In the hustle and bustle of the move, my scale never received its much needed new battery.
In the hustle and bustle of the move, yours truly ate her way out of stress and anxiety.
I got the new battery. And after weighing myself, I almost had a heart attack.
Not that bad, (I do tend to dramatize) but five pounds is a lot when you're already lightyears from a bikini.
So when the kids started school, I started to exercise again. I dragged my lab around the perimeter of Rice University- (3.2 miles). I started taking the whole-damn-fam to Family Yoga at our local YMCA. And this week?
I tried ZUMBA.
Holy schniekies, people. When I first started reading about Zumba- I read that you burn a kajillion calories in one hour. Picturing myself surrounded by Latina hardbodies in sports bras and teeny tiny shorts, I sucked up my pride, put on my capri yoga pants and free Orbit gum t-shirt (pilfered from my little bro) and convinced a girlfriend to hide with me in the back of the class.
The average age of my Zumba class? 65. I was cha-cha dancing with the Golden Girls. I think I burned more calories belly laughing my way through the ridiculousness of watching grey haired grannies in their polyester elastic stretch pants shake their boot-tays in a circle. At one point, I looked back to check on my girlfriend. My girlfriend who runs marathons, and does triathalons, and trains for 3 hours a day- she had an absolute look of disgust and amusement on her face as she was completing her jazz box and shaking her moneymaker. (Side note: the music is also hilarious. Picture Ricky Martin on steroids and each song has Uber Ricky loudly whispering "Zoooooommmmmba.")
So yeah, I'm going back this afternoon. And maybe I'll start watching "Murder She Wrote" reruns with my new friends.