The art of learning BODYPUMP

This morning was an exciting day at the gym. Not only did I have a decaf coffee from McDonald's spiked with a creamer (a rare order for me) but we added an 8 a.m. Spinning class at the gym and I debuted three new tracks during BODYPUMP.

The tracks weren't exactly new but new to us - they were from the 82 release, which we never launched because of problems with Les Mills autoship. I actually got 83 and taught it for a month before I got the earlier title.

And while I love BP 83, we have been working out to it for two months. Not only can the person get bored but the muscles can, too, and I knew it was time to switch it up. I decided it wasn't feasible to learn 82 in its entirety but I could get down a few tracks to keep things fresh.

Learning the releases can be a very individual process but for everyone, and it takes some trial and error to figure out what works best for you. Eighty-two is my third release to teach, and I think I'm finally getting a process.

Listen to the music. And listen. And listen. I'm not a music-oriented person - at all. I can say that a song is my favorite and not be able to sing the words when I hear it on the radio. It's actually a running joke between Mark and me. For BODYPUMP, I start by listening to the whole release a couple times - on the way to work or on the occasional run. After that, I focus on the first two songs and add on as I learn the music.

Class time. In our release kits, instructors receive not just the CD of music but a DVD with the masterclass, which is taught by the Les Mills elite, and choreography notes. Once I feel like I know the rhythm of each song, I take the class. Sure, it's in my ever-inspiring unfinished basement but it's cool and child-free. Following along with the DVD is the first time I encounter the choreography, and I try to take note of new innovations and proper form.

Follow along. Taking the master class allows me to move to the music and when I listen to it afterward, I'm able to picture the moves. I begin to listen to the CD with the choreography notes so that I can mentally pair changes in the music to changes in the moves.

Practice, practice, practice. Once I think I know the music and the choreography, I begin to practice the tracks without the hep of the DVD. I might practice a track or two during commercial breaks or while Miles is eating breakfast. Heck, I've been known to listen to my iPhone in the bathroom at work and practice squats. No worries - I always choose the one less used and only do so when it's empty.

Script. BODYPUMP would be incredibly boring if the only thing the instructor said was "2-2" or "super slow." Using a (not so much) state-of-the art spreadsheet, I map out the choreography and cues for proper form. I try to add in some jokes or tie-ins with the lyrics to keep it light. While I'd love to keep things spontaneous, I end up stammering when a class isn't mapped out. It's super attractive. Almost as attractive as the way I practice my script - in the car. Yes, I talk to myself as I drive home.

And for the final step? Plan the perfect outfit for the launch. Just kidding. Sort of. The final step is to teach it. Again and again.

Now for a question: Would you go to a BODYPUMP class at noon on New Year's Day? I have an idea for a launch of 84 to celebrate the New Year, New You at the stroke of noon. Noon, though, is a bit odd for a class time so I'd love feedback.

Food Friday: Tale of two slow cookers

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, lived a girl with striking red hair and the desire to live healthy. She was busy, though - maybe even too busy but she always tried to do the best she could.

One day, she wanted to make fajitas with all the proper accoutrements for dinner - peppers, onions, guacamole, sour cream and beans. The day would be busy, she feared, and dinner would be rushed and uninspired. She threw her head wearily onto the counter in defeat.

Crash. Bang. Thump.

The girl looked down and saw a pair of blue eyes and a mischievous grin. Her toddler was playing in a cabinet where she stored cutting boards, ice cube trays and slow cookers. The trays had clattered to the floor and a tiny arm made his way to a shiny glass object.

"No! Not my slow cooker!" she gasped, swooping in to take the lid from the boy. Just as it almost struck the floor, she was struck with an idea. Her dinner woes could be solved by the slow cooker and his little friend, too.

In the big slow cooker, she layered a sliced bell pepper, red onion and 8 ounces of mushrooms. Chicken breast went on top followed by a seasoning mix of cumin, chili powder and salt. While the recipe suggested fresh lime juice, the girl found she was out. With new found motivation, she was undeterred and added a sprinkling of True Lime before splashing in some chicken broth. The shiny silver pot was turned on low for eight hours. With a bing, dinner was as good to go as she could do.

With visions of re"fried" black beans dancing in her head, she added dry beans, water, bay leaves, cumin and chipotle chili powder to the white slow cooker. It might have been the less impressive, small and non-digital, but the crock was going to hold the night's most prized dish.

She skipped off to work, proud of what she had accomplished. Little did she know that the clouds had rolled in, darkened and the universe was ready to rain on her parade.

Tiny little trolls invaded her kitchen and turned the dinner upside down. The vegetables she so hoped would be cooked but definable became a mush at the bottom of the crock. The seasoning mix became an unpleasant crust on the chicken. Tiny little bones started to appear in the meat. The beans were turned to low instead of high - an egregious error as they had been unsoaked.

When the girl returned, her red hair bouncing with excitement as she walked through the door, walked hurriedly to the kitchen. Fajitas and salads were ready to be made and the bellies of her men were grumbling with hunger.

She took lid off crock No. 1 and gasped. The fajitas were an ugly mess and almost looked inedible. She was not deterred, shredding the meat and mixing it with the vegetables for burritos instead. It's all the same with re"fried" black beans.

Gasp.

Her loss of breath was audible as the girl opened the second crock. The beans were a sunken mass swimming at the bottom of a murky pool of water. She poked them with a fork, hopeful but discovered the trolls had dashed her visions. The beans couldn't be stabbed with a fork much lass mashed for re"fried" beans.

Her dinner was not to be, she resolved, and threw up her hands.

And then those hands turned the small crock to high. Beans might not be for dinner but with another four hours on high, they can make for a delicious lunch the next day and breakfast the day after that.

How's that for a fairy tale ending?