Breathe in, breathe out: A birthday in the life of Bullet Hole Bacus

My birthday was this week. I'm basically beyond the point where I acknowledge this auspicious event. Instead I do my best to ignore the fact that I'm turning another year older. Yep. That's me. Bullet Hole Bacus, the Midwest's version of the Queen of Denial. Every year since I turned-- a certain age--I've greeted each subsequent birthday with my head down and teeth clenched, determined to plow through the day with a minimum of fanfare and a modicum of dignity.

That so didn't happen this year.

First off, as you all recall, several weeks back I decided I needed to shake things up a bit. A makeover, if you will. Something drastic. Radical. So, I start off with the hair. Okay. So I chickened out on dying it brown at the last minute and went with a perm and highlights. Sue me.

And let me tell you, I looked FINE. My hair was bouncy, wavy, and loaded with perky highlights. That is, until I washed it and in a matter of minutes I turned into a freaking poodle right before my eyes. Tell me. Why is it that the stylist (who happens to be my sis-in-law) can style my hair and I look pretty darned good for a woman who has celebrated her last birthday, but when I do it, I look like I should be wearing a big red nose and clown-sized feet and making balloon animals? Bozo's orange frizz has nothing on me. I look like a throwback to the seventies. (Okay, so I am a throwback to the seventies.) For the last several days I've been walking around wearing my Old Navy cap garnering some weird looks.

Happy birthday, frizz ball.

You'd think I'd wave the white flag. Give up my notion of making this a defining year in terms of health and fitness (after all, I've already given up soda and caffeine) and say 'maybe next year' to that new and improved me.

Uh, I'm blonde, remember? I'm not that smart.

The next phase of my jumpstart to good health took me to the Fitness Center. One of my daughters talked me into joining a 24 Hour Fitness Club. Initially, I was excited about our joint plan to get in shape. It was something we could do together. Just the two of us. So, it was with this gung-ho attitude that the former state trooper entered the gym for the first time in a very long time to go through the equipment check out. Okay, so I was a little nervous. You see, I'd made a solemn pledge to never ever run again unless I was forced to chase a bad guy after I endured four months of running my guts out during the Patrol Academy. (Puking while running in formation does not endear one to the sport of running.) As you might imagine, the idea of running anywhere--even on a treadmill equipped with a cute little TV--was not high on my list of things I couldn't wait to do. But there was that stupid pledge to improve myself dogging my tail. So, chin up, I stepped up on the treadmill.

The trainer went over the operation of the treadmill. It seems you have to answer questions for the treadmill before it will let you begin walking or running. Personal questions. Private questions. Impertinent questions like, 'What is your weight?' Now get real. If I haven't acknowledged my age for almost a decade do you really think I'm going to punch in my weight in big red display numbers for the world to see?

Next up was the elliptical machine. It didn't look too hard so I got on and started stepping. I thought I was doing a pretty good job until all the display lights on the machine suddenly went off. I looked over at my daughter.

"What did I do?" I asked. "What happened?"

"You're going backwards," she said, with an evil grin.

I blinked. "They have a reverse on this thing?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes and moved to a machine some distance away and acted like she didn't know me. Smart girl.

The weight machines came next. Thanks to my ridiculously long legs, I had to change the adjustment on every machine before I tried it out. By the time I made it through the orientation, I was pitted out, my hair was bigger than a medicine ball, and I felt as if I'd already had my workout. I hobbled over to change back into my street shoes.

"Where are you going? Aren't you going to work out?" my daughter asked.

"Didn't we just do that?" I asked. "'Cause I'm feeling some soreness," I told her.

"That's because you insist on locking your joints up when you're not supposed to," little Miss All of a Sudden Expert pointed out.

"Like I had a choice," I grumbled. "After all these years my joints kinda have a will of their own."

"Can we come back later?" my daughter asked.

"That depends," I replied.

"On what?" she asked.

"On whether I walk in here and discover someone I know. If so, I'm outta here, big hair and all," I told her.

Birthdays.

Oh well. They sure as heck beat the alternative.

So, any of you have workout advice to share? Routines to recommend? Ways to avoid guilt when you don't work out? Sure fire frizz-fighting cures? Do tell.

~Bullet Hole Bacus~