I have launched a war against my body. Recent blood work suggests rebels are organizing; my cholesterol is teetering on the edge of a slippery slope. Advisors suggest a “lifestyle change” strategy. Obviously, my body hasn’t paid attention to the many hair colors I have sported over the years. I invented change, Bitch. Bring it on!

Don’t let my bravado fool you. Like any good ruler, I didn’t receive the news well because I 1. thought all factions my body were content with my regime, 2. am physically active, and 3. am a responsible eater. Thanks to my dad though, I am also 4. hereditarily challenged. I do though wholeheartedly agree with my doctor that I need a “lifestyle change” but I was thinking a little more in the area of rediscovering Happy Hours, not rediscovering oatmeal.

I missed most of my doctor’s preprogrammed speech on high cholesterol because I was distracted by her ripping off her lab coat to fight off a hot flash.  But I did hear this: “If you tackle it now with diet and increased cardiovascular workouts, you can probably avoid medication at a later date.” Whoa…increased?  Meaning two hours of cardio a day? If I didn’t know she was menopausal, I would have misinterpreted her sweating as a reveal that she was feeding me bullshit on a tongue depressor. I must have revealed myself with the look on my face because she said, “Well, we all get older.”  Now, I hate the idea that my body is now reaching minor repair age, but I hate it even more when doctors tell me I am at minor repair age with a smarmy “what did you expect” tone. At my last eye doctor visit, the son of a bitch said I will need bi-focals next prescription because, “it is typical when you hit 40.” I am still seething. But anger is my most influential motivator.

The day after the briefing I loaded up the kids and my anger and headed to the battlefield, or gym, only to discover they would be renovating it for the next five days but patrons could travel twenty minutes up the road to a newer, better YMCA. More anger. But, ever the optimist, I determined that a new location and new classes would equate a surprise attack on my body. Advantage me. I found the schedule online, looked at the classes, day care hours, etc. and devised a plan. I would shock my body into chaos and force the rebels to question their cause.

First Class: Body Attack.

What I expected: (A fitting title) I expected to be “attacked”. Strenuous cardio and brutal biometrics.

What it was: Five women entered the room wearing black leotards, leg warmers and gold sparkly wrist and head bands. I was expecting Jamie Lee Curtis to follow. The lights dimmed, the women lined the front of the room and dreadful 80s songs slammed into my ears. Old school aerobics my friends, like the 20 minute workout ones we used to watch as a kid, pretending it wasn’t soft porn. To top it off, the instructors had playful bits to accompany the music (read this with a Valley accent) like when “Wild West” played, and we hear gun shots at the end, one instructor acted like she was shooting the others and they all fell. Oh my gawd, so cute, huh? Yeah, maybe in college when I was drunk and it was a sorority air band contest in a basement of a frat house, but not when I am at war. This was the equivalent of sending a flamboyant, mounted herald to the enemy saying, “A battle shall be conducted hence forth!”  and seeing the herald return with a medieval wedgie.

Second Class: Body Combat:

What I expected: (Again, a title synonymous with my situation) Kick boxing, getting my fight fix.

What it was: no mits, no hitting (boo), kicks and punches coordinated to music, a lot of sweating, and one hyper, slightly crazed martial arts expert as an instructor. Several times during routines, she would get within inches of someone’s punch and fully react (“Whuaaa!”) as if she were receiving the blow. Other times, she stared menacingly at her fictitious victim, who after her vicious yet perfectly choreographed blows was lying on the ground, and say things like, “You had enough? Or do you want more?!” I wish I could put her in pill form and send her to the rebels. They would be scared shitless. I do have to say I was impressed with her aerial split back kick (if that is what it’s called) but it was a bit too showy for the group of moms and young professionals playing hooky.

Third Class: Zumba!!! What I expected: Swirvy hips and girly dancing.

What it was: I remembered driving past a sports store in a strip mall and seeing a man standing outside holding sign that read, “Zumba equipment”. I now know that means wearing a scarf around the waist that is bejeweled with metal coins and bells that jingle with each hip shake; some women sport black dancing shoes. A shiny belt is a far cry from the do-rag and boxing gloves I typically wear for my shitkicking class, but this war requires desperate measures. So, I began my first class amid the Zumbafied women in my green Gap Christmas t-shirt from last year and boxing shorts. The instructor began with a warm up and apparently noticed that I was catching on quickly. “There is an extra belt up here, perhaps someone in green would like to borrow it?” “Someone in green would not,” I replied. The music began and my sarcasm was slapped out of my mind harder than a left jab. Before I could catch my breath we launched into a Bollywood number, then a belly dancing number, then a Samba number, my God my core was screaming. All that swiveling, leg lifting, twisting, thrusting, and quick stepping was kicking my ass. I was no longer a mom with two kids, a cholesterol problem, and no future prospects for a night on the town. I was Anita from West Side Story, and, even without the belt, I was sexy. “Congratulations, ladies, you just burned 600 calories!” Shock and awe my friends. Advantage me.