Form-fitting gear, medals and turtle dreams

I’m sporting this shirt for luck today.


Tomorrow I’ll be wearing this.


Not to church. Did that last week and it was sooooo awkward.

I’m actually wearing it to my very first Aquabike race, triathlon style.

750m swim, 20k bike, 750m swim.

I’m ready, I think.

Except they have this weird rule in racing triathlons where they log your age as what you’ll be on December 31st of the same year.


As if 46 doesn’t feel old enough.

But you know what? It’s okay. Better than okay. I thought I would be scared today. I thought for sure I’d obsess about cycling into another biker, dream about whacking some other poor swimmer on the head or imagine myself coming in long after the sun goes down and the rest of the racers are home with their feet up sipping electrolyte drinks.

But I’m not obsessing, dreaming or imagining all those horrible things.

I’m excited!

I’m pumped!

I keep walking around the house and informing family members, dogs and the occasional fly… “I’m going to be in a race tomorrow, don’t know if you know. It’s a swim, bike, swim. Yeah… so.”

I can’t wait to put on my form fitting tri-outfit that celebrates and accentuates my extra curves – leaving far too little to the imagination. I’m excited to strap the timing chip around my ankle and put on my lime green swim cap with my own very own race number. I’m all giddy about gathering with the other racers and hearing “Go” and then dashing off into the chilly water to begin my first swim.

I feel like a kid again – but even better because back in the day I was too scared to even try stuff like this. I loved adventure, but I hated the idea of racing, being last, being the turtle in the midst of the rabbits.

But now I truly don’t care. I’m a racer. An athlete. A 46 (or 47 – whatever) year old triathlete, to be exact. Go, turtle, go!

So if you think of it tomorrow, say a little prayer for this aging racer. That I don’t run any cyclers off the road, drown any fellow swimmers or come in long after the final horn has blown. Just pray I finish with a smile on my face. And that I get a medal. I really, really want a medal.

Okay, off I go. Gotta go start putting on my outfit. It takes a bit of time to stuff all of me in there.

On your mark, get set, GO!

So I think I can dance…

I love dancing.

I enjoy doing the Macarena, the Electric Slide and the Boot Scoot Boogie. Yeah, I know. Those dances are as old as dirt. So it’s been a little while.

But today I discovered Zumba.

Usually when I go to the gym, I take the BodyPump, BodyFix or the TrimEverythingAndQuick class. I never take classes like Zumba. Why? Because I don’t have rhythm. I learned this when I slipped during the Electric Slide and tripped over my boots during the Boot Scoot Boogie. And trust me, I didn’t magically improve with age.

But I love my daughter, and she wanted to try Zumba.

We showed up at the gym in our shorts and T-shirts. Women started walking by with bright-colored pants with lots of zippers and strings and such. They all looked similar and really, really cool. We leaned over to a woman next to us. “What’s up with the pants?”

“Zumba-wear” She said, as she fidgeted with one of her 27 zippers.

Sam and I nodded. “Nice.”

She went on, “You can go to and find all kinds of Zumba stuff. Zumba shirts, Zumba pants, Zumba bracelets and keychains.”

“Do they have Zumba eyewear?” I asked.

She looked at me funny. “No.”

So the music started and we all lined up. Sam and I were in the back row, trying to hide behind the rows of flowing pants in front of us. It happened quick. The woman leading us began to wiggle her hips, clap her hands and move at a high rate of speed in multiple directions at once.

I looked at Sam. She looked at me.

And we started to wiggle.

Now, I’m not the kind of girl who can multi-task. I can’t read with the TV on or eat while I whistle or build a Lego building while I read a crime novel. It just doesn’t work. So when the woman at the front of the room asked me to wiggle, walk and clap all at the same time, I gave it a shot… and about fell over.

Sam laughed.

I consoled myself with the 80-year-old woman beside me. She turned left when we were supposed to go right. Raised her hand when we were supposed to clap and jiggled when we were supposed to wiggle.

I smiled over at her, thinking we’d share a non-rhythmic moment.

Her disapproving glance said it all.  You stink at this, missie.


So I’ll probably do Zumba again. Sam really liked it and I like Sam. So as soon as my jiggler stops aching and my wiggler quits cramping, I’ll be back – with my new Zumba pants and fancy new eyewear.