Fathlete and Friend do the Zumba!

Sadly, there are no pictures of my friend Lauren and I doing the Zumba class at my gym yesterday, but I can sort of describe the scene - tiny young girls with no rhythm fleeing for their water between every song, because they have no body fat and no endurance, and Lauren, an experienced salsa dancer, literally bopping up and down between songs like "Where's the music? Let me at 'em!"

Let this be a lesson to you, young ones. Just because you're young and tiny doesn't mean you have any sort of fitness level. And just because you're about 30 and curvy, like Lauren, or pushing 40 with a preponderance of back fat, like myself, doesn't mean you can't kick butt.

And we kicked that Zumba's butt all over the place!

Hells yeah!

A Fathlete Reclaims Her Former Glory...

...or at least gives it a good, flabby try.

On Friday, I finally picked up my new orthotics, which cost about eleventy-three dollars. However, they're my magic key to getting back on the road, to sort of being the runner I used to be, sorta kinda, and to maybe getting back the almost 38-year-old version of the body I had when I did my marathon in 2005.

Then again, this body, in its current flabbier state, danced me to a third-place victory in the not epic but insanely fun 2009 Dancing For The Stars competition last week at the Kravis Center here in bee-yoo-tiful West Palm Beach. When I watched the video, I was alarmed at the preponderance of back fat (and look for my upcoming autobiography - "Leslie Gray Streeter: A Preponderance of Back Fat") but thrilled at how much I looked like I knew what I was doing! It looked so effortless, particularly the steps that took me forever to get, like the sequence of fast kicks in the beginning.

I was rewarded a 10 by Hillie, one of the awesome judges, mostly because of my joy and because she saw me in one of my earlier rehearsals, when I looked like a manatee trying to audition for "A Chorus Line." I will hold onto that 10, and onto this awesome disco ball trophy, like Miss Havesham held onto her wedding cake.

Try and stop me.

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.