Old Navy Work Out Gear Rocks for Gym & Grocery Store

You are aware that I hate to work out, right? I mean, sure, I go to the gym. I even go to a Butts n' Guts class twice a week (not that I'm a poster child or anything). I haul my butt to the gym because I know it's good for me. And yes, I admit I feel better after a good sweat. But I don't enjoy it. Ever.

What I do love is to at least look the part. Gone are the oversize shorts and trade show T-shirts. This mama has graduated to far chicer gym attire. I don't need to wear bags to cover up my flaws. Instead I simultaneously embrace and mask them with the right fit, color, and proportions.

I've been a loyal Target shopper for many years. The workout clothes suit my budget, size, and style. It's no Athleta but it's...shall we say...fine. Just fine. The fit isn't all that great, and teh pants lose their stretch after a couple sets of squats and donkey kicks. I'm no high end fitness freak so I can't justify spending oodles on gym clothes. I could never find a happy medium.

In steps Old Navy.

Did you know Old Navy is cranking out fitness wear now? It's all super cute and comfortable. And what's key for this 60-inch powerhouse is that the styles come in petite sizes! Trumpet fanfare ensues. The yoga pants I got to try out as an Old Navy Brand Enthusiast are softer than the stretchy pants I wore post-pregnancy (many moons post-pregnancy...ahem). The moisture wicking fabric is light and really works. But again, since I'm no real athlete, what I love best is how the gear looks. I am that superficial after all. As an active, busy, overscheduled mom (bet you readers can't relate to that at all, eh?), I don't have time to actually shower before running errands. I mean really, it's a banner day when I sneak in a shower at all. Usually a swipe of mascara carries me until I can hit the shower. However, I do like to look more fashionable than frumpy at any given time.

I'll be checking out the racks at Old Navy to stock up for summer workout wear. Try it out out and let me know what you think.

Here's what I'll be dropping into my shopping cart:

Active mesh skort (in bright purple!)
Piped active shorts
Racerback tank
Graphic mesh racerback tank
Foldover yoga pants
Active shorts (though I have miles to go before I can wear these for public consumption)

Thanks for the test gear, Old Navy! Even if I'm never the poster child for Butts n' Guts (the "After" image, natch), I'll at least look good and feel great trying.

Does this sweater make me look fat?

When I picked up Deal from preschool yesterday the first words that popped out of his mouth were, "Mommy, you look like there's a baby in your belly in that sweater!" His eyes were wide and glistening with surprise the way they were when I picked him up from school after I had just lopped off 11 inches of hair.

I shimmied him out of public range and tried to laugh it off, telling him that the sweater was just baggy and of course Mommy has no baby in there. Ahem, ha ha ha. Funny, right? Blush. Groan. Hmmm....

And so I thought we were done with that.

Four hours later at Target. Right after the snooty private school down the road has dismissed for the day. Plaid uniformed tweens and teens linked arm in arm, giggling and gurgling with glee. Stepford Moms to the left of me, jokers to the right, there I was stuck in the middle with Deal.

And in the boys underwear aisle, flanked by the very busy girls underwear aisle, Deal exclaims, "Mommy! You do have a baby in your belly under that sweater! I can see the bump!" Then he proceeded to poke me, as if his little curled fist couldn't resist.

Heads turned and stared right at my stomach. Never in my life have I sucked my stomach in so far. The kid once again took my breath away.

Just plain water for me, thanks.

I dragged my sorry self to the gym this morning for a quick, and I mean quick, workout. 45 minutes is better than 2 tuxedo cupcakes with extra chocolate chips and a side of Regis and Kelly. I was stuffing my overloaded, poor quality freebie gym bag into the locker and knocked all my essentials off the bench, towards the floor. The gym locker room floor. The same locker room of toothbrush fame.

Being the crazy OCD woman I am, I leaped across the bench, coming just this close to knocking into the taut mama next me, trying to retrieve my precious essentials before they made contact with the floor. That floor. And if you must know, my essentials include an MP3 player, little towel, water bottle, and Chapstick. Is this news to you that I am addicted to lip balm? Because I am. It's stashed all over the place lest I go without. Shudder at the thought.

So now all the gym ladies are looking at me like I am auditioning for the part of crazy lady #1 in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest Redux. They are thinking that things falling onto a floor are perfectly fine, perhaps just a skip away from dandy in fact. All on eyes on me to see what the heck is so precious. The way I see it, all things that come into contact with my person are precious.

I knew better.

Lady Luck was scattering her dust elsewhere this morning. All my stuff rolled onto the floor. Now I know how the kid with the damn meatball must have felt. In the midst of my panting from sheer heroic efforts and total whacked out stress, I retrieved my stuff. The essentials. I wiped everything down with a wipe (baby wipes are a misnomer...the marketing opportunities are endless if Kimberly-Clark would just do away with the baby image on the packaging!). Yes, I keep a package of wipes in my gym bag (and my purse, tote bag, and glove compartment...oh, and the emergency bag in my trunk). Not green, I know. Someone give me a better alternative.

I digress, as I am known to do on occasion. Forgive me. Dirt really stresses me out.

Everything was fine. The essentials were no worse for the wear.

Except my water bottle. The essentialist of the essentials.

I picked it up and dropped it again as if it were coated in Dick Cheney's piss.

Only this was worse.

There was a solitary pube stuck to the little spout. You know, where my MOUTH would go! And yeah, it wasn't mine (not like that would have made a difference).

Now excuse me while I go dry heave in the corner.

The moral of the story is: when the given the choice between tuxedo cupcakes and exercise, choose the cupcakes.

Floored

When my boys grow up and lounge in a therapist's leather chaise one day, they might be saying, "My mother was a neat freak. The queen of neatniks everywhere. All those anal rules about folding towels and fitted sheets drove our dad to the edge of madness, but he stayed because Mom was the trophy wife he married on the first try." OK, so maybe I embellished that trophy wife part a teensy bit. We all know every psychosis known to man is blamed on his mother anyway, so this small deal I make about cleanliness will be the least of their worries. My boys are perhaps the only children on the planet who ask permission before dumping out a crate (a labeled crate, mind you) of toys. Overheard just this morning as I was cleaning up after breakfast (because I never, ever leave crumbs on the table or dishes in the sink):

Deal to Bird: "Can I dump out the cars?"
Bird: "Yes, but only if you clean up the balls first."

Music to my ears! Some might say I am squashing their creativity, but there was a day last week that I tolerated the Legos, Lincoln Logs, Kapla blocks, AND random assortment of weathered blocks and spools from Mac Daddy's childhood strewn on the floor at the same time. At the same time. Did you catch that? At the same time. I've even submitted to MIXING Playdoh colors. Deal loves the kaleidescope of colors he can create, but Bird cringes like I do at the concoction. If I squint, the mixed Playdoh looks a bit like a Pucci print so I can appreciate it if I kick in my fashion sensibilities. And admittedly, there is some crazy satisfaction in mashing together the purple and green, but I've learned firsthand that too much mushing makes the whole blob puce.

Teaching my boys about cleanliness and the the simple act of putting toys, shoes, coats, and backpacks away is part of my job. It is my responsibility to teach them how to be good citzens, stewards of our planet, and gentlemen. Some woman will thank me one day. It is common for Bird to exclaim out of the blue, "I love it when our house is clean!" He won't even ride in a friend's car because he thinks it's too dirty. And believe, he's said so aloud...to her. I'll be covering the chapter on Tact and Decorum at a later date.

Hopefully a woman like the one I saw in the locker room at the gym this morning won't be lurking around my boys. After a long workout on the ellipitcal thingee I went to take a shower, wearing my flip flops, natch. As I walked into the shower I noticed a pile of stuff on the shower floor next to me. Here's an inventory of what I saw ON THE SHOWER FLOOR, with no cover, container, or makeshift protection from the gazillion bacteria and viruses lurking on that one 6 x 6 inch square of tile: a disposable razor, a bar of soap, one of those netted puffy scrubbers, a tube of Crest that someone squeezed in the middle (a deal breaker for me), and get this, a TOOTHBRUSH! Did I mention is was ON THE SHOWER FLOOR?

The same floor littered with pubic hair before it swirls down the drain. The same floor that tinea pedis grows rampantly on. The same floor that people pee on to get a two-fer in the shower in the drought-stricken ages we are living in. Trust me, I know this happens. If nothing else, I do know that Deal once peed in the shower by accident after we were rinsing off after a swim.

I'm curious what was going through that woman's mind as she set her toothbrush on the shower floor. Can you imagine? I heard that staph germs can spew 25 feet after you flush the toilet so you shouldn't keep toothbrushes exposed anywhere near the toilet. I'm pretty sure the same folks would tell us that putting your TOOTHBRUSH on the SHOWER FLOOR is even more DISGUSTING. For the record, all the toothbrushes in our house are well protected from staph germs. Bird goes so far as covering his with a Spiderman travel top just because he's super clean, or some might say fussy, like I am. For starters, those pesky staph germs are kept at bay if you just shut the toilet seat before flushing. Now some woman will really thank me for that one day.