I went to two exercise classes today. Oh, don't get excited. I'm not involved in a serious exercise program yet. It just happened that my mom was looking for a companion for Low Bounce this morning, and I went to the regular Baby & [Me] class in the afternoon. It's not like I'm running up stairs and eating raw eggs or anything.

That morning class was intense. I went in pretty confident, as my Babycize instructor told us that we were able to handle a low bounce class. She was a liar. I just about killed my knees & I felt like vomiting on more than one occasion. Also, it was full of really hardcore scary middle-aged women. We'd be in the middle of some punishing routine with triple knee lifts and double-time lunges, and I'd be so tired that I could barely remember which leg to lift, and I'd see women who were kicking it up a notch. They were not happy with merely exercising, they were going to exercise until they produced big sweaty patches on their shirts and they were damned well going to do an extra hop or kick if that's what it took. And also? They got carried away and would not only count down the reps, but they would hoot with delight at the most difficult points. There is nothing more disheartening that hearing that "woot!" in a low bounce class. Have some dignity, ladies.

Yet I must admit that I was glad I went. At least I had something resembling a workout. The Babycize class is under new management and the woman NEVER STOPS TALKING. I learned about kegels and sports bras and the importance of certain wrist exercises to ward off carpal tunnel from cradling a baby every day. I learned that she can't carry a tune, but we're all to sing anyway. I leaned not to bounce Blake right after he's eaten (well, I knew that already). I think we exercised for all of 30 minutes. I didn't even break a sweat. And while I used to see that as the mark of another excellent day, I know that I need to feel like garbage for at least an hour if I want those yummy endorphins.

A story from Sunday:

On the way to the Holland pavilion, I chatted to Dirk about the perception of tourists in Amsterdam. "Gangs of German and English tourists come over every weekend," I explained, "and all they do is booze and whore. So the Dutch tend to think of the people of Germany and England as nothing but a bunch of drunken whoresons." (I was particularly pleased to have worked the word "whoreson" into casual conversation.) Dirk, it should be mentioned, was wearing one of his "Germany" shirts.

While we were in the fabulous Holland pavilion, the boys went off to play Dutch shuffleboard while I looked for a place to change Blake's diaper. When I got back into the pavilion, they had wandered off to the beer concession. As I caught up with them, Blake started to whine, so I picked him up and carried him in the crook of my arm. And just as we reached the boys, Dirk lost his grip on the glass. An entire pint of Grosche beer slopped over the stroller and the car seat and my arm.

I was embarrassed at the prospect of loading my little baby into a wet, beery seat (that's some good parenting). And Dirk was embarrassed at proving the stereotype of the German tourist in Holland.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 7/13/2004 10:12:00 p.m.