Y is for YMCA!

Wow, where did the month of May go? One moment I was trying to finish up the ABC blogging challenge, and the next thing I knew, it was June!

Thing 1 successfully completed the 10th grade at the top of her class, and Thing 2 successfully graduated from the 8th grade. Beloved Husband and I celebrated 20 years of marriage, and nobody was infected by a zombie bite. That pretty much captures May.

But now I can work on finishing the blog challenge. A day late and a dollar short, as my mom would say.

Y is for the YMCA, which I have once again pledged myself to. But this time I have reinforcements: I enrolled the whole family.

The Things and I were lamenting being out of shape. You probably heard the screams ringing through the earth’s atmosphere when I tried on my bathing suit for the first time this year and got a good look at my thighs. Since I don’t have enough money for plastic surgery, I have to either give up eating (not practical) or give up drinking (not going to happen) or get back into the exercise habit (hey, it could happen).

The Things decided the Y sounded like fun and they wanted to join along with me. Somehow, while standing in line to fill out the membership forms, a challenge was formed and flung. I have to go to any class they pick out, and they have to go to any class I pick out. The objective is to try every kind of class our Y has to offer.

Obviously, I’ve deluded myself into believing that I won’t fall to the floor, assume the fetal position and sob piteously –in front of my daughters. I’ll keep a stiff upper lip. I’ll be encouraging. I’ll give them helpful tips on form and etiquette.

I’ll try to keep up.

Yesterday we did our first water aerobics class together. It was fun. Both girls said, “We could do this again.” They also wanted to know what was the deal with the three older ladies who just bobbed around the pool at the back of the class, ignoring everything the instructor said.

Kinda stumped on that one. How do you explain that women of a certain age do not give a fuck? They want to float like jellyfish, gossip about their friends and pretend they’re getting some exercise. Sounds like me and some of my friends, if you added umbrella drinks.

But here’s where I differ from those women. Right now is high season for swimming lessons at the Y. There were some scheduling cross-ups, so a gentleman who was swimming laps was evicted from his lane for a dozen splashing tykes to learn not to pee in the pool.

Said gentleman very politely came over to our instructor and asked if he could share our space long enough to finish his swim. He only had 6 laps to go. Our instructor was very accommodating, and instructed us to give him room for his final laps.

The three bobbing women complained bitterly and loudly about this. He should have rescheduled his laps. The schedule should be corrected. NO ONE should be allowed to infringe in any manner upon the sacred sixty minutes of Sweat & Splash.

Some of you who know me are thinking, “But, MB, you love to bitch and complain. Especially if you are even vaguely justified.”

Let me explain. The lap-swimming gentleman in question was in his mid-30s, I’d guess. He looked like a swimmer, someone who swims laps on a regular basis. Not as tall as Michael Phelps, fine, but you see where I’m going with this? He was even wearing a Speedo, for Pete’s sake. I wanted to swim over to these women and hiss into their hairy little ears, “Shut up and enjoy the view, you idiots.”

In the end, he swam his laps, and then came over and individually thanked every single member of the class for letting him share our space. So nice to look at and exquisite manners.

I hope I never get so old I can’t enjoy that.

Today was our second day at the Y.  There were no men in Speedos, although a lovely gentleman in his 70s was chatting with Thing 2 during class. (Bonus points in water aerobics if you can chat without swallowing half the pool.) We did a lot more arm work today, and while I can type pretty easily, I’m almost sure I can’t lift my arms above my head. I think I might have to cut my t-shirt off if I want to remove it.

And lots of flutter kicks equal foot cramps.

I’m not sure what tomorrow’s schedule will bring, but I think it might give me the perfect ending for the alphabet.

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