What’s the deal with mothers?

On Sunday morning a family friend called to say my mom had been rushed to the hospital. “Not possible,” I yelled. “I just spoke to her.” Denial, thy name is Deborah.

I drove way too fast and was a wreck by the time I walked into Greenwood-Leflore Hospital. I forced a smile on my face, kissed mom, then asked the doctor what happened. The gist: rapidly beating heart plus labored breathing equaled mom passing out. What the Facebook?

The nurses and doctors poked and prodded mom throughout the day and night. They took way too much blood, but soon were able to say mom has high, make that very high cholesterol and a thyroid problem—both treatable. Whew!

Later that night, after watching “Seinfeld,” mom asked “What’s for dinner?”

Me: Probably whatever the doctor approves. 

Mom: I don’t want that tasteless cafeteria food. Just get me a bacon cheeseburger (pause) from Wendy’ (longer pause) not McDonald’s.

Me: (Even longer pause) No cheeseburgers for you!  

Mom: Oh, don’t worry. It’s small and I’ll take the cheese off.

It’s been two days since mom left the hospital. She’s still not feeling her best and she is still complaining ‘cause I wouldn’t buy that cheeseburger. 

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Everybody get up…

If you haven’t tried kickboxing, you should. I did and it kicked my butt. My quads and inner thighs are a bit sore and my biceps burn when I lift up my arms. I mentioned this to my younger brother who said, “Just stop lifting your arms.” Well, that was…unhelpful.

I knew I was in trouble when the 20-something-year-old former cheerleader (sorry, I meant instructor) skipped and hopped her way into the dance studio. I groaned, but managed to kick, hop, and uppercut my way through the 30-minute workout.

The music was full-blast. I moved my body and bobbed my head the entire time. Don’t judge me: “Blurred Lines” is a catchy, if somewhat rape-y sounding song.

It was a great workout. I flailed around the studio like Elaine Benes or T.I., but I’ll definitely try this class again.

Kickboxing is not the only new exercise I’ve tried this summer and it’s certainly not the only one where I’ve looked silly.

So far I’ve embarrassed myself in rock hard abs fitness, Zumba and Piloxing. On top of that, I’ve om(-ed) unbecomingly and loudly during Pilates and yoga classes.

What’s next? Maybe I’ll help Robin Thicke figure out what rhymes with hug me.  

Whipped cream can’t keep you warm, but…

I eat way too much sugar. I binge on ice cream when I’m bored. I gorge on Oreos when I’m stressed. Last night I drank a 20 oz. soda ‘cause I had a headache. Sadly, it worked.

Definitely time to do a sugar detox. Sigh. But isn’t “detox” just another word for diet? I am so freakin’ tired of dieting.

A few years ago, I joined a Christian-based diet group ‘cause a friend’s husband lost 50 pounds. I didn’t lose a pound, but I did gain a few new friends. I’ve tried Slimfast too. It worked, but it kept me running. Yes, that was a potty joke.

Weight Watchers was okay, but I hate tracking points and I’m pretty sure I hate Jennifer Hudson. Seriously, have you seen those commercials?

Just recently I decided to go forgo dieting and go cold turkey. I stood in front of my refrigerator and proclaimed, “No more sugar. No more cream. No more candy. I will be lean.” By day three, I was sitting on my kitchen floor having a romance with a can of Reddi-Wip.

My sister, Dani, wants me to join her on Ian Smith’s 6-week “Shred Revolutionary Diet.” I’m cautious. Is this another diet disaster waiting to happen? I’ll tell you more later, or I’ll let you know where Reddi-Wip and I are registered.

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