Day 1 starts tomorrow.  I've joined a local gym (Community Fitness) in the Roosevelt 'hood.  They're doing a group weight-loss challenge that sounded like a solid place to start.  Strength in numbers?  No, I wasn't even going to consider that component.  

I was lured into this place by Yelp reviews about the Zumba classes. Now make no mistake, I'm a white girl, used-to-be-athlete-in-an-era-gone-by, who has done little for the mind-body-spirit but work 60 hour weeks, breast-fead, and stuff myself with relatively convenient food-in-a-bag style options over the last 4 years.  I'm zonked.  I'm fat.  I hate wearing anything but black stretch pants with a long, thick sweater.  Zumba sounded like a far cry from my new-found Revolutionary Road rut.  

The reviews swore by Sol.  "I've never seen anyone move her body like that," read one review.  Done.  I've got nothing on that.  

The music was ridiculous.  There was nothing smart or technique-driven and the instructor wore black high-tops with mis-matched neon laces that coordinated with her branded sports bra.  Seriously.  At one point, she even requested that we get out our "sunnies" (sunglasses for the discerning).  Uh-huh.   

I hated every, single second of it.  This is total and complete bull-shit.  I was almost out the door but I stopped myself when I had realized that my husband had agreed to babysit and I knew that I was essentially missing out on mid-century Donald Duck cartoons on the Mac while my #1 played FIFA World Cup on his iPhone.  

It occurred to me that the reasons I hated it where that it was girly, campy and I was absolutely awful at it.  It further became evident that I would almost certainly NEED to continue doing this until I was better than every single house-wife and gay man in that room.  (Please see aforementioned reference to "Type A".)  
I went back.  Picked up a couple of steps but refused to actually watch myself in the mirror.  This time there was a disco ball situation.  Who excercises with a disco ball?  Sol does, that's who.  And that woman can move her body in ways that actually makes me uncomfortable to watch in an untaped situation.  How do you do that?

On the third class, she announced that she was a Fitness Challenge Coach.  "In 6 weeks, we are going to be very, very thin," she says.  She thinks that's hilarious.  So do I.  Sign me up.  

It starts tomorrow. 

My Mission... If I choose to accept it.

At some point in my relatively recent past (AKA, the shower after Zumba class today), it occurred to me that the absolute best decisions that I've ever made in my lifetime have been the fearless ones.  This probably doesn't come as a surprise to many over-achievers out there, but the angels sang and the light in the Pacific Northwest got a tiny bit brighter today as I scrub-a-dub-dubbed my way into my first epiphany in some time.  

The light went out a few years ago.  Got knocked up, got chubbier, produced aforementioned heir to my dynasty and then went into one of those deep, dark places for a while.  It didn't happen all at once, of course, but it happened.  The Baby Blues is something a lot of must-reads mention as lasting for a few weeks, but about the time mine had stuck around for 2 1/2 years, I decided to get some help. 

The candle has been flickering for a little while now and thanks to a super fabulous therapist, there's something of a reliable flame now.  So I woke up, shook off the cobwebs and realized... I get a chance to rewrite my story.  I get a chance every single day that I wake up, breathe and kiss my son to change it all.  

So here goes...

My mission:  To Shake It Off.  Literally and figuratively.  Get rid of the bull-shit, the ugly feelings of self-loathing, the negative attitude about my body/my wrinkles/my stretchmarks/my missed appointments/my messy house/my Type A neuroses.  Leave that garbage behind and take IT all back.  

This girl needs a make-over and it's not just a Carson Kressley situation. 

And I'm going to shake my ass and move my body to get fit and healthy... All over.