's the f-word: forgiveness.

Give yourself a break. They don't care anyway.

Shrek 3: my thoughts exactly

As lovers of all things ogre, we joyously rode the mcdonald's marketing juggernaut all week. Sipping diet coke from slime-green soda straws and creating disjointed dialogue between talking Shrek, Donkey and Gingy happy meal toys only served to froth my little family into a festering frenzy by the time we hit the theater Friday night for the premiere of Shrek the Third.
The film opens with Prince Charming playing himself in a dinner theater re-enactment of fighting brutal winds, blistering deserts and climbing to the tallest room in the highest tower, only to have his happily ever snatched by a roaring green ogre. He vows to smite (or is it smote?) his odious archenemy and reclaim his rightful place on the throne. Meanwhile, back at the castle, King Henry, still in his natural state as a toad (see Shrek 2), is on his death-lily pad, his family by his waterside. With his final fly-snatch he reveals that other than Shrek, there is but one heir to the Far Far Away thrown, a dude named Arthur. Go figure. Thus, the stage is set for a swashbuckling, burping, farting, butt-scratching adventure. My kids gave it a two bottoms up. I experienced an adventure on and off screen, as the singular experience of sitting with my children in a movie theater has, thus far, been reserved mostly for the enjoyment of their grandparents.
A darkened theater, Dolby surround sound, crunching on $6 popcorn – it's all part of the fun of going to the picture show, as Grandma Bowers used to say. As thrilling as it is to experience jumbo nostrils, perfectly modulated pooting and downing an Icee bigger than your face, the challenge of keeping a four year old calm and quiet in a confined area without the aid of yelling at her, can be a daunting one. We got through it with the help of Easter candy stowed in my purse, stretching out thanks to retractable arm rests and three trips to the bathroom which kept us, as well as the people sitting around us, on their toes.
Shrek the Third delivers where expected. We get to meet more citizens of Far Far Away, including Fiona's gal pals Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Cinderella and Rapunzel. Eric Idle makes a great vocal cameo as Merlin, the slightly senile wizard who seems to have killed one too many brain cells in pursuit of peace-loving enlightenment. Justin Timberlake is the voice of Artie, the boy who would be king, and the scenes of Worcestershire High School, where he is the big dork on campus, provide lots of knowing laughs for parents, if not for little ones. Donkey gets shoved in a locker with an "I suck-eth" sign taped to his…er, backside. It's the kind of stuff that keeps this Shrek-fecta on track for two hours.
In the end, Artie accepts the crown, Fiona gives birth and I earned big mom points arming my kids with bathroom-humor spoilers to impress their classmates come Monday morning. And while I like the hype as much as the next over-consuming capitalist, I suspect in a kid-less life, I'd be just as happy to grab the DVD in a month or so and put the money spent tonight toward a tank of gas. With that saving plan, I might have enough by the end of the summer blockbuster season to fill up.