10/25/2013 02:54 pm ET Updated Jan 23, 2014

West L.A. Moms Have Buns of Titanium, But at What Cost?

You know you're in West L.A. when the majority of moms have buns so tight they could open a pickle jar. West L.A. moms take their fitness routine more seriously than the cast of 300. In fact, during my pilates class the other day I could've sworn I heard one of the moms groan as she tuck, tuck, tucked, "For Spaaartaaa!"

Here are just a few of the exercises moms can participate in if they live on the Westside; Krav Magra (an Israeli Martial art which come in handy in long lines at Target), the Bar Method (isometric torture at a ballet bar), Yogaworks (think sweaty, stinky feet and Ouija breath), the Santa Monica Canyon steps (think running up and down a cliff hoping you don't trip in front of the UCLA men's volleyball team), Boot Camp L.A. (the website greets you with a trumpet blaring Reveille, the wake-up call for military grunts), Pop Physique (with sprung dance floors and eco mats for the globally conscious), Morning Crunch, Physique 57, Tiger Fit Boot Camp, Pilates Plus (minus and equal to) and the list goes on and on and on.

Mondays are the days I go to my friend -- call name: Tango 5-6's house for her unique boot camp. Tango has converted her garage into a mom torture/sweat/groan chamber. There's an elliptical machine, a rowing machine, one of those big plastic balls you do sit-ups on, yoga mats, a balance bubble, pull-up bars and a slew of weights ranging from 8 to 25 lbs.


(Freaking Tango 5/6 at age 47. Stop working out and eat a fried Oreo for Godsakes! Who are you, the Jesus of the gym?)

Four of us attend these Monday boot camps; the German, the Baker, the Coach and me, The Woman Formerly Known As Beautiful who is beautiful again.

We enter Tango's garage gym like Marines, grabbing dumbbells like ammo, planting our mats on the floor like flags on an outpost in the Korengal Valley. We get our war faces on. There's no smiling at boot camp. Then Tango sets our workout up on her iphone and at the chime of a little cellular bell we begin. Butt squats, crab walking, mountain climbers, bicycles, tris, bis, flys and thighs. It's brutal. And as we workout we discuss all the things we want to change about ourselves.

The German wants the fat sucked out of her inner thighs, the Coach, Baker and I want our muffin tops removed. Tango, who can do ten one-arm push-ups wants to do no-arm push-ups. We range in size from 2-10 (guess who's the lone 10?) But we're over 40 so things aren't pointing in the direction they did before and this JUST WON'T STAND.

We all know we're a little insane. I mean, what are we training for? The Apocalypse? Will we need to rescue our children from a plague of raining pitbulls? Do we really need to be more fit than we were at 20? Who's going to see us naked? If all goes well and we're never out on the dating market again that would be our husbands. And I think I'm safe when I say our husbands don't look as good as we do naked. (Love you honey). Is this all sheer narcissistic vanity driven by popular media's obsession with youth? Or are we just fighting the good fight against age and ultimately the least attractive of states, death?

Either way there's no denying that Los Angelino women are held to a stricter definition of beauty than almost anywhere else in the world. Perhaps if Tango, the German, the Baker, the Coach and I lived in Peoria, Illinois we'd skip exercising and just eat Ding Dongs dipped in Nutella all day. But we live in L.A. the land of perpetual sunshine and eternal youth. Tuck, tuck, tuck!

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