A Fathelete Hopes She Dances...But Don't Try To Lift Her

...because she's too heavy to lift, apparently.

As Liz Lemon would say, Blurg.

 

I'm being melodramatic here, but when I started practicing my swing dancing for this upcoming "Dancing For The Stars" situation at the Kravis Center next month, I had hopes that I would lose tons of weight, like all those already skinny girls on "Dancing With The Stars." I was also hoping, as most little girls do, that I would make my dancing debut all girly and spinny, and get lifted up like a princess, or at least like Baby in "Dirty Dancing."

While I am not in the least bit skinny (nor do I want to be), I have knocked some inches off the old waist, making my big old butt stand out more, like a shorter, stouter JLo (I like this). But apparently, it's not enough inches or pounds to make me small enough for my partner, the fabulous Armando, to lift me without hurting his back.

I did not have the time of my life, I tell you that.

In all fairness, he's not a big guy, and we probably weigh the same.  The routine looks amazing, so far, even without the lift. It's just that no woman wants to hear that she's not tiny and graceful enough to be lifted like a figure skater. Everyone wants to be feminine, to be girly. And even though the physics bear this out - I am, at this point, about 160-something pounds of mostly muscle, plus a bunch of butt and chesticles, and Armando is about 5"8 and weighs about the same - it's still disappointing. Hilarious, in a morbid way, because I feel awesome. But no one wants to be the hippo in "Fantasia" flipping the skinny alligator around. No one wants to be the fat girl.

And yes, I am not fat. My friend Lauren has promised to give me a quarter every time I think this so I'll shut up about it.

But, you know...Hippos.

It's gonna look awesome, anyway. 

A Fathlete Fights The Orthotics...

...and so far, those suckers are winning.

I bought these Power Step thingees for the first time months ago, and every successive pair has been a disaster. The first pair worked beautifully - I pronate or, as we say on the streets, walk funny, so they lifted my arches and made me happy. But the last pair was too short, causing icky bumped toes hanging off the pad. My toes looked like they'd been in the woodchipper with Steve Buscemi after my relay portion of the Marathon of the Palm Beaches. 

Now the new pair I bought big and attempted to cut them down. They worked OK for the Race For The Cure, but badly hurt my arches in my next run. Dr. Chris Fox , my running guru, is gonna take a look at them tomorrow, and not a moment too soon. I have a race Saturday morning, and I would like an equal chance at sucking less.

A Fathlete Races For A Cure, and For Pat!

It has been my goal since returning to running last year to get my 5K times back under 30 minutes, or at least run faster than a 10 minute mile pace. I am happy to report that at Saturday's Race For The Cure in beautiful relatively freezing Downtown West Palm Beach, my official time was 31:01 minutes, which isn't under 30 minutes but is, and this is important to my petty record-keeping mind - a 29:57 pace.

Yes, that rounds up to 30. But not quite. And I'll take it.

Of course the most important thin was the thousands of people who rolled out in the relative freezing cold to run for their mothers, their sisters, their aunts and grandmothers. I ran for my cousin, the beautiful and talented Pat, who is having breast cancer surgery this week, and who I love very, very much. That's more important than a few tenths of a second. But I can't wait to show her the photo of me holding up her name. I look really bad in that picture. But that's really not the point.

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.