I have a real gym membership, but scampering on a mouse wheel, knowing that Elijah is in child care screaming until I return, is not very motivating. Now, if one of the gym staff were to stuff me in the company vehicle and toss me out 5 miles down the road, with Elijah screaming in child care, that might be a little motivating. So, until Elijah gets a few more months under his belt, I’ll take my exercise regimen home. All right, all right, that’s half true. If the new facility were to open tomorrow with its….racquetball courts…, I would pack his diaper bag full of tissues and…say, is that harsh?
Anyhow, there is a giant red ball at my house, which is used to improve balance and stability while exercising with hand weights. I find it much more useful for improving fire safety techniques with spontaneous executions of stop, drop and roll (while dodging the falling weights). This ball is a nuisance. Wherever I am, it’s in my way. I don’t dare deflate it, because I might start using it, and if I had the urge to use it, the thought of finding the pump and needle and inflating it would kill my inertia. I just keep kicking it to the next room.
I also have a giant blue ball with a handle. This is what Ian would call a Bongypong, otherwise known as a hopper ball. I bought Ian a toddler-sized one a while back and I was jealous. It’s really giggly. I love to leap and bound and hop to the moon on it. But, is my house ever clean enough to have hopping room? I take the fifth.
I have a Wii game console with the Wii Fit balance board accessory. I also have the Wii Dance Dance Revolution game, which is very fun and great exercise. The challenge is, they look so irresistibly fun, that I don’t accomplish much while three boys are hopping on my board or dance pad with me.
For Christmas, I begged for the Wii Zumba “game”. If you haven’t heard of Zumba, it’s a fast-paced, rhythmic exercise dance. It’s based on a lot of Latin American music and dance styles. It looked like fun, and I’m much more likely to exercise if I feel like I’m playing. So, last night, I strapped on the exercise belt/remote holder, and began the tutorial, which consists of a digitized, “glowing” dance instructor demonstrating the moves. She starts slowly before increasing in difficulty to the full-speed dance. When I correctly mimic the movements, her “aura” changes from neon pink to neon green. Step forward. Step back. I can do this. As if my fairy-like instructor were telepathic and arrogant, she explodes into this wild dance – hands, feet and hips each doing their own little Latin jig. I look like I’m having an epileptic seizure, trying desperately to catch up. Who on EARTH could possibly follow this person?! “That’s it! You’re doing it!” She ignorantly cheers. SHUT UP, Tink! “Wow, Mom! You’re doing great!” says Ian, “I want to see you dance more!” Finding my pride repaired with his sweet words, I grin as he pops off the chair and joins me. We “dance” back and forth across the living room, bumping and tripping and laughing. Shortly I give up for the night and Ian and I rock out to some Guitar Hero.
What baby wants to snuggle a six-pack, anyway?