New moms get a lot of things. Boogers on our fingers, spit up down our cleavage, even poop on our face. But there’s one thing we don’t get a lot of. Alone time. I often fib and tell my husband I have to take a poop so I can escape for a few minutes with a new People magazine. I’ve even placed some Irritable Bowel Syndrome pamphlets around the house to make sure he believes me.
So there’s nothing worse than when I get some good alone time and I’m forced to spend it with, uggh, people. The other day I woke up early and my husband was still asleep, so I took advantage of his incoherence and ditched him with the kids. Time to hit a new workout class at the gym and work off some of this pregnancy weight. Hello, cardio jam. Goodbye, double chin.
Standing in the large room at the gym and looking around I suddenly feel something I don’t feel much these days. Young. The guy standing to my right is about 85, and the woman in front of me is not a day under 80. As I look around the room I realize I’ve either walked into the remake of Cocoon or I’m accidentally taking a senior citizens workout class. My first instinct is to run, but then it occurs to me that sweatin’ to the oldies with the oldies might be a good way to break back into working out. Besides, I can hide out back here in the back row and do my own thing.
As we’re warming up, and I’m already close to having a heart attack, a younger woman who’s only about 75 walks in. “Bubbles, you’re late!” the teacher shouts at her. This bothers me for two reasons. 1. Who the hell is named Bubbles? And 2. Aww crap, this is one of those teachers who calls out individuals during class. I’m screwed.
And then my worst nightmare happens. We’re doing the grapevine back and forth across the room diagonally with an optional turn optional hop, when the teacher starts to hold hands with the geriatrics on either side of him. And then other people start holding hands with each other until the entire room is holding hands minus myself. It feels like that scene in How the Grinch Stole Christmas when all the people come together to hold hands and sing. Only we’re not in Whoville. We’re in Bally’s. And we’re sweaty. And gross. And many of us have hair growing out of our ears. And for once I’m not referring to my own hairy affliction. There are so many things wrong with this picture. It’s like the opposite of alone time.
Thankfuly I had a massage scheduled for the next day where I could enjoy some better alone time, or so I thought. My masseuse talked the whole time. Just to paint you a picture, here are two of the things she said.
MASSEUSE: I hope Newt Gingrich gets elected.
MASSEUSE: If I had laser hair removal, I’d get my whole vagina done.
So there you have it. If you need me, I’ll be sitting on the potty engrossing myself in a People magazine. Apparently making fake grunting noises and developing hemorrhoids is the only way a new mom can get quality alone time by herself.