...but I go."

Too lazy to wake up early enough to get my own lane for lap swimming, I dragged myself to a water aerobics class at Lifetime this morning. I used to teach water aerobics, so I feel quite comfortable jumping into a pool and spending an hour doing frog-jumps and underwater jogging. Doing it pregnant, however, has put a spin on things.

What they don't tell you when you sign up for a membership at Lifetime is that you will be be parking your car in one of the most aggressive lots this side of Sam's Club. Not to mention that unless you drive a motorcyle in winter, the closest spot you can get to the door is 2,000 leagues away. I'm not entirely sure how far a league is, but I'm guessing it's pretty far if they use it to measure depths into the sea. Anyway, I felt decently lucky on this morning as I slowed near an open spot within actual walking distance of the door. And therein lies the mistake: you do not slow near anything in the Lifetime parking lot. I glared at the driver of a monstrosotiy of an SUV. And as it turns out, he was not pregnant! Jerk.

I heard a comedian the other day say, "I belong to a gym. Let me rephrase that: I don't belong there, but I go." This is how I have been feeling lately, which is reinforced in the locker room. As I peel off layers to find the suit that I'm wearing somewhere underneath the coat I can't zip, the frumpiest of sweaters, and the shirt that has magically shrunk itself so that it is now halfway up my middle, I note something else: when I yank my socks off, I see that my ankles have already decided to swell, by 9 am. At least at 24 weeks along, I can still see them.

Now, I am well -aware that water aerobics has its reputation. It's for those with joint problems like arthritis; for the elderly; and for the pregnant. As a former instructor most annoyed with Coffee Clatches using the pool time for catching up on last night's Canasta game, I would like to stand up for my choice of exercise and vouch that the workout you get is directly related to how much you put into it. You can get your heart rate into zones 3 and 4, if you pay attention, stay focused, and keep moving.

But I am no longer the instructor. I am now one of the three stereotypes. Okay, technically two, if you count my arthritic knee (which my husband, for entertainment purposes, asks me to say in the most elderly of voices.) So me, my belly, and my arthritic knee join in the workout. And it occurs to me that while I should be proud of myself for getting myself to Lifetime for some exercise, I feel more fit sitting on the couch with two remotes in-hand than jumping around in the water, where everything bounces with you. Hypothetically, (okay, the physics are behind it, but whatever), you are lighter in water. I am here to tell you that with the jiggling of excess Me, front and back, there is no WAY that I am lighter in water. If anything, my excess weight is hilighted in the pool. There is so much jumping in this set of drills that I actually need to hold my belly for the better part of the hour, for fear that when I bounce, my poor baby is going to get whiplash. Never mind the fact hat he's already in his own pool of water, which is just weird; being jostled in a pool inside another pool has got to at least somewhat resemble being stuck on some kind of terrifying carnie ride.

It has always bothered me that the hallmark soundtrack for water aerobics is Oldies. Who on earth actually gets motivated to move faster by listening to Oldies? Oh wait, I think I just answered that question. But really people, do you want to try to get fit listening to an artist named Chubby Checker? Would it kill the instructor to throw down some Justin Timberlake, Lil' Wayne, Brit-Brit, or Fat Boy Slim? Okay, maybe not that last one...