The first month of the year is always an annoying month for
the regular gym goers. Okay, I have to admit that I have sort of fallen off the
wagon for a few months now (off the wagon and into a bakery that is), but even
so, walking into the gym and seeing these random people huffing and puffing all
over my machines, people that I have never seen before in my entire life, makes
me want to go all Carrie on their ass and set the place on fire. I wish I could revert to my young playground
days when I used to stand in front of the swings and count to one hundred. When
I got to one hundred, whoever I was standing in front of had to immediately get
off the swings and give me my turn. I would always count super fast so that I
could quickly get on the swing and once again be a free woman with the wind
blowing in my hair. If I could only count to one hundred and maybe skip a few
numbers in between to get these seasonal gym wreckers off my machine, I would. That, or just drop-kick their ass, but I might have to stretch first.
As I wait for my turn on the elliptical, I begin to think
about how we women put so much pressure on ourselves to be thin and look great.
And for who? Is Brad Pitt coming over? Is
Angelina coming over? Who are we trying to impress here? I guess I really don’t
have room to talk on this matter. I mean, I’ve done probably every drastic
measure out there to lose weight and look absolutely fabulous from time to time. So let me tell you about them…
Quick Disclaimer: I do not condone any of my actions. Do not
try this at home.
Sooo… Of course I
have done the whole dieting thing where you eat nothing but crappy healthy stuff
that tastes like dog food or the sofa. I have tried the general working out
stuff: gym, running, kickboxing, hiking, puking. I have also tried starving
myself which just leads into a late night binge of Cheetos, Mexican food and a soda, and results in an early morning pooch. That's
never cute. Every now and then however I am forced to quickly get in shape and
do something a tad more extreme. I mean come on, if a dress is really cute and calls
your name, but only comes in a two sizes too small, you gotta act fast! No one
likes muffin top, or in some cases…pillow top.
Once my addiction to the original Hydroxycut (the good stuff with
ephedra) was banned by those inconsiderate bastards called the FDA for silly
reasons like possible heart attacks and death, I had to find a new hobby. I don’t
know about you other ladies out there, but Midol always wakes me up and gives
me the craziest energy. Popping a couple of Midol’s and then getting a good run at
home or in the gym was always ten times more progressive than doing it clean. I could run like Forest Gump (or a crack head running from the cops) and sweat like a
hot tamale (they sweat…trust me). Hop into the sauna on that stuff and you are
gold. You come out half a person lighter.
I have also tried much more extreme measures that I am
embarrassed to even mention. But hey, we’re all friends here right? Once, with only
two weeks left before New Year’s Eve, every day I wrapped myself in saran wrap underneath
my sweats for a good treadmill run. Sure I looked like a leftover Oscar Mayer Wiener,
but worked up a sweat like a whore in church! Another time, with only a week and half until a
Vegas trip, I called on Alli. Alli is not an ally. I suggest wearing a panty
liner if you ever use it and never mistake a call to the ladies room for a
fart. You better run…Run girl, run! That was a short lived experience that I do
not care to revisit. Speaking of which, I have also grown a fondness of fiber
pills and laxatives. Sometimes this encourages me to eat more…it balances
itself out. I learned my lesson however one morning while at my new job. I had
been working in this new position for a month at this point. Taking both
laxatives and fiber pills simultaneously for about 3 days, I came into work as
usual and grabbed a cup of black Starbucks crack to start the day off right.
Have you figured out where this is going yet? Feel free to cover your ears and loudly
chant” La La La La La!” during this part of the story. About 4 sips into my coffee I had the urge to
go numero dos. Before I could even stand up I heard my stomach make a gawd awful
sound, like a volcano about to erupt, and then it happened. Sigh. That’s right… I... I shit my pants. I
shit my freaking pants. I shit my freaking nice work lady dress pants. I shit
my freaking adult nice work lady dress pants at work! I shit my fucking pants!
Oh my God, as I am saying this to you I am getting red in the face all over
again. I was mortified! Babies shit their pants. Old people shit their pants. Young ladies should never shit their pants! I quickly ran to
the lue to see what I could do… absolutely nothing. I just stood there, a red-faced
grown ass adult with tears in my eyes and shit in my pants. Luckily I was the
first and only person to be in the office for at least an hour. I quickly drove
my shitty ass home, crying the entire way. I washed my ass, disposed of the evidence,
and headed back to work with some new gear, wishing I had a burka, never to
speak of this to anyone. Until this very moment it was a repressed memory. Don’t tell anyone.
The price of being
socially acceptable is high.
