It is January and time to make a New Year’s resolution, that will change the world.
It is time to start working out.
And, did you know that dancing is exercise?
Mille Noe is always in step with the latest moves.
I can say this, because people who know me, do not read my blog.
Last year, my resolution was to skim off five pounds.
Last year, I gained five pounds.
This year, my goal is to drop seven.
You are probably thinking, “Well, Millie, that does not compute. Shouldn’t you be shooting for ten?”
You see, this takes a very scientific calculation and sometimes traditional math just doesn’t add up.
A few new wrinkles have worked their way into my face. So now, I will need to hang on to a little bit of the extra baggage to smooth out my skin.
One must be conscience of all parts that are falling apart.
It is not all about the scale.
It is a little bit like baking.
I don’t bake, except for those two years in my life that we owned a bakery, but, I heard on a cooking show, that if you triple a recipe by simply multiplying all the ingredients by three, your muffins are going to taste like shit.
I cannot prove this because I don’t make muffins anymore. And, I am staying away from muffins anyway.
I am surviving on a strict diet of fruit and nuts.
I can say this, because people who know me, do not read my blog.
This year Sven did not make a New Year’s Resolution.
So, he is probably going to win.
For example, he told me that he lifted weights today.
Whatever. I wasn’t home. He can stick a little gold star on the calendar if he wants to. It’s his conscience.
If I only had rhythm.
If I could keep a beat, my resolution would be, bring home the Nobel Peace prize, because I wouldn’t be saddled with those annoying seven pounds.
Okay, time to fess up.
I cannot dance.
The fact that I cannot dance, has been very hard for Millie to accept.
She is still in denial.
I do wish that she would stop ordering all the DVDs.
I mean, I get it. The women are gorgeous as hell. They look like they are having a great time and they make synchronized movements, look easy.
But, it is always the same story.
The DVD arrives in the mail.
Millie tears it open. And, I know that my life is about to change. She is going to become a nag.
I will walk in the door after work.
I will take Bob Barker, aka, Hunter, for a walk.
And then it will begin, “Come on, put the DVD in.”
If I find the time to put the DVD in, there will be no room to dance. And, if I find the room to dance, there will be no time to put the DVD in.
And, if I do find the time and the room, the DVD player will not work.
That is just a law.
For your information, if all of the stars are aligned, and the DVD player is working too, it still will not matter. You will quickly learn, if you are Millie Noe, that you cannot follow the fucking moves, anyway.
It all started when I was a kid with high expectations.
Variety shows were a dime a dozen and they all came with chorus dancers.
I thought, “I would like to be one of those girls. Or else, maybe an astronaut.”
I figured the dancers must make a ton of money, since they were on T.V. They never had to exercise after work. And, they had all of those cute outfits hanging in their closets.
It was perfect.
Of course, if I were to become an astronaut, I could live out my other passion, of floating around at the end of a chord and staring at the universe, out the little round window of the spaceship.
But, the truth is, dancing did not come naturally to me.
And, I have my father’s stomach.
Don’t get me wrong. I can tap my toes. I can feel the music. And, I can wiggle all over a dance floor.
I just can’t dance.
And, Nassau never came looking for Millie and her barf bag, either.
It became clear after awhile, that I would have to make a new life choice.
My friend talked me into trying out for cheerleading.
“Come on, Millie. It’ll be fun,” she says.
“But, I can’t do that kind of stuff,” I argued.
“It’s just clapping and jumping,” she says.
“Um. I am pretty sure they do cartwheels too.”
“You can do it,” she says.
We broke into small groups and practiced one simple cheer for a half an hour in the gym. It went like, clap, clap, stomp, stomp, jump, or something like that.
Or, maybe it was stomp, stomp, clap, jump, clap, jump. Or, it could have been, jump, stomp, clap, stomp, jump.
I did not make the squad.
My girlfriend did.
But, that was fine. There were lots of other ways to have fun and to get into shape at the same time.
I went out for the swim team.
I am a Pisces. I can swim like a fish.
The coach stuck me in lane number ten, which was packed full of all of the other shitty swimmers.
But, never fear.
In the spring, I signed up for track.
Track is just running.
Everybody can run.
Well, after running through the halls for hours, because it was raining, all the while wondering what was fun about it, I took a shower and then boarded a city bus, which took me to the end of the city and then back to my school. I was never so happy to see my school. I pulled the chord and got off that bus. I went back inside. I found a payphone and I plugged it with a dime.
My mother came to pick me up.
She didn’t even yell at me.
Organized sports just were not meant for Millie Noe.
Yet, one must stay fit. And, this is especially difficult and critical after the child bearing years.
Line dancing was a big deal in the eighty’s.
I was not a big country music fan, but, those boots.
Line dancers had their own line of boots.
I bought a pair, because, I have an addiction to shoes. (See: Millie De Marcos)
But, I soon realized, that I couldn’t just strut around in my line dancing boots.
They were for line dancers.
If you had a pair, you were expected to dance in lines, in them.
I signed up for a night class.
There, I was, out on the polished wood floor, in a line of dancers, between lines of other dancers, hanging onto my belt buckle and doing the Boot Scootin’ Boogie.
Millie Noe finally found something that she could do. She would be able to dance her way into a perfect figure.
Life was good.
And then, my line of dancers went to the left. And then, Millie Noe went to the right.
She quickly turned around to get back into the groove and found that she was facing the line of dancers behind her.
“Slide, kick, hop,” said the instructor. “Kick, hop, slap.”
Or was it, “Kick, slide, slap?”
Millie Noe could not line dance.
Well, after line dancing, came the Macarena.
Not for Millie.
And, now the Macarena song is going to be stuck in my head.
However, I am very proud to say, that I, me, Millie Noe, can do the, Hokey Pokey, like nobody’s business.
And, I am not even lying.
But, Sven and I do not get invited to enough weddings in a year to count this as our workout program. And, unfortunately, they hardly ever do the Hokey Pokey, or the, Chicken Dance, which I am also very good at, at funerals.
Claudette convinced me to try water aerobics. Water aerobics was perfect. Nobody even knows what the hell you are doing under the surface.
But, the classes cost money. The chlorine was burning my eyes and eating up my swimsuits, like they were potato chips. And, I tired of popsicle locks of hair.
I live in Wisconsin, the frozen tundra.
But here we are again, January.
I say, screw all those DVD’s.
I say, it is time for Millie to dance and for others to follow Millie’s moves.
If you would like a, Thoroughly Modern Millie Dancer, DVD, just send four easy payments of $19.95, to www.millienoe.com.
And right now, if you sign up today, I will throw in a rare, collector’s item, second DVD of, Boot Scootin’ Millie, for just $9.99.
Then, kick the dog toys out of your way and just do whatever I do.
Before you know it, it will be, bye, bye, seven pounds.
Or is that, Miss American Pie?
Actually, it will be good-by to both.
There will be no pie in your future. You should have stuffed your face with as much of that shit as possible, in November and December.
This is January, people.
And, in all seriousness, if all of your good intentions and all of your efforts do not get you to your goal immediately, do not let it get you down. It will be okay. Life has a way of throwing horrible, shit at you, and sometimes even the stomach flu, just when you think you will never get your pants buttoned again. It’s just a big cycle.
So, don’t ever throw your old stuff away.