it’s official

I signed up for a particularly daring class starting in January. It was on a whim as it’s now been established as the way I live my life. I was signing up munchkin for swim lessons and I veered off looking for what I could get done during that time. Apparently killing myself for 20 minutes on a sharp incline ellipse wasn’t cutting it.

It’s belly dancing.

I’ll wait till you pick your jaw up from the floor.

Done?

Okay, so let me list retrospectively, the logic behind my actions. I’ve had someone tell me that this belly dancing is one of the toughest ab workout out there. What with expanding my belly three times over and all those rolls that I have accumulated from before the kids were born, I figured as much as I love them (the rolls not the kids) and cherish their presence, there’s something called belly fat that apparently makes ones heart go heavy. As it is we burden ourselves with all the ridiculous idiocies when we slip and take life too seriously, in an effort to  take some pressure off my fragile ticker, I am forced to resort to desperate unheard of measures. I love my life a little too much to just sit down on the couch one day and discover that the heart gasped it’s last under all that fat smothering it.

Pilates, Ab workout terrors and pushups and situps, and diets were honestly just very boring. If I had to do something, I just as well add an element of pizzazz in it? The research on it is quite persuasive I must admit, and hey, I love dance. Best of both I figured. Ask me after I start the classes, as I’ve been prepping myself since last week(as advised), and now admit that I can feel every one of those muscles in that area. As in feel them with pain. Every movement’s in any kind of bend is now a torture. Hopefully, this pain’s worth it all.

I declared to the husband on a rare quiet Saturday morning moment when we discovered quite by accident that we were without the sidekicks (all three of them) and were actually having a conversation wherein my voice was calm and a under-sea level decibel and the man was actually able to repeat what I had just said. Rare moment you must agree.

That’s when I let it slip.

“I’ve signed up for a class Tuesdays come January. You should be home by 7:30?”

“Yeah, what class?”

Warming my way in closer, so I can cushion the blow of my words with some physical distraction “Belly dancing”

The man is good. Well, he’s been with me too long.

He doesn’t raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t fall for the sashaying.

He instead says “Just don’t ‘practice’ in front of me. I have some very pleasant visuals of that dance that I’d like to retain.”

He returns to his paper.

I huff and puff and stare and whine and sulk and pout and sigh and then return to my now cold cup of tea. We then get into a full blown ‘argument’ wherein I talk and he pretends to listen on the need for a new dining table.

This doesn’t end here as most wives know by now. I’ll show him! Yessir, I will.