Why I should never be forced to dance in public...
In preparation for the wedding I decided that it might be time for me to seriously think about losing some weight.
By "seriously thinking" I mean: telling myself repeatedly that I should go grocery shopping for some healthier food, and that, no, a market fresh sandwich from Arby's doesn't count. Especially not with mayo on it. And bacon. And curly fries. And a pepsi.
I think about these things VERY seriously.
But like Alice, while I might give myself very good advice, I very seldom follow it.
Then there's the matter of exercise. To put it bluntly: I don't. My life could be measured by the chairs I sit in. Exercise is something that other people do. I don't understand aerobics, can't get excited about jogging, can't afford a gym, and have no room in my apartment for an exercise bike or treadmill. I don't like walking or riding bikes alone, and I have no one to go with me. So... what's a girl to do?
I got a video game.
Well, John got me a video game, at my request.
Dance, Dance Revolution is supposed to be a great way to get some exercise and lose weight. Since it's a video game, I know I'll play it, because, well, I like video games. I like the challenges they present, and it's far more interactive than a treadmill. Lots of people have lost weight playing DDR.
This was supposed to be fun.
They forgot to mention, in the little warning thingies at the beginning of the game, that along with the possibility of straining a muscle or your eyes or epilepsy or whatever, there's another side effect.
Blind, incoherent rage.
Road Rage meets video games.
There I am, frantically stamping my feet on the stupid arrows and a stream of curse words are filing out from between my clenched teeth, inventively detailing exactly how I'd like to beat the skinny, anime 3D chick in the hotpants who is currently gyrating on screen to a bloody, boneless pulp.
My hips do not move like that. My feet do not seem to know the difference between up and down, right and left. My arms are not waving around in time to the music, but instead are clenched in Lord of the Dance fists at my sides, blood threatening to start welling from the places where I've gouged my nails into my palms.
This, I think, is fun. (C'mere you little cartoon bitch and I'll break your skinny legs in twenty pieces...)
Coordination is something that belongs to other people, (something I keep telling John, though he refuses to listen). We'll see how he feels during our first dance... when I'm cursing a blue streak behind my grin and stepping on his feet in high heels.