Ballet butt ups-Firm that fanny in 5 minutes

 

It's Friday. The day before the weekend. Want to eat that Pecan pie guilt free? Get on the floor, squish that took-us (yes, pronounce that phonetically), a few hundred times, and eat away.

I'll mix it up this blog, and put the story second, the exercise first. No sense procrastinating the pain that long.

Face down, resting on hands and knees, draw the back led to the chest then kick directly back and up. That's it. Switch legs and do it again.

Ever wondered where ballerinas get those long gams? These leg kicks, I'm sure. The little girls, teenagers and adults, pracing around in pink, all looked like Veeeeliaahhh, the Russian instructor. Nary a bit of cellulite out of place.

As I avowed to go home and get busy with the leg lifts, two thoughts crossed my mind. First, that the 80's marked my entrance to the world of fitness, aerobics classes, home videos etc., and every last one advocated keeping "a flat back," to protect the lower back. In the last 5-7 years, I began practicing yoga and martial arts, which basically scoff at the "protecting the back" theory.

"That only reduces the mobility," said one instructor, an Indian gal who's family had been practicing and teaching yoga for several generations. She proceeded to explain blood circulation; stiffness equals no circulation, mobility increases it, thereby maintain joint lubrication. Lubricated joints reduces the possibility of a break, but when a break does occur, the lubrication accelerates the healing.

Down I go, lifting my leg, the mass feeling like a downed pine tree being kicked up in the air.

"You look like a donkey," says Porsche.

I'm sure I did. It's called a donkey kick, and for good reason. My lower back is arching, my glut and back thigh is burning like nobody's business. I manage 15 is all, then switch sides, and go back for another 10 on either side. Later that evening, I try again, eeking out 5.

Now, a week later, my inner thighs have stopped hurting, and my bum isn't so tight in my jeans. Even Rog noticed.

"You've lost even more weight," he says to me last night.

"No," I told him. I'm still eating the same. "It's the ballet donkey kicks," I say proudly.

As I'm down on the ground, I'm thinking about Veellliaaaahhh, my daughter's Russian instructor, who on the phone, sounded lithe and lean. Her name is probably spelled Velia, but the way she says it is so loooonnnng and exotic, it must be replicated in type to do it justice.

When I arrived, I noted she's a bit more pear-shaped that she was in her prime. The fruitness of her figure didn't prevent her from keeping the girls going like Stalin on the death march, no talking, giggling, or stooped shoulders.

Watching Porsche was nostalgic, since I was kicked out ballet at age 8. In point of fact, the only thing I've ever been kicked out of, and it was all due to my height.

"You will be tall," pronounced the instructor, ending my dreams of pointed shoes and anorexia.

Last week,  as I sat in the studio, shivering, listening to one woman chomp her gum with her mouth open (a pet peeve) and talking on the phone to her uncle (another pet peeve) I took to reading the ads on the wall.

Beginning ballet exercises, was one, and 24 ballet exercise videos was another. When I got home, I looked online and, sucker that I am, purchased a DVD set for the New York City Ballet: The Complete Workout, Vol. 1 and 2. I should get it right after I eat that last bit of Pecan pie:)




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