Buggercise: Rose Bowl redux

Shortly after my ridiculous attempt to pilot my Graco tandem monster stroller around the Rose Bowl, I decided to give my friend's double jogger a test drive. Thank God she said I could keep it indefinitely, because reading herein that I am never, ever giving it back might have been awkward.

While quite easy to set up and break down, it is a double stroller after all - a veritable behemoth requiring some exertion to muscle in and out of the back of my 4Runner. Some days when I don't feel like working out, I just lift it in and out of the trunk a couple of times to generate a little sweat. I've finally figured out how to position it properly back there, so it doesn't tip over when I turn or go over bumps. Sorry, Buggledog.

But the extra effort pays off: this baby glides like Dirk Diggler slathered in Crisco.

The first time I took it to the Rose Bowl, I actually started jogging, something the public hasn't seen me do voluntarily since the early Reagan administration. Consequently, about two-thirds of the way around I pulled a groin muscle, which also hasn't happened in ages (poor Bugglehubby). But I pushed through the pain, completing the three mile perimeter in just under six hours, forty-two minutes (including drink breaks and a scenic detour to Baja Fresh).

Workout Stats
Smokin' bod count: Zero, unless you count me in my orange terry cloth peddle pushers at a steady 2.8 mph clip, yo
iPod shuffle quality: High. That Fergie song about her blanket into Lovely Day into California by Tom Petty rounded out by a little Chili Peppers. Enough to transform me into the pop diva princess that lingers within. . .
Fanny pats: Zero, though Buggledog did sniff my outer thigh as we were jogging. Not exactly a Boogie Nights moment, but encouraging just the same.
Sightings: Just friendly night stick guy.
Cravings: None. Realized that if I have enough time to crave something, I'm not working out hard enough.
Excuses/complaints: See above groin injury.

Buggercise: All this - so close to home!

I've been trying to get up early some mornings to go out walking with the dog, before the kids wake up. This is challenging for me, since most nights I'm up late doing absolutely nothing of value, unless you count trying to erase the wire-hanger highlights of the day by vegging out on the leather love seat in the den searching for a tivoed Oprah that doesn't feature the cast of High School Musical or some dude who can blow a bubble around himself. I do love me some mink-lashed Oprah - but only the really meaningful stuff, like Lisa Ling undercover at the Amish puppy mills, or Tom Cruise Tells All From Telluride. Don't tell me you didn't watch.

So recently I ventured up a street I'd only been on once before. It's steep and quiet, with an array of home architecture I'd describe as Brady Bunch meets Clearance Sale At Home Depot. The facade of my favorite house is plastered entirely with twelve-inch-pink-marble flooring tiles. Like all its neighbors, an enormous die cast "Victorian" mailbox blocks the sidewalk out front. Many of them are also gussied up with custom faux finishes.

Beholding the splendor, Stone Temple Pilots on the shuffle, I couldn't help but wonder if this is what happens when Timothy Leary and Christopher Lowell get together over sangria and an eight ball and decide to plan a community.

Approaching the top of the hill, a little out of breath, I spotted a coyote trotting across a vacant lot just a few yards ahead. As he passed, he watched me, watching him. I think we were both eager to get back to our comfortable, modest dens.

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.