Let It All Hang Out

So, I'm officially in the test group for Brazil Butt Lift®! Yay! But what does this all mean, you ask? 
It means, for the next 8 weeks, my ass (literally!) belongs to Leandro and his team at Beachbody.

I will be required to:
  • Attend one-hour  Brazil Butt Lift® classes - taught by Leandro of course - Monday through Friday, at a super swanky gym in the city. (An awesome perk is a temporary membership to said gym.)
  • Do an assigned BBL workout at home on the weekends, using the  Leandro's DVDs. (Currently available at www.beachbody.com/BrazilButtLift) Subtle right?
  • Give up all booze, sugar and other foods that make me happy but chubby. UGH!
  • Eat delicious, fresh, healthy meals that will be prepared and delivered to us daily for the next eight weeks. Since I am the person that eats three heaping spoons of peanut butter while trying to figure out what to make for dinner, this is so great for me!
  • Journal our experience weekly and submit our writing to Jessica, Leandro's right-hand gal and a spit-fire of a trainer.

But first, the "BEFORE" Photoshoot. You can imagine how pumped I was to read:

"This is the time to bring in your favorite pair of jeans that you've been trying to fit into and that cute bikini that's been sitting in the back of your closet!" HA! That cute bikini's still on the rack in a store I've never been in. But, I follow directions and head to my local Target to buy way-too-short workout shorts, a jazzy new pink sports bra and yes, a bikini. I do not own "aspirational" jeans and refuse to buy new ones till Leandro has re-shaped my tookus. So there.

2.15.2011 - THE PHOTOSHOOT:
Just when I thought giving birth in a teaching hospital would be the single-most exposure I'd have in one day, I got to wear a bikini in front of a production crew...while standing on a rotating turntable. Yep, there I was - dimply thunder thighs, flabby alabaster belly, rotating slowly under the bright studio lights, like lamb on a Gyro spit - for all the world to see. Awesome.

At least the make-up guy was kind enough to airbrush the regrettable tramp-stamp I got in Florida in 1996. Too bad there was nothing he could do about my thighs.