*jazz hands*

Once upon a time, in the not so distant past, Mama Milton liked Jazzercise. Strike that: She loved Jazzercise. She had loved it since its inception, when Judi Sheppard Missett pranced around in bare feet to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.She took classes in high school. She took classes in college. She dragged invited friends and begged boyfriends to come to class. And they did, and tolerated her obsession.A couple of years back, while wearing sensible workout attire - this isn't a hoedown, Ms. Jessie - she injured her knee and had to quit. For a while. Then she was diagnosed with sjogren's syndrome and her doctor lowered the boom: No more dance, no more Jazzercise.

And she grew, well, fluffy.

At least she had a tiara. Thanks, Stephanie.

She's been walking a lot lately, doing yoga and weaning off Prednisone and frankly, she hasn't seeing much change in her fluffihood.

She started missing Jazzercise. Terribly. So she got the nod from her doctor, and found a new studio, minutes away.

She came home from vacation, and started the very next Monday, nervous and intimidated.

Get a real shirt, Ms. Perky.

But for every inappropriately dressed bimbo show-off,



Wha?

there's a token fella in the group, lost and confused.

She made a go of it.

Death by leg lift. Ok, she doesn't LOVE this part.

She may be fluffy, but she still has it. She smiled when the instructor asked her if she had ever considered becoming an instructor, after the first class. She has. She feels right at home.

We at Mama Milton operate on a small wardrobe budget, what with high gas prices and all.

Now Greg can't get a moment's peace; all he wants to do after a long day's work is eat a quick snack and watch a little Science channel. Now it's all kick ball change this, and chasse that, blah, blah, blah.


As goofy as it sounds, she loves it. She's sweaty and sore and blissed out.


And maybe a little sick in the head...