Working Out?

*Please use your imagination and work with me on the 'picturing' part of this post as I have not yet figured out why my computer has no drawing program.*


I am on a quest. I desire toned, shapely legs and a firmer back end. I've given up on my stomach due to the gestating-induced diastasis of my last pregnancy, and my arms and upper back are already fairly well toned from picking up at least one toddler nearly every day for the last eight and a half years. So I'm left with this.



(picture a well-toned top half and flabby bottom half here)



This does not agree with the mental version of my body.



(picture Jessica Rabbit here)



In an effort to make reality conform to fantasy, I have begun a workout devised from the pages of a magazine focusing on "GLUTES!", several exercises I found online, and one that my husband suggested, which I have morphed into some sort of lower-body fitness routine, since I can afford neither gym nor personal trainer.



First, I have begun "power-walking" every other day. The reason I walk is that I cannot run. Well, I can sprint like a rabid kangaroo on meth if one of my kids is in danger but beyond that, I'm basically worthless when it comes to running. The bouncing motion wreaks havoc on that lovely aforementioned diastasis and frankly, it hurts my boobs even when they're tightly encased in a sports bra and puts me at risk for a severe butt injury, as it flaps along behind me, out of control. (More on butt injuries later.) So I walk as fast as I can without passing out, all the while clenching my butt cheeks, since that is also recommended to "engage" those muscle groups. Since I live in what has become quite possibly the hottest spot on Earth this year, the outdoor temp reaches 90+ at roughly 6 am each day; thus, I try to get this ordeal out of the way as early as possible.



On the days that I don't walk, I do this mish-mash of a routine that I've slapped together. First, a few stretches - down, up, over, under, across, and whatever other directions I can contort myself into. One of the stretches involves sitting with one ankle crossed over the other knee and leaning forward until you "feel the burn" in the backs of your legs and your lower butt. This is to help prevent butt injury. Let's stop right there.



Butt injury? Really? It is possible to injure your butt? Doing what, exactly? I admit I'm not the foremost authority on anatomical injuries (that would be my sister, the med student, or as my mother would call her, the GOOD child) but I am hard-pressed to come up with a way that the butt could sustain injury unless someone hit you there with something hard and sharp. I suppose if you clench your butt tight enough for long enough and try to long-jump in that position, you could possibly pull a muscle, so for safety's sake, just in case I should ever feel insane enough to attempt such a stunt, I keep doing this stretch and it's variations (lying on the floor and standing on one leg.)



Then I grab my girlie weights and do squats with them, which is supposed to tone my shoulders and butt and legs, all at once. This is billed as "the only butt exercise you'll ever need!" In two weeks, this exercise alone promises to provide me with broader shoulders and shapelier derriere, thus leading to something resembling an hourglass figure, or in my mind, Jessica Rabbit.



(picture me as Jessica Rabbit here)



Then I do one-legged bridges, something called seesaw moves, a sideways bicycle move, and a move obviously stolen from yoga and simply re-named for the purpose, a bird-dog. These promise to tone my butt, thighs, the backs of my legs, and strengthen my lower back muscles.



Then I do something suggested by my husband, "kick-backs," which seems to be something he must have learned at boot camp for JAGs, designed to make you want to sue someone.



I finish with that seventh-level-of-hell move called the Lunge. I call it the seventh level of hell because it is the seventh thing I do and by that point my legs are exhaused and sore and ready to collapse. If I did the squats last, they would be the seventh level of hell. It doesn't really matter, so I just do one first and the other last. I use my girlie weights for both, mostly so my arms don't flail all over the place.



I'm a week and half into this "routine." I haven't noticed any change yet, other than the constant burn in my thighs every time I move them. Nearly all these exercises require 15 reps per set, and 2-3 sets per workout; I've finally worked up to the 15 reps, but one set of each is all I've been able to manage. By the time I get to the seventh level of hell move, the muscles in my thighs and the backs of my legs are collapsing with each rep. I keep inspecting my backside for progress but so far have achieved no results. After another week, however, I should have killer sexy thighs rivaling those of fitness models; judging by the constant throbbing in them, something must be getting a workout.



My husband is coming home in two weeks for a few days and says he'll be the judge of my progress. I laugh in the face of progress. If he dares tell me I've made none, my killer sexy thighs will take. him. out.



KA-POW!

Have you ever tried to rent out your house? I mean the actual house you are actually living in at the time, because you can't move out to ANOTHER house until you find a renter for your current one?

No?

It's a thrill and a half.

First, you go out and purchase FOR RENT signs to stick in your yard among all the dead grass from the incestuous, unrelenting Mojave Desert heat wave that has attacked this part of the state for OVER A MONTH. Then you staple-gun another one to your back fence since you live next to a "major" road. Then you thank God that your husband bought said staple gun last year to put up Christmas lights because were it not for that, you would be forced to resort to trying (and failing) to nail the damn thing up.

Then you go inside and take approximately 4,563 pictures from every concievable angle of the inside your house, and two from the outside. Then you narrow them down to 5 and post them, along with an alarmingly exciting and upbeat description of your house, to include every possible positive detail that anyone could ever hope to know about any kind of house-like structure, on a rental property website. Then you sit back and wait for the offers to come pouring in like oil into the gulf.

The first few days go well. No less than two people have heard about/seen your house and want to see it. So you move on to the next step, which is to immediately panic upon the realization that you have no application for them to fill out if indeed they are interested, because you have never been a landlord before and have no idea where to find such a form. You Google "rental forms" and hit upon 546 sites related to the subject, 544 of which require that you pay a registration fee to access their precious forms, which must have been drawn up by Donald Trump himself for the amount of the registration fee required to utilize them. You finally hit upon a site which boasts "FREE!" membership for 30 days, figure you won't need it for longer than 30 days, register, and print off a rental application.

Then you look around your house and realize that it is completely trashed and smells like the inside of a cat litterbox mixed with putrified used gym towels and sour milk, and your potential renters are coming in two hours.

At this point, if you're like me, you run around in circles screaming your fool head off at everyone and everything possible to hurry and help get this place cleaned up or we're all gonna die! Chaos ensues.

Then you realize that you do not want your children present for such an inquisition (which is what it feels like) but that you have failed to make necessary arrangements for childcare, so you run over to your neighbor's house and beg and plead her to keep them for you for a few minutes, looking all the while like a rabid squirrel on crack because in the midst of all this mayhem, you have forgotten to take a shower. She mercifully agrees, so you then dash home and use half a container of deodorant and brush your teeth and twist your hair back into a sloppy bun (because there's no time to brush it) and fumigate the house with the air freshener you bought over a year ago.

Then you sit and wait.

And wait.

After fifteen minutes go by, you finally call the people, who halfheartedly apologize and say they got lost. They'll be here in ten minutes. Ok, fine.

They show up, they walk around, they love it, they want it, they'll take it. Problem is, they want it, like, TODAY. No can do, my good people, I need a week to move and another to get the new carpet in, since I'm not foolish enough to install it while my children and cats and dogs are actually still LIVING on it.

They take the app and leave and you never hear from them again.

Repeat entire process three times.

Never hear back from anyone.

Get discouraged. Get tired of frantically deep-cleaning house every time someone wants to see it, which is apporximately every other day. Wear out neighbors' good will for watching your wild children free of charge for 30+ minutes at a time.

Finally someone calls back and wants to know how quickly they can move in. They sound serious, so you drive around to Home Depot and Lowe's with all your monkeys howling and careening off in various directions, to find out exactly how quickly they can get new carpet installed. Call husband, who now must put together a lease. Call potential renters back, who decide they need to think about it.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Make appointments to show the house to more people, who never show up and don't bother to call to tell you this. So you call them back and leave barely-civil messages for them telling them how much you appreciate them and their cowardly actions, after you've busted your butt cleaning and cleaning and cleaning and farming your children out time after time, all for nothing.

Get bitter.

Decide you are never buying another house again for as long as you live because this is utter bullshit.