A Fathlete Gets Her Vacation Exercise on the Dance Floor...

...and will not mention those crepes she just ate.

It's been a few weeks since I updated the Fathlete blog, as I was sick like a dog, or at least a weasel with a bad cough. And I wasn't doing much athletic stuff, other than some weightlifting and my swing lessons with the fabulous Armando. I wasn't setting any fitness records. But I can triple across heel toe like a mother.

I worked out right up until Thursday, several hours before I got on a plane and flew to Vegas for my beloved Kiki's birthday celebration. I packed the good running shoes and running bra and every intention of keeping up with the fitness on my vacay.

Weasel, please. This is Vegas, where mimosas are a clever way to get your vitamin C and wise investments are nickel slots. I have been dancing every night, won $30 gambling, and have been...umm...enjoying adult beverages and eating stuff. Shockingly my clothes still fit. Must be all that dancing with that cute little British boy I met Friday night at Prive. I believe his name was Paul. Not sure what he was saying half the time - stuff about football, gambling and being confused that every woman he met in Vegas appeared to be "a ho." But he was charming, and dancing with him provided cardio between Diet Coke and Malibus. 

So, no great strides for the "lete" part of this blog. More like the "Fat"part. We're just hardcore next week. Wee-hoo, babies!

A Fathlete Stops Coughing Like A Dying French Courtesan!

So today I returned to my semi-hard core life as a fake athlete, after a nasty cough that made me sound like Satine from "Moulin Rouge." And by the way, I never understood how that girl didn't k know she was dying, what with her passing out and falling out of swings and coughing up blood and whatnot. I can see her not knowing exactly what was wrong with her if the doctors wouldn't tell her. But wouldn't you, at least, be concerned if everytime you opened your eyes, you were somewhere different than you were the last time you were conscious, and everybody around you was trying not to look like "Dag, that girl's gonna die?"

Anyway, I am glad to report that I am neither dying of consumption nor a French courtesan. I got through an hour of Booty Camp, featuring the hilarious and brutal Victor and his love of walking lunges. I do not share that love. But I got through, and only erupted into Satine coughs a couple of times. Then it was off to my swing lesson with the even more hilarious Armando, who proposed some brutal spins that made me totter off my new high heeled dance shoes like a drunk debutante.

Or a coughing French courtesan. You be the judge.

Vacation's Over...Step Away From The Lazy!

I'm back in my apartment, about to head to the gym for the beginning of my New Year's resolution not to be a big fat pig. I also have a wicked bad cough that I'm blaming on the change in temperature between tropical Florida and the frozen hinterlands of yore. 

I am also back on the calorie counting...we'll see how that goes, because Vacation Leslie's still grooving on those mashed potatoes she ate around 11:30 PM at Howley's (thanks, Steph!) and is stalking the streets looking for carbs. And she knows where to find them.

A Fathelete Starts The New Year Mostly Right!

Quick note: As the first day of this hopefully smashing new year dawns, I am ending the vacation eating portion of my vacation early. This means I am not eating everything put in front of me (Hello pie, my secret lovah!) and pretending that it doesn't count. I can see a little extra pinchiness around certain areas (Hello, pie, my secret lovah!) but shockingly everything still fits, even though I've worked out once since I've been here.

Seriously.

So obviously, God either is sparing me from my laziness or waiting until I get back home to slap me with some delayed reaction blubber. Tomorrow, my sister and I are going to some class at her gym called Soul Grooves, which she says is a butt-kicker. I am working on my natural lack of coordination with Armando, my dance guru, so this might be fun. Hell, who am I kidding? It's still gonna hurt like a mofo...Hey, Steve Zahn is gonna be Monk's brother! I love Steve Zahn! He's the Seann William Scott of my generation, yet not so Seann William Scott-y! 

I'm sorry...where was I? Yes...umm...Soul Grooves. I'm a little scared of it but I have a soul and have been known to groove. So we'll see what's up.