Butt Cheek Blues

I was sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor changing baby Vera's diaper when Jasper, my two year old, knelt behind me and began jabbing her index finger into my back fat which (I had not realized until that moment) was visibly spilling over my jeans and out of my shrinking t-shirt. Giggling, she sank her chubby peanut butter and jelly finger into my chubby side again and again. I was becoming increasingly self-conscious when she asked me something I will never forget, "Is dat you butt cheeks?"

I choked.

If the postcard I received in the mail that week from the local YMCA advertising "No Joining Fee" didn't speak to me, my extra set of butt cheeks certainly did.

I cannot say that I hadn't noticed my jeans were fitting too tight. I mean, I had to lay down on the bed to get them zipped and then do squats once they were buttoned in hopes to gain some maneuverability. My t-shirts had all become unsightly; that is why I had been rotating through my growing zippered hoodie collection. My entire wardrobe was coordinating layers. I guess I was hoping no one else noticed.

Staring at my No Joining Fee mailer, I reminisced on my past futile attempts at beginning a workout regimen. There was the time my friend and former co-worker, Polly, had talked me into Hot Yoga when I was six months pregnant with Lola. I had thought I might die that day. Who knew Hot Yoga as so... hot?

Two years later, I let Polly talk me into Zumba. I had watched her body transform into a rock hard vision of seduction during the two years since the yoga incident and I would have participated in anything she presented to me. Zumba was just loud music, rigorous dancing and a ton of sweat, almost like I was at a Ladies Only night club on my lunch break, and I felt really sexy until Polly asked me if I was Epileptic. (Gasp!) "I am not having a seizure! I am doing Zumba!" She didn't invite me back.

Most recently, my husband tricked me into a Spin class. What. A. Joke. We were late, because we are late for everything, so class had already started when we got there. I was stunned at how fast these people were peddling on their stationery bikes- like no one knew they were stationary. I looked to the back of the room to see who was chasing them. I had expected to see a gaggle uniformed cops back there running in place. There was not. Instead, there were two empty bikes and Oliver was already moving to claim them. Thirty minutes on my stationary bike and I was begging for Hot Yoga. My rear end and girl parts felt as though I had been assaulted. There is no delicate way to state that.

Snapped out of my reverie, I reluctantly placed my No Joining Fee mailer into my purse and drove across town to see about a membership at the Y.

Last evening, with my gym savvy husband coaching me, I completed my first work out. Oliver worked my legs and even my butt cheeks in the weight room until I staggered out of there on burning legs of jello. Today, I am sore from the tops of my shoulders to the tops of my knees and it feels fabulous. Mark my words, I will get my two original God-given butt cheeks back and they will be better than before.