As you may have discovered, once you start hitting the gym regularly, there is a lot of upkeep. You've got to keep your workouts "fresh" and motivating, drink a gazillion gallons of water, and carry out a post-workout stretch despite that what you really want is to be carried out on a stretcher. But it's those behind-the-scenes preparations needed to expose bare body parts under scathing fluorescent light that really require commitment. Granted, I may not tra-la-la in Emerald City, but I do what I can to avoid a mental breakdown at the sight of myself in the gym's wall-to-wall funhouse mirrors. I keep a tweezer handy for removal of the white nylon fishing wire that grows out of my chinny-chin-chin (which none of my so-called friends have the decency to mention to me). I apply a fresh layer of waterproof makeup before teaching my classes because exercise coaching from Yoda is not as inspiring as one might think. I spray paint the spider veins above my knees--thank you Miss Sally Hansen, and I polish my blackened toenails/talons out of consideration for my locker room companions. From top to bottom, I am confident that I have it covered about being uncovered. Well, I mean, I was, until my dear friend, Ellen, revealed my utter neglect. 

“You’ve never had one?” she scowled in disbelief. “What’s the matter with you?” 

Well, apparently, so very much. But honestly, up until that minute, I had not realized just what a barbarian I was. Frankly, I thought I was being super fastidious, grooming daily with my trusty twin blade disposable Bic.

“You have to go see Hanni and get yourself waxed.” she insisted. It sounded like she meant now.  “You go there and tell her I sent you. She does a great job.” 

“Does it hurt?” I asked, realizing the absurdity of the question the minute it left my lips. 

“It’s not that bad”, she assured me. “I’ve been doing it since I was 20.”

Ellen is my GPS for all areas of sophistication. She has "fashion sense". She does grown-up lady stuff. She is refined without being pretentious. And she doesn’t do pain on purpose. She gets a facial, maybe a manicure…and a wax, so how bad could it be? Eager to rectify my apparently urgent situation, I called and made an appointment. Ellen told me not to shave for a few days...eeww...

Hi, my name is Sasquatch and I need an emergency waxing...

After arranging to do the Hokey Pokey and throw my whole self in, I was ushered into a little room where I sat contemplating whether or not I needed to explain that I did want to at least keep my eyebrows. Hanni, an all-business woman with a sleek figure and a heavy accent, burst through the door and instructed me to lie down on the butcher-papered table. Apparently, there is not a lot of chatter before a chicken gets plucked. 

Silly girl, I thought. It’s a spa treatment. Relax. I closed my eyes and prepared to be pampered. Time to be a real lady, like Ellen, I thought.

“Jest relox”, Hanni ordered. 

Then something terrible happened. Wicked hell-fire erupted at my ankle followed by a dagger-like pain and a bone-chilling scream. 

The scream apparently came from me and scared the hell out of Hanni who was now clear across the room. 

“Vhat’s wronk?” she asked breathlessly, beating me to my own question.

I opened my eyes, expecting to see my ankle aflame and a knife jutting into my tibia but there was nothing to see except Hanni, preparing the next swath of molten lava. And then, like that moment you realize that your GPS has directed you into excruciating traffic with no turn-around in sight, it occurred to me that I had just veered onto the Hanni Highway to Hell. I tried to convince myself that this was just an initial reaction, like the first step into a Jacuzzi, but I was quite sorely mistaken. My follicles were apparently rooted directly into my skeleton. I let out a ghoulish howl as she yanked out a little bone marrow with each hair. 

I’m pretty sure this is how they do an exorcism. 

“Oy my Gawt. You are always such deh bick beby? I never hert such dis cryink.”

Out, you demon hairs, out!

“Dis hair, it’s very coarse…” Rrrip.

“Owww!…” Rrrip.

“You gonna see, dis is much better…” Rrrip.

“Ohhh!…” Rrrip.

“Now we go up to deh bekini line…” Rrrip.

“Sweet mother of ...” Rrrip.

“Gawt! Such deh bick beby...Jest lift you legs up ent hold dem beck here by you head, yes?” Rrrip.

“Noooo!...” Rrrip.

“Why you moofed now? Oy, now dis is…oy, wax in dare…oy, okay, you hef to vipe dis you self now…”

It seemed there’d been a depilatory accident of a gynecological nature. That last outburst resulted in the hot waxing of my innards. This was an exorcism gone bad, witnessed by me, my Gawt, and Hanni. Hanni looked at me with contempt as I "viped" .

The next 45 minutes are somewhat of a blur. I believe a co-worker came in to see if Hanni was okay (She hert deh scrimming). I lay limp and listless until Hanni summoned me to rise and pay out front. I left the salon amidst whispers, like a scorned Salem witch. 

It was a rough exit, but I have to admit it, I was pretty damn smooth. Couldn't wait to get to the gym with my new silky legs. To my horror, however, Satan returned just two days later, sprouting demon seeds from my knees. For that kind of torture, all I get is two days? Oh, hell no. There will not be an Exorcist II. 

And so, I have stayed with my blade. I guess I am just a Bic baby. 

I was a high school freshman in 1978, the year that Saturday Night was having a Fever. If you were not already dancing, well, the Bee Gees made it clear, “You should be…” And so it was that I learned The Bus Stop and began preparations for Teen Night at a discotheque in the hip hotbed of Bridgewater, NJ. As I write this, I realize the absurdity of this for the first time. In retrospect, this ho-um suburban bar was attempting to reinvent itself by attracting hormonal high-school hustlers with a dangling disco ball. Reality notwithstanding, I was about to create a similarly impossible transformation, Cinderella-style, and turn this plain yellow pumpkin into a golden carriage. 

First, I purchased QT, a magic potion that promised to produce a golden tan while I was doing other stuff. This was a real bonus because tanning in the yard with my mirror reflector was limited to weekends and had the unfortunate side effect of third degree burns. I slathered on the omnipotent ointment and went to school anticipating my amazing development like a dark room photo. It was not until social studies class when my best friend passed me a note that said something like “You have orange stripes on your arm”, that I realized the extent of my Technicolor results. This was not a shade found in nature, perhaps only in a Special Edition Crayola 64 pack with Oompa Loompa Orange. But with my seafoam colored dress, I thought it’d be okay. I mean, if the color scheme was good enough for Howard Johnson’s, it was clearly chic, right?

With my hue established, I proceeded to the next critical phase of my transformation. According to the magazines, I was completely misshapen; too small on top, too big on the bottom. Fashion experts called me a Pear and provided a great deal of advice to rectify or at least hide my misfortunate fruit form. I was into my 5th day on the General Motors Diet, which involved eating beef for breakfast, lunch and dinner, as I flipped through Teen magazine in search of an A-line skirt to camouflage my Anjou Ass, when I saw this ad:  



 

 






































Oh, sweet Mother of Magical Thinking!

The ad promised a reduction of 9-15 inches in just 3 days simply by attaching these special vacuum pants to your mama’s Hoover. I did not concern myself with science of any kind, or where exactly I had 15” of my 14-year-old self to lose. This was the solution to my Bartlett Butt! But there was a problem. This wondrous shrinkolator cost $9.99. What’s worse, it used to cost $14.99, and now, special for me, 30% off! But even if I counted up all the change in my mother’s winter coat, and under the couch cushions, AND in the Junk Drawer, I was still short $7.43. And I’d already used up all my babysitting money for the Knock-Knock-Who’s-There-Orange-Orange-You-Glad-You-Wasted-Your-Money-On-QT lotion.

It was at that moment that I believe I developed my extraordinary adaptive skills. I grabbed a garbage bag and hauled the Hoover to my bedroom. “So simple, and yet, genius!” I thought as I jammed my feet through the bottom of the Hefty Pants and innovatively secured them around my waist with a thick (and stylish) elastic belt. I pushed the hose of the vacuum through an area near my thigh, gave it a little once over with duct tape, and flipped the switch.

I will tell you what happened next, but I think you can imagine just fine. I sat there, a bag of vacuumed sealed nuts, fantasizing about how my soon-to-be carrot stick legs would look in my new “buffalo” platforms. Unfortunately, my extraordinary engineering produced nothing more than a Hoover hickey on my yammy thigh.

Oh, how I wish this story had a better ending. But I confess, I am a Serial Solution Sucker. When one drawer closes…

While I have since steered clear of fitness quick fixes, abstaining from the purchase of most anything that shakes, zaps, rolls, slides, folds or sucks the human body, I regret to inform you that I have merely transferred my optimism to the realm of skin care. Tell me that 80% of women saw a “difference in the appearance” of anything, in any amount of time, and I am there! I have a Drawer of Dreams brimming with products that promise to make me younger, thinner, firmer, smoother, clearer, healthier, and my favorite, more radiant. I don’t even know exactly what that is, but I definitely need it. And the thing about me is: I’m no quitter. If at first I don’t succeed, I’ll try, try, something else. I won’t give up on the last product, in case I just happen to be a late responder. Instead, I layer. Sometimes, I have so many coats on that I suspect I am impervious to puncture.

We all have our moments of magical thinking. Our hearts skip a beat when we stumble upon the “breakthrough” solution to what we perceive as our broken-down selves. They promise this is the thing that will make you more fabulous, in just two weeks! And this time, they really mean it…

Now, as you may have gathered, I am not actually enlightened enough to surrender all hope for a quick fix. If Diane Keaton goes on TV and says she smears this stuff on every night and now, bibbedy-bobbedy-boo, she’s age-perfect, I’m going with it. I’m worth it too! But when I wake up in the morning with that same tired, wrinkled up face, the one thing I can actually count on to make me look younger, thinner, firmer, smoother, clearer and healthier has nothing to do with engineering, or science, or magic. Eating well and exercising hard are, without question, the things that make me feel more radiant.

And I definitely need that.

Join me at www.fitnessbyloren.com and discover how to look and feel younger, thinner, firmer, smoother, clearer, healthier and more radiant today!