Hello, my spandex sidekick!  Welcome back to my sweaty corner of the internet.

I'm going to need a mop up in aisle 2.
I’m going to need a mop up in aisle 2.

I’ve mentioned previously that, on the list of admirable facets of my wife, Melissa, “Jazzercise Instructor’ ranks high up there right after “Ability to patiently tolerate a difficult spouse”.  I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned that she did this instructor job as a hobby, second to her primary career path as a patent-filing paralegal.   Well, after 5 years of hard service, the job got to a stress level that she could no longer tolerate, and so she exited stage left with middle fingers erect, at the beginning of April.

April has be an interesting month, then, because while I am around the house doing my normal job (for which I work from home), Melissa is also now just hanging around, working on household projects or learning new Jazzercise routines.   She’s much less stressed out and far happier, which makes me happy as well.  She’s always been one to make up songs spontaneously, but the other night I heard her making up a song about herself, from within the echoing concert halls of her shower, titled “One hundred percent muscle woman!”.   She’s always one for flexing her muscly form, forcing me to acknowledge her toned physique, and now we have a new song to serve as the soundtrack.


Probably also worth noting that this is the same woman who declared that she would NEVER work out, about 2 years ago.   #100PercentMuscleWoman

I hit 100 classes since Jan 1 at Jazzercise yesterday, so I’m 2/3rds of the way to my low-shouldered t-shirt.  The Helene watch is in full effect, but I am pretty sure there’s a good handful of classmates that have up to 120 classes at this point, so there’s no way I’m winning this contest.  Still, at this rate, I should have it around July 4th.  What better way to celebrate America’s Independence Day than liberating my swarthy shoulders from the confines of their oppressive garments.  Classmates will stop and stare at my shimmies, considering whether Michelangelo should have painted me on some cathedral ceiling instead of that “Adam” lump, who probably had very few jazzercise classes under his belt, comparatively.

Melissa recently ordered a few North Face sports bras.  These have a pocket built into the front of them, presumably so a runner could stow small necessities in there.  It even came with a little suggestion card as to what you should put inside this feature, depicting money, pills and a key to a car.  Melissa remarked that this Bra sounds like its advertising a pretty kickass party that we should RSVP to.  I went the other way with it:  fearing that North Face could encounter litigation for improper use of this pocket, they should instead display a placard of things that they recommend SHOULDN’T go in there, like a pet hedgehog, pink fiberglass attic insulation, or scalding hot coffee.  Of course, Melissa’s immutable singularity of focus meant that this pocket would be used for one specific item: candy.  “I can’t wait until I wear this to Jazzercise and announce that I’m going to pull a snickers bar out of my bra in the middle of class!” she exclaimed.

Wherever this bra is up to, I want in!
The actual suggestion card included:  Wherever this bra is up to, I want in!

Finally, May 1st marks “Sassy Pants Day” at Jazzercise.  This is basically the Jazzercise High-Holidays, a time of remembrance and reflection for our people, as well as celebration.   Everyone is required to source out some non-black, non-boring exercise clothes, and try to out-sassy their peers.  I’m thinking about ordering this little number to really ring in the warm weather.

So i just go ahead and pour the bleach directly on my eyeballs after seeing this?  Or dilute it down with gasoline?
So i just go ahead and pour the bleach directly on my eyeballs after seeing this? Or dilute it down with gasoline?

Sweat Equity And Fan Fanatacism

My cherished amigo, it’s time to share a body aspect of mine about which I experience great discomfort.  Usually people figure it out after 5 minutes of hanging around me while doing anything more athletic than sitting on the couch and watching cat videos.  I sweat, almost immediately upon beginning exercise, to a level that would cause most people to seek medical help.  I am like a one man Biblical grade deluge, sent to wipe out the non-believers.  I will sweat entirely through my clothing in under 45 minutes to the point where no dry spots remain.  In push-up position, sweat will bead and fall from my nose and brow to the floor at a 1-drop-per-second rate.   I travel with towels if I know I am going to be doing anything aerobic.

This is the extent i'll sweat just doing a sudoku.
This is the extent i’ll sweat just doing a sudoku.

In Jazzercise class, there are 6 floor-standing oscillating fans positioned around the room, usually left unplugged until someone enlists their service.  This means that, in order for me to survive a class and not coat the entire room around me with sweat like a slobbering St Bernard shaking off, I need to claim of one of those fans and have it blasting directly on me on the whole time.  So that I don’t seem like a “fan hog”, I have found this spot in the back portion of the room that has become my go-to spot.

There's nothing more detestable than a Fan Hog.
There’s nothing more detestable than a Fan Hog.

Reasons why my spot is optimal:

  • It’s in the back of the room. I’m 6’5” and I don’t want to block people’s view of the instructor on stage, so I stand in the back.  I’m trying to be considerate.
  • It has its own fan, which I completely commandeer.
  • It’s away from the door, so when people walk in they won’t accidentally get blindsided by my flailing limbs

When there are 6 fans, and most of them are not ever plugged in and used by classmates, I feel like it is in my full right to set mine to “not oscillate” and point it directly at me.  Last week, a woman came up to me in mid class, after I already looked like I had taken the ice bucket challenge, and asked if I could set the fan on oscillate.  I took a full couple of seconds to consider what this meant for me, before I said “sure”.   Then, in my haste, I accidentally turned the fan completely off rather than to what she wanted.  I only noticed that the fan was off after the next song began and ended. I must have looked like a crazy person. “If I can’t have the fan to myself, then nobody gets the fan!”  She likely thought that I was thinking “eff you, lady!  I will burn this fan before I share it with you”, and won’t attempt asking to do that again lest I pick it up and throw it at her.

This is my plastic oscillating fan. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My fan, without me, is useless. Without my fan, I am waterlogged. I must aim my fan true.

Back off, lady.

Sweat Equity And Fan Fanatacism