PPD Chronicles, Chapter 3A: Groupie II

I never cease to be amazed at the seasons God brings through my life. This must be the Groupie Season. Not only did I discover community through the support group but in another more unlikely place-a jazzercise class.

Let me begin by saying there was never a lazier woman than me. I'm not being mean to myself, it's just the truth. If there is a choice between a good book and nap on a comfy couch and any kind of workout, the cushions and words will win out every time.

So it was a surprise to me a few years ago, when I found a mode of regular exercise I liked AND to which I could remain committed. It also allowed me to indulge my inner groove thang. Jazzercise.

No, it's not that thong wearing, headband donning, solid gold dancer type of workout (though there are women and some very special men who still cling to the 80's). It's taking top 40 radio and putting it to dance/exercise.

I'm in and I'm out. In 60 minutes I get a great workout, shake my groove thang and I'm done.

I took class for about 3 years, in part from a big butt intervention by friends, but mostly due to the crazy Sergeant at arms/bulldog/energizer bunny of an instructor-Mary. She bullies, she coaxes, she yells, she laughs, she cries, she cheers....she makes you move, even when it's the last thing you want to do. She even ignores my, "Are you kidding me with this butt crunch/purgatorial/painful/stupid/too long routine?" face.

I quit when I quit on myself from the pregnancy depression and the PPD. I quit for over two years.

Anne, the mother-goddess/support group facilitator, strongly recommends exercise as a coping strategy for PPD and life. She even was encouraging me to attend the Stroller Strides class she teaches across the street. Again, the couch won out. Until...

I realized Mary's studio had day classes with childcare. I could work out while the kids had a playdate. I could return to the only exercise I ever kinda liked.

So I did. The PPD gorilla kept asking me, "What are you thinking?" As we left, late as always, diaper bag dragging behind the stroller, "How are you going to manage the drive/workout/the kids and get a shower after?" He followed me to the elevator, "You'll never keep up with it."

I took him with me into the studio. I turned my back and started to shake my hips (of course, I had to find them again underneath all the post baby flub). With each step, even the missed ones, the gorilla hushed and hid in the corner.

The workout was tough and I was cursing Mary/doritos/my couch/anything to keep going through the thigh and abdominal portions. As I was leaving all I could hear was the chatter of my 4 year old saying how much fun he had at Mommy's dance class and could we go get a Starbucks now?

I didn't hear the gorilla. When getting home and getting a shower (the baby was helpful and slept for a few minutes), I couldn't find him.

At 3 a.m. he came back for his usual middle of the night anxiety chat. I listened for a minute then tried to roll over, sore from jazzercise. "Shut up," I said, "I need to get some sleep."

And he did.