Buggercise: When spandex falls short

Last week I was shocked to discover that summer is approaching. Though I've never been entirely comfortable with the season and its requisite state of relative undress, my recent ingression into the mid-thirties has compounded my distress. Enter the era of mom shorts.

But since there will certainly be a point this summer at which I'll be forced, after hours of personal grooming and possibly an encounter with a bottle of self-tanner, to don a swimsuit, I figured it was high time to put an end to what I've dubbed "eating season" (roughly Halloween through Easter) and start getting myself into shape.

So recently I ventured to the Rose Bowl, to power walk the three miles around the grounds and adjacent golf course. It was my first attempt with the dog and both Bugglekids. I strapped them into my secondhand Graco double stroller, the tandem one without a single pocket for the iPod or water. It was like pushing a freight car around a velodrome. After one-thirty-second of the way around I had crack sweat and triceps like Lou Ferrigno. Apparently a butt workout really is too much to hope for.

Halfway around, I paused to offer snacks to the kids, who were behaving impeccably after being shocked into submission by the sight of Mommy burning calories. I pressed onward, my desire to make it all the way around before the kids entered middle school matched only by an overwhelming craving for a mocha frappucino topped with whipped cream and perhaps, a squirt of Easy Cheese. If given the chance, I probably would have licked butterscotch pudding off of Richard Simmons' naked body. Instead, Bugglegirl offered me one of her goldfishy crackers and I swallowed it whole.

I know what some of you are thinking. Some of you aren't buying this at all. You're recalling the last time you saw me snarfing caramel cheesecake in my body-skimming formalwear. To you haters, I have but one thing to say: Spanx.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the difference between thin-but-fit and thin-but-eats-nachos-bell-grande. I'm fairly certain that before I turned thirty - before I felt the urge to mitigate my wine buzz with the remainder of the kids' macaroni and cheese - my ass did not jiggle like a partially set quiche lorraine. I may be petite, but flabby chic is so passe.

These days, it's all about never appearing pregnant until giving birth in the middle of a bikram yoga session immediately followed by strutting the runway in a bikini and stilettos. Me, I'm still raiding the kids' candy stash. And anxiously awaiting the Spanx beach collection.

Workout Stats
Smokin' bod count: Two. I think one guy was a professional athlete. I almost took a picture.
iPod shuffle quality: High. Rage Against the Machine off the bat made me feel like a badass. In a suburban-white-mom-with-two-kids-
and-a-labrador kind of way.
Fanny pats: Zero. I'm trying not to let it bring me down. After all, I'd prefer to hold out until my butt no longer resembles a waterbed.
Sightings: Friendly nightstick guy. I used to see him all the time when I was pregnant with Buggleboy. Glad he's keeping up the routine.
Cravings: See frappucino cited above. Add to that anything not visibly moldy.
Excuses/Complaints: See entirety above.