Can't spell class without the ass, and mine loves to shake

I may be in an identity crisis.

Deep down I wish I was classy, and since becoming a mother of two this sense of who I should be has only worsened. Before birthing children, it was not totally inappropriate to have tap-offs with an eight year old in a bathroom at a friend's engagement party, but now such behavior seems outrageous. My overpowering feeling of motherhood is that all moms should be refined, much like my blog inspiration, but what I should be and who I turn out to be time and time again are two totally different adjectives.

My ability to dress the part is on point. I love expensive clothes, can accessorize well, and have no problem tastefully applying makeup and styling hair. However I have studied the costume of the classy lady since I was a young girl. My subscription to Instyle started in 1993 and has always been renewed. That part I have down to a science and the picture above demonstrates this statement well, but if I had been photographed a few hours later you would see the cracks in the facade.

Another childhood obsession that has followed me into motherhood is the dance. It too I have studied since I was a very small girl, and it too has a level of refinement and class. Many years I spent fine tuning an arabesque and pirouette to classical music in traditional ballet attire, but my true gift in dance is more fitting in Addidas pants and a Kanga hat, which does not lend itself to the behavior of a classy mom. When the music starts bumping I can not stand all proper maybe shake a shoulder or a hip, because some think they can dance but I know I can dance, and such is my crisis.

I felt beautiful in the picture above, all details checked for a classy attire and for the beginning of the wedding reception I behaved as a June Cleever mother of two should. Drank a little, socialized with most and ate a small sample of the goodies. Then the DJ opened up the dance floor and in came my moment to shine. The moment to no longer be classy mom of two small babes but club-hopping, dropping it like its hot diva. I do not know what took over me, but as Gloria Estefan sang, the rhythm is going to get you, and Saturday night it did. Hip-hop invokes in me shoulder popping and hip shaking that gets others talking. During one song I took over the dance floor with every hip-hop dance from 1983 to today, and after that class ditched me like a bad habit and did not relapse. The highlight came on my reenactment of the Beat It video, and I was no longer dancing-off in the bathroom but in front of the entire reception. I brought it and loved every minute.

Is this kosher behavior for someone my age and in this stage of life? Is this something June would do? Is this classy? I don't think so, and may never know. But right now I know one thing, I don't care. I left that evening happy to relive the spunk I had at twenty-three, but feeling accomplished to still shake my ass off at thirty-three. For now maybe the crisis is averted, and maybe one day I will finally be classy. Maybe.

Friends-they may be more important than a push-up bra

Good friends, the type to tell you the truth even when it hurts are rare, and do not just fall into your lap. For most women these are the ladies that have been in your life for years and know you maybe better than you know yourself. As the title says money can help your tits look amazing, and while a great push-up bra may be close to priceless, strong friends definitely can not be bought.

I am blessed with friendships that I have described above, amazing college friends that have weathered many storms and came out stronger, and I cherish everyday that they are in my life. The exercise bra of friends, if you will; comfortable, durable and able to withstand a lot of jiggle. But what do you do when the exercise bra you would not live without is left at the gym and relocated miles away by the stupid half-naked college chick who is too cheap-ass to buy her own amazing bra? I digress. One is forced to acclimate to the new, which for me is difficult. I am not always loved right away-like a strapless bra; at first I may make you uncomfortable but after a little adjustment you realize I will support you as you shake those tatas all night long.

My exercise bras are many miles away in Illinois and I am here in Alabama, and at first I was despondent in this new place. We were without anyone familiar and I was forced to forge new friendships, meet new women to connect with, get back my under wiring. The task ahead of me was tough, and I tried on many cup sizes until I felt fabulous. Mommies night out with the mommy group I joined was a total buzz kill, and mostly because there wasn't even a buzz.

However, for the first time in a few years I am finally rocking the wonder bra of Alabama friendships and I haven't felt more content. For women friendship is a must. I could not imagine if I still had to depend on Double D, my husband, for entertainment and conversation. Life would be a chore and I would not be the jovial(first adjective many think of to describe me-in my mind) mother and wife that I am at this moment. I need ladies to talk about sex, our mothers, and gossip, and Damon needs me to have these in my life.

After coming off an amazing time with friends wine tasting, karaoking, girl-talking and sunning at the pool, I am now blessed to be invited to share in a wonderful wedding week with kick-ass women who have come into my life at the right exact moment and hopefully vice versa. Friends that may be the ultimate push-up exercise bra ever, because even when we are getting dirty we still look good. Knockers up ladies!

Time to really ditch this fat ass

I easily admit that I am not one of those women who gives birth and bounces back to my pre-baby size weeks after leaving the hospital. Such is not my fate, and yes deep down I hate those chickies who do. Each time I had a baby I put on the normal baby weight plus enough back fat to make you cringe. It wasn't my goal, obviously, but it happened. Along with each one of my bundles of joy came a bundle of fat I could truffle shuffle for days. I hear celebrities and gurus talk about women who lose control when they're pregnant and eat anything not bolted down, and while I wasn't to that extreme, I didn't skimp on the seconds.

Well the time has come to get back to my fighting size. I started around the end of January and have had success since then, but I am ready to get legit-drop multiple sizes legit. The downfall: I love all food, and wine, and oh yeah beer. Now the food part is a necessity of life but the beer and wine, major contributors to muffin tops around the world. Now listen I live in Alabama and yes muffin tops are all the rage, but I just can not conform. So the hard part begins. It's time to swear off all that I love, and I am not a happy camper. Time to get in to the gym everyday and let my husband, the strength coach, perform his magic. Goodbye to cookies, and ice cream, and pizza. Damn it, I love them but I do not love looking in the mirror every morning and still rockng a mini F.U.P.A. (google it if you need to know).

I know that this is not a battle I fight alone. Many women my age can relate. Making a major change in your weight after the age of thirty is hell and takes an intense commitment. But for me, again, now is the time. I am about to start my summer break so luckily I will no longer be inundated by the sweet treats at work and I will have the time to get to the gym twice a day. But with summer comes cook outs and get togethers and many reasons to sit back and enjoy a beer. Ugh! Alright enough excuses.