Confessions of a Turbo Jam Drop-out

It seemed like the perfect addition to my weight loss efforts.  A little exercise would make the inches melt away faster so that my Skinny Jeans and I could once again enjoy a civil relationship.

You'll probably make certain judgments about me when I tell you that I'm not a fan of exercise.  Yes, I know, it's good for me; it'll keep my heart strong; I'll look better in my clothes, yadda yadda yadda.  When it comes to exercise, though, I'm still that awkward fourth grader who couldn't make it up the rope climb in gym class. 

 

As if it wasn’t humiliating enough to flunk Rope Climbing 101, I remember the gym teacher making the whole class stay until I reached the top.  Everyone missed their bus and yet I still couldn't reach the top.  Eventually, I was able to persuade the gym nazi, I mean teacher, to let me down from the rope.  I learned that when the situation looks hopeless, threatening to throw up always brings the desired results.

 

It’s these and more not-so-fond memories about gym class which color my ability to enjoy exercise now.  Maybe after some heavy-duty therapy I'll get over it, but then I think, why bother when I can just sit here and read a book instead?  Surely all of that page-turning must burn some calories.

 

About two years ago, I purchased the Turbo Jam exercise DVDs.  You've no doubt seen them advertised on late night infomercials.   They promise Pound and Inch Loss!  Workout Fun!  and Slammin’ Good Music! 

 

It was no doubt in a moment of fatness and desperation that I actually believed this was a good idea.  Probably it was after one of my chocolate benders where I find myself promising God I'll never eat chocolate again if He'll just-this-once keep my thighs from rubbing together when I walk.

 

I had not opened the Turbo Jam DVD before today.  In spite of my delusional belief that I, too, could look just like the perky nymphs on the infomercial, the DVD remained unopened and unused.

 

This morning, after feeling particularly guilty about a diet-blowing lunch yesterday, I decided to give Turbo Jam a try.  I woke up early and dressed in my work out clothes so there would be no excuses (yeah, like I'm the sort of person who'd make excuses.)

 

The Turbo Jam DVD includes three workouts:  "Learn & Burn," "20-minute Workout," and "Turbo Sculpt."  Simple enough.  I pop the DVD into the player.  I'm greeted by the tiny, perky, and energetic Turbo Jam leader, Chalene Johnson, who's going to help me shed pounds and inches.  Yeah, she looks like she's always had a weight problem.  I try to not roll my eyes disrespectfully but I can't help it.

"Learn & Burn" is supposed to be a Turbo Jam introduction and sounds like my speed.  Chalene promises to teach me each move.  The first is called "Turbo Tuck."  Of course it is, Chalene.  Although back in the unhip dark ages, we used to call it a pelvic-tilt.  So far so good.  I can pelvic-tilt, I mean "Turbo Tuck," with the best of them. 

 

Next is the "Pump" and it's not nearly as sexy as it sounds.  When I attempt to do this move, I'm quite certain that I look like exactly like an epileptic flamingo.

Before I can even perfect my epileptic fit, Chalene moves on to the next move.  She’s evil like that.  This one is called the "Twist," but it’s not simply turning at the waist.  Oh no no no.  That would be too easy.  Chalene wants me to Turbo Tuck, throw a right cross, throw a left jab, pull back to my body, draw up my left knee and step out on my left foot.  All at the same time.  Excuse me, Chalene, but is that even possible? 

 

Now she wants me to twist my shoulders and hips but avoid twisting my right knee while keeping my right heel up.  HUH?!  Do you even HEAR what you're asking me to do, Chalene?  At one point, she says, "I know that you've already got this move down."  That's when I know that I can no longer trust her. 

 

I shrug off the "Twist" as impossible while Chalene launches into the next move called the "W."  Sorry Chalene; reminds me too much of whatshisname.  I fast forward through this intending to invent my own move called the “Hyphen on the Couch” when the time comes.

Now we move onto something interesting called the "Capoeira Step."  Evidently the word “Capoeira” is Brazilian for “you do not have a prayer in hell of mastering this move, fat girl.”

 

Chalene says we can pretend to throw down an imaginary opponent.  Even though right about now I'm thinking that I'd like to throw her, I try to play along. 

I'm up for releasing some early morning aggression as much as the next girl, but she quickly loses me when the move evolves into a multi-step, majorly choreographed maneuver.  I'm trying to follow her, really I am, but it feels as if my arms and legs have different plans.  She tells me to not put too much thought into it but I don't believe her.

 

Now that she's spent a whopping 5 minutes teaching those dance moves, she announces that it's time to put it all together and SWEAT.  I can hardly wait.

 

It starts out easy enough.  Just a simple "Bob and Weave" which is really stepping to each side and then back again, but of course that doesn’t sound nearly as much fun as “Bob and Weave.” 

I’m Bobbing and Weaving just fine when she adds a punch to the move.  I have a little bit of difficulty remembering to bring both arms back to the "block" position but I do my best to keep up.  In no time at all, though, Chalene wants to complicate things by adding in every one of her "Elite 11" moves, all at the same time.  

It's now that I’m forced to confront my limitations:  I'm unable to move more than one body part at a time without hurting someone, usually myself. 

 

In the middle of an especially uncoordinated effort, my dog Shelby jumps up on me to see what all of the excitement is about.  I have my legs going and my arms going and now there's a dog on me, jumping and barking wildly.  In an attempt to shoo the dog while still keeping up with Chalene, I somehow manage to punch myself squarely in the jaw.  Yes, I really am that clumsy.

I’m pretty sure that if I look hard enough I’ll find a warning label on the package which says, “Not for use by klutzy girls.  That means YOU, Lisa.”
  
After this experience, I know that this exercise program is called “Learn & Burn” for a reason, because when you fail to Learn it, you will most definitely want to Burn it. 

You have no idea how satisfying it was to stuff Chalene and her maniacal workout back in the box.

For better or for worse, as long as cookies aren't involved

 

^{(excuse me, would you like to buy some evil?)}

When I married my husband twenty-five years ago, we made all sorts of promises to one another.  Basically, we agreed to tolerate each other when we’re cranky, not bail on the marriage when one person fails at using the laundry hamper or driving a stick-shift, and not embarrass one another during parent-teacher conferences or in front of the in-laws.  He promised to remember to put the toilet seat down, and I promised not to hack him into little pieces if he forgot.

 

Of course I’m paraphrasing the actual marriage vows but you get the idea.

 

As seemingly complete as those marital promises were, they were mute on one important situation.  In fact, if I’d known then what I know now, I would have written an additional vow into the mix:  the pledge to never, ever, bring Girl Scout cookies into the house.

 

It’s not that I have anything against Girl Scouts.  I don’t.  In fact, I was almost a Girl Scout myself once.  If it weren’t for that unfortunate incident involving tomato soup and a stomach virus at the Brownie orientation meeting, I’m sure I, too, would have enjoyed a promising Scout career. 

 

The cookies, however, are a different story.  In fact, I’m absolutely certain that Girl Scout cookies are tools of the devil.  Not only are they packaged in deceptively wholesome packaging, but they’re given cutesy names like Do-Si-Dos, Trefoils, and Tagalongs.  Don’t be fooled by their innocent appearance though.  It’s all part of their master plan to infiltrate your home and make you eat them.

 

As if the cookies themselves weren’t irresistible enough, every Girl Scout cookie table is manned with at least one achingly adorable Cindy Lou Who look-a-like.  Cindy Lou Who is the ultimate in Girl Scout cookie weaponry.  Who can resist her soft, sweet voice, dimpled cheeks, and missing front teeth?  It’s nearly impossible to walk past this doe-eyed creature without feeling compelled to buy all of her remaining inventory. 

 

Through the years, I’ve learned that the trick to being able to pass by Cindy Lou Who without incident is to avoid eye contact.   I just pretend that she’s not even there.   My husband Dan is much kinder than I am and can never, ever, ever say no to Cindy Lou or her cookies.    Invariably, their seductive sugary siren call will weaken his resolve, and before you can say Thin Mints, he’s agreed to buy four boxes of them.

 

This wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the fact that, at any given time, Dan and I exist in one of three states of being:  on a diet, thinking about going on a diet, or feeling guilty for just having fallen off a diet.  Once those demon confections are in the house, Dan will abandon all reason and kick his diet to the curb.   Seeing him ditch his diet makes it especially tough for me to stick with mine.  It’s not that I’m weak-willed; it’s just that if I have to suffer, I’m bringing him along with me.

 

Last week, Dan and I went to our local hardware store.  As we were checking out, I caught a glimpse of The Enemy.  Right next to the exit door, there was a strategically placed table loaded with Girl Scout cookies and manned by three impossibly cute little sugar pushers and their adult chaperone.  Their eyes locked onto their prey as soon as they saw my husband.   “Excuse me, sir,” the one girl asked in a sweet, sing-song voice.  Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?”

 

Of course, this request came from the smallest, most adorable little girl among them.  I could see Dan weakening.  No way would this encounter end well.

 

I sent thoughts of reinforcement and good judgment to him telepathically, just as I do when he’s about to wear muddy shoes inside the house or volunteer our house for family gatherings:  just say no thank you, just say no thank you...  

 

Despite my best psychic efforts, he headed over to the table.   I felt the sting of defeat as I watched Dan pull out his wallet.  Visions of yet another failed diet clouded my brain and sank my willpower battleship.

 

But then, this man, to whom I’ve been married for a quarter of a century and who I know better than anyone else in my life, did not buy any cookies.  Instead, he handed a $5.00 bill to the littlest girl and said, “I don’t want any cookies, but can I give you a few bucks as a donation?” 

 

Something about an old dog and new tricks came to mind as I thought about what had just happened.  Even after all these years, he’s still capable of wholly and superbly surprising me. 

Maybe there’s still hope for the laundry hamper.

**image courtesy of the talents of my son, Ryan Kern, and the greatest model ever,  Alice Moore.