The only certainty is bad grammar

I had so much sweat on my body after my first Jazzercise class that there was not a dry square centimeter left on my T-Shirt to wipe my face.

Not one.

How gross/awesome is THAT?

I’m almost too tired to write this actually. That’s how bad it kicked my butt from here to Texas.

I did a class Friday and then another today. Likely because I love torture and whatnot.

What’s that? You thought Jazzercise was for 50 year olds? ME TOO.

It is not.

At all.

I decided to try it after a former co-worker swore up and down that it made her buff, and happy and glorious. And then some other women at a Pampered Chef party said the same.

I’ve been walking 4 miles a day, five days a week to lose weight – but stupid, stupid winter is looming, so I had to find something indoors that did not involve a treadmill.

I checked into Curves and Jazzercise.

The women on the Curves Web site looked like they could be my friends.

The women on the Jazzercise Web site looked like they’d make a decent living as strippers.

Show me a woman who doesn’t want to look like a stripper and I’ll show you a lier.

I understand though.

“Jazzercise.”

It sounds like a bunch of girls wearing layered socks, too much blue eyeshadow and big hair. That’s why I’m officially proposing that the name be changed. It’s the only way word will ever spread about how freakishly awesome this is.

May I suggest – Wicked Magic.

See, then they can totally play up the “makes your butt look like the stripper’s down the street” aspect without sounding weird. Also, the “wicked” word makes is seem supa cool.

If you’re interested in coming to a class with me, the first one’s free. I’ll totally come pick you up.

Seriously.

It’s wicked magic.