On Being The Hot Chick

Once upon a time, on a frozen college campus littered with beer cans and cigarette butts, I, Vanessa Harris, was a Hot Chick. It lasted for approximately 11.2 seconds– and– to give you an idea of how long ago this was, we weren’t at war with anybody. A college graduate had a reasonable expectation of making a living wage in his or her degree field, and people still ordered real, honest to goodness BOOZE with their $22 steak, instead of water-no-ice-with-lemon.

So yeah, it’s been a minute. But I remember exactly how those 11.2 seconds felt, and I think I’d like to get back there sometime soon. I didn’t think I would care about this after I had my baby, but I obviously do. I assumed that after I passed on my genetic material, I would be off the hook in both the health & looks department. I assumed that after I did my part to help proliferate the species, that I would happily take my place in the League of Midwestern Mayonnaise Slurpers, and then plummet down the other side of the age-hill at cannonball speed until my untimely death. In fact, the thought of my pallbearers (my brothers, presumably) blowing out their knees under the crushing weight of my gargantuan casket gave me cause to smile.

But then I did the math and realized that having my 1st and possibly only child at 32 means I am going to be freaking OLD by the time my child takes her first trip to Six Flags. If I want the free ticket that comes along with volunteering to chaperone, I will have to be independently mobile and free of heart disease. (Hey, learning a healthy level of self-centered shallowness is the bread and butter of being the Hot Chick. It doesn’t go away just because you get old & fat.)

So, partially because I am a sucker for a free ticket to anything, and partially because I’d like to be around to rain on my daughter’s parade when she takes her place as the Hot Chick, (as is good and right and holy of a mother to do) I am back to my BC (Before Child) diet. Crap. I really didn’t think I would be here again. All of that uber-healthy stuff I had to do to get over my 3 year bout with infertility left me reluctant to ever eat another green thing again. With every plate of organic black beans over the perfunctory bed of raw, non-GMO, locally grown kale, I promised myself that this self-imposed misery was temporary. Just as soon as I was a mom, I would set about nourishing myself on whiskey and bear claws. (As is somewhat less good and right and holy of a mother to do.)

That is the last I have to say about diet. If that wasn’t sufficient coverage on the topic of dieting, please feel free to compile a 3 hour long video montage of weeping & gnashing of teeth, then view it on a loop until your eyes fall out and your kidneys fail. This will be both accurate and effective in expressing my true feelings regarding my new fish & vegetable plan. Now, on to the part I like best, exercise.

It occurred to me that if I intend to be the Hot Chick again, it would behoove me to learn some self-defense. Not to take this to a dark place, but while my 11.2 seconds as the Hot Chick were fun, they were also scary. Being the Hot Chick opened my eyes to the way our culture deals with beauty. Beauty is fantastic if you can capture it and make it adore you, but if you can’t own it or at least talk it into some drunken fooling around, scaring the hell out of it becomes a reasonable second. I found that I could just as easily find someone to help me with cheap car repairs as I could attract a stalker. Once this was accomplished simultaneously. Hooray.

Enter Krav Maga. (Contact Combat. Israeli martial arts.)

I feel like such a freaking GIRL in this class. And not the cute, sexy, don’t mess with me kind of girl, either. I’m talking the frumpy, huffing & puffing, graceless, constantly apologizing girl who is more deadly with a swinging ponytail to the face than with any sort of maneuver. Last night I held a foam target wrong and succeeded in punching myself in the jaw. HARD. I managed not to cry or even let on that I’d just trounced myself, but still. As the only female in class, I try hard not to be an obvious wuss. As a class, we are still ate up with anxiety about what to do when it comes time to attack THE GIRL. It is difficult to get the guys in the class to attack me or take me seriously as an opponent. (I guess it should be mentioned here that jotting down my class notes in my hot pink Happy Bunny journal is probably not helping matters.) By the grace of God, I have managed to get at least a couple bruises that I can point to with pride and tell everyone how much I suck at Krav Maga. (And I do. I truly, truly do.) I can imagine how uncomfortable it must be for these upstanding southern gentlemen to have me girl-bomb their testosterone lair, but I feel like they should know it is uncomfortable for me too. Southern gentlemen are raised not to hit girls, but girls are raised not to hit at all. We’re raised to be cute, polite, and smart enough to avoid trying to fight with five grown men at once. Then if that doesn’t work, shoot the bastard(s). If this were a gun-class I’d be all aces. But it isn’t. So, we’re all having to overcome some mental barriers right now, and that is just fine.

All whining aside, I have lost 8 pounds now, and even though my upper body is still at kitten-strength, my legs are looking and feeling fantastic, bruises and all. That’s it for now. Hope you enjoyed it.

USH!!!!! (It’s a Krav thing.)

Sincerely,
Muffin’s Minion