Revealing Leg Vanna Style
Filed under: Back in the Classroom, Mental Strain for Mama
Yesterday I was making my way around my classroom and dropping in on peer editing groups. I joined one group and was in the middle of telling my student that she should really avoid ending sentences with prepositions when I realized it was a bit drafty in my basement computer lab classroom that lacks any and all windows.
It was then that I glanced across the room and out of the corner of my eye, caught a view of skin that wasn't supposed to be there. With my left leg crossed over my right, the undone side seam of my upper thigh pant leg was gaping and making a huge diamond shape on my thigh of blind-you-with-the-whiteness skin.
I gasped and quickly put my hand over the hole in my pants. I mentally calculated the number of minutes I still had left in this class and the one after it. I instantly revised my lessons plans so I could sit for the next class with my legs under a desk and far out of view. I went back through time searching for something that would have ripped my pants. When did this happen? How did this happen? I bought these pants TWO weeks ago and have worn them exactly twice!
I quietly excused myself from the peer editing group, mumbling something about needing a tissue and made my way out into the hallway. As I walked, I looked down at my leg and gasped again. My pants weren't ripped. The side seam was just coming completely undone from the inside out.
I made my way down the hallway to one of my favorite secretary ladies and stuck my leg out, Vanna White style, for her to see. Her eyes got wide and she immediately started searching through her desk drawers for something, anything that would seal up my pants and allow me to return to the classroom and survive until my work day was over.
She found a small sewing kit, which seemed all kinds of promising, right up until I told her that all sewing done is our house is done by my husband. Instead she grabbed a safety pin. A nervous, partially nudist wreck, I fumbled in the bathroom until my pants were closed up the best I could get them without having to take my pants completely off. It reminded me of the time last year when my bra strap came completely undone as I was busy lecturing about annotated bibliographies. These count the two times in my life when I have been grateful for my allergies. One sniffle in front of an attentive class, and I can make an emergency run to the bathroom for nostril evacuation, or so they think.
I stopped back in the office to show the secretary my leg once again. She gave me a nod of approval.
By now, I figured my writing class would have figured out that I wasn't blowing my nose. I also realized that many of them had probably seen my pant leg slit during the 15 minutes that I took explaining to them what I wanted them to do. So I walked into the classroom and shamed them for not telling me I was revealing some serious leg.
They stared at me like I was an escaped lunatic. Not one of them had noticed, yet now they were ALL looking for the big reveal. Sometimes I forget that I teach at the crack of dawn and these kids can barely open their eyes. It's all kinds of wonderful for when you're having wardrobe malfunctions.
Thankfully, my safety pin and one strategically placed binder clip kept that thigh under wraps . . . for the most part.
The other day I told you my thighs and butt were big and hungry. Now there is proof. They clearly ate my side seam.
Of Cowboys, Primates and Cheeseballs
You know that machine at the gym that works your inner thighs, Suzanne Somer style? You know, the one that you sit on and squeeze your thighs together while every man in the gym tries to ignore the fact that there is a girl on that machine, but they. just. can't. do. it. It's. just. too. temping. to. look. . . Well, I am fairly certain that it maimed me for life.
For some people, the soreness of a good workout kicks in within 24 hours; but I am a 48 hour girl. If I work out on Saturday, I will pay on Monday. Oh, how I am paying today.
Did you ever play with magnets as a kid? Did you ever try to push two together that just don't like each other? Remember how challenging it is to do that and how they just won't touch? That would be my thighs today. The inner thigh area of each leg is protesting so vehemently against the other that I swear those two haven't even high-fived all day long.
Thanks to this annoying, yet protective reaction of those very sore muscles, I appear to be walking as if I have been riding a horse for much of the day month. Look out John Wayne because this girl can walk cowboy like no other. Giddy-up y'all.
In addition to the thigh problem, every time I try to turn my body without turning my entire body, my abdominal muscles are grabbing onto my hip bones and screaming out loud as if they are in the evil grasps of a wicked tornado, threatening to fling them off into eternity forever. I'm also sort of walking like a primate.
A cowboy primate. Now that is hot.
I've also discovered something not so nice about working out. For the past few months, I've been working out hard, concentrating on strengthing my legs and getting back into nai-hanchi stance shape again. I've done hundreds of squats and lunges. I've worked hard on calf raises, leg lifts, and the leg press. I've logged hundreds of miles on the stationary bike, and I've done hamstring curls until my whole body shakes from the effort they take.
Despite all of this working out, I've been "rewarded" with jeans that are entirely too snug. My legs and butt are bigger than they were months ago; and they are not at all liking the confinement inside my jeans. They are big and hungry and they would much rather wear pajama pants or sweatpants. I am probably going to have to go buy a bigger size pretty soon as these muscular buns and thighs threaten to take out my whole pant wardrobe.I can't help thinking that it would have probably been a whole lot more fun to eat my way through pounds of cheeseballs in order to move up a size, instead of working out so diligently. Somehow, it just doesn't seem fair.
To Swing Or Not to Swing
Today, I've been married for 12 years. We've been together for 16 years. After being together for that long, sometimes you just want to try something new, to reintroduce some excitement back into the relationship.
Last night, we had dinner at a nice restaurant where I ate filet and sipped a lovely glass of wine while Mr. BBM talked to me and watched the Phillies game when I wasn't looking. (I was looking.) Today, we thought we would have a relaxing family day and it ended up that we had five kid girls in the house, including our own two for much of the day. I spent time grading an endless stack of papers while cursing myself for not playing Greg Jennings in my fantasy league. Mr. BBM spent much of the day following my orders for how to cook the wings and potato skins that made up our oh-so-healthy dinner.
It was after dinner that Mr. BBM suggested something a little different. He suggested we swing.
At first I was shocked. I mean, "What responsible adult does this kind of stuff? Especially after dinner!" What was he thinking?
And then I thought that I should just go with it and give it a try.
I have to admit that it was pretty fabulous (and I am about a thousand times better at it than Mr. BBM, clearly). . . but it can also make you feel a little nauseated. I think this is just about as adventurous as I'm willing to go.
Let’s Talk About Sex Baby. . . Or Not
For the past six weeks, Big I has been participating in a club swimming conditioning program to get her ready for the winter swimming program at her school. There are rampant rumors that the girls locker room is haunted. Each night, there are stories about toilets mysteriously flushing and screams echoing through the locker room when no one else is in there. There's also something written on the shower wall that creeps me out way more than the possible haunts.
"I love sex."
It's not the fact that someone loves sex, because clearly people do. What creeps me out is that it has brought up some questions from my daughter that are insanely difficult to answer. And I thought that the whole, "What are tampons for?" question was a tough one!
So it was in the car on the ride to swimming that Big I began talking about it. She told me about the screams and the phantom flushes. And then she told me about the writing on the wall.
"It says, "I love the 's' word," she said.
"What? Why would someone write I love s%!#?" I asked her. "How weird is that?"
"No, mommy, it's not that word. It's S E X," she said, spelling it out slowly and deliberately.
"Ohhhhh," I said, tempted to turn the radio up and maybe even stick my fingers in my ears, screaming hysterically, "I can't hear you. I can't hear you."
"What IS that mommy?"
I played dumb. "What is what?" I asked her back.
"You know, that S E X word?" she questioned softly, still spelling it, and with me so grateful that those combined three letters didn't leave her mouth in one parenting nightmare of a word.
I hesitated and thought for a minute. As a parent, there is no preparation for this conversation. You don't know when it's going to come up and you certainly don't know how to answer. I thought about telling her, "it's how grown-ups make babies" but then I knew that would only lead to more questions. This kid has got a scientific mind. That wasn't going to solve anything and answering that way was going to dig me my own little personal hole to hell.
I thought about my one student today, whose topic for her persuasive speech is that sex education should start as early as the 6th grade. My daughter is just TWO YEARS away from that age. As she explained her topic, she talked about girls, as young as age nine, getting pregnant. My daughter IS nine years old.
I thought about how her friend who happens to be a boy, innocently gave her a peck on the cheek this summer. I thought about the note a different boy put in her desk this week that says, "You are cute."
And the only possible answer I could come up with was, "I'll tell you when you're a little bit older." I instantly felt a pang of guilt for not having a better response.
Then she said, "Can you just tell me this. . . is that S E X word a thing or something people do?"
"Um, well, it's something people do," I said, incredibly grateful that we were only two blocks from the pool.
And then I heard her whisper to herself from the back seat, "Wow. . . it must be something REALLY bad."
I couldn't help myself. I cracked up laughing. The truth is that I wanted to say, "You're damn right it's something bad! It's horrible and don't you EVER DREAM of doing it!!!" Not wanting to scar the kid for her adult life, I just said, "It's not really bad. You're just a little too young to know all about it right now." I then went on to explain that when pregnant ladies go to get ultrasounds, the doctor can determine the "sex" of the baby by looking at its body parts. I gave her the clinical, "It's whether you're a male or a female" business. It made me think about looking for answers in my Mom's medical books when I was a kid, a much older kid than my daughter right now.
That seemed to satisfy her, and she spent the next hour swimming.
On the drive home, she asked me what age one has to be in order to have an alcoholic drink. She also asked me why some people like to drink so much, and she went on to name a family member. This conversation was much easier. I talked to her about waiting until you're older to drink alcohol and told her that alcohol and drugs can do a growing body a lot of harm. I also talked about how it's ok to have a drink here and there. We then talked about how some people get addicted to drugs and alcohol. I told her that some of her friends may experiment by sipping an alcoholic drink or even sneaking something they shouldn't and that she should avoid doing those types of things because it can only lead to trouble.
And then she said, "One of my friends experiments with things. . . "
My breath caught in the back of my throat. She sounded so serious. Which friend and what is this friend experimenting with? My God! Already??? Already, I have to deal with this???? Was she two seconds away from telling me she's started drinking vodka?
"What are you talking about?" I asked her, as calmly as I could.
"Yeah," she said, speaking as if she was delivering a colossal secret, "she experiments by mixing root beer with apple cider with milk. I'm not going to ever do that," she said.
And I breathed the biggest sigh of relief ever. EVER.
Superstar
If you ask Sassy what she wants to be when she grows up, there is absolutely no hesitation. "I'm going to be a superstar!" she says. She lives for her "singin'" lessons each week and would much rather sing Lady Gaga than anything else. This past week, she taught herself "the swim meet song," also known as our National Anthem, "The Star Spangled Banner."
The song went through several transformations before it entered its current form. First, we had a version that went, "the ram ports we watched were so gallantly steaming." Then we added to it, "and the home of the PARADE" which had her voice teacher in a giggle fit.
After many car ride renditions, I think we finally got her to realize that nothing is steaming and that we're talking about the home of the brave, not the parade. But you can see for yourself. . .
If you'd like something a bit more contemporary, you might enjoy this rendition of Lady Gaga, complete with gutteral-like growling. . .
And finally, if you're more into Ke$ha, you might enjoy this rendition of "Tik Tok."
Have a great weekend! Something tells me mine will be full of music. . .
Copyright
© Copyright 2006-2019 blackbeltmama dot com ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Follow Me
Blog Designed By
My Creations
Things You Could Care Less About
