Dancing with Myself

A number flashed on my scale after a holiday season (apparently) heavy on edible cheer, a number not seen since my postpartum days.

Fearing the looming 4-0 was already wreaking havoc on my metabolism, I called my friend, Paula, for support.

“You should try Jazzercise,” she said.

I laughed. “My last dance class was when I was four,” I told her, “and my coordination has not improved much since then.” (True story, I once fell down a flight of stairs. On a date.)

But Paula had faith in me. So, powered by her confidence and my six-week holiday eating binge, I ventured into the studio to dance away the pounds that had landed on my backside.

Several other women were already there when I entered, ranging from grandmothers to a pair of snack-sized sorority girls.

“I like to stand away from the mirror,” another mom offered as I stared at the young coeds, secretly wishing breach births upon each of them someday.

Heeding her advice, I grabbed a spot away from my reflection as the instructor took the stage.

“Let’s warm up!” the instructor cheered as the music started, “Look right; now left; now right… “

The room started swaying. I searched for a focal point, determined to not pass out three minutes in.

“Are you ready to move?” she asked.

Before I could answer, the music pumped faster, “… step-ball-change and now chasse… ” My two left feet tried to stay out of each other’s way while my heart rate blew right past its target.

“How’s everyone doing?” she smiled, looking right at me.

I did not know. I could not see the mirror. I had, however, decided that “Hip Hop” music would more accurately be called “Hip POP,” as that is what mine seemed to do with every swing to the beat. But I could not tell her this. I could not tell her anything. I could only pant.

I glanced back at the coeds, who had yet to break a sweat, and the grandmas, who were kicking it high and having a ball. I was being schooled.

Song after hip-popping song played on, and I had not performed a single combination correctly since the neck warm-ups. But then the familiar sound of Billy Idol, from my own (pre-hip-pop) era, filled my ears, and I knew I had this one in the bag…

However, the instructor’s moves were nothing like those from the ‘80’s, not a single Robot in the whole routine. Just like in high school, I was dancing with myself.

Triceps on fire, I was ready to throw in the towel - had I been able to lift it - when, as if from heaven, the cool-down began. Two songs later I was heading home to a warm bath, savoring the taste of victory in my first hour of battle against the holiday bulge.

Not surprisingly, that victory tasted a lot like sweat.

Open Up and Say "Aaahhh"

While Congress battles over fixing the healthcare crisis (something I have every confidence can actually be fixed by a simple common-sense meeting of the 535 minds who create our laws - with absolutely no ties to corporate powers that might impede progress, or with agendas other than those that would create the best America possible - and then flawlessly executed, so well, in fact, that we citizens will find ourselves all but laughing, “Now why didn’t we just do it this earlier?”) I would like to offer my own solutions.

And I will do it in less than 1000 pages. Less than 1000 words, in fact.

So, Congress? Take note…

Some will tell you the problem is the greedy doctors who really don’t need much compensation for the 7-14 years of training they received after college just to be able to do stuff like diagnose and cure diseases, or perform your run-of-the-mill open-heart surgery.

Others might say it’s the greedy insurance companies who absolutely deserve every one of the billions of dollars in profit they make to (hopefully) pay for said surgery, assuming we weren’t pre-disposed for it and have met our deductible and have been paying the premium all along and the data entry clerk in charge of the case concurs with the surgeon that, yes, you did have blockage in your aorta and would have died without intervention and you (fortunately) chose a surgeon who was on the list of People Your Insurance Company Will Pay To Cut You Open And Fix You.

But, truthfully, it is we, the greedy citizens, hell-bent on having our cake, supersizing it, taking fries with that, and, of course, eating it too. In the drive-thru. On our way to WalMart. To pick up the new Madden game. And our cholesterol meds.

Now, before we go feeling bad about ourselves, just remember that it is not our fault.

I mean, who can resist a (box of) Twinkie(s)? And a big, sexy Chipotle burrito? And playing football via remote control instead of outside?

We’ve been played. Like an Xbox on a bright and sunny day. We may have spent over $100 billion on diet and fitness last year, but, much like getting healthcare advice from Rush Limbaugh or Michael Moore, $100 billion per year clearly is not going to cut it.

Madonna, on the other hand, just turned 51 and is in perfect shape, which is why I will appoint her to chair the Committee on How To Look Freaking Awesome As We Age. Tina Turner will be her deputy. Her first client will be Rosie O’Donnell.

But calorie restriction and Kabala alone won’t cure America. We need exercise too. So I have decided that the part of the Stimulus Plan that puts Americans back to work will fund our Captain of the Drill Team, Billy Blanks, who will provide Americans with much-needed cardio.

Old Richard Simmons videos may still be turned in for a sleek, new P90X DVD as part of the “Cash for Clunkers” program extension.

(Be sure to consult your doctor before beginning any new exercise program. I’m putting Dr. McDreamy in charge of that, fyi.)

With Americans leaner and meaner as a result of my plan, diabetes, high blood pressure, heart disease, strokes, acid reflux, sleep apnea, arthritic knees, hardened arteries, and depression (which, apparently, can be caused by single-handedly downing a bag of Lay’s and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s while watching “Project Runway” and “Bachelor” re-runs, a night I hope to never repeat) will no longer assault our well-being.

And, with all American women now rocking their hot bods and American men in prime shape too, erectile dysfunction drugs, which currently account for more than 60% of all prescription dollars (I’m totally making that up), will all but disappear.

But the new prescription plan will include guacamole, dark chocolate, and red wine.

This pretty much just leaves us with cancer and herpes, which I’m going to put Sarah Palin in charge of curing in her new-found free time.

A lofty agenda with some pretty high-profile names, I know. How will we fund it, you ask??

A “Sin Tax” that will encompass tobacco, Pop Tarts, pork rinds, those big cinnamon rolls you get at the mall, Yoo-hoo, mayonnaise, Crisco, Peeps, corn dogs, funnel cakes, drive-thru windows, Miley Cyrus, the cast of “The OC,” and running shoes (running causes pain and suffering we cannot afford to fix).

But not bacon. Bacon is exempt. So are nachos.

And Tiger Woods, Bill Gates, and Oprah will bankroll anything not covered by my plan.

Alternatively, we let Glenn Beck and Bill Maher continue to cage fight on cable TV while the people we actually elected try to find a solution.

But I like my plan better.