WTF Wednesdays: Travel Tag Edition

The lovely An Historian About Town nominated me for the travel tag. I was so excited to be nominated, because I love to travel and I love An Historian. Not only are her posts well-written, interesting, and positively filled with gorgeous photos of beautiful places and things, the girl behind it all is just fabulous. Go check out her blog-you’ll love it!

Now, without further ado, my responses to some fun travel-themed questions:

What is your favorite place that you have visited?

Hands down, the U.K. and Ireland. My trip was seven freaking years ago, but I still think about it everyday, and I have tried to get back to the U.K. on several different occasions.

Is it possible to look any more touristy?
My ancestor-Lady Godiva’s statue was dwarfed by a Primark. I felt equal parts let down and excited. I really wanted to buy a pair of £8 jean shorts.
 

I also loved NYC and have always dreamed of living it up a la every.single.chick.flick in all creation, as a Big Apple girl.

(All of my NYC pics are stored away on my external hard drive. Sad face.)

Large cities, with tons of energy and culture, are definitely my favorite places to visit, but I loved being in the middle of nowhere, amidst rolling green hills in England. I also adored driving through the otherworldly terrain of the Scottish Highlands, and even though the road to Dingle, Ireland is crap-your-pants scary, the beauty of the Dingle Peninsula is unmatched.

I feel like there should be an “I Survived the Road to Dingle” badge.
Somewhere between Inverness and Edinburgh

If you could visit anywhere tomorrow where would you go?

100% the U.K.! But, I mean, if someone wanted to take me to Japan or Italy or Brazil, I’d not argue one bit. *spastic winking*

Would you rather go on a city holiday or a beach holiday?

I’m such a city girl-the energy, the eclectic culture, the myriad languages, the food, the history… Also, I’m not a huge fan of sunburnt fat that turns into one big, ugly rash, because too much of my skin was exposed and rubbing together. Give me chilly weather, layered clothing, a coffee, and a walking trip around an historic city ANY DAY.

Buuuut, I won’t say ‘no’ to a beach holiday!

Just embrace the sand in your crotch and the sunburned everything!
Alcohol helps!

My top three travel essentials are: 

  • Obviously, my phone/camera is my number one travel must have. The best souvenirs I’ve ever gotten on a trip are the insane amount of pictures of every noteworthy (and, not so noteworthy-I have been known to photograph a random bench or ugly pigeon, because it’s a foreign bench and a foreign pigeon) sight and experience.
  • Hand sanitizer, wet wipes, and a travel-size hand soap are essential. I’ve never traveled somewhere exotic enough to encounter squatty potties or lack of running water, but you just never know what kind of facilities or amenities a restroom will have. Also, the very first hostel I ever stayed at did not provide hand soap or even paper towels. You just never know what horrors you’ll encounter. You.never.know.
  • A versatile scarf and a pair of Wayfarers. I know these sound like lame “essentials”, but when I’m feeling ugly as hell on the 6th day of crap hair, because my flat iron refuses to work with the expensive adapter I bought, a scarf makes me feel a little more put together.


Can you even tell my hair is greasy and I’m wearing zero makeup? See what I mean? 

Are you an over packer or an under packer?
Literally, I used to bring three full suitcases for a weekend trip back home when I lived in Elko. The pressure that exists when you have to decide what you want to wear before the day(s) in question is just too much. I can’t even. Also, sometimes my favorite piece of clothing looks hideous on me for various reasons. You just never know.

Before the trip I took to the U.K., I obsessively researched light packing tips and practiced packing the one bag I took. It was a real trial, and it took a huge leap of faith to know I’d survive if I wore the same jeans two days in a row.


So, I lied. I took three bags…

What is your favorite thing about going on vacations?

When I’m on vacation, I feel whole. It’s an indescribable feeling of just being. When you’re on vacation, you get to live a life that would exist if daily stressors, like bills and other lame adult responsibilities didn’t exist.

Edinburgh
Edinburgh, my love!
I also love completely immersing myself in the culture and the history of wherever I am. There’s nothing more humbling than standing in a church built before your own country even existed.

Said church-St. Margaret’s Chapel

Would you rather go on vacation with family or friends?

Yeesh.

Either choice has its share of positives and negatives. Traveling with family means that there’s a pretty good chance your mom might pay for some of the travel expenses. There’s also a fairly good chance she might forget you’re a grown adult and remind you to thank “the nice travel guide”. Or, she might feel the need to chastise you about your frivolous waste of money on name brand deodorant.

Traveling with friends has its benefits in that your friends are usually more in tune with your level of fun. That might mean an adventurous competition to see how many museums at the Smithsonian you can visit in one day.


This was the day after our Smithsonian challenge. Someone had a museum hangover #8thgradeugly. 

Or, maybe, that means buying every kind of foreign candy in the convenience store and then going back to your hotel room to see who can get diabetes first.

Diabetes!
When you travel with your friends, there’s also the potential for a complete WWIII, nuclear fallout, because after being together 24/7 you can’t stand the way they chew their food or breathe.

Whether traveling with a friend or family member, just drink. Their mouth breathing won’t matter near as much. 

Either way, memories are made and that’s all that matters. Right?

What is the most adventurous dish you have ever tried from another country?
Abso-freaking-lutely that would be haggis with ‘neeps and ‘tatties that my friend and her Scottish husband made for us while we stayed with them in Edinburgh.

It was actually amazingly delicious. No shit, I crave that dish on the regular.

My amazing Scottish friends! 

I’d like to nominate the following bloggers (please don’t feel obligated to participate):

The Wandering Flamingo
This girl is an amazing photographer, writer and blogger friend. She also lives in my favorite country, so I always feel I get to live vicariously through her photos and posts. Also, she is an avid traveler, so I’d love to know more about her envy-worthy travels. Please go check out her blog and beautiful photography-you won’t be disappointed!

A Walk and a Lark
Here’s another blogger bud who lives in one of my favorite cities-London! She’s become an amazing blogging supporter and friend, and I simply adore reading her blog! She is well-traveled, so I’d love the inside scoop on some of her favorite places! Check out Josy’s blog! I promise you’ll love it and her!

All Thoughts Work
This chick cracks me up. Every time I get a comment from her, I know I’ll end up practically peeing myself from laughter. I’ve gleaned that she’s an avid outdoors-woman and talented writer, but that’s all I know. I need to know more! Head on over to the funny lady’s blog-you won’t regret it!

WTF Wednesday #3

For this installment of WTFW, I’m coming at you with a rant. Brace yourselves, people. It’s gonna be a doozy.
I don’t even care how lame this rant makes me seem. So, I’ll just come out and say it: WTF is so hard about hitting “like”? 

Now, if you literally don’t like a post/page/status update, if you’re offended by it, if it displeases you, then, by all means, keep scrolling. 

But, what could possibly be offensive or displeasing about a Michael Scott meme? Or, a humorous and relatable tale of woe? Or, my EFFING FB BLOG PAGE? 

I have almost 400 Facebook friends. I have 180 some likes on my Fatty McCupcakes page and the majority of those likes are from the good people of WordPress. 

I just can’t even anymore. 

This is why I think it’s just plain salty to not have “liked” my blog page when you’re a personal friend of mine:

1. What happened to supporting your friends in their personal interests and ventures?

2. I’m not overly offensive. 99% of the time I’m making fun of myself, people.

3. Hitting “like” takes you, literally, a fucking nanosecond.

4. I rarely even post on my page, so you wouldn’t be inundated with crap daily. Only recently have I been actively publishing post updates.

5. Whether you like it or not, social media is how the majority of the world communicates. Thus, not liking my blog page after I’ve politely invited you is like ignoring me when I wave at you on the street. I think it’s rude. 

6. Don’t even try to lie and say you’re busy and it slipped your mind. I know you’re laying on your couch, binge watching Japanese panda videos on Facebook. Don’t even give me the “I’m busy and too important” speech. 

Now, I would understand if the majority of the topics I posted was on the furry fandom, or my blog was called The Freed Nipple and The Unleashed Vagina, but NOPE. And, nope. 

So, why the lack of support? 

Maybe if those 350 friends knew how much it would mean to me for them to take 20 seconds out of their life to show support in the form of pressing down on (while not even needing to look) a square millimeter space on their phone, while they watch Gilmore Girls reruns, it’d be different. 

But, I’m not about to act like I need the likes. 

It’s just the damn principle of the matter. 

Like Karl Pilkington, I have a lot of important things to say. You’re missing out when you don’t hit “like”.

On the same topic, has anyone else noticed that you are now able to see how many people saw your post on Facebook? 

I’m part of a mom group (don’t even ask how that came to be) and the moms post hilarious memes and real life experiences that always make my ovaries shrivel up on the spot (I have magical, regenerating ovaries). Many times, these harried moms, just looking for recognition, get a dismal five likes when 85 people viewed their post.

You already saw it. You viewed it. YOU LOOKED. 

You seriously can’t hit “like” and THEN be on your merry way?!

Why is this even bothering me? 

OMG. 

My eye is twitching and I can feel the blood pulsing in my temples. 

I think I’ll go now, before I have an aneurism. 

What annoys you about the world of social media and blogging? Rant away in the comments. I promise I won’t just glance at your comment, without responding, before I continue my über important creeping of random people’s Facebook pages. 

21 Minute Survival Challenge

It all started with this picture:


Actually, it started with Silver Donkeys at The Depot. Day drinking never, ever makes for a dull time.

Add some binge watching of Naked and Afraid, mix in my crazy friend, Alyssa, and you have our insane 21 Minute Naked and Afraid Challenge in the wilds of Oxbow Park, in the heart of Reno. It was intense. 

In all seriousness, this started with her idea to spoof the above picture. Obviously, the woman above is quite talented and lithe. We are not. We are the direct opposite. She thought it would be hilarious to go out into nature and take ridiculous pictures of our pudgy bodies, attempting to contort into serious yoga positions. It was insanely entertaining. Either we are hysterical, or just really, really immature 30-somethings. Well, here are our yoga spoofs:

 This is Alyssa’s version of the tree pose. It’s called, “Ride Em Cowboy”. 

  This one is called, “Smelly Poop Lip”. 

  I’m becoming one with Mother Nature. I need to work on my “serious face”, because it’s the same as my “pooping face”. 

 

  
 These are called, “We Can’t Believe We Didn’t Break the Bridge!”

  
 These are “The Warrior”, but because it took us 10 minutes to get to the rocks we stood on, these have been renamed, “Take the Damn Picture, I’m Done, and the Rocks Are Burning My Fucking Feet”.

Now, at this point, we are incredibly winded and tired, but we have more poses to do, so we forge on. Along the path, we are accosted by flying insects and there are red ants everywhere. It’s hot, we are sweating, and our mouths are parched. Suddenly…it turns into Naked and Afraid (Except we didn’t get naked. Getting arrested for public nudity is frowned upon in the teaching community).

We decide to make shelter, find weapons, and pretend to make fire, all in the name of survival. We know we would hardly make it an hour in serious wilderness, so we named our wilderness attempt, the “21 Minute Survival Challenge”.

We took photos of our attempt to survive our harrowing journey through a city park. Enjoy.


Just chilling in our shelter. We scored and found a busted guitar. It will provide great rain coverage. Two minutes in and we are really feeling the effects of dehydration. We are sweating too much. It must be 88 degrees, and the walk-in was exhausting. I don’t know if I can do this. 


Attempting to make fire and I break a nail. I was close to my breaking point here, and if it wasn’t for Alyssa’s support, I would have tapped out. It was that close. 


8 minutes in and we are still in search of food. We are dying of hunger. The energy we are exerting in search of nourishment is depleting our fat stores. We can feel our body eating our fat. We also almost died crossing this dangerous canyon. It had to be at least 2 feet down. It was the most terrifying moment of our ordeal. 

 Alyssa’s breaking point. Crotch sweat. Unacceptable! 


We decide to not expend any more energy in search of water and food. We cuddle in our shelter to stay warm. Except, it’s almost 90 degrees, and what was that? Your walking stick? 


Red ant attack! Additionally, cuddling proved awkward. 


Desperate for protein, we shamefully, hungrily consider the used condom caught while fishing. That was our low point. 12 minutes in, and things are bleak. Morale is low. Our stomachs are growling and our lips are cracking from dehydration. 


Success! Alyssa catches a water-logged, half-eaten hamburger encased in its wrapper. It looks to be only a few days old. In desperate times, one must take desperate measures. We still have diarrhea, and we are afraid we have caught a sexually communicable disease from the river. This survival shit isn’t for the weak. 


Weak from exertion and lack of food and water, I cannot make it back up the hill from the river. Alyssa uses her last bit of strength to rescue me. I thought she was a bossy bitch at first, but we have built a bond that can’t be broken through this experience. 


Operation Retrieve Flip Flop was a success. We really needed this win for our morale. 


Silly times! Look! We’re dirty!


Due to vicious red ant attacks, we resort to resting on a log. Lesson learned: red ants live in logs too. Only 6 minutes left. We are running on empty and are motivating each other by reminiscing about our favorite meals. What I wouldn’t do for some ribs! 


My joints are stiff from lack of water, and it takes me almost 3 minutes to exit log. We are almost late to hike to extraction! 

 
 I have never been so happy to hear a train in my life! We are so ecstatic, we cry, and hug, and cry some more! 

After our grueling 21 minutes in the wild, Alyssa and I have learned a lot about ourselves and nature. First, nature sucks, and it messes up your manicures and pedicures. It also makes you sweaty and dirty. Ick. Second, we are both confident that given an opportunity to travel to some remote location as a part of the show, Naked and Afraid, we would survive for precisely 10 minutes. Nature isn’t for the weak or lazy, and we are lazy as fuck.

 The chick at Starbucks acted like we were rabid, or on crack. We forgot we smeared charcoal on our faces. Oops. 

Aerial Antics

“What’s the weight limit?”

This is the first, most important question when you’re a curvier-than-most kinda gal, and you’re about to suspend your glorious bod on a silk hammock hanging from the ceiling. 

I mean, right? That was the very first question that popped into my head when my friend first mentioned aerial yoga. 

Aerial yoga. 

I can’t even type that without chuckling. 

Yes, I did aerial yoga. Not once. Not even twice. Three times. I’ve done aerial yoga three times, and for the hesitant, I have yet to yank the silks from the ceiling. That’s winning. 

When I asked the instructor (who looked like she was freaking twelve and 100% for sure didn’t have a trace of cellulite any where on her body) what the weight limit was, this was how the exchange went:

Me (whispering): “Oh, um, hey. Uh, what’s, like, the, uh, (voice even lower) weight limit?”

Her: “Oh”

Freaking, “oh”? This chick is trying to give me heart palpitations before we even start doing hard stuff. Bitch.

Me: Just staring, sweating profusely.

If there is a weight limit and I’m over it, I’m just going to go drive my car into a vat of Rocky Road, because, fuck it. 

Her (finally): There’s a weight limit, but it’s like 600 pounds. You’re good. 

Could you have maybe led with that, so that I didn’t have to spend 20 excruciating seconds thinking I’d have to leave because I’m too fucking large for hammock yoga?! 

Some people’s kids…

So, I thought I’d, for ease of reading, write three sections, each devoted to my three attempts at aerial yoga. Not only would it be easier to just skip to the part that has the most swear words, thus the more humorous of tries, but each event has been so incredibly different. Each time I was spastic in such varying, unusually interesting (in a I-want-to-study-your-ineptness-because-I’ve-never-seen-someone-not-know-how-to-work-their-adult-body-so-profoundly) ways, it’s almost sad. Except it’s fucking hilarious because it wasn’t you. It was me.

Attempt 1: 

A friend from work first asked me to join her and her sister-in-law in aerial (every time I attempt to type “aerial”, my phone autocorrects it to “areola”. What the heck, phone?) three weeks ago. I was totally down, because, at the very least, I’d have great blog material. 

Good Lord Almighty. 

I thought my friend would be more like me. As in, ridiculously inept and inflexible. In fact, I’m fairly certain she said she wasn’t very good at being limber on a yoga hammock. Liar! 

For the umpteenth time, I was the fattest, most incapable person in the room. It was OK, though, because I just laughed through the whole thing, so I wasn’t seriously trying to be an agile acrobat. It was all just for the laughs. 

I laughed when the instructor modeled some impossible pose that involved wrapping yourself up like a 7 Layer burrito and then flipping yourself over like no big deal. 

Ha. Yeah, that’s not happening. 

I laughed when everyone was doing aerial planks, and I face planted. 

Ha. I meant to do that. 

I laughed (with relief) when it was finally time to lay in the hammock like an obese caterpillar in its too tight cocoon. 

Ha. I made it to the best part of class; the lay down part.

It was a fun class that was spent trying not to look like I was seriously trying to be a real aerial yoga-ist.

Attempt 2:

The second time, I went with another friend from work. This friend has the body of a gymnast and the ass of a Kardashian. She’s uber fit and moves her body like a ballerina. The bitch. I don’t know why I continually put myself in situations where I’m suffocating myself with my stomach fat while she’s glistening gold sweat from her abs. Oh, I know. Because she’s hilarious, and no matter what we do, I get a good ab workout from laughing. 

One of the first moves in this particular class involves falling gracefully sideways (while suspended with the silk, obviously), on your tippy toes, as you circle back around. 

UH. YEAH RIGHT. 

Little Miss-I-Can-Do-Anything-With-My-Body-and-Look-Fabulous and I both were circling around like drunks trying to look sexy on a stripper pole. It was ridiculous. 

We could not.stop.laughing. I’m fairly certain that I tinkled a tiny bit at one point. Oops.

The rest of the class was actually more success than failure. It was amazing. Some of the poses that I didn’t even attempt the first time, I could almost do. I attempted hanging from my fat this time because I realized halfway through that I was actually a tad bit better than the first go-round. It was at this point I realized that I’d continue, and that this was more than just a stunt to get some good writing material. 

My friend, of course, rocked the class like an expert. The bitch. 

Attempt 3:

This time, my friends and I made up the majority of the class. I went with the friend who originally invited me, Khloe Kardashian, and another teacher friend (another lithe, surprise yoga star).

This was the class where all sorts of hell broke loose. 

First, it was a different instructor. Right off the bat, that made me nervous. I had just begun moving past elephant-on-a-tightrope-graceful, into beginner stage. 

This new chick is gonna eff it all up. 

And she did. 

The new instructor was way harder. So.much.harder.

Who does she think we are, Cirque du Soleil performers? Come on! 

Not only were the moves she had us do harder, they required way more ab and arm strength than I have in my entire fucking body. 

Ridiculousness.

At one point, she had us bent over the silks, hanging from the spot right below the hips. For future reference, this is a tender area. It hurts to hang with all of your body from this area. Maybe I’ll build up some calluses, or something. That’ll be sexy. 

Well, it was at this point, I lost all control of my center, my body, my pride. 

I don’t know how it happened. Maybe it was because my giant head weighs so much, or what, but somehow I ended up feet over head, and I just started flipping over the silk, like you see young children do on the monkey bars. 

One flip that resulted in really no one noticing did not suffice. Two flips that I could have played off as on purpose was not enough. No, I flipped…I don’t even know how many times. 

There was a point at which I genuinely thought I would die. Or, at the very least end up seriously injuring myself. 

I kept picturing myself finally coming to rest flat on my face, breaking my nose and glasses into my stupid face. 

Eventually, I ended up flat on my fat ass, with a large thump. Or was it more a messy schlop? I don’t know. 

What I do know is my asshole friends were peeing their pants laughing. Everyone was. Even the instructor felt compelled to laugh before asking if I was OK. 

Assholes.

I was totally fine, so I started laughing too. If you can’t beat em, join em (while deviously planning your revenge). 

I bumbled through the rest of the class fairly competently until it came time to do assisted handstands. 

The last time I could actually do a handstand I was in the 4th grade. 

The last time I attempted a handstand was about a year ago when a friend and I accidentally attended an expert level yoga class. We laughed our way through the crane pose, the eight-angle pose, and all the other impossible yoga poses, not being able to do any of them. When it came time to do a handstand, we just flat-out refused and sat on our fat asses, watching the others stand on their hands with ease. The instructor took it as a personal affront and actually dragged our mats to the wall and pointed at them, like a pouty child. We half-heartedly made for the floor with our hands in position, chickened out, and just sat on our spreading asses again. That was my only adult handstand attempt. Until this class. 

Somehow I found myself suspended by the silks, my legs high in the air, and my forearms resting on the floor. This was a feat in itself. Then, the insane instructor told us to take it to a handstand. 

By pure miracle, I pushed myself up with my weak jelly arms, and I was in an assisted handstand.

Blood was rushing to my head. My arms were shaking impossibly, but I was doing it. 

Then.

We were told the way to get out of the pose was to let go of the ground and pull yourself up the silk. 

At this point I’m pouring buckets of sweat onto the floor. Even if I wanted to let go and pull myself up, my hands were far too sweaty and I simply did not have the core strength. 

Shaking like a leaf in the wind, I looked around and most of the asshole people in the room had pulled themselves up and they were out of their silks, standing. 

Me: “Um. Help?”

Instructor (still laughing at me): “Hun, you’ll just have to kind of fall out of it.”

Wow. Really? How does she fucking figure that? 

Me: “Uh. OK…”

So, with everyone’s eyes on me again, I somehow untangled my sausage legs from the silks, and my behemoth body just schlopped onto the floor for the second time that night.

Ta-da! 

And, there you have it, folks! Fatty McCupcakes does aerial yoga! 

Despite my utter ineptness, I’m going again. It’s fun. When you’re tired you get to make the silk into a hammock and lay in it. AND my arms and abs are getting stronger. 

#win

Straight outta any yoga

Source

Memories

 

Holly
One of the crazy bishes I lived and loved with. Also, back before I shaved my man arms!

“Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose” The Wonder Years

We all remember our first taste of freedom-that time in your life when the tight grip of the metaphorical fist loosens up and you break free. The time in your life when you feel no fear in saying goodbye, because what awaits you is too exciting to feel homesick. I remember that time vividly, and wish I could relive it on a daily basis. It was a time of momentous change in my life. I was single for the first time in years. and my life was decidedly going to be all about me for once. I was young, carefree and I no longer had to hear my father say 100 times a day, “Rinse your dish when you are done.” If I didn’t want to rinse my dish, guess what? I didn’t have to (I did, however, come to find that a sink full of dirty dishes pretty much smells like death, so I ended up just rinsing the damn dish). It was an indescribable feeling to be on my own for once. I don’t think I could properly explain in words the way it felt, but you all know. You know.

My first roommates were my two best friends. The first night in our apartment was spent drinking vodka straight out of the bottle while we watched Santa Clause 2. Oh yes, we knew how to party. The next night was spent drinking half a bottle of watermelon Pucker, because the other half I spilled on the carpet. Best friend number dos made her famous waffles and poached eggs for dinner. We ate A LOT of waffles and poached eggs. I am 100% certain it was not because waffle ingredients and eggs were cheap; it was because those were the only two things in the world she could make (pretty impressive if you ask me. I still have to read the macaroni and cheese box for instructions). To this day, I do not know how we survived on our diet. The only liquid in our apartment was the alcoholic variety and the only food found in the fridge was an odd jar of pickles and some butter. Nutritious, yeah? The third night in our first place I found out that a whole roll of toilet paper generally does not flush well. I also found out that if Daddy and his plunger aren’t there, you have to do it yourself. Also, an over-flowing toilet travels fast…The fourth night in our apartment we broke our dryer. Let me tell you, a panty chandelier is quite the conversation piece.

Oh and…we thought we were so damn cool. We found a convenience store that would sell us booze and then we would go home with our prize and play drunk Skipbo. We would drag main in my ‘86 Mazda 626, with purple tinted windows, blaring Adam Sandler’s “Piece of Shit Car”. We thought we were hilarious. We would blast music and dance half naked on the coffee table (Poor coffee table, RIP). We would get in huge fights, throw clothes, keyboards and play mariachi music to piss each other off, and then the next day we would laugh at our stupidity. We would forget to pay the bills and rack up the credit cards. We were young and stupid, but we were wild and liberated. Yes, I still feel the brunt of my young stupidity, but, damn, was it the time of my life.

As I said before, I was single and ready to mingle. I met new love interests and had fun going on myriad dates. I began to feel like a new, sexier version of me. I developed a swagger that said, “Yeah, you can’t touch this!”  I got inked and pierced and said, “How do you like this?” to people who told me I couldn’t be me. I rebelled. I danced. I lived.

I recall, vividly, a walk around the marina on an early spring day, a few months after day 1 of freedom. The air was cool and crisp, but the sun was warm. I was recalling all the good times spent with my new self, my friends-my roommates, and I felt this overwhelming feeling of complete, total, utter, unadulterated happiness. So, this is what it feels like to be independent and fancy-free!

I can thank my wild ways during this time for being a college graduate at the ripe old age of 27, but with no regrets. It was worth it. I still love the girls I shared that time with. They belong to a time in my life that has a special place in my heart, right up on the shelf full of “never forgets”. I still can’t help laughing whenever I hear “Everybody in the Club Gettin’Tipsy”  by Chingy, and think of how we would shake our bums to that song in our socks and panties, with twinkling eyes, full of big dreams.

Sweet Moves, Yo

Tomorrow I am planning on attending a workout Burlesque dance class with a friend. I simply cannot wait to see how much material I can get for my blog. I am about as talented dance-wise as your bald, middle-aged uncle, who thinks he has moves (he also still thinks his cellphone belt clip is what the cool kids have). If I wanted to, I could make a video of my dancing, upload it onto YouTube and, easily, I could be the next William Hung. I am BAD. BAD.

Why am I doing this then? Well, I would actually like to find my sexy. I know it is in there. It’s just hiding under my insecurity, my spastic muscles, and my inability to find anything resembling a rhythm. If I try hard enough, learn to count and move at the same time, and allow my body to move to the beat, it is possible that someday I will not look like I am having a seizure when I am attempting to dance. Maybe.

In honor of this dance class tomorrow, I am re-posting a piece I did on my blog I began while living in BFE Elko. I took a Zumba class and the result was pure hilarity.

I am such a masochist. I am also a really horrible dancer. Yes, I tried Zumba for the second time, despite the fact that I can’t dance for anything.  I actually stepped on my own two left feet. Let me try to express to the fullest of my ability how bad I am at moving my body in an even remotely sexy manner…

First, I thought that the people I was going with were amateurs, like me. WRONG. One girl minored in dance in college. She looked better than the instructor. Now I know why she wanted to be in the front! What was I thinking agreeing to that?! Seeing myself front and center next to JLO did nothing for my self esteem. Then, to my right, another dancer who was counting the steps. Counting the what? You mean there are steps in dancing? And you have to count them? Behind me, a friend who was not afraid to let out her sexy wild woman self and let me tell you, she was truly shaking it. Me? I was stiff as a board and I had as much rhythm as an albatross. I looked like I was having a stroke at one point. It was bad, really bad. There was this move where you had to bend your knees and jump forward, sexily…LORD. Probably the worst move involved shaking our asses as we bent forward. I felt like I should apologize to the person behind me. My ass didn’t stop shaking for an hour after class.

Besides being surrounded by supposed “amateurs”, again, thanks guys… I was also surrounded by mirrors. As I mentioned above, I was persuaded to stand front and center, in front of the mirror. It would have been half alright if I didn’t have to be reminded every second how truly awful I was. I had to WATCH myself. It was truly nightmarish. At one point I decided it would be best to just laugh instead of maintain my determined face; that way no one would think I was actually serious with my ridiculous moves.

Next, dancing is EXHAUSTING, folks! What the hell? I understand now why all those club addicts are so skinny. Oh, and why Britney Spears has thighs the size of my big head.  I was in agony. My thighs and calves were burning and my knees wanted to give in. I was dripping sweat and just looked a mess. I made the mistake to look over at “Miss Minored in Dance” and she was glistening beautifully with sweat. Grrr.  I was so exhausted that I soon couldn’t do two things at once. Move my arms and legs? At the same time? Forget it…

HOWEVER, and this is a big however (notice how it is capitalized), I actually enjoyed myself and got a hell of a workout. I looked physically challenged, yes, but there were others similar to me (none quite as bad, but close). The third (most recent) time I attended I went with a friend who was more like me and we laughed and laughed and laughed at each other. My abs got a good workout as well as my growing thighs.

So, if you attend the Zumba class Fridays, in Elko, I apologize in advance. My spastic ass will be in attendance and my advice to you is to try not to look too much. I think I am getting better…