For a one-time fee of just thirty-five dollars, Wine Walking Women, an elite group of two hundred ticket holders, get together on a Friday evening sometime in November.
It is the perfect alternative for those of you who don't have the time or the energy to make a deeper commitment to an exercise program.
There are no monthly payments.
There is no guilt.
I was a nervous little novice last year.
But I soon learned I needn't have been.
It was just the right amount of exercise and nothing too complicated.
Because I hate it when my hands are the only hands in the air and everyone else is facing the wrong direction.
It included a little bit of walking, a small amount of hula hooping, and the evening was topped off with some pretty wild dance moves down there in the Pit next to the pool table.
And lots of wine.
Some of it was pretty shitty wine.
But it just kept on coming.
Until nine pm.
And then we were like, "Wait. What? Where did everybody go?"
Well, we found them, down there in the Pit.
Jasmine's honey bun came and rescued us a little after midnight.
Even though not everybody made a clean dismount from his truck, we all did make it safely into our beds.
I was one of the luckier ones.
I got an added bonus last year.
I had a self cleansing experience and dropped a few pounds. Plus I gained twenty four hours of free rest and relaxation, as I was not able to make it out from under my covers until Sunday.
But you know what?
Getting into shape does not come easy.
There is a lot of work involved.
Of course it's going to hurt a little.
You have to be dedicated.
And you have to stay dedicated.
That is why I was shocked when my sweet Sven said, "No more wine walks for you."
At the time he said it, I did not make a fuss.
"Not a chance in hell will I ever go to that class again, Sven" I said.
"Ever."
But you know how it is.
All the pictures out there on FB only show the fun stuff.
When I was nine, my girlfriend and I made a triple batch of chocolate chip cookies for our first time in her kitchen.
The batter was incredible.
I bet I ate five cookies worth off the spoon that I was supposed to be dropping onto the greased cookie sheet.
With my head inside our toilet that night, I vowed that I would never eat a chocolate chip cookie again.
Ever.
And I didn't.
At least not right away.
And after parting a sea of people at a Santana concert when I was seventeen, I pledged that I would never let any amount of Southern Comfort ever pass these lips of mine again.
Ever.
And I didn't.
At least not right away.
And after giving birth to Marques at twenty-three, I swore that would never happen again.
Ever.
And it didn't.
The next one was named Rene.
Here is the thing.
Women are tough.
Women are dedicated.
Women like to get together with their friends and go out on the town.
And whoever came up with this whole idea of wine in every store is genius.
Yes, I attended WWW class again this November.
Of course I did.
I am no quitter.
And what a difference asking your sweet Sven to pick you up at nine-thirty can make.
I will admit that it was tough to leave the Pit.
The dancing next to the pool table hadn't yet begun.
But I, me, Millie Noe, did it.
Because I had to.
Sven was standing there looking right at me.
So.
I got into his truck.
And then just about the time we got to the bottom of cemetery hill I showed him the pretty pin I had purchased.
It was pinned to my jacket.
But my pretty pin wasn't pinned to my jacket.
"Shit!" I said.
"What?" he says.
"It is gone!"
"That's too bad."
"Um. Sven?"
"Yeah?"
"This is not my jacket."
He turned around and dropped me off.
I made my way back inside and waded through the crowd.
"You are back!" they said. "Have a shot they said."
I found my jacket and I climbed the stairs up and out of there for the second time.
That was will power.
And stair climbing is also excellent for your glutes.
So.
Even though on Saturday morning I realized in a panic that I had gone and lost my debit card and the million dollar key fob that I'd stuck into my jacket pocket rather than carry a purse around the prior evening, because who wants to exercise with a purse hanging from their neck?
I got over it.
Because I found them.
My debit card was back in my purse.
And that key fob, the one I did not want to tell Sven about, was back in the skinny drawer.
Apparently, if nothing else, I am very responsible.
Will I attend Wine Walking Women class next year?
Hell yes.
