At It Again

If you've kept up with my blog for a while, like a long while, you might recall my adventures in Jazzercise.    I really did enjoy the class.  Until my pregnancy with Harrison.  No way could I continue to go.  I would be running to the bathroom every eight counts to...you know.  Do what women do who have extreme morning sickness.  Anyway, that was the end of my Jazzercise career.  For a while anyway.

Harrison is here, he's seven months old now (eek!  How did that happen?), and I still have lots of Harrison fat all over my body.  So, it was time to join up again.  I've decided that it's best for me to join a class, or else I'd get on a treadmill or some other sort of machine, and once I broke a sweat decide that I'm done.  In a class, I'm stuck for a full hour.  An hour of jumping and twisting and "dancing" and sweating.  

Yesterday I went to a class with an instructor I'd never "danced" with before.  Remember Ronnie from Can't Buy Me Love.  Who could forget him?  Remember this? (I just went back and watched this clip, and it's long.  Longer than necessary.  I'm not smart enough to figure out how to only post the section necessary to get my point across.  Nor am I patient enough to research how to do it.  So just the first couple of minutes are all you need to watch.  If you choose to watch at all.  Heck, you might have stopped reading after the first paragraph, so I'm just wasting my breath right now.)

Yeah, that's how I felt.  Except the crowd didn't watch me and want to copy my every move.  I'm just not that cool.