For many, the celebration of our country’s independence features little more than bottle rockets and hot dogs. For others, the day is no different from any other. But for some, we are forced to face the fact we can no longer cartwheel. The blow is both deep and bothersome.
Previously, cartwheels pose no problem. Years of cheerleading, tennis, a million children and yoga ensure little question as to whether this simplest of feats is attainable. The clue should be in realization that the last thought of a cartwheel was, in fact, who knows when. But last night, in a public park, surrounded by cartwheelers, joining in the fray becomes both necessity and failure. Pfft.
The day opens normally enough. Since the vast PR machine never stops, the morning is spent spinning yarns for a company website in hopes that keywords direct traffic and keep us all employed. Baby Chicken decides a cake of the patriotic sort is in order and creates a red velvet stunner featuring fluffy topping and stars and stripes fashioned with blueberries and strawberries. Quite lovely.
Baby Pea reports she is deeply bored at work and will join us earlier than expected. Fast forward through margaritas, chicken tacos and deep discussion as to how to make one’s nose appear thinner in photos. It’s time to venture forth into our neighborhood park for a glimpse at our sky’s display of freedom. Just after dark, special lemonade water bottles carry us forth with sparklers, snaps and various opinions concerning the best sunglasses for specific face shape. Our mission is twofold: watch fireworks and spell “USA” in sparklers with photo proof. The spelling is a bust. We conclude it must be bigger sparklers or faster movement that creates letters others can read. We turn to shouting out Harry Potter spells while thrashing popper snaps onto the ground scaring absolutely no one with our nonsense.
The Chickens and Baby Pea spy the playground. Off they go, running, screaming and searching for swings. The world turns for the worse when, someone, for no reason whatsoever, turns a cartwheel. And then another. And then another. The competitive spirit lives just under my first layer of epidermis and this old broad decides to spin as well. Legs over arms and shoulders give way, first one and then the other. Hit the ground. Flummoxed, another attempt is made. Same result. First one wayward shoulder gives way and then the other. WTF?
Perhaps it is the strain of hoisting such an enormous ass over head that has shoulders shouting out, “Are you f-in kidding me?” Whatever the reason, humiliation is complete. Curling into a tight ball with face hidden, a humiliation ball, will not help. I have, indeed, brought shame on all former cheerleaders.
It’s not this girl’s first rodeo with body embarrassment. Just last weekend, Baby Pea thought dragging me along to pure barre might be fun. For the uninitiated pure barre is a torture chamber filled with tiny-assed, sculpted-arm blondes whose warm up stretches marvel a Cirque de Soleil finale.
Half an hour in, my thighs shake so deeply sirens are heard about town. Check the news–there was talk of a small earthquake near Phoenix. I also discover sweat production from all manner of places. Did you know toes sweat? And scream in pain? Do you know how long it takes to hold arms above and behind your head before they tremble and squeal akin to lobsters hitting boiling water? Turns out, not long.
So now, because I don’t have enough to do with two jobs, personal public relations, a blog, chickens chickens everywhere, two cats and cocktail consumption, exercise must join the fray. No way in hell am I allowing my ass to keep me permanently grounded. I will cartwheel again. As God is my witness, I will cartwheel again.