Working out with my kids
Because my entire body is a cross between walrus lard and jello and because when I walk, my butt looks like two hogs fighting in a gunny sack, I made the decision to work out every day--no small miracle given my busy day as a homeschool mom, physician, author, and obseesive compulsive paper stacker and organizer. For moral support, I recruited my kids as well--they fell for the ol' "it's for health fitness credit for homeschool."
We joined a local club whereupon I suffered the extreme shame of having my body fat measured (I was afraid they'd charge me for two memberships, my hips, waist, and bust measured (alittle fip flop action going on between two of these areas--I won't say which), and my total body, lean body and fat mass weight calculated. Naturally, my trainer ushered me urgently off to the torture machines that, by taxing your heart to the point of explosion, somehow melts away the fat--as if I'd live long enough to see that happen. Meanwhile, my kids went throught the same process. Sure, I was glad they were lean and mean, but 7% body fat! I eat that much fat for Thanksgiving, for god sake!
While I was sweating on my Elliptociser watching Greta Van Sustren lip synch to my heart beat, I saw my kids lazily slump from one machine to the next, casually doing a couple of reps, then, overcome with boredom, figuring out creative ways to turn a 5000 pound machine that cost more than one year's college tuition into some sort of play toy designed for their thrill and amazement. Who am I kidding. My kids spend hours every week roller blading, skateboarding, biking, playing tag and running after each other with the intention of throttling a sibling within an inch of their short lives. But, I'll make sure they continue to come with me because I love to watch them torture the equipment--payback time. Anyway, I've already paid up for a whole year.