And you thought Sunday was for resting. Church or contemplative reflection. A little nap on the couch after a run at Whole Foods if you remembered to bring the list. The Sunday paper if you can find your glasses. Maybe a stroll in Wildwood Park if you can track down where you left your shoes. Or a movie if you can figure out which theater is which . . . at the confusing but wonderful Muvico at The Oaks.

You know, calm stuff.

“GET THOSE KNEES HIGHER!”

Be still my tubby soul. On Sunday mornings, I am hip to blubber bootcamp. Exuberant exercise administered by Attila the Hun’s daughter. Dance it with me baby. Dance. Or else.

Can’t find my drink or man. Where are my keys, I lost my phone.

What’s going on on the floor?

Go GAGA go. Actually, our drill sergeant’s name is Cindy . . . or Luciana . . . depending on the day. Both lithe little firm taut things that remind me how things on my side of the fence are looking a tad ugly.

No worries. I’m telling you, I’m bounding and boogying to Lady Gaga and the Gagettes while making myself lovelier and healthier. Oh, who am I kidding, to heck with healthy. I want to look like Christie Brinkley. So, I’m delusional. We’re all entitled to dream.

This bootcamp for bountiful broads is also known as Cardio TNT and takes place, legally, with our consent at the Total Woman gym on Sunday mornings.

“PUNCH! THAT’S IT, PUNCH IT!”

We’re the Gagettes. I think. The Gaga is our mentor, and even though we teethed on Elvis and Doris Day, we’re tight with heavy metal if it makes our derrieres jiggle to a lesser degree. Reduce the jiggle we say. Do they measure fat in degrees? Oh, who cares. Just dance. Gonna be okay. Da-doo-doo-doo Just dance. Spin that record

babe.

And here’s the part I really love. This gaggle of female protoplasm comes in every shape, size, age and container. Real ones, fake ones, some that look real and some that look fake. How do we do it?

Some of us have been in the oven a little longer than others. We’re lumpy and lardy, lanky and tardy. Whether it’s detox or Botox you’re into, it’s a hoppin’ aerobic fest of girls, gals, broads and probably a lush or two. Can’t tell.

“WATCH ME! GRAPEVINE WITH A TWIST!”

Yes, Madame Attila. Move that bod. Those feet. Why can’t my Nike Airs vault me into the air? They’re not doing their job, and I want my money back. How come that old gal over there is moving faster than I am? She makes it look easy and makes me look like I’m tied to a plow.

Dr. Seuss couldn’t even come up with the pen to describe our colors. We make the Cat and Horton appear as certified nerds.

Roses have thorns they say. And we’re all gettin’ hosed tonight. What’s going on on the floor? I love this record baby, but I

can’t see straight anymore.

Not exactly Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but there’s a time and place for everything, isn’t there? As for variety, there’s one of us from each girlie “genus ovarium crazarium Westlake Villagium.”

Put that in your Funk & Wagnalls. That means we all live within a 30-mile radius and manage to get our sorry fannies in the door for blubber bootcamp. For an explosion of hormonal jive.

After our riotous romp, for a little cool-down we get to the real Sunday agenda and head to Sweet Arleen’s for cupcakes and bread pudding. Yum. Betcha Christie Brinkley eats cupcakes and bread pudding. Well, maybe not. Oh, who cares.

You can e-mail Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.