If you change your mind, I'll be first in line.

Guys, I think I might love Abba.

On Friday night, Mama D and I went and saw Mamma Mia. Here's something you may not know about Mama D: when she loves something, she loves it. She saw Mamma Mia in the theatres and told everyone how amazing it was. She was a one-woman ad campaign for that movie. So, what better way than to earn the love of my mother than to buy her tickets to the stage show?

I wasn't really expecting anything from the show that I hadn't seen before in the movie. My expectations were mostly lots of glitter, some spandex and a shit-ton of Abba.


Pretty much.

Mama D and I gussied up and headed off to the show. After finding our seats and procuring some wine, we settled in for the long haul. (And I mean long. The show was almost 3 hours. 3 HOURS!)

I'll admit it, I went in with a "this is probably going to be kind of lame, but Mama D will like it" attitude. I scoffed inside when the lady next to me practically gave birth because she was so pumped up during "Dancing Queen". I rolled my eyes in the dark when the family of four in front of us bobbed their heads along to every song like they were at a Metallica concert.

And then something happened. After the "Money, Money, Money" song, I found myself thinking, "Jeez, they really rocked the shit on that one." By the time "Take A Chance On Me" came on, it hit me: I was really enjoying the show. It may not be the most hard hitting material, but holy hell, is it catchy. I was like a junkie; Abba was the dirty needle and sweet, sweet glittered bell bottoms were my crack.

After the show, which may or may not have included dancing by Mama D and slight, uncomfortable swaying by yours truly, we headed home. As we got into our car, I fished Rex Grayskull out of my purse and scrolled around for something to listen to. Nothing seemed to fit the bill for what I wanted to hear. So I put it on shuffle and secretly cursed myself for not having any Abba.

You win, you silly Swedes. You win.

Sweat Fueled Revelation

Tonight I got home and did what I normally do: I ate dinner. Chicken and chili stew, it was everything a dinner should be. Hot, tasty and homemade, it frolicked in my mouth and danced down my throat. I had a large bowl and then sat around wondering what I could do to burn off all the calories I'd just eaten. That's all that my mind thinks about these days.

If I eat that, how much would I have to do to clean the slate again? To be on even keel?

It's incredibly tiring and most of the time, takes the joy out of eating. Tonight I took Simon for a walk. I chatted on the phone with an old friend for a long time. I missed talking to my friend and before I knew it, half an hour had passed. We said our goodbyes and Simon and me headed home.

I got home and plopped into the kitchen chair. "Great," I thought. "I'm done now. I can shower and not worry about calories for the rest of the night."

I looked down at my lower body and knew that wasn't going to be the case. Some nights, I'm proud of what I've accomplished and the parts of me I've lost. Other nights, I am disappointed in myself. I'm angry that I haven't accomplished more. But tonight, I felt selfish. I had left the girl I used to be behind. Physically, I don't remember who that girl was. I see photos of her and I don't recognize her. I feel sorry for her. But I forget sometimes that I was her. That I used to laugh in her body. That I had friends who cared for me no matter what I looked like on the outside. For all the times I was insecure or angry in her body, I was also happy. I told jokes and stories and had really great times. I loved and was loved in her body.

I rolled my mini-trampoline (the min-tramp) into my bedroom, put on some music and jumped on. The music was upbeat but I didn't really hear any of it. My body was moving but my mind was still thinking about the girl I used to be. A while back, I put up an old Polaroid of that girl on the wall for inspiration.

"So I'll know I can never go back," I thought as I tacked it up. It caught my eye as I was bouncing. Suddenly I heard the words of a song I'd heard a thousand times before.

I'm going on, the song said. I looked at the Polaroid. "Well, I guess that's true," I thought. I bounced more and listened to the words. It was like hearing them for the first time.

But every once in a while, I think about her and smile, one of the few things I do miss, it said. "Good Christ," I thought. "That's exactly right."

But baby I got to know, baby I've got to show, baby I've got to prove it. And I'll see you when I get there.

I was completely consumed. My legs were aching and my chest was tight, but I couldn't stop. I felt weightless. I am not leaving her behind. I'm ditching the bad parts and taking the rest of her along with me. Sure, I'm terrified. I've been terrified since the beginning. The fear of failure and regression tug at me every day. It probably will forever. But looking at that photo and listening to those words, suddenly everything made sense. There is no going back, ever. There is no failure, not with this. There is nothing but what I choose to do.

And I promise I'll be waiting for you. Goddamn right.

My buns, they don't feel nothin' like steel

I've been trying to spruce up my workout routine. In addition to ocassional jog or the many walks I take (read: gossiping and just so happening to be walking), I've tried to add in some DVDs to mix it up. Sometimes it's just way too hot to exercise outside. So far, I've done step aerobics and a yoga/pilates DVD that beat my ass to a pulp. So, you know, all in all good stuff. Call me a masochist, but if I'm not sweating and a Lotus position away from death, then it doesn't feel like I'm working out hard enough.

So a few weeks ago while searching through my family's movie collection, I came upon this:



Now I know what you're thinking. KV, that's a grown man wearing white spandex. I know, I know. But look how buff he is in that white spandex! His name is Gilad and he's ridiculous. I'm afraid that if I don't complete all the sets on the VHS (oh yeah, it's a VHS) that he'll use his toned arms to reach through my TV screen and inflict maximum damage.

Gilad is whipping my ass into shape! Which just goes to show you that just because a workout tape is horrendously outdated doesn't mean it can't make you ache in places you don't care to mention on a blog.