You may have noticed from a previous post on my annoyingly sweet mommy blog that I turned 37 last month. As per tradition, I took my entire birthday month off from being an adult. Sure, I still performed basic functions to insure that my marriage, parental custody, and salary remained intact.
But everything else? Nope. Nada. Nothing doing.
I even have a cute name for the occasion: Fuck Effort February. This means fuck vegetables, exercise, alcohol intake maximums, and leisure spending limits. I went to wine tastings, spent hundreds of dollars on Amazon, in Sephora, and local bookstores, woke up to read Jackie Collins instead of to move my ass, and ended my month of laziness with a girls’ trip to Kansas City – a trip which resulted in pictures and videos that will never see the light of day.
In short, it was a glorious 29 days of Black History (Yay Leap Year!).
But then…it happened. March.
Come the first of the month, my unhealthy chickens came home to roost. I’d been living the life of a frat boy for four weeks, consuming copious amounts of wine, beer, and gin. Over the month, I had eaten five Angus cheeseburgers and an endless amount of fries. I don’t think there was a crumb of Red Velvet Anything left in the state of Iowa once I was done stuffing my face with cheesecake and cupcakes.
And being in my late thirties, it hit me HARD.
Example: I usually end my birthday month with a glass of wine to commemorate all the debauchery I participated in. But this year, it took me two whole days to recover from my massive Kansas City hangover so the last thing I wanted was alcohol. I toasted my husband’s beer with a tumbler of water – ice cold sparkling water.
Since it took me a while to get into the groove of March, I waited until the third to work out for the first time since January. I also decided to live-blog it in case I died (which, in all inevitability, was highly possible).
What you are about to read is an official timestamped recollection of my first 5:25 am (yes, AM!) Jazzercise workout, post-Fuck Effort February. I kept my phone nearby and recorded the following on my Notes app. Except for grammatical errors Voice Diction made (I kept a few because they made me LOL) & a name retraction, there have been NO additional edits.
(Trigger Warnings: Contains mentions of feces, nausea, and humiliation)
5:13 – Parked at Jazz and I’m the second one here. Instructor hasn’t even pulled up yet. Winning! Glad I got up.
5:22 – Checked in and placed myself in the second row. Not too close but not in the back where I can slack off.
5:24 – Class starts in one minute. Didn’t know [NAME REDACTED] was an instructor now. She has a nice butt. I hope I didn’t say that too loudly. Shit.
5:36 – Okay, so I started sweating after the warmup song. Yeezus Christ. This ain’t good.
5:41 – I so war the wrong bra today and the next song is Take Me Higher. It’s a lot of fucking jumping. I’m Ghana burn my nips off in this flimsy ass bra.
5:49 – I can taste every drink I’ve had in February. And I felt a gurgle below. Man listen.
5:56 – It’s official. I have to poop but I don’t want to peel off these pants. Sweat wicking fabric my ass.
6:02 – Time for strength. Thank God! Poop’s settled back for a bit so I think I’m good. I was lifting tens before so I’ll go down a pound.
6:14 – If I do one more squat, I’m gonna shit on this floor. And I put the nines away and got a pair of sixes mid song. I’m a mess. Never again.
6:20 – Cooldown. Finally. Still gotta number two but John mayor and I will get through this last song together, shit stain free.
6:32 – In my car exhausted. I’m convinced that fuck effort February has to be dialed back a bit. I’m not 25 anymore. Maybe I’ll call it decrease effort February. I’ll think about it while I’m dying in the shower when I get home.