How color coordination might get someone punched in the face

First off, I want to let you know I’m aware of my aggressive post titles. The thing is? They’re gonna STAY that way. I’m writing. It’s one of my few healthy emotional outlets. Although analyzing the above title makes me think maybe I should look into jujitsu, or karate. I just know I want to learn how to roundhouse kick. Tell me you don’t wanna learn to do that! Just for that one dude who always talks to you slimy on the walk home from the train station? That one time he gets just a wee bit too sleazy with you, off comes your jacket and bag and say, “Guess what, man? You know what you get today? A ROUNDHOUSE KICK.” He won’t see it coming! It’ll be just like the movies, at least until the cops come and book you with aggravated assault or attempted murder, but whatever, off topic…

At this point, it’s no secret that I’m not a fan of exercise. I refuse to think anything called a ‘burn’ could be good for you, zumba is nothing like salsa, and how many crunches do I really need with half my body fat laying on top of my stomach? It’s ludicrous. But seeing as how my metabolism checked out last year and left me with the bill, and even a glass of OJ now turns up in three pounds of hip fat, I’ve gotta kick it up a notch. I go to Lucille Roberts, because it’s cheap enough for my budget…But also cheap enough that if I don’t go, I have no guilt about skipping it. It’s win/win for me.

I’d taken an unwritten “It’s the holidays, who are you kidding” sabbatical from LR, but decided today I was going back with a vengeance. I wrapped up tight and headed out to 9:30 kickboxing, expecting lots of punching and kicking. I had sentimental memories of past (slightly ghetto) classes with instructors shouting, “Imagine your man sayin’ he ain’t got his side of the RENT! PUNCH! PUNCH!” Or scissoring on our backs with our legs, “What happens when your man is gettin’ on YO LAAASST NERVE? Scissor close, open, close!”

Continue reading “How color coordination might get someone punched in the face”

God made a 70-year-old call me fat: an essay

You big sillies. He did NOT. I’m wacky and all, but I don’t mess with the big man. Ehhh, fine, I do occasionally, but I make sure He knows I’m kidding. I won’t be the chick who’s so clever she winds up in purgatory, sitting on a rock and staring side-eyed at Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor, complaining how hot it is and asking where Chris Farley hid the snacks.

I digress. God is a part of the story, but then again, He’s not.

I got sick the winter of 2011, and put on a few pounds. I’m not one of those lucky women who gain weight evenly or maybe just in their booties, where it makes them more desirable. No, my genetics caused what I can only call the Six Month Up the Duff Effect. Hold on to that visual.

Aaaand ease into late August. I was about to turn 39, and urgently wanted to join one of my church’s supportive youth groups at its annual camp retreats upstate. I’d been laid off about a month before, and though I missed nothing about my job, I thought God might send some guidance my way if I were in a more naturalistic environment. I was also yearning for fellowship, and wished to find some post-recuperation peace and direction before I tackled another long winter in the city.  A few weeks later, I was on my way to Camp Iroquois Springs in Rock Hill. So was Hurricane Irene.