I’m back home in LA for a couple of weeks during my last winter break ever as a college student – yes, I take cash but check is preferred – and I always have this sense of empowerment of getting into tip top shape when I’m home. Maybe it’s the housewife mentality of it all or maybe it’s just the fact that I know I’m going to have at least 2 glasses of wine and a large frozen yogurt later. The gym gets so monotonous so I go to a plethora of workout classes: Piloxing, Cardio Barre, Kiyoga….yeah, I made that last one up but it wouldn’t surprise me if it existed in LA. Shits weird out here.
Three times a week I go to a kick-butt cardio barre class, where the instructor incorporates ballet with high intensity, no impact cardio. It burns some serious cals and tones mah buns right up. I went into class this morning feeling pretty good; I’ve been eating well, haven’t been drinking a lot, you know, the usual post-holiday trim down season.
Now, LA is known for being materialistic, hubris and egocentric (I can keep going if you like). I will defend this city until I’m paid off but every time I walk into class, I’m hit with a wave of new Mercedes smell, and fresh Ugg fur: the classic one-two punch. Nothing like a MILF to make you think twice about wearing the shirt you slept in.
If you know me, you know I sweat at the drop of a hat, which is why I don’t participate in yoga or wear grey t-shirts. About 25 minutes in, I start shvitsing, my hair gets stuck to my face, the whole nine. Today for some reason, I was experiencing extraordinary pre-menopausal symptoms and ripped my shirt off faster than Bruce Almighty.
(Un)fortunately, the woman probably approaching that milestone standing next to me was on the same level and reciprocated. Who is this, fucking Elle Macpherson? I may have put my shirt back on but at least I can do REAL push ups; not those weird barre push ups where everyone knows you’re just checking out your own rack.
I got home and had a cookie. At least I still have a metabolism.