SPANXFor any woman who is larger than a size 6, there is most likely an outfit or dress that doesn’t display her figure as flattering as she would like.

For any woman who is smaller than a size 6…you can suck it, and I’m pretty sure we aren’t friends.

Fortunately, for those of us in the former category, the geniuses at Spanx created a product that allows women to put on undergarments of wonder, and give the illusion they are thinner than they actually are.

Normally, I’m not a fan of Spanx for a variety of reasons, the most important being that I am a fan of breathing and prefer to do it on a regular basis.

However, every now and again, a situation comes along that calls for Spanx.

Recently I had such an occasion.  I presented at a seminar and wanted to wear a sassy dress to deter the attendees from what was most likely going to be extremely boring presentation.

Tragically, the sassy dress I wanted to wear didn’t flatter my stomach the way I would have liked.

You see, I have a bit of a food obsession, and my love of food extends to all things fried and anything made by Hostess.  Please also see my other posts about my love affair with Chipotle.

I knew if I didn’t want to gross out my audience with fat rolls made of beans and rice, I needed to purchase a new pair of Spanx.

I headed to Target to make the purchase.  Normally, I buy Spanx at Saks, but the uptight saleswomen there tend to judge me and my $10 purse from Charming Charlies. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with those women and their plastic faces.

Although most of them lack the ability to make any facial expressions because of their Botox injections, I can still feel them judging me with their eyes…that, and the fact I was once mistaken for the cleaning lady.

I was asked to only enter the store from the rear to avoid detection from the other patrons.  Now it’s the only entrance I use.

I went into Target, avoiding the strong urge to grab a pretzel and some nachos from the snack shop, and headed straight for the lingerie section where I saw several packages that looked like this:


What the hell kind of marketing ploy was this?  Was Spanx serious? What amazing marketing mind brought this photo to the packaging designers and said “This drawing by my third grader of some naked chicks is really going to sell this product“?

I mean, I know me and my best black friend and Asian friend like to hang out wearing only Spanx and high heels, all the while throwing our hands in the air like we don’t care, smiling like idiots; but that’s only for the lucky people who answer our Craigslist “massage” ads.

What was this design?  Were these women wearing shirts or bras or were they just naked on top?  If so, where were their nipples?

What are the chances of three women being friends that don’t have nipples?  Maybe they met at a support group called Nipple-less ‘nonymous.  (I’m not aware of such a group, but I suspect at the meetings they drink out of bottles with huge nipples.)

Okay, back to the packaging.  You need to focus.

skinny woman in whiteWhat exactly was this drawing on the package supposed to suggest?  As much as I would have liked to analyze this further, I couldn’t as I was on a time crunch.

I hastily purchased the Spanx, along with a choice Hostess snack, and headed home to get ready.  Unfortunately, I didn’t realize I would spend the next 10 minutes engaged in a ferocious battle. I definitely didn’t realize who the battle would be with.

When I arrived home, I opened the package and pulled out the coveted product.  It looked like nude biker shorts for a very disproportionate person with tiny legs and a midsection the approximate length of a serpent.

I didn’t have time to waste so I immediately began putting them on…or trying to.

For those of you familiar with Spanx, you know that once the Spanx go on, they suck in your fat with such force that you feel like the top of your body is going to be propelled into space like a rocket ship. 

These undergarments are a launching pad for your midsection and believe it or not, that doesn’t make for a comfortable fit.I spent the next 10 minutes engaged in near deadly combat with nylon and lycra.  They were formidable opponents.

battleI literally fought the battle of the bulge as I grunted, cussed and tried to pull the material up.

After several f-bombs, I was ultimately successful in getting the Spanx into place, and breathed a sigh of relief…or tried to, but the constriction of my rib cage by this devil-product made that impossible.

Despite these new NASA qualifications, I was upset because I didn’t look nearly as good as the sketches on the package.

I had the biker-type shorts pulled up to my bra just as instructed.  I suspected it was my stance, so I tried out the rocking poses as advertised on the package.  However, I struggled to get my hands up over my head, so I decided to move on.

I put on my dress and surveyed the results.  Not too bad.  I really did look 10 pounds thinner, although my face aged 10 years from the battle.

I headed to work, but was incredibly uncomfortable the entire morning.  Normally, I drink a bottle of water and a caffeinated beverage of choice in the morning, but I didn’t drink either because I was petrified of going to the bathroom and removing the Spanx.

I knew I would never get them back on without a bite stick and a vat of Crisco.

little girl with arms upBy mid-afternoon I was so dehydrated I was beginning to get dizzy, which didn’t make for a good mood.  As I attempted to prepare for my presentation, I realized not one person commented that I looked thinner.

Was I really so big that the apparent loss of 10 pounds was just a drop in the bucket?

Was the restriction of my rib cage and the crushing of my thighs worth the misery I was experiencing?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn’t like what Spanx were doing to me.

True, I may have looked thinner (although if I did, no one noticed), but I didn’t like the way they adversely affected my mood.

So, just before going on for my presentation, I went to the bathroom and peeled the torture chamber off my body.

Words cannot describe the sweet relief I felt as my fat rolls dropped a foot and a half down to their normal location.  I felt like myself…fat rolls and all…and that was just fine with me.

I then celebrated my victory over the Spanx with a deep breath (my first one of the day), and a chocolate chip cookie…or two…

Not me, although this guy could use some Spanx.

scale2There’s no question that I like to eat.  No.  I love to eat.  One look at me and my double chins makes that crystal clear. 

I’ve always loved to eat, and it wasn’t until my mid-twenties when my eating caught up with me and I found myself living as a full time resident of Fatsville.  (Our mascot is Garfield, the lasagna loving cat, and our primary export is butane…some residents export more than others…)

I’ve known that I’ve been “chunky” for a long time.  Normally, I like to call myself fluffy, because it sounds much better than obese or fat and it makes me think of curling up with a fluffy blanket and a tub of ice cream.

Tonight, while I was at dinner stuffing my face with thousands of calories of buttery goodness, I realized that I’m a fat girl at heart.  Not just because I’m actually fat, and my heart is probably coated with cellulite, but because I act like a fat girl does.

This prompted me to start a list (because I love to number things.  It gives me a sense of power.)

So here are a few ways I know that I’m a fat girl.  Read up and take notes.  These are really enlightening thoughts.

1.  I will only attend social gatherings if there will be a good selection of food there.

I like to know that if I’m venturing out for an event, it’s worth my while.  I don’t mean that it’s a charitable event or it does something good for the environment; I mean I want to know if the food spread will be good.  Want me to come out and support Nurses for Newborns?

Not if all you have is a veggie tray and a rotisserie chicken.  Want me to bowl to help orphaned children?  Only if there are toasted ravioli and all you can eat pasta.  I’m not that charitable.

2.  No matter how full I am, I could still eat more.

I’ve heard people say things like “I just couldn’t eat one more bite.”  What?  Why not?  Of course you can.  Or at least, of course I can.  And I will.  I’m not a quitter.  If there is food on the table, even if my stomach is bursting and I’m actually sweating out steak sauce, I continue to eat until someone takes the food away.

So pass the rolls and keep the judgment to yourself (but please share your carrot cake).

3.  I remember events based upon what food was served.

I have a selective memory.  Some things I tend to remember quite well, while others are a bit more hazy.  Alcohol is typically involved as the cause for the latter.  Either way, I’m far more likely to remember an event in my life if I can associate it with food.  I’m like a fricking card catalogue of food and the Dewey Decimal system is in full effect in my brain.  First day of Kindergarten?

Woman Standing on Scale

Yeah, I remember it.  It’s filed under Sloppy Joes.  The day Princess Diana died?  I mourned her over corn dogs.  Nothing says the death of royalty quite like artificial meat dipped in a deep fryer.  So if you want me to remember something, make sure you serve something delicious (and lock the liquor cabinet).

4.  When I’m eating, I’m thinking about what and when I will eat next.

Doesn’t everyone do this?  While I’m chowing down on my foot long sub at lunch, I’m already thinking about my afternoon snack, and how long I have to wait until I can eat again.  I’m like a teenage boy who just discovered his father’s Playboy magazines and wants to slip off alone with them whenever he can.  In my case, the porn is chips and salsa with a huge helping of guacamole (and a side of shame and despair).

5.  When I go out to eat, my eye remains on the back room to see when they will bring out food.

I have a hard time concentrating on the conversation at a restaurant when I know that just behind those flapping doors is a world of food.  From chicken breasts to cheese balls, I know the only thing separating me from a wonderland of cholesterol and calories are those flimsy doors with windows made of plastic.

Every time a waiter slams through them, I wonder what delicacy he is holding and if I can get a glimpse, or even just a sniff of what he’s bringing out.  I realize this makes me sound like a serial rapist on an episode of Law and Order SVU, but I’m cool with that.  Christopher Meloni rocks.

And the final and most important way I know I’m a fat girl?  The scale.  She’s a fickle beast and although I tell myself she’s a lying nag…she’s probably telling the truth.  Either that, or she’s in cahoots with my pants.

Indian womanMy friend Skinnypants (not her real name) is super skinny and adorable. (Yes, I am calling her Skinnypants in this blog.  I’m not feeling super creative.)

If I didn’t like her so much, I would hate her (although part of me secretly does.  She and her skinny jeans can suck it).  Over the last year, she has continued to drop weight from her tiny frame, while I continue to gain it on my ever expanding frame.

If we were cars, she would be built on the frame of an adorable Mini Cooper that would be purchased by a wealthy father for his adorably tiny 16 year old cheerleader daughter.

I, on the other hand, would be built on the frame of an F-150 and would be purchased by the 300 pound farmer for use hauling manure on the farm.  (But hey, at least I’d be more useful than a short skirted teen yelling out how to spell “defense.”  I got it.  I passed the fifth grade.)

What’s even more infuriating than her rapid and constant weight loss, is her allegation that she has no idea how she is loosing the weight.  She says it just keeps dropping and she doesn’t really know how she’s doing it.  Bitch.

Although I like my friend, I dislike her incessant weight loss.  I’ve been trying to deal with this issue internally like a good friend does.  I’ve accomplished this feat by talking about her behind her back and constantly rolling my eyes whenever she looks away.

I do all of this without her knowing because I’m a really considerate friend that way and I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

But now it’s just getting ridiculous.  Saturday she arrived at my house to go to lunch with me and my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name).  The three of us planned a long girls’ lunch at one of our favorite local restaurants.  (And no, it wasn’t the Quick Trip, although that’s a completely reasonable guess.)

Pajama Jeans arrived at my house first, and we discussed Skinnypants’s weight loss, and realized our burning dislike of her was directly proportional to the amount of weight she lost.  We agreed that if we wanted to save the friendship, we would have to stage an intervention with her.

After all, we didn’t want to lose our friend, but we also couldn’t be seen with someone who could actually fit into t-shirts from the children’s section at The Gap.  (Wearing a child’s Elmo t-shirt, whether done ironically or not, is just not something we could support.)

Skinnypants solidified our decision to proceed with an intervention when she walked into my house for lunch.  She was wearing a tank top and adorable skinny white jeans.  Was she trying to slap us in the face?  White jeans?  And skinny white jeans?

woman with donutTypically, white makes the wearer look heavier, or in my case, makes me look even larger than my stated poundage.  But somehow, Skinnypants managed to look adorable in the white jeans.  For a brief moment, I considered throwing ketchup all over her to ruin her perfect outfit, but I’m lazy and didn’t want to clean up the mess.

I also didn’t want to waste such a precious condiment on someone who wouldn’t appreciate its sugary goodness.

We drove to the restaurant together, chit chatting and pretending like everything was normal.  An unsuspecting Skinnypants sat in the backseat completely unaware of what was about to go down.  Part of me felt sorry for her, but one look at her toned abs and flat stomach melted away any pity I had for her.

I was also starving, as the protein bar I ate that morning curbed my appetite for approximately 3 minutes.  I was crabby.

We arrived at the restaurant, sat down, and ordered drinks immediately.  We also started out with an appetizer.  (What are we, animals?)  We allowed Skinnypants to make it through the appetizers and the main course unscathed, but after we ordered dessert, we knew it was time to put the smack down.

She got up to go to the restroom (hopefully not to purge), and Pajama Jeans and I decided the time had come to start the intervention (and to get a refill.  What did we have to do to get some good service from our waiter?)

Skinnypants returned and sat down, not knowing her life was about to change.  We confronted her immediately.  I started the intervention, mostly because I’m a bossy pants, but also because I was the heavier of the two of us, so I had more of an axe to grind (and a stomach to fill).

I channeled the counselor from “Intervention” and began my pep talk.  “Skinnypants,” I said, in my best authoritative voice, “We need to talk.  Pajama and I have noticed your consistent weight loss and we’re at a crossroads.  (And not the delightful movie with the same name starring the ever so talented Brittney Spears.)


blurry stop sign


It’s time to terminate our friendship, as we can’t continue down this path with someone who thinks a belly roll is a type of Pilates exercise.”

She looked shocked and dumbfounded, and I swear the sunlight hit her face just right at that moment and she was actually glistening.  It wasn’t helping her case.  “I can’t help it.  I don’t know how I’m losing weight.  I don’t even exercise.  And I don’t keep track of my weight.  I don’t even own a scale.”

This was not the right thing to say.  I could see the anger burning in Pajama Jeans’ eyes, and I physically put my hand on her shoulder to hold her back.  I knew a punch to Skinnypants’s face wasn’t the right way to start this intervention.

But seriously, the last thing a skinny person should tell two women struggling with weight loss is that she doesn’t know how she’s losing weight because she’s not exercising.

“Um, what can I do to keep this friendship alive?” she asked, looking at us with an adorable face that lacked a second chin.

“I’m glad you asked,” I stated, looking around anxiously wondering where the waiter was with the desserts (and my iced tea.  Seriously, homeboy needed to just leave the pitcher on the table).  You can commit to making this relationship work, but it’s going to take some effort and commitment on your part.  This is an intervention and we are demanding you stop losing weight.  Our friendship is on the line, and is there anything more important than the right to call Pajama and I your friends?”

skinny.jpgThis was a ridiculous question and she knew it.  Pajama Jeans and I are awesome, and anyone would be happy to call us friend.  We had her.  Now it was time for me to lay out the terms.

“We mean business.  This intervention is serious and we require several things to make this work.  First, no exercise.  We’re serious.  Not even a jaunt around the block.  If you’re serious about our friendship, you will avoid anything that could even remotely increase your metabolism.” We said, in our most menacing tone.

“Second, you need to increase your caloric intake.  No skipping dinner or just having a salad.  If you want to have a salad, it must be drenched in high calorie dressing and topped with fried chicken, the way salad is intended to be eaten.”

She stared as us both, trying to gauge how serious we were and whether we were committed to sticking to these guidelines.  One look in Pajama Jeans’ eyes told Skinnypants that we were dead serious.  Serious as a heart attack induced by a diabetic coma.

I’m not sure if it was the threat of losing our friendship, or the fact that the desserts arrived, but Skinnypants agreed to our terms and said she would eat more.  Happy with our intervention, Pajama Jeans and I turned our attention to the desserts we ordered and proceeded to stuff our faces.

We also made sure Skinnypants ate more than her fair share of the desserts, although we advised her we wouldn’t accept hoarding the desserts either.  She needed to share.

All three of us left the intervention lunch feeling good about our friendship and even better about our blood sugar levels.  I suppose only time will tell if Skinnypants sticks to her end of the bargain.

I’ve ordered a scale to be delivered to her home and have asked that it be set to read less than what she actually weighs.  I’ve also asked the delivery man to deliver the scale along with a chocolate pound cake and a gallon of ice cream.


I hate working out.  Yes, I realize that’s shocking considering my svelte body and my biceps made of steel (really, they’re composed of a combination of rice from Chipotle and anything fried and dipped in ranch dressing).

Even though I hate going to the gym, if I have any hope of continuing to occupy only one seat on an airplane, I know I must work out.  Since I’m not “that girl” at the gym, and I’m also not a masochist, I hate going to the gym.

So if I have to go sweat it out, I prefer to go with one of my best friends.  Enter Downtown Christy Brown.  (Not her real name).

DTCB and I joined a gym together and go there in an effort to lose weight.  We hoped that just going to the gym would allow us to lose weight without actually engaging in physical activity, but we discovered that wasn’t the case.

The gym doesn’t make you lose weight just by stepping inside its doors.

If it did, I would take up residency there with a jar of Nutella and an endless supply of carbs.

However, a workout is required at the gym if you want to lose weight, and although we get our heart rates pumping at the gym, we have some concerns that each visit  may be our last.  We’re pretty sure we’re on borrowed time at the gym, and sometime soon we are going to be permanently kicked out.

Here’s a list of a few reasons why.

1.  We talk about ridiculous things while working out

dog in glassesFrom body odor to the genital herpes we’re sure the skinny girl on the treadmill has, our discussions at the gym have no restrictions (and no filter).

For some reason, with the noise of the elliptical machines pounding in our ears (and the feel of oxygen escaping our lungs at a rapid rate of speed), we figure we can talk about whatever we want while we’re at the gym.

No subject matter is off limits, regardless of who is on the machine next to us.

If the 55 year old male doesn’t want to hear about the annual trip to the lady doctor, he should either switch machines or turn up the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond he’s pretending to watch, because we will be discussing every last detail, from the snotty receptionist to the overly chilly medical equipment.

And who watches that show anyway?  Here’s the synopsis of every single episode:  Raymond does something stupid, Debra forgives him, and Lisa Newlin bangs her head against the wall at the lack of creative writing.

2.  DTCB yells ridiculous things when she thinks no one can hear

yellingNews flash to DTCB:  Just because you can’t hear anything because the blood is rushing to your head and you’re feeling faint, doesn’t mean others can’t either.  They can hear everything just fine.

So yelling “running really loosens up my bowels” at the top of your lungs while running on the treadmill isn’t the smartest decision to make…although it gives me an excuse to fart freely, as everyone will assume you’re the culprit with your loose bowels and noxious gas.

So I guess I should say thank you for that.  But other than that, please remember that although I enjoy your random announcements about the status of your bowels, other gym-goers might not be that interested.

3.  We provide encouragement to people who probably don’t want it

I like to think we are being helpful, but I’m pretty sure the elderly Asian man we encourage to “punch it” on the treadmill disagrees. Seriously though, that guy is a machine!

Since DTCB and I find we need motivation to work out, we assume others do too, and take it upon ourselves to provide that service to other gym-goers free of charge.  (We’re so charitable.)

We seem to believe our motivational shouts will encourage others to work that much harder.  What would probably work better as a motivational tool, would be if I stood in front of each patron’s workout machine wearing nothing but a tankini and board shorts.

The sight of my chunky thighs and “fluffy” gut would encourage them to run that extra mile on the treadmill, and to remember to pick up cottage cheese on the way home.

4.  DTCB runs on the treadmill with jazz hands

Hamster Getting a Workout on Spinning Wheel --- Image by © Royalty-Free/CorbisI wish this one wasn’t true, but it is.  The worst part is that she truly doesn’t realize she does it.  As if yelling about the status of her bowels isn’t enough, she finds it necessary to run with her hands flexed and open, as if she’s ready to karate chop anyone who comes near her machine.

Sometimes she looks like she’s in the middle of a show choir routine, and I find her shaking her jazz hands and doing the ever-so-popular sweep of the open hand across the body.

At times, she looks like she’s having a seizure.

I then have to decide if I’m going to push her off the machine to hold her down and keep her from swallowing her tongue, or if I will leave her alone and let her finish her rendition of Don’t Stop Believin‘.

Since I’m a Journey fan, I usually let her finish.  Either way, she looks ridiculous.

and the final reason we will probably get kicked out of the gym…

5.  I fart into the fan

fanIt’s true…like you’re shocked.  I prefer to pick the machine closest to the fan so I can sweat as little as possible while pumping my legs.

And since I’m one gassy chick, part of exercising (for this girl), includes being gassy.

To me, working out and farting go together like chocolate milk and Oreos…chips and salsa…Kathy Lee Gifford and copious amounts of prescription drugs and alcohol.

The two go hand in hand. And passing gas in front of a large fan does nothing but disperse the odor throughout the room at a high rate of speed.

It’s not ideal.  But since I don’t look good when I sweat, I figure I’d rather look cute and workout by the fan, than worry if my bodily functions cause a few people to flee the gym for fresh air.

It usually results in the availability of a machine I want, so I’m willing to make the sacrifice.

So until we get the proverbial running shoe from the gym, we will continue to do our workouts, most likely annoying everyone in the vicinity.

So if you go to our gym, bring your headphones, stay away from the treadmills, and stay at least 20 feet away from the fan.

old clockI couldn’t put it off any more; I couldn’t avoid my personal trainer any further.

I was successful in staving him off until the middle of January, which is a fairly long time considering I’m pretty sure my trainer sees my love handles as his child’s college tuition (my flabby arms are most likely a second home at the lake).

I blame my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name) for the return the gym. I was perfectly content getting fatter each day, stuffing my face with Peanut M&Ms and any kind of sour cream based dip. But skinny Pajama Jeans had to throw a wrench in my plan, and a vegetable in my dip.

She texted me last week and asked when I wanted to return to the trainer. As you know, we train together with Marbie, our personal trainer. She is the star pupil and I’m the fat kid in the back throwing spit wads and farting loudly. Seriously. I get gassy when I do squats.

We took a bit of a break over the holidays because we are so important and had several holiday engagements. Since the holidays were over, I wanted to ease back into working with the trainer.

free weightIn my world, “ease back into it” means ignoring all mention of working out and faking a fever when my husband suggests going to the gym. Downtown Christy Brown (DTCB) was agreeable to my suggested course of action. I know this because we discussed it over dessert.

So when Pajama Jeans texted me about when I wanted to return to the gym, I considered telling her I would return to the gym when she stopped looking so adorable in her workout gear. She doesn’t sweat at the gym. She glistens.

I considered telling her I couldn’t return to the gym because I had been diagnosed with a rare condition called phatomothigh (pronounced “fat on my thigh”) but she’s savvy and I was fearful she would bitch slap me and tell me to return to the gym. She has a mean right hook.

So I reluctantly told her I could return to the gym, but not until Saturday. I figured that would give me a good several days of freedom and binging before returning to the torture chamber that is known as the local gym.

We agreed to meet with Marbie for our first return session on Saturday at 10:30 a.m. I liked the time because it would allow me time to sleep in and stuff my face full of donuts before the workout.

What I didn’t think about was the fact that the late morning workout had the opposite effect. It loomed over my head with every step I took that morning, which was basically just a few steps to the refrigerator and back. But still.

As the morning dragged on, I became more and more nervous about my return to the gym. Would I be able to do any of the workouts Marbie assigned? Deep down I knew the answer was no, but then again, I couldn’t do them before I stopped going either.

I also wondered if Marbie would pick up where we left off with the grueling work outs. Would he realize I hadn’t been to the gym in over a month? I was guessing the spare tire around my mid-section would tip him off to that, so I decided to wear a loose fitting shirt.

The dreaded moment arrived and since I couldn’t think of a viable excuse not to go, I grabbed my workout shake and headed to the gym. I was also disappointed in myself a bit, as I was already letting myself down.

blurry treadmillOne of my new year’s resolutions was to be more creative with excuses for not going to the gym, and that morning the only excuse I could come up with was diarrhea, which for me, is just a typical Saturday morning consequence of horrible eating and poor liquor choices.

I got to the gym early and jumped on an elliptical machine to warm up. Okay, I didn’t so much “jump” on it as drag myself onto it ever-so-slowly, secretly hoping I would injure myself in the process.

I realize it sounds strange that I would get to the gym early and begin a workout before my training session, but I had strong reasoning to support it. Since Marbie believes in torturing me, I like to try to control the kind of torture if I can.

I figure if I do some cardio before the workout begins, he will be less likely to make me do sprints and run on the treadmill, both of which result in crying and calling him the devil. So far this tactic has proved successful.

I hit the “quick start” button on the machine and began moving my legs. Um, ow. Within 30 seconds my thighs were burning and I looked down at the settings to see what gym rat had this machine set to previously.

Obviously the machine was on a high setting, which was the cause of my misery. Not so much. When I looked down I noticed the machine was on a normal setting, although I could only assume it was shorting out.

The guy next to me was probably present during World War I and he was running at a speed 3 levels higher than my machine, which was further evidence my machine was broken, and that guy was clearly a robot.

fan blowing streamersAfter a few minutes of elliptical riding, my heart rate was elevated and my spirit was broken.  My breathing pattern was also elevated and I swore I felt heart palpitations.

I was sweating profusely, which was pretty embarrassing considering the scrawny eighth grader on the bike in front of me seemed to be riding for his life without even breaking a sweat.

Judging by his glasses and E=MC2 t-shirt, I suspected the biking was a training regimen to help him outrun the bullies…and puberty.

Although I was bummed about being worn out, I was happy to see that my sweat had begun seeping through my t-shirt so it was visible.  I’d never been so happy for pit stains in my life.  Whew!

This would be proof for Marbie that I was engaging in cardio before my training session (or at least more than the normal cardio I do…which is running to the door from the parking lot because I’m late).

As I fist pumped my good fortune in the sweating department, I noticed Pajama Jeans walk in and head toward the machine next to me.  She looked adorable and I resisted the urge to smack her when she stepped on the elliptical next to mine.

She pointed out green circular stains on her machine, and we both concluded they were vomit from someone’s previous session with Marbie.  We agreed we wouldn’t fall victim to his cardio workout again.  We dug deep and kept going.

Pajama Jeans wanted to chat since we hadn’t seen each other in a while.  Although I was happy to see her, I knew if I spoke too much I would cut off oxygen to my brain and would soon find myself plastered on the floor next to the puke stains.  I focused on my breathing and listened to her talk about what she’d had for breakfast.  It was eggs and sausage on a croissant.  I wanted to kill her.

When it was time to start the training, we got off the machines and headed over to the training area to accept our punishment.  We saw Marbie, who looked surprisingly happy to see us.

girl with ballI assumed we would be greeted with condescension for succumbing to the holiday food temptations, but he seemed genuinely glad to have us back.  This just furthered my belief that he suffers from dementia.

He told us since we hadn’t trained in a while, he would give us a “back to basics” training session.  Woo hoo!  It really was Christmas all over again.  Fine with me.

He told us to grab some weights and we would get started.  We got to pick which weights to use?  Sucka!!!!

I was going to go easy on myself for this first session.  I grabbed 10 pound weights and said a quick thank you under my breath.  The session was going to be cake.

We walked back to meet Marbie, our heads filled with visions of cake and frosting. I also cursed myself for thinking the workout would be cake.  Why couldn’t the saying be something like “the workout will be kale”?

Marbie saw us walking slowly and told us to pick up the pace and start with 15 squat presses.  What?!

devilWhat happened to the easy workout?  I assumed that would entail some walking and maybe a bicep curl or two.  But squat presses?  I suddenly remembered why I referred to him as “diablo” under my breath.

It only got worse from there.  From push ups to ab work to arms, his back to basics training was more of a “make Lisa cry” training.  It worked.  I felt dizzy and exhausted and I definitely regretted the all you can eat buffet that I indulged in for a full week on vacation.

Who am I kidding?  No I didn’t.

By the end of the workout I was drenched in sweat and wanted nothing more than to pass out on the cool gym floor.  I didn’t even care if it was next to the dried puke stain.

As I left the gym, hobbling and dreaming of Bengay, I wondered why I put myself through this torture.

Why didn’t I just eat healthier and then I wouldn’t have to work so hard at getting rid of the extra pounds?

And then I remembered why; because M&Ms and Skittles taste a lot better than lettuce and radishes.

photo for bill's holiday partyYou knew this story was coming.

Not necessarily that I told you about it, but if you know me at all, or read this blog somewhat regularly, you know that I would inevitably embarrass myself at a holiday function.  Mission accomplished.

My husband and I have an amazing friend, St. Frick, (not his real name) who lives an amazing life with amazing friends.

For some strange reason, we are included in his list of friends, most likely because we are the charity case and he feels sorry for us and our lack of taste in artwork.

A poster of Johnny Depp is considered classy, right?

He is known for throwing over the top parties and the invitations for these parties are highly coveted, as the food and drinks are delicious, and the company is fantastic.

Normally, Matt and I can be easily impressed with the artwork carved into the side of a watermelon at a buffet line, so maybe believing my tale of amazing food isn’t an educated decision.  But then again, if anyone knows good food…it’s this girl.

So trust me when I say his parties are fabulous.

We received the fancy invitation for the party and immediately thought it was an error, and delivered to the wrong house.  No one sends us fancy invitations to anything.

invitationThe last invitation we got was to a bridal shower in someone’s mom’s basement…no joke.  And that invitation was on a piece of computer paper.

I wish I was kidding about that.  So getting a fancy invitation with font other than Times New Roman was exciting to us.

The fact that it wasn’t on copy paper was just an added bonus.

The party wasn’t called a holiday party or an end of the year party.  No.  That wouldn’t be good enough.

Since it was after Christmas but before New Year’s Eve, the party was called “The After Party.”  Of course it was.

Now the only experience I’ve had with an after party is when the twin singing duo known as Nelson came to my college and we went to a bar afterwards where we ordered quarter pitchers and played darts.

Somehow I had a feeling this wasn’t what St. Frick had in mind, although I figured he might like me to bring those adorable long-haired twins.

My only other experience with an after party is what we used to call “after bars” in college, which was always at a frat house and it was in a basement with cheesy music playing and one candle lit to cover the stench of vomit, beer and STDs.

Again, I didn’t think that’s what St. Frick was imagining.

Naturally, Matt and I knew we were going to attend.  After all, this was a holiday party we could get on board with, as it didn’t involve drunk relatives or the child molester from down the street asking every boy under the age of 10 to sit on his lap.

christmas party

This isn’t us, but it’s an awesome photo so I wanted to share it.

We texted St. Frick to let him know we were in.  I’m sure he was less than thrilled when he realized the riff raff accidentally got his invitation and were planning on attending.

I could practically see him moving his expensive pieces of artwork into storage just to avoid another incident of me knocking something expensive over.

Because I’d never been to a fancy “After Party” before, I didn’t know what the attire would be.  Naturally, I figured Pajama Jeans would be appropriate, but thought I would ask to make sure.

I texted him and asked him what the attire was for the event.  Here is his exact response:  “No Pajama Jeans.  Holiday cocktail party.  Pretty.  Sexy.”

Does this guy know me or what?!  I both loved and hated how he knew I would wear Pajama Jeans so he immediately forbid me from wearing them.

I wasn’t sure what “holiday cocktail party” attire was, but I didn’t think a Christmas turtleneck with a duck in a Santa hat would fit the bill (no pun intended).  So I decided to grab my flashlight and go to my trusty closet for wardrobe options.

I figured cocktail party attire meant something fancy, and since I’d recently been to several cocktail parties, I had some outfits I knew I could wear.  Okay, I’d been to two parties in two months, but in my world, that’s a lot.

I found a dress that I thought would be appropriate, and I decided to spice it up with a faux fur little shrug.  The outfit was adorable, and it didn’t cost me anything, which made it all the more attractive in my eyes.

It was also shorter than the dresses I normally wear, so I figured it would meet the definition of “sexy.”

hair doneI decided to go all out with my hair if I was going to wear a fancy dress.  I spent a long time on my hair.  For me, anything more than 5 minutes constitutes a long time on hair.

I decided to go with my hair partially up and then swept back in a simple style that looked formal yet messy.  I’m not sure the messy look was intentional, but it looked like it was.

I’m not someone who uses hairspray, or any form of hair product, as evidenced by my simple hair style, but since this was a big event, I decided to be fancy and use some.

I located a bottle that had to have been 10 years old.  The sprayer was broken, but my husband was able to fix it so I could spray away.

I doused my hair in hairspray and when I was done the entire bathroom smelled like it did when I was in the 7th grade and thought crunchy curls were attractive.

Well…it almost smelled like that…minus the stench from the aftermath of a lunch of burritos.  Fortunately, no candles were lit in the house, which is a good thing, as I was pretty sure the entire room was a powder keg.

After coughing up half the can of Aqua Net, I emerged from the bathroom and grabbed my heels and jewelry.  Yes, heels.  I didn’t wear my Uggs to this event.  Can you believe it?

My husband was pleasantly surprised by my appearance, but I figured it was mostly because I matched and didn’t have any stains on my dress (yet).  After being with me for a few years, his standards dropped on what he finds acceptable.

angry army dudeWe headed out the door and to the party, all the while wondering if we were dressed up enough and if we would fit in.  After we parked the car I turned to my husband and gave him the usual pep talk I give whenever we go to a party with St. Frick.

Don’t fuck this up for us.  These people are awesome and we don’t want them to figure out that we bring nothing to the table, other than empty plates.  Put your game face on and don’t screw this up for us.”

Pretty motivational, right?

We walked up the path to his house and were in awe of the beautiful lights and decorations.  St. Frick knew how to throw a party and he definitely knew how to decorate one.  As we approached the house, I saw another couple walking up as well.

As we got closer, I looked at them in an effort to figure out if they were in similar holiday cocktail attire.  Upon closer inspection, I realized both of them were wearing jeans.  Pfft!

They were going to look like idiots when they walked in the door and saw everyone else dressed up!  I secretly couldn’t wait to watch them be humiliated.

clinking glasses

We walked in behind the dingy couple and surveyed the room.

WHAT?!  Where was the holiday cocktail attire?  There were people in nice jeans and fancy tops and heels, but no cocktail dresses.  Where was the sexy attire?  Was this a joke?

St. Frick approached me, gave me a hug and told me I looked beautiful.  Yeah, because I was completely overdressed.

What happened to the holiday cocktail sexy attire?” I asked.

He looked at me and smiled and said I looked perfect.

We forged ahead and stayed at the party until we shut it down in the wee hours of the morning.  I decided I wouldn’t let my cocktail dress get in the way of my enjoyment, and I didn’t.

I also wasn’t mad at St. Frick for his explanation of attire.  For a guy who only sees me in sweat pants and ratty t-shirts with no bra, it wasn’t a stretch for him to believe I would dress down for the event.

dogs with Christmas stuffPerhaps he thought my idea of “holiday cocktail” would be what everyone else’s idea was of dressy casual.  I couldn’t blame him.  But next time I get an invitation to one of his parties, I’m wearing Pajama Jeans no matter what he says…

The case of the shrinking clothesI’ve been the victim of a horrible crime.  No, I wasn’t robbed at gunpoint, although the amount I pay for cable each month is pretty close.  They know I need my Gossip Girl.

Somehow, the clothes in my closet are shrinking and I don’t know how it’s happening. Such a travesty!

This morning I went to my jam-packed closet to look for clothes.  I was getting ready to leave for a business trip and I needed clothes for my suitcase.

As I tried on various outfits (a girl has to have choices), I noticed one very obvious consistency; all my clothes were quite snug.

In fact, some of them were busting at the seams…much like my closet was.  This also reminded me I needed to take over my husband’s closet as well.

This is not the kind of news I needed just before a work trip, so I tried to ignore it, much like I continue to ignore the pile of laundry stacking up in my closet, and anything that comes out of Kim Kardashian’s mouth.

I went to the kitchen to grab a snack, and to drown my sorrows in sugar.  As I ate my holiday cookies with chocolate frosting, I wondered what could be going on with my clothes.

cookies.jpgNaturally, I looked for a way to blame the snug fit on my husband.  Maybe he was throwing all my clothes in the dryer and shrinking them.  That was a possibility.

I knew he wouldn’t tell me if he shrunk something of mine, as I’m not sure our marriage could last another laundry debacle.  The wool sweater incident of 2009 is still fresh in our minds.  (R.I.P. cream J.Crew wool sweater.  I miss you and your sassiness).

As much as I wanted to blame this on my husband, I knew it wasn’t logical to do so.

This time…but the next time my Us Weekly goes missing, it will definitely be his fault.

It didn’t make sense that he was shrinking all my clothes, as some of the snug items were dry clean only.  Unless he was in cahoots with our dry cleaner, that wasn’t the answer.

If he was in cahoots with our dry cleaner, then he’s a horrible negotiator, as our dry cleaning bill should be a lot lower.

piggy bankAs I finished off the holiday cookies and made my way to the S’mores cupcakes, I wondered what other logical explanation there could be for my shrinking clothes.

I poured myself another hefty glass of milk and thought about other options.  Were they making lower quality clothes because of the sinking economy?  Maybe that was it.

After one cleaning, all the new clothes shrink because of the poor quality of fabric.  Yeah, that was an option.

I was sure the Occupy Wallstreet people would agree with me there.  It was obviously the manufacturers’ fault.

As I made my way to the bag of chocolate covered pretzels, the realization hit my like a pound of cheddar cheese.  It wasn’t the manufacturers’ fault that my clothes were so snug.  That was illogical.

Nope.  The real reason my clothes were so tight was because criminals were obviously coming into my closet at night and shrinking my clothes.  Yes.  That was the logical explanation.

Sheesh!  How illogical could I be thinking it was the manufacturers’ fault?  Sometimes I swear I live in a dream world.

break inSo every night while I was fighting for leg room with my dogs, a crazed maniac was coming into my home, shrinking my outfits.

Although I should have felt violated knowing I was a victim of a horrible crime, in some ways I felt relieved.  Finally there was a logical answer for why my clothes were tight.

But who would come into my home at night just to play a mean prank on me?  And then I remembered something…I remembered the kid who came to my door a few months ago looking for a “lost cat.”

I knew he was staking out my house but I didn’t know why.  Duh.  How could I be so blind?  He was clearly the criminal playing this cruel joke.  I was totally on to him.

Excited that I figured out the mystery, I treated myself with chocolate lava cake and ice cream.  But then another possibility washed over me.

Was I gaining weight and getting fatter?  Could that be the reason my clothes were shrinking?  Maybe they weren’t shrinking at all, but rather, I was expanding instead.  How could that be?

chocolate chipsI wiped the chocolate sauce from my mouth and considered this possibility.  Perhaps it could be weight gain.  But that couldn’t be it because I had a personal trainer.

Granted, I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks and the people at the gym probably forgot who I was already, but weight gain just didn’t seem like a logical explanation.

Or at least it didn’t seem as logical as the criminal sneaking into my room at night theory.

And how could it be weight gain?  Everyone knows that holiday calories don’t count.  Surely my clothes got that memo as well?

I grabbed a bag of peanuts for a snack and headed back to my room to take another look at my closet.

I figured I needed a way to lock it each night to prevent such crime from continuing to occur.  That was really the only way to stop it.

I was happy I knew the cause of the problem, because as GI Joe would say “Knowing is half the battle.

Although I don’t think that’s the case for the girls in my Econ 101 class in college.  For them, knowing wasn’t half the battle, but rather “big boobs and slutty clothes won the war.”

At least I knew what was causing the discomfort in my clothes.  I could rest easy knowing I got to the bottom of this mystery, and to the bottom of the box of Cheez-Its as well.

I decided to celebrate my discovery with some homemade pasta…and a pair of sweatpants!


I’ve only recently started going to the gym, as I prefer to live in denial that I am overweight (and that Sex and The City keeps making movies).  Whenever I go to the gym I see all different kinds of people.  From the pudgy (myself), to the super fit (my trainer), it seems that all walks of life go to my gym.  It’s like a music video for “We are the world.”

But I’ve noticed there are several men that fit the mold of the stereotypical meat head at the gym.  I like to refer to this stereotypical gym-goer as “that guy.”  You all know who I’m talking about.  “That guy” always annoys me so I decided to write him some notes and give him a few pointers.

Here it goes:

1. You don’t need to shave every part of your body.

Newsflash:  Men typically have hair on their bodies.  It’s a scientific fact and although I don’t particularly like to see a man’s calf covered in hair, it’s the way it’s supposed to be.  Hair and a man’s leg go together like peanut butter and jelly or me with any sort of Mexican food.

There’s no reason for a man to be devoid of hair.  If you shave more parts of your body than I do, you’re definitely “that guy.”

I realize this may not be a big hurdle to overcome, but still, if you use a lady razor to shave your legs, you better be a girl, or preparing for surgery.  Otherwise, keep the hair on your body (except for the back hair.  That can go).

However, if you can suggest a razor that gets around the ankles without nicking, email me privately.

2.  Spraying yourself down with Axe isn’t the same thing as a shower.

I realize those Axe commercials suggest that any awkward male with difficulty talking to females can remedy that situation with a few sprays of cologne, but it doesn’t suggest pouring it all over yourself like a bucket of Gatorade after a football victory.

Less is more.  Except when it comes to chocolate or jewelry, or any episode of Mad About You.  Then more is always more…and better.

Women typically aren’t impressed that you spend $10.99 on your “signature scent” when you can’t seem to pay a few dollars a month for a good dental plan and a bottle of Scope.

Get yourself together, buy a 3 pack of Irish Spring and hit the showers.

3.  Those sleeveless shirts that are open under the arms are not attractive.

man+in+tank+top.jpgThose shirts have an age limit, which is 10.  If you have graduated from middle school and are rocking the cut up t-shirt with extra large arm holes, you are a douche.  And the creepiness factor is multiplied by the fact that you have no hair on your pits (see #1).

So give the cut up shirt back to your 5th grade brother and start dressing like a grown man and do what everyone else at the gym does:  wear t-shirts from college in an attempt to relive your glory days.  Then go bong a beer….and NOT Michelob Ultra.

That’s just too stereotypical.  And don’t even think of trading the armless shirts for wife beaters.  We all know you don’t have a wife, because if you did, she would never let your nose hair get that long.

4.   Stop staring at yourself in the mirror.  It’s creepy.

Wait until you get home to make googly eyes at yourself.  We all know you’re going to go back to your smelly one bedroom apartment and make sweet love to yourself to the soundtrack from Rocky, but please don’t give us a preview at the gym. (Although listening to the soundtrack from Rocky IV is completely acceptable.)

I don’t want to imagine you and your smooth legs laying on your Superman sheets going to town.  Lock that up and keep it to yourself.

5.  No one looks good in a weight belt.

man+in+mirror.jpgAlthough you like to parade around the gym sporting the tan weight belt because you think it makes your abs pop, just know that you look like a washing machine delivery guy.

No one looks good in a weight belt because all weight belts are most likely covered in years of sweat from washed up athletes hoping to try out for arena football (and then promptly get cut).

And the weight belt over your XL sweat pants makes it look like you’re strapping yourself into a safety harness for an afternoon of window washing.

Although I’m sure you can scrub a mirror without leaving streaks (how else would you be able to swoon over yourself at home?),  no one wants to see you rocking the weight belt.

And watching you struggle to buckle the double buckle is just embarrassing and awkward for everyone.

6.  No one believes you’re drinking a protein shake.

Although we enjoy watching you pound a half gallon of liquid at a time, we all know it’s not a protein shake, but rather chocolate milk your mommy made for you before she drove you to the gym.  The jig is up.

So you can stop slamming TruMoo and stop pretending you’re lactose intolerant.  We are on to you, and honestly, we just don’t care;  after all, milk does a body good, although your body probably needs to lay off the spray tan.  No one is that orange (except for Lindsay Lohan).

Hopefully this note will get to “that guy” everywhere and I can single-handedly reduce the population of this species of men that seem to be invading gyms everywhere.  If this plot is successful, you can thank me with monetary donations or anything from Chipotle.

If it isn’t successful, that’s okay, because these annoying characteristics help everyone to identify who to avoid when walking to the parking garage alone.

DUMMIE'SI’m sure it comes as no surprise to any of you that I love to eat.  If it does come as a surprise, you’ve obviously never met me, or seen me make sweet love to an all you can eat buffet.

I talk about eating and food the way new parents talk about their babies, although I’m pretty sure new parents don’t dream of smothering their babies in butter and hot sauce.

If they do, they should be reported immediately.

I’ve been at a loss about what to write about for a blog post, as nothing exciting has happened to me over the last few days.  I know, I know.  I can’t believe it either.

Usually I at least say something embarrassing or spill something on someone, but this week has been slow.

So decided to write about what I know best, aside from farts.  Eating and gaining weight.

I’m really a pro at both of these things and if it were a career, I would be the Albert Pujols of the profession, although I don’t pronounce the word “man” as “mang”.  So here it is, my guide to gaining weight.

A Gaining Weight for Dummies of sorts.

1.  Cover everything you eat in melted cheese


Seriously, this will change your life.

I never knew vegetables could be so delicious, but smothered in cheddar, they aren’t too bad.

The Mexicans are onto something with their love of melted cheese on all dinner items, and would you disagree with the country that brought you fried ice cream?  It’s frozen, yet fried at the same time!!!!!  Mind boggling!

So embrace the culture, step up to the microwave and start melting away.  (Mariachi band music is optional).

2. Always get seconds, and thirds

dirty plateThis seems like it would be a no-brainer, but it’s worth mentioning.

I always plan on getting seconds and will actually put less on my plate so I can go up for seconds.

Okay, I really don’t put less on my plate, but I tell people I do so they won’t judge me when I leap from the chair and head to the kitchen for a second helping.

Getting seconds also shows respect to the chef, who would definitely be offended if you didn’t get seconds.

I mean, if you’re at my house and don’t get seconds of my special meal of cut up hot dogs and macaroni and cheese, I will personally be offended.

And everything is better with cheese.  See number 1…which will frequently lead to you having to go number 2.

3.  Pre-eat before a meal

eat+on+beach.jpgIt’s like pre-gaming, only you get drunk on carbs instead of alcohol.  This is best done alone, so no one knows you pre-ate and you can deny it later.

This way you can come to dinner and say you’re starving, and no one will know that you secretly ate a box of Fruit Roll Ups before coming to the dinner table.

**Author’s note:  If you pre-eat (and why wouldn’t you?), make sure to remove all evidence of pre-eating.  (Dispose of wrappers, bribe the fast food workers not to tell, etc.) 

Also, try to stick to things that don’t spill or make a mess.  Coming to the table with a chocolate milk stain on your shirt and cookie crumbs on your face doesn’t bode well for your allegations of hunger. 

It may also keep you from getting seconds, which would be a travesty.**

4.  Don’t limit yourself to three meals a day.


Take eating seriously and remember that practice makes perfect.  Do you think Tiger Woods got to where he was by only putting a few hours a day?  No.

He spent hours a day practicing his drive, and then “drove it home” to several slut bags in the wee hours of the morning.

I’m not suggesting you engage in extramarital affairs with women whose faces could sand down a deck but, you should treat eating like the serious job it is and take it seriously.

Then you can follow in Tiger’s Nike swooshed footsteps and claim your eating is an addiction so no one will judge you.  Get serious!

To quote Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch; “If you ain’t in it to win it then get the hell out.”

5.  Eat late at night


Do you know what makes a double cheeseburger from McDonald’s taste even better?  Eating it while watching late night reruns of The Nanny.

If you aren’t into Fran Drescher’s screeching voice, anything on Nick at Nite will do.

So grab a bag of chips (not the baked kind…those are for amateurs) and stuff your face with carbs and cheese all night long.

Then promptly call in sick to work in the morning.

6.  Follow up everything you eat with a dessert


You don’t want to leave your palette tasting like Frosted Lucky Charms after breakfast. Or maybe you do.  They are magically delicious.

Make sure to follow up all meals and snacks with a dessert.

I recommend Hostess 100 calorie snack packs, but don’t eat just one.  (See rule number 2).

7.  Don’t be afraid to fry everything


When gaining weight, fried food is definitely your friend.

Charmin Extra Soft will also be your friend as well if you eat enough fried items.  These two usually go hand in hand…literally.

I recently attended a party where we fried everything, and I can assure you that although spinach is fairly tasteless by itself, when fried and smothered in Parmesan cheese, it’s quite tasty.

What did I tell you?  Everything is better with cheese.

And don’t get me started on fried ice cream and fried bananas….perfection!  So get out that deep fryer and a bottle of Pepto Bismol and start frying away!

Okay, that’s all I will give you for now.  This should be enough to get your blood pressure spiked and your buttons popping off your jeans.  Rest assured I have plenty more suggestions to expand that waistline and ensure you never see the tops of your feet again.

This is NOT my stomach.

This is NOT my stomach.

I will admit I have let myself go.  I don’t mean in the personal hygiene department.  I still shower and floss regularly. Well, maybe not totally regularly.

What I mean is that I have let myself go in the weight category and have gained some serious pounds.  My friends tell me “it’s happy weight” in that I have gained weight since I got married because I’m living in such marital bliss.

This suggests that happiness requires me to fill my stomach with carbs.  Wait…it kind of does.

I don’t care if it’s “happy weight” or not, the result is the same: pants that dig into my stomach and a flirtation with the plus size area of the mall.

Interestingly, this area is strategically located next to an Auntie Anne’s.

In an effort to shed this “happy weight”, which does anything but make me happy, I’ve recently started working out with a personal trainer. I see him twice a week where he tortures me and makes me regret every single delicious thing I’ve eaten.

I kind of think he enjoys watching me suffer.  I share this training experience with two of my closest friends: Downtown Christy Brown and Pajama Jeans (not their real names).

scale5I figure if misery loves company, then complete agony must love a crowd, which is why I’m glad to share my pain with my friends.

After tonight’s horrendous workout, Downtown Christy Brown (DTCB) and I headed to our favorite place…Chipotle.

Pajama Jeans was out of town, and since she’s the fittest of the three of us, I think Marbi was irritated he was left with the two “chunky girls” so he worked us extra hard.

We decided to celebrate our good workout with salads from Chipotle.  I figured I would sit next to someone eating a burrito and ask them if I could just smell it.

We grabbed our salads and headed outside to discuss our workout regimen and the various ways we wanted Marbi to suffer.

At first, we felt bad about ourselves, but the more we got to talking about it, we realized being the fattest person at the gym is actually a pretty good thing.  In fact, it’s amazing!

So here are a few reasons why DTCB and I think it’s best to be the fattest person at the gym.

1.  Everyone has low expectations of you

down arrowNo one expects you to crank out a five-mile run on the treadmill or bust out a ton of reps with weights.  They’re just happy you finally took the step to take your fat butt to the gym.

The fact you showed up and used the gym membership you’ve been paying for is good enough for the regular gym-goers.

They don’t expect much from you, so any type of exercise is impressive to the hard bodies and their judging eyes.

2.  People automatically look out for you

look outSince you most likely have blood comprised of at least 50% milkshake, the regular gym members are concerned about your ability to work out…or even to walk the steps to get to the gym.

Seriously.  What gym puts steps to the entrance?  My gym does.

I’ve found fit people keep an eye on me as the fattest person in the gym to make sure I don’t hurt myself or pass out from overexertion.

Passing out would most likely occur before the workout started, as those lockers are difficult to open.

It’s nice to know that if I had a heart attack, or passed out from lack of oxygen, the fit people at the gym would know it and take care of it immediately.

3.  People will give up a machine for you

treadmillOther gym-goers look at you with pity as their eyes ask why you couldn’t just say “no” to the frosted donuts.  Although this may seem like a bad thing, it can be used to your advantage.

When all machines are full, there’s always someone in great shape willing to sacrifice a machine just to give you a chance at a little bit of a workout.

Granted, they may be giving up the machine because they know there’s no way you will use the machine for more than five minutes without experiencing heart palpitations.

Whatever.  Chivalry is not dead at the gym when you’re the fattest one there.

4.  You can stare at the good looking people and they won’t notice it

gym peopleUsually, there’s good eye candy at the gym.

My gym is comprised of old people and the junior high track team, so unless you have a fetish, there isn’t much to look at where I go.

But, if you are the fattest person at a gym with people who haven’t yet hit menopause, you’re in luck!  You can stare at the best looking people at the gym and you won’t be “that creepy person” or “the one I had to get the restraining order from.”

The good looking people with the rocking abs are just happy you’re at the gym, and are hoping you are looking to them for inspiration, or a tutorial on how to use the equipment.

It’s a free pass!

5.  The gym gives you free water

water bottleSpeaking of free, as the fattest person at my gym, I always seem to get a free water.

Maybe it’s because I look like I’m going to pass out, and the gym wants to avoid a lawsuit, but more than once I’ve been offered a water “because you look like you need it.”

Score.  My dehydration finally pays off!

6.  You get more personal space in the classes

Sometimes the aerobics and Zumba classes can get a bit full and space is limited in the room.  But, as the fattest person in the class, you can get just a little extra room on the workout floor.

This is definitely the case with me. Maybe it’s because people are worried I will pass out and fall on them as I head to the ground, or maybe they just don’t want to hear my panting and cursing under the breath.

I don’t care why no one wants to stand close to me, I’m just glad for the extra space.  Personally, I think it’s just because no one wants to stand by the fat girl.

7.  You get a “complimentary” sweat towel

woman with towelBecause I love free stuff, I’m especially happy about this perk.  At my gym, if you want a sweat towel you have to pay for it.  But, when you’re the fattest person at the gym, they give you one for free.

I think it’s because I sweat profusely all over the weight machine after only three reps of five pounds, and they don’t want my fatty perspiration all over the machine.

Maybe they’re afraid my love of cheeseburgers is contagious and can be contracted through my sweat.

I don’t care why I get the towel.  A free towel is a free towel, and it saves me from bringing my own, which means less laundry for this girl.

8.  Everyone around you is attractive and easy on the eyes

dog lookingIf you are the fattest person at the gym, no one looks worse than you.

Although this may sound like the kind of thing that would send someone running (or driving) to Dairy Queen for a large Blizzard, it’s actually a good thing.

It means that every single person that you see at the gym has a good body and looks better than you.  No one wants to look at the fat person…and you don’t have to…because that fat person is you!

The thin people are the suckers because they have to watch your fat jiggle on the treadmill for the five minutes you’re on it.  They’re the ones who have to cleanse their eyes after a workout…not you.

So there you have it fatties:  All the reasons why being the fattest person at the gym isn’t so bad.  I know I feel better about it.

So go have a Hostess 100 calorie pack (or three) and know that although your pants might not fit and you might have a permanent wedgie, you have it made at the gym!