Slow burn to slinky

It's sunrise at Total Woman in Westlake Village. Picture a bucketful of totally crazy women, united in pursuit of slenderosity and wonderfulness.

Yup, turns out I'm not alone in my quest. It's a slinky saloon with a gas of gals doing jumping jacks to KC and the Sunshine Band. And stepping over puffy plastic rectangles in time to "That's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh."

We can't remember our kids' names or if we even have 'em, how we got to class, where we parked our cars or what we had for dinner, but we do know how to do the boogaloo and the frug. Oh yeh, baby.

Scary, isn't it? Uh-huh, uh-huh.

With each twist and shout, the hot flashes are firing faster than the Triton II missile. You'd think the muscle armature of these bods would warm up like the polar ice cap, but no luck, sista. Watching our lithe and nimble bodies loosen up for the day is a little like trying to float an andiron in the pool.

Speaking of pooling, if we collected all our ovaries, we still couldn't squeeze a thimble of hormones from the bunch. Ah, well, there may be a few young babes in the group who still haven't heard from AARP, but to heck with them. Their day will come. Neener neener neener.

But we are determined. Well, I am. They are disciplined exercisers. I'm trying to reconstitute my slimness before someone writes Goodyear on my side and floats me over the Coliseum.

Besides struggling to get my mojo working, I hate seeing the ones who have good hair at 6 a.m. You know what I mean? I know I'm supposed to be thinking about exercising and embrace my "inner natural beauty," but when you get to the gym at 6 and there are women who look adorable, it's depressing. Frankly, it is not in compliance with the 11th Commandment: "Thou shalt look dreadful before 8 a.m."

Sure, I've done my best to get the spinach out of my teeth and leave the retainers behind, but I'm no ravishing beauty at dawn. I don't understand how women can get out of bed looking like they did when they turned off the lights.

Yes, they exist. I see 'em in the morning and I'm reminded why I crank that visor down on my head to hide boisterous bangs and eyelids that droop like granny's venetian blinds. And whatever else needs hiding. Too bad I can't find a visor to hide my thighs. You know how it works—I figure if I can't see it, no one else can either.

So I'm frugging and stepping and cavorting like "Horton Hears a Zoot Suit Riot" by the Cherry Poppin' Daddies . . . and I'm thinking. I'm thinking about moving to France because my sister says French women don't get fat. Sure enough, do the research—those lovely ladies who eat cheese, butter and baguettes and slurp down vino like Bacchus are slinky without doing the two-step to "What Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?"

Just think what they've been missing.

If moving to France isn't an option, I could try that highly tested, highly regarded classy product, Overdrive XP.

Got an e-mail about it that read: "Don't mess around with berry juice, worm eggs, colon scrubbers, leeches or any other outdated weight-loss method. OverDrive XP is the most uptodate appetite suppression and fatburning formula available. Until now it has been a *secret* available to a select few."

Overdrive XP? Is this a supplement or a dune buggy? It's a secret, spammed to 20 million Americans. Especially those with junk in the trunk.

Think I'll stick to doing the Funky Chicken and the Bristol Stomp with my girlfriends. Uh-huh, uh-huh.

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.