Me and Gym

(originally published in the Miami News-Record)

I’ve been going to the gym. Now, I’m not a gym rat or anything like that. In fact, there is 100% zero chance of that ever happening. I may have a genetic propensity to addiction, but going to the gym is excluded from that in my DNA. If I were to go to one of those sites where they trace your genetic makeup and tell you that instead of being Native American you’re in fact Scandinavian (which leaves someone in your family with some ‘splaining to do), I’m fairly certain that my family history will show me to be a descendant of a little-known and long-extinct tribe of very fat, very short, very clumsy cave people who loved carbs and died out pretty early on for obvious reasons. I mean, you can’t very well escape a ravenous saber-toothed tiger when you’re in the midst of a sugar crash from eating an entire loaf of fresh cave-baked bread. And also you keep tripping over your own feet.

Aaaaaaaaanyway, so I’ve gone to the gym a whole four times in the past week. Okay, week and a half. The point is, I’m actually going. I don’t hate it, but I darn sure don’t like it. But after losing this weight I have some extra baggage. And I’m not talking about a cute, coordinating Michael Kors luggage set. I’m talking about some extra body just hanging out on me now. Y’all, I have some serious bingo wings going on. (Read: flabby arms) And my thighs are super weird – but in their defense, they’ve always been that way. They’ve always been jiggly, but I’m just more aware of them now that all the rest of me is jiggling in unison. Also, y’all my butt is sagging. Yes, I’m 45 and that’s not all that uncommon for a woman of my age, but I don’t like it. If I’ve sacrificed my beloved carbs in order to, you know, not die and stuff, I’d at least like to have a cute hiney while I’m out here living.

See, fat is jiggly like Jell-O. It’s filled out and plump. Yes it jiggles, but in a uniformly pudgy kind of way. When you lose a significant amount of weight all that skin that was gently cradling the fat now has no purpose in life. So it just kinda….hangs out. It jiggles in an entirely different way. And it’s traumatizing and uncomfortable – for you *and* those who happen to catch a glimpse of you waving, jumping, or God forbid, naked. So I’m going to the gym in an attempt to tone up some of this extra junk. And to strengthen my heart because of the not-dying thing I’ve got going on.

I’m not very confident when it comes to working out. I don’t know squat. So in my mind, walking on the treadmill is a good start. Until I get in there and remember I’m not the best at walking. I’m incredibly clumsy and uncoordinated on regular ground, so imagine how I am on ground that is constantly moving. It’s sad, but amusing and also keeps those around me on their toes. See, I’m creating a stronger, healthier me while also providing a few much-needed services. While I am walking my way to prime cardiovascular health, I am also: 1) allowing those around me to feel better about their form and stamina. They don’t need to worry if they look inept – I’m doing enough ineptitude myself that everyone’s pretty much only focused on me and worry about proper form goes right out the window. 2) creating a vigilant community of fellow gym goers who make sure no one gets hurt in their watch. Forget about 81 year old Fred over there struggling on the kettle bell in the corner, y’all better keep an eye on the short youngish grandma on the rowing machine. She’s probably gonna lose a finger at some point. And finally, 3) I’m bringing humor to the gym. Because if you can’t get a kick out of me tripping over my own feet and subsequently tossing my phone across four treadmills and also accidentally almost strangling ol’ kettle bell Fred with the cord from my ear buds, then you have no sense of humor whatsoever.

Here's a theory

Okay, so if you've seen the commercials for Quaker Oats or for Cheerios you know that the surest way, outside of prescription drugs, to lower your cholesterol is to eat oats. Not maresy doats or doesy doats, but just oats. Whether those oats be in the form of little o's or a yummy breakfast cookie with a picture of a delightfully mirthful Quaker on the package, the medical community is saying "Eat your oats, boys and girls! Especially those of you who are overweight and on the downhill slide toward your golden years!" (I put in the exclamation points because I'm sure that if the medical community were actually talking to each and every one of us individually, they'd be doing it enthusiastically. Like, "Com'ere, sonny, let's talk about your heart health! Sit here on doctor's knee." Wait, that is just a creepy scenario. Nevermind.)

Oh and also? Apparently, fiber is good for your digestive tract. Yeah. Who knew. And since I don't want colon cancer, or any kind of cancer for that matter, I figure the oats will help my colon AND my heart.

And I mentioned the whole anti-caffeine campaign - which could also be known as The Campaign to Make Kristin's Life Sluggish and Dreary as All Get Out, take your pick - so that means I'm drinking water like I like it or something.

I eat either a bowl of oatmeal or a super-scrumptiouis Quaker breakfast cookie for breakfast every day and I do my darndest to drink a gallon of water every day, too.

I have a theory - all of the body's cholesterol pockets are in the intestine. And the fact that I have had to quickly get over my aversion to pooping at work just backs up this theory. I must be shedding cholesterol like a shih tzu sheds hair in July, man. I also think I have a very, very small bladder.

If you live in the state of Oklahoma do you want to know what your hard-earned tax dollars are doing? They are paying me to use the office restroom for 5 hours a day, four days a week.

Just gives you a warm fuzzy, doesn't it?

Watch out for falling prices and fat women

Last Friday instead of spending my day off to work on homework, instead I went to town to help out my boss at the college. This week is the big annual fundraising auction and she needed some extra help with a few things. By the time the kids got home and Paul got home from cutting wood, I was in absolutely no mood whatsoever to cook or even slap some peanut butter and jelly together, so I picked up my purse and hollered, "I'm going to town for dinner!" and what do ya know, my whole family nearly stampeded to the truck.

After dinner, it was off to Wal*Mart because the kids all three needed gloves and sockhats for the football game we were going to the next night. Paul and I had been playing around with each other all evening and as we walked into the store, I stepped on the back of his heel. Now, mind you, I did it lightly and not enough to pull off his shoe - just enough to ya know, make him stumble a little. I giggled and he smirked and I knew by the look on his face, I was going to get a payback at some point. Sure enough, not too far into the store, he fell in step behind me and I kept looking back at him to make sure he was behaving. He had his hands in his pockets innocently enough and seemed not so very much mischevious, so I let my guard down.

Bad idea. Never trust a redneck in Wal*Mart. Ever. Even if you're married to that redneck. Wal*Mart is evil and causes those inside the store to become evil. Don't believe me? Ever taken your kids to Wal*Mart? Uh huh. I rest my case.

We were cutting through the women's socks, headed for the girl's department when the next thing I knew I was stumbling and heading for the floor. My dipshit husband waited until I was turning a corner around a rack of socks and stuck his big ol' redneck foot out in front of my clumsy self and I hit the ground. I am not a graceful person. I never have been. I can fall up stairs and can literally just fall down walking across a smooth floor and sadly, I do these things on a fairly regular basis. So whatever in the world made him think that sticking his foot in front of me would just cause me to perhaps stumble a little or even wobble a smidge is beyond me. I felt my balance just leave me - I mean, it just up and ran, what little balance I have - and my purse, which had been hanging on my arm, didn't help the situation. It pulled me towards the ground at warp speed and no matter how hard I tried to stop the downward motion, it was to no avail. I was on my knees in the sock section of Wal*Mart before I knew it. (Note to self: Clean out purse. That sucker's way too heavy.)

As with most people that fall in a public place, the thing that most hurt was my pride, although I instantly did a check to make sure my hip wasn't broken. (Hey, I ain't no spring chicken, ya know.) The kids all three gasped in horror at the sight of their mother on the ground, their mother who was refusing help from their father and cursing him as well. Kady, always the helper, quickly got over her shock and started picking up the scattered guts of my purse and Abby's inital gasp gave way to hysterical giggles. I think Sam was torn between helping and laughing and pointing. He's the middle child, bless his heart, he's never sure what to do.

Paul immediately apologized amid his gales of laughter and reached his hand out to help me up and I slapped his hand away and reached for the sock rack next to me. Of course, it wobbled precariously and Paul again reached out to help me up. He nearly lost a finger that time. I spat another curse or two at him and managed to get myself up out of the floor. Once I was on my feet again I attempted to kick my husband in the shin, but I was too discombobulated and he was too quick. I humph'd at him and turned around, purse again on my arm after KD fetched my scattered stuff and traipsed right past the scene of the crime and on to the girls' department. My face was still burning because, hey, I know that Wal*Mart has surveilance cameras and I just know there were a couple of guys back there that night replaying my fall over and over again. I imagined them going back to right when Paul stuck his foot out and then playing it back in slow motion and laughhhhhhing themselves to death. Fortunately, no associate ever came to check on me. Had I fallen at a casino, someone would've been there before I ever got up (right, Christy??), so thank God it was Wal*Mart.

Paul disappeared and I ended up having to call him to figure out where he was. It took awhile for me to call him though, because I was pretty pissed off that he tripped me in the first place and frankly, if he'd spontaneously combusted at that point, I'd have been okay with that. He was pretty meek and sweet the rest of the evening, so I forgave him, but have taken every opportunity I've been able to this week to mention spousal abuse and that I know the people who work in that department.

And to add insult to injury, what was supposed to be a shopping trip to buy three sock hats and six gloves turned into new tennis shoes for Sam, new boots for Kady, a new camouflage jacket for Paul (because he doesn't have near enough camouflage in his closet), new black pants for Kady and then well, duh, two shirts to go with the new black pants, plus a week's supply of Pop-Tarts and Eggos and a family size lasagna that would feed all of the Osmonds and the Dilly sextuplets, too. I am blaming the throbbing pain in my right knee for the overexpenditure that night.

When I was telling Tater about it later - something I was reluctant to do because my sister has been witness to many a fall by me and that woman simply cannot help but bust out into hysterical, incoherent laughter at the sight of me on the ground because I think she secretly delights in my misfortune and that she got the not-clumsy gene - she was red-faced from trying not to just bust a gut laughing. She asked, "What did you say when you fell??" I said, "I think I called him a stupid motherf***er" and Abby chimed in with, "Yep! That's exactly what you said, Momma!"

A night on the town ain't what it used to be

We went out with The Cousins Saturday night. There were supposed to be two more cousins with us but they're all getting ready for this new baby they're incubatin' and seem to think finishing their house is more important than hanging out with the kinfolk. I remember those days, the nesting and the excitement. They're so young and cute and I'm so old and jaded.

When we were all kids, teenagers actually, Cousins Courtney and Benn came into the family and because we lived next door to each other we hung out together a lot. We played board games, we jumped on the trampoline (Well, they did, I believed myself to be above such shenanigans) and when I had gas in the car, we went on what we called Cousinly Bonding expeditions. Sometimes it was nothing more than driving around, sometimes we went to the park to act like juvenile dorks, and all the time it was fun and wonderful and I *heart* my cousins.

Now, Paul and I are the old fogies of The Cousins, him being 44 and me being 34. Actually I think Chad is 34, too, but he acts way younger than me. Having kids will age a woman. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Anyway, dinner was great, we stayed at the restaurant for over 2 hours, visiting and laughing and catching up. The band we were going to see didn't start till 9 so we went to Buffalo Run to kill some time. Courtney and Chad announced they were going home and we begged, pleaded and all but grovelled that they go with us to the bar. They relented, but said they had to go home to switch cars. Tater had to go see a man about a horse in the casino, so Paul and I headed for the bar.

This bar is a real high class place and by "high class" I mean, this place is a dive. It was flooded and just recently reopened. And it is apparent that they didn't want to displace the gazillion mosquitoes that have taken up residence INSIDE the bar. We waited in the parking lot for the others to show up because I just knew that I was going to feel fat the second I stepped through the door. Man, was I right. Most of the time I am comfortable with who I am, but not in a crowd of drunk, rowdy single people. Then I am just the old married lady who has let herself go. When we picked up the kids at Mom's I said, "If I ever, God forbid, find myself single I will rot inside my house rather than go out and do the bar scene." And I mean that. I am strong, but I aint' that strong.

The gal taking money at the door looked stoned out of her mind. There were about 10 people inside the place when we got there, so we had our pick of tables and Tater got us one right up the band's hoohahs. Now, normally this would be a good thing, except this meant that all the people sitting behind us got to just see my gigantic booty hanging uncomfortably off of my barstool all night long. Also, my legs are just the wrong length to sit comfortably on a barstool. They don't perch well on the lowest rung because my legs are a bit too short, but I'm too chunky to perch them up on the higher rung. So I instead let my legs dangle. Which in turn made my feet swell.

See? I'm old. Some friends of Tater's showed up later and Kara leaned over and asked if I was having fun. I shouted back, "Not really. My pacemaker is acting up, I've had to turn my hearing aid down twice, my feet are swelling and these varicose veins will be the death of me yet!" She nearly fell off her barstool laughing at my old self. She's all of like 20. She thinks I'm funny and I think she'll someday be old like me and I think that's funny.

It's no secret that I am quite fond of curse words, the f-bomb in particular. I like me some good expletives, but I guess I was just feeling particularly out-of-touch Saturday night. When the chorus of one song said something about waiting for a ride in a bar on a hill and something about how he "crashed her effing car" and walked away from that piece of sh*t or something like that, I guess I was making a face because Cousin Courtney shouted over the din of drunk people singing, "Priceless! The look on your face is PRICELESS!" I may have looked a bit puckered.

The music was so loud, as were the drunks surrounding us, so most conversation was yelled at the other person, unless you wanted to lean your head down so they could shout a little quieter instead. Or you resorted to hand signs. Tater was trying to tell me something and I couldn't make anything out, I didn't understand a thing she was trying to get across, so I did the only sign I could think of at the time - Jesus. Kara nearly fell off her barstool again. So did Tater. I did the sign for Jesus all over the table, then made the sign of the cross for good measure, then bid them all a good night.

Leave 'em laughing, I always say. Well, that's what I say when I'm not complaining about my gout, heartburn and bunions.

A day without vomit

Worked out again this morning.

The first 3 weeks you are supposed to alternate each day between workouts 1 and 3.

Routine 1 is murder.

Routine 3 is more like manslaughter.

Today was manslaughter day.

Today I also did crunches for the first time in.....oh.....MY LIFE.

Sitting is fun today - I get almost to the chair and then my legs audibly start screaming and I just fall the rest of the way.

However, I refused to use the elevator today and walked the stairs at the courthouse. I whimpered with every step, but by cracky, I did it.

Yay.

Loser

Today I obviously woke up insane and decided to work out. Now, don't get all fired up - it's not like I went to a gym or anything. I just decided to finally peel the plastic off of my The Biggest Loser Workout Video that I've had for a year and a half, hermetically sealed and sitting on the shelf.

Sam's going to basketball camp this week, so I got up, fixed my coffee and then we headed to town to drop him off. When the girls and I got back home, I slipped off my Crocs and put on my sneakers, peeled the plastic cover off the video and put it in the DVD player. Bob Harper's sexy, smiling face greeted me and we began.

Okay, this isn't so bad....I can step, tap, step, tap.....yeah, this is good.....I got the beat and ooh, Bob you are so cute! Step, tap, step, tap......

Then my friend, Bob Harper the cute trainer, added an extra step to the step, tap rhythm. I was feelin' pretty good.

Step, step, tap....step, step, tap.....

We did some torso twisting and that was good, too. Felt good to move my torso like that. I have rhythm and can keep a beat, but I look very white when I try to move to that beat. I kept up, though, adding some punches to the mix and feeling powerful.

Punch, punch, punch, punch.......Bob, you're so cute when you punch.....Are you defending my honor?......What a sweetie you are, Bob.....I wish I looked cool like that chick.....Here, let me hold my fists like this.....Oh yeah, now I'm cool......Punch, punch, punch, punch......

Okay, back to step, tap, step, tap and I was feeling a little warm, but still good. My sweetie, Bob, told me to move one foot out front and step, tap, forward and back now. I still looked white, but managed.

Step, tap, step, tap.....Ooh, now we're going to lift our front leg instead of tapping......Oh wow, that's not something I'm used to.......Yes, Bob, I'm feeling my heart rate raise just a little, now hush, okay?........Lift, tap, lift, tap......Pant, pant.....Why you go so faaaaaast? Slow down and enjoy things......Now you want me to kick? Pant, pant..... Okay......Kick, tap, kick, tap.......WHAT? Kick back, too? You are pushing your luck, Bob dearest.......Kick, kick, kick, kick.......Shut up, muscles, this is what you were made to do! Kick, kick, kick......Bob, quit being so happy, m'kay? Just for a few minutes.......

That sweet, sexy Bob took us back to the first step, tap, step, tap rhythm for a minute or two to catch our breath, but mine had done outrun me. I never caught it. The next part of the routine was a combination of kicking and punching.

Kick, punch, punch, tap, kick, punch, punch, tap.......Oh dang, I'm off beat again.......Kick, punch, punch, tap, kick......DANGIT.....I'll just wait a few kicks to catch up.....That's okay.......Bob says if it doesn't feel right, to not do it........Nothing about this feels right......Nothing......Kick, punch, punch......The punching is easier if I picture your face, Bob, dear........Stop smiling, you cruel, happy man......Okay, I'm on beat now.....kicking, punching, gasping, sobbing.....Yeah, I think I've got it.......

That sadist, Bob Harper, then told us to lunge. Instead, I step, tapped for awhile. Because it's hard to lunge while you're crying.

Okay, I'll try the lungeing.....It can't be too bad, right?...........OH HOLY NIGHT, lungeing is not good!.......Ow.......Ow..........OW.......Lower? I don't think so, you sicko........I'll mini-lunge if it's all the same to you......"Abby, dear, go get Momma a water bottle, please".......And I no longer find you cute, Bob Harper......I no longer find you human, either.....Ahhhhh, water......Cool, clear, water.......

The last rhythm is completely a blur, but it involved squatting and holding. I didn't like it.

Squat, hold......You are so mean, Bob, and if I could get my hands on you right now, I'd KILL you or at the very least MAIM you......Be warned.......No, telling me I can do it will not work anymore because you are a LIAR.........A BIG FAT LIAR........"Kady, if you laugh one more time I will spank you so hard"........Holding, holding, burning, muscles screaming, tears falling.......Maybe a heart attack wouldn't be so bad right now.......

Then finally the torture was over and it was time to cool down and relax. My idea of cooling down and relaxing is a Bud Light and a nap, but I was so emotionally vulnerable that I played by Bob's rules.

Ahhhh.....That's a nice stretch......Yeah, that feels good.......Other leg? Oh yeah, I have two, my bad.........See, I lost feeling in my lower extremities about 20 minutes ago........Arms out.......Yeah, that one feels good, too.......No, I'm sorry, I can't balance right now because the gasping for breath is making me fall, maybe next time, we'll see...........Not feeling so good......Deep breaths, Kristin.......Slow......Deep.......I think I'm going to throw up........Breathe.......Barfing isn't fun, remember?...........Ow, sweat in eyes..........Gag...........Gag..........Oh crap, I'm going to throw up!

And that was it. My workout was over. My shaky legs took me down the hall to the bathroom as quick as they could and I stood over the toilet for a few minutes, wishing I could throw up, but hoping I wouldn't. Right then I felt pretty bad for making fun of the people that threw up after working out on The Biggest Loser's first season (the only season I've watched.) I really felt like an idiot. And the sweat! I had no idea I had that much sweat producing capability. Wow. I called Tater to tell her that it wasn't just theatrics for the sake of the show, that working out can really make you puke and she laughed and then she said she was proud of me and that I'd get up and work out tomorrow and it would hurt, but it would be worth it. I replied with something snarky about becoming anorexic because I felt pretty sure this wasn't my only trip to empty the contents of my stomach after working out. Then I had to hang up because I needed to throw up again.

After the second hurl, I called Queen Tammy. She was so sympathetic and told me to take a cool shower. I nearly cried on the phone to her. I am such a baby. But I got in the shower and after that and felt somewhat better. Not 100%, but better than before.

I've pretty much stayed moving all day. In fact, I'm typing this while standing up and doing a variation of step, tap with a stretch thrown in for good measure. I won't sleep tonight, either - if I stop moving, I will start hurting.

And I will attempt to repeat this process tomorrow, but hopefully with not so much puking.

Absolutely enormous panties

Sunday afternoon, Tater and I took off for Joplin to do some shopping. We went to the mall first because I'm switching Bath and Body Works fragrances and had two bags full of stuff to exchange. Then, the swimsuit I bought Abby was just a little too big in the boobage area and her "little buds" (as Tater calls them) were positively lost in a sea of pineapple printed ruffley spandex so I had to return it to Old Navy because that is the ONLY place I will buy my girls' swimsuits because the ones from Wal*Mart or Penney's just don't last. So after taking care of those tasks we then gave the children Dip'n Dots and cookies, which no sane parent should ever do just before taking four exhausted children to Lane Bryant. Ever.

Tater was having bra issues and I cannot speak highly enough about bras at Lane Bryant. For a fat chick, bras are serious business. Lane Bryant bras and panties are the only underwear I will wear. No ifs, ands or butts. (Get it? Butts?) I will give up ladies' night at the casino forever if that's what it takes to keep myself in comfy, reasonably pretty undergarments.

That being said, we proceded to hit the mother lode in that store. I got a pair of white capris with the new Tummy Tamer panel because, let's face it, my tummy is downright wild and the only way to tame it previously was with a bullwhip and a chair. Ohhhh but the taming of the tummy by way of spandex panel in front of pants? MARVELOUS!! And much less traumatic than the bullwhip and chair.

That day, all drawers in the store were buy one get one FREE so I put together another entire outfit, complete with kicky new headband. I did pass on the sandals because I need another pair of sandals like I need a bullwhip and a chair. But the new outfit? I'm rockin' it. Tater picked out a new outfit as well, trying on and successfully making work for her, a top that I had tried on mere weeks ago. The blouse is one of the new tunic-y looking things that so far I've never had any luck with wearing successfully. Plus, this one had smocking around the boob area and on the back side of me, opposite my "lovely lady lumps," I have some not-so-lovely lumps called "backfat." Smocking and backfat are mortal enemies. But Tater was workin' that outfit.

She came out of the dressing room and myself and two other women, complete strangers, all gasped in complete delight at the outfit. "Buy it!" exclaimed one. "Oh yes, honey, buy it," agreed the other. I just nodded and said, "Oh yeah, sister." But she wasn't sure, claiming that she had a "shelf" around the middle. I personally didn't see the shelf, but I knew what she was talking about, seeing as how I have not only a shelf, but a fully-stocked pantry of my own.

And that is when the Angel of Lane Bryant appeared seemingly out of nowhere and said, "Honey, if you are worried about a shelf, then you need our shapewear!" and then she raised her shirt to show us her spandex-clad belly - a belly so effectively encased in spandex that actual rays of light shone down from the heavens upon her belly and I'm telling you, I heard music.

All of us in the dressing area at the time drew in a collective breath of admiration and perplexity at the spandex she was showing us, then took Tater and I both by the arm and led us into a dressing room to show us her spandex in all its glory.

And to quote Daniel from Bridget Jones' Diary, those things "are absolutely enormous panties." They go from boobs to knees, and although I have no personal experience with them, I've heard they're like the bottom 3/4 of Mormon underwear. These puppies are body armor. They are impenetrable by man nor beast. They are truly enormous and all-encompassing. These are the mack daddy of all underwear.

Never in my life did I dream I would ever purchase a pair of such gigantic underwear. I wore a freakin' thong in my college days. The first college days. The "18-years-old-28-inch-waist" college days. Not these college days. I'd lose a thong now. Zap, that puppy'd be gone, never to be found again. But I asked the salesgirl, "Okay, so where does all the fat GO when you stuff it into spandex of this magnitude?" She said, "Well, it kind of pushes it all down here, so it's really not all that pretty to look at without clothes over it-" and I interrupted her with, "Sweetie, me naked is not at all pretty to look at anyway. I can handle squished fat. Hand me those absolutely enormous panties," and took them from her hands.

Tater turned white as the gal handed her a pair, too. Tater tried hers on and then decided not to purchase her own under-armor/chastity belt, saying that she just wasn't sure she could look at herself in the mirror with them on. Plus she said it was kind of hard to breathe.

I put mine up on the counter, whipped out my checkbook and said, "Ring me up, sister, before I lose my nerve." Tater looked at me incredulously and said, "You're buying them? What will Paul say? Are you going to wear them in front of him? How could you possibly get busy in underwear that big?" I gave her the driest look I could muster and replied, "We have been married for 14 years. It doesn't matter to him what kind of underwear I have on as long as at some point I can get them off. Because that's just the kind of relationship we have. In his mind, panties are not made to be looked at. They are a mere obstacle." Then I turned to the lady behind the counter and said, "Is there technical support for these bad boys?"

Flying high

Before last Friday I hadn't flown in 25 years. I was 8 the last time I flew and I don't remember much about it other than the fact that we had a long enough flight to have dinner and the flight attendant gave Tater and I bottles of wine and made us promise we wouldn't drink it till we got home. So now that I'm an adult who watches way too much TV and is on the internet way too much and has a tendency to obsess over way too much, the flight was making me super very much nervous. I was jumpy and nauseous sitting in the terminal. The cream cheese danish I had just eaten was threatening to do very nasty things in my stomach and I was regretting drinking a Coke, too. I wanted a cigarette and was wishing I had had time to go to the clinic and ask for some tranqs for the trip.

They called our zone to board and I willed my brain to send a message to my legs that would make them work and off we went. A security officer took a backpack right off a dude a few spots in front of us and searched him without a word of apology, explanation or even a square look in his eye. That did not help my nerves one bit. We walked down the little hallway and I was - nay, I think all of us were - expecting to see the plane at the end of it. Instead we saw a rickety looking metal stair thing. Me not being a frequent flyer assumed that this was normal and that my soap operas had portrayed air travel wrong and I followed Tater down the stairs that were really a glorified ladder. Then we followed everyone across the tarmac oh....about 4.3 miles to the smallest plane I've ever seen in my life. My son has Hot Wheel planes bigger than that thing. Tater turned around and laughingly said, "I've never flown on a plane this small!" I instantly had a gut feeling to turn and RUN. My stomach clenched and my heart started racing and I honestly thought Oh holy night I'm going to have a real live honest-to-goodness panic attack right here on the tarmac in Tulsa International Airport at 6 am and oh but it's going to be embarrassing.

But I took a few deep breaths, said a quick prayer and got on the plane - the plane that had a ceiling so low that when I stood up to my full height of 5'2" my head touched the ceiling. The seats were two and two and Mom and Tater were together, with me sitting across the aisle. There was a United States Army solider in the seat next to me and he was so not happy about having to sit next to the fat chick with nervous eyes and big hair. Seriously. He was instantly put out the second he realized I was going to be sitting next to him. I think his day got even worse when I realized that the seat belt was not going to buckle around me. Yep. The curse of the roller coaster struck again, this time on public air transportation. I was trying not to make eye contact with Mom or Tater because I knew I'd either start laughing so hysterically I'd alert security or I'd start crying so hard that an air marshal would just pull out his gun and shoot me right there on the spot. Finally, the flight attendant, seeing my plight, leaned down over me and said quietly, "If you'd like, I can get you an extension." Oh holy night. An extension. Every eye on the plane was on me, even though the attendant was very discreet. I nodded, she patted me on the leg and then I heard snickering. Mom and Tater were both holding back laughter to the point that tears were rolling down their faces.

Now, don't think that my mother and sister are cruel - on the contrary. They are both very sympathetic and well, frankly, they're big girls, too. They felt my pain and embarrassment, but they couldn't help but laugh. They both kept gasping out something about "the look on my face". Then, of course, I started laughing, too. I laughed till tears were flowing and when I stopped laughing long enough to take a breath I very quietly hissed, "I hate you both." This made us all three start laughing hysterically again.

The ride to Atlanta on the matchbox plane was very woozy. I couldn't look out the window, couldn't open my eyes, couldn't talk. While my eyes were closed I took the opportunity to pray. I got very close to God on that flight. I prayed that I wasn't going to die on a plane that was hardly big enough to hold my fat hind end, prayed that I wouldn't barf all over the put-out soldier beside me, prayed that I'd live long enough to attempt yet another diet, prayed that the rides in Disney World weren't going to be as small as my airplane seat.....oh yes, lots of praying. God and I are best buddies again, lemme tell ya. We visited the entire 2 hour flight. Mom and Tater were across the aisle, heads back, mouths open, snoring like mad and I was over there rededicating my life.

And when we hit solid earth in Atlanta I literally had to fight back the urge to kneel down and kiss the ground. Oh there was much thanking to my newly re-found best friend, God.

The flight from Atlanta to Orlando on a 757 went better because I got an extension the minute we got on the plane, before anyone had a chance to ogle the fat chick. But Mom, Tater and I were sitting side-by-side and lemme say, three fat butts side-by-side does not a supremely comfortable plane ride make. I don't think any of us had any blood in our legs by the time we landed, but that plane had individual TVs and we watched E! the entire flight so we didn't notice our lack of circulation too much. Until we tried to walk.

The flight home from Orlando to Atlanta was on a 767, one big mamba jamba of a plane. It was delayed about 30 minutes due to weather in Atlanta. Of course, I immediately was wishing for tranqs again. Seeing that the plane was GIGANTIC helped, though. Mom and I were side-by-side and Tater was across the aisle. I was able to read (The Devil Wears Prada) the entire flight and Mom and Tater slept. I couldn't sleep because we had actually flown out over the Atlantic Ocean and y'all know my insane fear of water and that is deep water. I was totally unnerved. It was a pretty rocky flight for such a big plane and the seatbelt light stayed on the entire flight. I did not like that. When we landed in Atlanta we found out that our flight to Tulsa was delayed about 10 minutes. When we walked as far as the next flight screen thingy it was delayed another 3 and by the next one, a whole 7 more.

We ate at Outback Steakhouse in the airport with plastic utensils. I'm not sure why we all three found that so dang funny, but we did. The conversation was hilarious, but I'll tell you about that in one of the next few posts.

The flight from Atlanta to home was on another Hot Wheels plane and was incredibly bumpy. After having been on the many, many thrill rides over the previous 3 days, though, I just closed my eyes and pretended I was still having fun. My seatbelt extension and I slept quite snugly nearly all the way home.