My 15 Minutes of BODYATTACK

MegHan sent me a message asking if I’d like to take a BODYATTACK class with her.  Josh the Fabulous would be in town to teach a class.  He would love to join the tribe of people who torture me and read about it later.

There were a couple of things that concerned me slightly.  #1 was the fact that MegHan would be right next to me during the class.  I like to think she can’t see me crying when she’s doing her thing up front and I’m hanging out in the back.  At the very least she can’t hear the conversations we have...about personal stuff...like how certain we are that even her lady parts have mega muscles.  #2 was the fact that the class has the word ATTACK in it.

Really?  Who comes up with these names? 

BODYATTACK

Let’s be realistic.  If I want to be ATTACKed I can simply roam the streets of downtown Baltimore sporting a Steelers jersey and a Yankees hat.  The thought of that type of attack actually frightened me less than this class. 

I don’t know why the marketing gurus at Les Mills haven’t thought to name these classes something a little less intimidating.  I mean c’mon, chunky gals like me are not running anyone over to get to BODYATTACK.  They could at least hand out cupcakes at the end of class!  Now, if you advertise for a bake off that will burn your biscuits I am IN!  I’ll even troll the parking lots of Weight Watchers meetings, handing out flyers.  I’ll have no problem growing the cult tribe.  It’s not a lie – my biscuits always burn when I leave class.  So there you have it Les Mills… your 2013 marketing plan.  You’re welcome.  Let me know where to send my resume.

So after I agreed to be BODYATTACKed, I started doing some research on the class.  I found a guy who calls himself a BODYATTACK Addict!  At first, I thought I could reach out and help him.  Generally the first step towards recovery is admitting that you have a problem.  Clearly, he has done that by telling everyone on the World Wide Web that he is an addict.  I figured I could just send him a donut along with a word of encouragement and save him from himself.  I’m super selfless like that.  I live to serve others.

But then I read his profile.  This guy started at 418 pounds.  He has lost 212 pounds!  40 of those were lost in 3 months’ time by participating in Les Mills classes.  BODYATTACK is his favorite and he’s now an instructor.  Super crazy cool, right?

I enlisted the support of She Who Shall Remain Nameless (until we come up with a suitable nickname that does her any justice at all) and we decided we would meet and drive together.  We ended up getting stuck in horrible traffic.  I was really stressing out as the minutes passed.  The class was supposed to start at 6:30 and we were still sitting in traffic when the class started.  I hoped we could make it before the end of the warm up, but no luck.  She even drove on the shoulder of the road.  The drive itself could be a separate post!  From the off-road rv to the guy biting his nails with the back of his head and our special vocabulary lesson.  Suffice it to say the drive was an adventure!  We did not get into the club until 7-ish.

During this time, I had worked up a vision of this new instructor.  I’d watched him on the internet and someone compared the class to old school aerobics with extra jumping.  I’m not going to lie, I kind of envisioned Richard Simmons. 

I imagine people don’t typically show up 45 minutes late to a 55 minute class and stroll in as if they are there to WORK IT OUT!  There were all of these sweaty people in the room, giving us the stink eye because we looked fresh and fabulous...whatever.  Hate the game, not the player.  We arrived just in time for the lunge track.  Oh the luck!

First of all, Richard Simmons doesn’t have a thing on Josh.  Josh’s mic matched his shoes and he has some pretty awesome hair.  (And thankfully his shorts were longer than Mr. Simmons’)  In general, he’s got some serious fitness swag.  Then I saw him move.  Richard Simmons would have to be on METH to move like Josh.  He was bouncing around like a spider monkey.  We were there for 1 track and I was sweating my balls off…a lot. 

Les Mills says your results will be:  Improved agility, coordination, strength & endurance, heart & lung fitness.  They say it’s a “sports-inspired cardio workout for building strength and stamina.”  I say it's not something you should do in a room where there is gravity.  I’ve never been more thankful for a traffic accident in my entire life!  I can assure you this ain’t your Mama’s Jazzercise!

Josh did this jump to the side, jump up in the air…jump to the other side, jump up in the air.  I stood there…in the back of the room…I glanced at She Who Shall Remain Nameless and all I could think was, “BULLSPIT!”  I could hear my inner child say, “Oh NO!  Mommy don’t jump!”  I usually spend a lot of time correcting my inner child, but she had a point on this one.  I can’t sneeze, fart or cough without crossing my legs.  I’m sure not jumping! 

The good thing about Les Mills classes is that there is ALWAYS an option.  If your instructor is hopping around like he/she is all cracked out on Mountain Dew, you can stand there with your arms crossed looking at them.  They will see you standing around, they will not approve and they’ll give you an option that may be a little easier to get you moving again.  Let's face it, nobody ever got smokin' hot by standing still!

Oh – I almost forgot my favorite part…PLANKS.  

*I didn't make that picture...I wish I knew who did because I would give credit where credit is due because I LOVE it!

The bottom line is that we were in class for 15 minutes and I was sweaty, out of breath and had guzzled a very large bottle of water.  Keep in mind the cool down was at least 5 minutes.  Seriously…MAD CRAZY SHOUT OUT to whoever sacrificed their car on 95 because if I had to take the entire class, I may not have survived to tell about it.

Josh asked what his nickname would be.  He suggested TIGGER.  My inner child immediately spoke up and said, “Simmer down, Skippy…Mommy makes the nicknames around here!”  We really need to work on her manners.

But actually, as bouncy as he is, Tigger fits…only with extra GER!  Going forward, Josh is TigGER and if I’m ever challenged to take another one of his classes, I may have to rear end someone with my car - or go - DEPENDS!

To the Window, to the Wall, to the Sweat Drippin’ Down my Balls…

Or rather, where my balls used to be before Body Combat castrated me!

Allow me to explain…

A while back I was looking at my rear view in the mirror when I noticed at the bottom of my bottom there were 2 little lumps.  Upon closer inspection I realized that it looked like my butt had sprouted a small set of truck trunk nuts.  As I’m sure you can imagine, I was terribly alarmed and did what any woman in my position would do.


I screamed for my husband!

He rushed into the room expecting to see me bleeding or on fire, but what he saw was much worse!

I bent over and said…

“Does it look like I have BALLS!?”

Now, my husband is not always good in a crisis situation.  In fact, when I’m in distress his default reaction is usually to laugh at me.

Do you know what kind of balls it takes to laugh at your wife when she discovers that she, herself, may have her own set of balls?   BUFFALO BALLS!

I tried to explain the seriousness of the situation to him, but he couldn’t hear me over his fits of laughter.

He is not a stupid man.  He never confirmed or denied the existence of my balls, however it became a running joke.  If I had a wedgie and he caught me pickin’ my butt If my underwear crept into my nether regions and he happened to notice me repositioning them in a totally lady like way, he would say, “Do your balls itch?”  Yea…funny man had jokes…but I told him I knew it was only because he was jealous that my balls were bigger.  I'm so mature!

Fast forward…

I have not weighed myself since I started this journey.  I was afraid that I’d become so obsessed with the number on the scale that I’d miss subtle changes and fail to appreciate my progress.  About a week ago, I tried to put on a pair of jeans that were a size smaller.  They were still too tight.  At first I felt discouraged, but then I realized that in reality I actually started the next size up.  Since I refused to buy the next size up, I’d been cramming myself into my pants like a 3lb. sausage in a 1 lb. casing.  NOW, I’m really the size I am.  GO ME!

I have noticed other changes too.  First, I LOVE working out.  (WHAT!?)  Instead of looking for excuses to avoid it, I look for ways to carve out time to go.  I get very upset when I can't.  I find myself working lunges and esquivas into household chores, like picking dirty laundry up off of the floor.  MegHan and CarA have brainwashed me!  (They will also be super proud of my vocabulary!)  I pretend I’m Sex Pot or Obi Wan when a good song comes on the radio and I whip my hair back and forth.  I’ve even contemplated taking P90X with Marisa, who I’m pretty sure was bitten by a radioactive spider at some point in her life.  It would account for the fact that she can jump 4 feet off the floor and do burpees like she’s in a zero gravity atmosphere. 

Last week, Hubby asked if I had weighed myself.  I told him that I hadn’t and he said, “Your balls are gone.”  At first I thought he was calling me a chicken.  I was just about to deliver a mean roundhouse kick to his head (in my head) because I can totally do that now that Meg showed me how to beat the crap out of imaginary people and air.  When all of the sudden I realized what he was talking about.  I was overwhelmed with emotion at the tenderness of his words.  I immediately reached around to grab where they used to be and sure enough…no balls!  I knew right away that I’d just have to write and tell my friends about my disappearing balls!

I showed up for Friday night Body Jam and Sex Pot started bustin’ my balls about the fact that I’ve been slacking on the blogging.  Marisa was there.  She showed up…for an exercise class…after she went running.  I’m telling you, it is NOT natural!  She will end up with a nickname like G-force, or Madam X or something of the sort.  OH! And Sex Pot had a friend teaching with her.  I’m pretty sure her name was NOT Bionic Biceps, but it is now.  She had crazy arms that I wanted to rub, but I didn’t.  The Solid Gold Dancers were there too – they brought wine and made me love them, but that’s for another time.  So sorry; I'm rambling!  Anywhoo...back on track...to my balls…

Sex Pot uses the word “amazaballs” a lot.  It inspired me to write a note of thanks to all of the “amazaballs” people who are helping me while working “balls” into as many adjectives as possiBALLS.  Challenge accepted!

So…this is for all of you who are a part of this process…

Brace yourself – it’s terriBALLS!

You are all amazaBALLS for helping me turn my fatty balls into wonderBALLS by making them invisiBALLS and that makes me feel incrediBALLS!  Everyone who enters The Fitness Rave radiates inspiration and motivation through perspiration and it's downright faBALLous!  I even see slight signs of a waist forming and that’s pretty BALLSome too!

I know hubby is happy and relieved to be the only adult in our house with balls again. 

I can't wait to sing him my new song:

I got no balls to hold me down,

To make me fret, to make me frown,

I had balls, but now you see,

I got no balls on me!

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I think it was Spidergirl that suggested I start taking my measurements.  I believe I will start weighing and measuring so I can track my progress, but I won’t let the numbers define me.  Who knows? Maybe I’ll eventually break down and take P90X, but I don’t have the balls just yet!

I still have a lot of work to do and a long way to go.  I'm still not graceful or coordinated and I usually feel like I'm going to hurl when my hour is through.  BUT those smaller jeans are within my reach as long as I “stay with the fight" and shake my arse on Friday Nights!