When the Going Gets Tough, It Gets Hot and Sweaty

I wonder if when Billy Ocean sang "When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Going" he had just  crawled out of a Barre Class (not the kind you belly up to) AKA: HBB (Hot Breath Barre in a room with other sweating, breath gasping women clinging on to the promise of the cool down).  Let me begin with a little background.  After having twins, sweating it out in the gym and "dieting" I surrendered to a plastic surgeon to magically make me look bikini hot as if I'd never consumed a calorie in my entire life.  A tummy tuck and a little lipo here and there was to solve all my problems.  No more closet drama over what to wear, good-bye celery and lemon water, so long muffin top and back fat.  I was determined to never let another by-stander place their hand on MY squishy stomach and say with shock and awe,  "Oh my!  Are you pregnant?  Are you seriously going for  sixth?"  It was either I start wearing a t-shirt declaring that I was not pregnant or bust.    Bust!  I was going under the knife and was to come out looking like Victoria Beckham.   Yeeeeeaah, not so much.  With a slow and painful recovery, minor belly button complications (so weird that the body naturally wants to close a surgeon made hole because my natural belly button got lost in the excess skin that was removed.  Gross!  I know!  Seriously.  Stop sharing!), and scars matching those of Frankenstein, I was anything but a model on the cover of VOGUE magazine.  This is not to say that my doctor failed me, he didn't.  He was fabulous.  I was let down by my own expectations. Period.  The moral of the story is not to mess with what God created and intended: Women with squishy, skin stretching proof of carrying a child.  

The result of good genes, celery and water.  I'm way too fun for that!

Four years later and chasing chickens, pigs, dogs and kids wasn't quite cutting it in the cardio department.  Moving fence panels and mucking stalls wasn't giving me the Jennifer Aniston toned arms and Taylor Swift legs I was hoping for.  So, I signed up for Barre (and vowed to the 21 Day Fix Challenge).  I was intrigued by the ballerina concept and idea of it.  The reality however is tough and hot and sticky and humiliating.  Barre, aside from getting to act like you are a ballerina in training while wearing cute and ridiculously expensive leggings and tank tops, is not glamorous at all.  But neither is my attitude and behavior after giving up binge eating over pizza (I gave up that talent as of last week.  I am in clinical withdrawal).  Dear Family and Friends, I am sorry for the things I will say because I am hangry. 

A friend of mine has a way of understanding my struggle. 

Today, I was given a visual of what I look like (because I try really hard NOT to look in the mirror for fear I may not recognize myself) while griping the barre until my knuckles are white and my body is convulsing.  A good friend said I had the look of sheer terror on my face.  Well, yeah I am terrified.  I'm sweating to my death in a 94 degree room thinking I will die in drenched clothes with sweaty hair and toes desperate for a pedicure. My pits haven't been shaved in 3 days and to top it off I'm wearing Granny Panties (oops, TMI). My true cause of death will be by inhaling hot toxic carbon dioxide exacerbated by my very own self.  If I don't die I will be blind due to the amount of salty sweat mixed with mascara pouring into my eyes.     All this to say: To all you ballerinas out there, Namaste.  I have always had respect for you but holy hamstrings you are made of other matter unknown to the common human race, especially me.  That goes for you Yoga people too.  Standing on my head hurts.  And twisting myself into a pretzel is quite unbecoming for a person such as myself.   Not to mention the Warrior 3 Pose.  I couldn't flick a fly in Warrior 3.  I'd go on about the other poses but I don't know how to say them or spell them.   

Reality.

Not reality. 

And if you think 60 seconds isn't a long time, sprint for 60 seconds.  Longest. Minute. Ever. 

And yet I go back.  I go back because I have a girls beach trip coming up and ain't no body wants to see this in a bathing suit.  I go back because it does, after all, feel good to prove to myself that I can do it.  Okay, truth be told, I go for the cool down.  For the part that I literaly melt into my mat, the music fades, the lights dim and you can say to yourself, "Hell yeah".  I never seem to say those two words after shoveling manure.  Weird.  Oh, and for the record, "Happy Baby Pose" should be outlawed in the "What's Acceptable and Flattering" world.