I should be in the 9:35 Body Flow class right now, but since I'm not, I think I'll blog about it.
A few days ago, Tommy grabbed a big knife off the counter while I was cooking dinner and cut his pinkie finger, and he did not cry at all. Jane and Sam both yelled and cried and made him quite nervous while I washed and put an Elmo band-aid on it, but my baby still shed no tears.
That is because Tommy likes to reserve his "I'm being stabbed with a big knife" screams for the Kidzone at the gym.
My children don't have any stranger danger. They like new people, not one has even turned around to say goodbye on his or her first day of nursery at Church. (They usually start whining when they start Primary. I hypothesize it is all about the treats/no treats.) Anyway, now Tommy is hanging on my legs, whining, and doesn't want to be left anywhere, with anyone. I think he should cry it out, but the tenderhearted (or tender eardrummed) ladies of the Kidszone don't want to let him bawl.
Yesterday, I had an appointment with my trainer (actual friend named Jodi, who is very nice and not at all like my old trainer of which I will speak in the next paragraph), who wanted to talk to me about my fitness goals, but all the talk was just to get me loosened up for the real reason we were there: measuring the circumference of my thighs in front of the whole gym, then pinching me with calipers and telling me my fat content (which I totally already knew because of the new scale). I had to try to hold my thighs still while wrestling Tommy, who had already been kicked out of child area.
Just a quick story about last time I did this Trainer Talk (yeah, I keep coming back for more). Whilst lecturing me about my sometimes habit of breakfast-skipping, my old trainer sneezed into his own hands, and upon finding himself with two hands full of boogers and without a tissue, excused himself. Excused himself not to get up and find a snot rag, but to lean under the table to remove a green lunger from his upper lip, then wipe it and all the rest under the desk. Unfortunately, his hands were still wet, so he rubbed them on his nylon exercise pants.
Me, inside my head: Um, hello, Senor Trainer-man? You aren't actually under the table. I can totally see you, and I am fully grossed out. Note to self: I really must get some anti-bacterial weight lifting gloves.
Him, out loud: Okay, I'm back. Shall we have a look at those thighs, then? (Might not have been the exact words. It happened over a year ago. The snot story is 100% real, though. I can't seem to forget it. )
Sorry, I have a hard time staying on topic. (What's the topic? Quick, read post title for clues. Ah, yes.) Of course, this whole Tommy thing is all about me. He is trying to keep me down. He doesn't want his mama fit and hot (ter than already am), so he's pulling this stunt. He's so naughty.
I really do need to go to the gym during the day, though. Nights I am tired and weak. Let me illustrate: Tuesday night I planned to go meet Liz for a class where a bunch of non-dancing, mostly white ladies try hip hop moves, so it should be as entertaining as it is sweat-inducing. Instead, I found myself in a Lexus rental car, picking up 5 sundaes in the Sonic Drive-thru. (No, they weren't all for me, but you see my point, right?)
Since I saw a little of Idol Gives Back last night, I fully understand that lack of mosquito nets and malaria in Africa = real problem. Nearly-2-year-old son of stay-at-home middle class Mom in suburbia who won't go to childcare at gym? = not real problem. I get it. I really do. Just because I sometimes find myself writing my blog in the voice of Bridget Jones does not mean I am shallow and self-absorbed. It just means I read embarrassing novels sometimes.
(I do not in any way endorse the reading of Bridget Jones Diary or Bridget Jones the Edge of Reason to my blog readers. Bridget has terrible potty mouth.)