Like a doll

I’ve been a little blue lately for no real reason in particular, so earlier this week I decided to do something about it.

Knowing that exercise, especially aerobic exercise, naturally boosts all the “happy chemicals” like dopamine, endorphins and serotonin, I thought

I’d do something to get the old heart rate up. Since

I’m not a runner, unless someone with a knife is chasing me, I opted for a video dance work out. I searched YouTube for “top dance workouts” and listed in the top 10 was the Dance Workout with Barbie from 1992. Since it was intended as a “light workout for kids ages 5 and up,” I figured I could manage it. Besides, the sheer silliness of dancing with Barbie appealed to me.

Getting into the spirit, I put on a pink T-shirt, black shorts and pink athletic shoes and pulled my hair back in a pink scrunchy. I was ready to channel Barbie.

The video opens with a weirdly stilted, animated Barbie sitting in a dressing room in an oh so ’90s retro outfit which included hot pink leggings with matching leg warmers.

I wasn’t sure I could hang with the frozen-faced Barbie for the next 25 minutes so was relieved when she was replaced by “Kim,” a live person, who was just as pink and blond as Barbie

and would lead the session. Kim was backed-up by eight girls who were definitely not 5 years old but were younger than 13.

The 10-minute warm up consisted of some fairly straight forward but fastpaced side-to-side steps with some cheerleader-like arm movements. I held my own, but I was breathing pretty hard by the time it came to learning the first actual step: The Barbie Basic. This step, Barbie’s voice-over explains, would be used a lot during the workout as it “lets you catch your breath.”

You who? Not me.

Maybe those obviously professional, not average little girls from next door back-up dancers, I thought as I gasped for air while my arms and legs became a blur of thrashing appendages. And the ’90s electro pop played on (and on and on).

Then came the first moves: the Hot Foot,

Street Tap and Sidewalk Strut. Having never strutted before in my life, I struggled. Catching my reflection in the window I decided I looked far more like a deranged, perhaps rabid, peacock than I did a dancer. But I was moving. Though, I must admit, I was not any less blue. I persevered, ever hopeful, not to mention stubborn.

Then came the call to combine the steps and “put it all together.” Say what? I gave it my all but was more falling apart than putting it together when Barbie called out “you look so cool” in her perky pink voice. “Sure I do,” I thought as I smacked myself in the face and collided with the corner of the coffee table. That’s me, Mrs. Coolio.

At this point, as the sweat dripped into my eyes blinding me, Kim announced it was time to learn more steps. More steps? I thought as I tripped over my own two feet trying to do the Jamin’ Jogger, Mega March, The Attitude, Crisscross, Bunny Flop and Broadway Barbie. At the end of this sequence I definitely had an attitude and the only thing I’d jammed was my toe into the corner of the credenza. My legs got so crisscrossed that I found myself on the floor floppin’ like an injured rabbit with the acute awareness that Broadway was not in my future. And as far as happy goes, it remained elusive.

Then it was time for the free-style section when the sweatless Kim and Barbie, both shouted “do your own thing.” My thing at this point was gasping for air, limping around on my leg with a bad knee and using both my hands to support my lower back. I wasn’t sure that counted, but in the moment, it was all I could manage. I’d given up on attaining happiness. My sole goal now was to get through to the end of the workout without landing myself in traction.

At 24 minutes it was time for the cool down that included the Wacky Wiggle which I managed to do all the way to the kitchen where I got an ice pack and a couple of ibuprofen.

In the end when Barbie called for me to give myself a “pat on the back” and a “really big hug” it was all I could to lift my arms to get the pain meds in my mouth and the glass of water to my lips.

My beloved, who had peeked into the living room a few times during my 30 minute quest for happiness but mostly stayed out of the way likely for his own safety as I’d been an out-of-control whirling dervish, cautiously asked, “What were you doing? You OK?”

Red faced, drenched in sweat with my ponytail askew and eyes a bit teary, I answered, “Nooooo. I was trying to boost my happy chemicals. I thought if 5 year olds could do it; if Barbie, who is 64, a year older than me, could do it; then so could I.”

“Barbie’s a doll,” he said shaking his head and helping me to the sofa before walking into the kitchen.

“So, your point is what?” I hollered after him.

He didn’t answer but returned a few minutes later with avocado, egg and spinach toast sprinkled with pumpkin seeds, a sliced banana and a bag of Hershey’s dark chocolate kisses.

“My point,” he said placing the plate of serotonin, endorphin and dopamine boosting food in front of me and kissing my forehead, “is you’re my doll.”

And I felt the joy.