The Rhythm in My Step

     It's a day after Passover and I don't feel like a pig.
 
      A pig wouldn't point its snout in the direction of Mediterranean flavored or whole wheat matzo, and certainly wouldn't partake of any cakes made with potato starch.  No, that was all me.  After ten holiday meals, I surrendered to it all.
      I don't know what I was thinking when I woke up this morning and stuffed myself into my exercise clothes, though it felt more like a wet suit after nearly ten days of being sedentary. 
  I walked into the studio reluctant to see how out of shape I was after a week of my cardio indifference.  I made it to the front row by default-I was actually in the second row and no one stood ahead of me.
      I looked at myself in my Supplex tights (made by Dupont, the company that also makes body armor for our military.  I am fighting a way different battle from our troops, doesn't make it any easier.) The only thing missing from this complete surrender to exercise was florescent lighting and magnifying mirrors.  That would have sent me-and probably every other Zumbie-screaming out into the streets.  But I stayed in place.  I wouldn't move.  And then the music began.

Me during Zumba.

     The downside to Zumba, is since it's my first time back in a few months, there's going to be new music.  New songs means new routines.  To psyche myself up, I pretend I'm a dancer going in to an audition.  First there's the stretching, then the encouraging and easy to follow warm up;   Everything is fine until the first girl yells"Wooh!"  -then they all break out into a dance I feel they've secretly created while I was throwing my sweatshirt into the corner of the room...and I am completely lost. 
     To save face and keep my heart rate up I jog in place and roll my eyes or smile.  As everyone else turns in complete synchronicity with the poise of professional water ballerinas, I flail my arms and side step as if to avoid drowning.
      If I were 20'something, this dance would have been over.  I would have faked an injury and walked out whimpering.  My cries only dulled by the screaming elastic of my underpants. I would have felt like crap, not even completed a workout, only proving the bad voice inside my head to be the victor. 

Feeling awesome by the end.

     In time, I've learned to dull that bitch. 
     I stayed, I sweat, I laughed at myself-I felt great afterwards.  Not bikini body, but not matza miserable.  I can't give any tips to avoid the over indulgence of the unleavened, but what I can say, and I do  believe is that EVERYONE feels the same way coming out of this holiday.
    Not only do I plan to stick to a schedule that includes regular exercise, I plan to drop a note in the suggestion box at Manischewitz.   If they plan to keep me as a patron, matzo boxes should include coupons for a month's worth of Zumba classes.....not gefilte fish. If they want my loyalty as a customer, they're gonna have to make me dance for it!

                                       My absolute favorite commercial-I'm the one in the sweats.

Facing Myself

     I feel gorgeous.


     That was the text I sent to my sister after my hairdresser Mali gave me the coolest updo I had ever seen.   I had my best friend's wedding that night, and I wanted to look and feel great.  I always shied away from having my hair pulled back. Until today, whenever I attempted it, I always felt my face looked potato-like.  But between the long, curly lashes and even tone complexion that Jennifer gave me, and Red Carpet hair, I was a knockout.
     There was no difference in how I acted (other than looking in the mirror admiringly at the woman who by this time would normally be disheveled and cursing the homework fairy) once I felt stunning beyond words.

     I found the dress just a day before.  My sister went through my closet with me and although I had something to wear, she wanted to see me in something I was happy and excited to put on.
    I was enthusiastic and giddy as I dressed for the wedding.  I smiled through a pair of Ultra Sheer black pantyhose that ran before I even left my room.   I had no insecurities.  Any blemish was hidden with foundation and cover up, any lack of muscle tone sucked in courtesy of Berkshire tummy, hip, and thigh control pantyhose. 

ME vs. Mom-mee

     I walked in to the party, like I was walking onto a yacht-except I had two kids under ten that immediately requested Cokes with ice.  Joe was going to meet us there, he was on his way home from a conference and would be much later than I wanted to be.
   At the reception, it was as if I'd zipped myself into someone else and walked around.  No one, including my own dad recognized me at first.  Did hair and cosmetics make that much of a difference?  The only hint of 'me' was my daughter tugging at my dress and asking me for one of the iced sugar cookies in the shape of a wedding cake.  Was it possible, was I so hideous, did I walk out of our home in such disarray that everyone needed my dental records to be convinced it was me?!
     Some memorable words of tribute to me:
     "I'm not trying to sound rude, but you've never looked better." 
     "I didn't even recognize you!  You look breathtaking!"

Is this me running errands or looking for the nearest bell tower?

     "Oh my G-d, I didn't even recognize you!!"
     "You should always look this good."
     With each 'compliment' my ass sagged a little lower, the foundation dug deeper into the crows feet around my eyes, and now any confidence I had at the beginning of the night had unhinged itself from me and wanted to make a mad dash for the buffet.
     Did I look so different?   I pictured my daytime self running around in my black scuffed up biker boots looking enviously at Uber-Zee.  I don't know if it was that I looked better, or that the happiness I had for my friend was what illuminated me.
     At 1a.m. my toes were throbbing, and little bubbles of fat played peek-a-boo through the run in my pantyhose, yet I didn't want the night to end. Was it because I was having the best time in years, or was I afraid of being knocked back into reality and off of the 'pretty' pedestal I had created for myself?
     I thought back to the person who told me, "It doesn't get better than this."
     Maybe it doesn't.  How often do I go to weddings and have the opportunity to feel such bliss throughout the night?  It wasn't the decor,  the food,  the music, or the colorful display of bottles behind the bar.  It wasn't even my appearance.....it was a positive energy that resonated throughout the room.  Every being in that room was beaming.
     Perhaps the truest state of euphoria is holding on to that feeling even after the hair comes down and the war paint off.  I don't know if I have the courage to test this theory tonight.
     Rather than pick the 32 bobby pins from my hair when I get home or peel off the lifting particles of lash from my lids, I will sleep uncomfortably, but happy; anxiously awaiting the next slew of invitations.