Once I Was A Schleppa...

"Wow! Look at you with the curly hair, and those legs working that mini-skirt! That was you?" Yeah, that was me. And my pal Kinia was going through a scrapbook from the days when I produced and hosted an entertainment show on cable television. Don't think I started out that way. There was never a later bloomer than I, very shy and raised in a home with

strict religious rules for young ladies. But the worst part of Kinia going through the photos was that although I did take great care then of how I ate and kept fit, I didn't realize what good shape I was in. Neither could I remember consciously going straight to those tiny sizes on the racks of any department store or trendy boutique. Wait. Was that a see through top? On me? Dear Goddess, where did I go wrong?

While I don't qualify for The Biggest Loser and I'm not ready to swap clothes with Kirstie Alley, I'm just plain embarrased at how much I've gained and how out of shape I am. When you look at a photo and say "That sweater makes me look fat," you know it ain't the sweater. It's the fat. I'm not a cold weather girl, but I dread warmer weather because I can't hide in a long jacket.

Okay, so I need to find a workable food plan, and start an exercise program. Ugh. Aerobics? I hit that a few times, but can't stomach the blaring top 40 music and way-too-happy instructor. Same with joining a gym. The pounding drums and bass and yelling intructors. Just not me. Walking? Like the idea in a group. But I was bitten by Rottweilers on a neighborhood walk, and far too many women on jogging trails and bike paths make the crime news.

Okay, so I've got the weight packing on in the middle plus the curmudgeonly attitude specific to my, well, near middle age. And that's when I check out the locals yoga and fitness studio to find listed, seriously, Exotic Dance! Now they've got my attention.

I call. I ask the questions. And I am comforted as well as I am intrigued. The helpful, assuring voice on the phone tells me to come in comfortable clothes that I can move in, and that high heels are optional, but I might like to bring them.

Exotic dance! Burlesque is certainly having a revival with the Gen Y kids - in their own way. Who among us has not seen the three strippers "Gotta Get A Gimmick" in Gypsy without wanting to play that one in the privacy of our own homes for laughs? I'm getting visions of The Pussycat Dolls, Gypsy Rose Lee, and of course, those sensous dames Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.

My fantasies are running away with me. Can I pull this off? Or will it be just another dead end, not finished, make a bunch of excuses failure? I start class tomorrow night. And hopefully this blog will keep me accountable.