The What the Fuck Have I Done Incident

Had a shining life-moment recently. I was approached by my favorite Jazzercise instructor about becoming an instructor. This is incredibly meaningful to me. Knowing that someone I admire thinks I'm good at something is really cool.

Then, the details started pouring in. The instructor workshop costs big bucks. Big. And you have to buy all the stupid Jazzercise clothes (can't I just iron on the logo to my $3 tank tops?), plus buy a microphone system (also big bucks, and they don't make them in iron-on). You have to memorize perfectly 10 routines using codes like S-S-D NTO R/L KL (no, I did not make that up), plus give up 3-4 weekends for training (wait, 6-8 days of limited whining from my 3 year old? Sounds like a vacation!), and study for/pass a physiology exam.

Not to mention the massive amounts of fun people make of me when I mention Jazzercise. Everything totally thinks we dance around to "Get Physical" wearing sparkly sweat bands and leg warmers. I swear, that is NOT how it is. I've never heard that song in class, no one wears leg warmers, and Richard Simmons has not made an appearance. Promise.

Did I mention I work full-time? On a teacher's salary? And coach for free? And that I have a child? And that I spend 6-10 hours cooking every weekend? And I have to clean the house and do laundry? And dodge drunk homeless people while jogging? And I have this little blog to lamely keep up with (ok, not like a daily deal or anything, but still!)? And that I have friends that I like to spend time with (well, used to anyways, I've kinda given up on that!)?

"How will training to become an instructor fit into all that?" you ask.

EXCELLENT QUESTION! When I looked myself in the mirror and asked that very same question, my response to myself was eloquent: "What the fuck have I done?!".

Then I realized. For the first time in forever, I committed to doing something I LOVE that makes me feel fabulous. And gives me toned arms. I mean, I don't have guns or anything, but there is most definitely some sort of muscle there. And I fit into my skinny jeans right now. One pair is even becoming too big!

Besides, my instructor has told everyone I'm officially in training, so I can't back out now. Damn it.

So, for now, I'm committed.

Although that fitting it all in question is not answered. Which is why I began writing this a good hour past my bedtime. Partially because I've been too distracted by this enormous possibility to sleep, and partially because I feel like I might as well start training myself to live on 5 or less hours of sleep instead my usual 6. Heck, most moms I know consider 6 hours sleep a luxury!