I have serious writer’s block.  It affects most writers and I’m currently suffering from it, which means you’re suffering from not getting a post….until now.

Fortunately, my friend Ashley over at Big Top Family decided to help me out and do a guest post.  It’s the perfect post because it’s about angry exercising….as if there’s such a thing as happy exercising.

Here is a little about Ashley before we get started with the hilarity.

ashley_homepage_picAshley Allen is a multi-task-dysfunctional mom of three boys, including a set of twins, and a survivor of a weird childhood. She writes a circusy, irreverent humor blog at http://www.bigtopfamily.com about her childhood and adulthood, and always seems to find that the bridge between them isn’t as long as she thinks. When she’s not blogging or juggling the family  balls, you can find her ridonkulous musings on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest

EXERCISERI’ve always had a Love/Loathe relationship with exercise – mostly Loathe. But there have been times in my life that I have actually loved it, even though that love was an Angry Love. Let me explain.

The first time I recall ever consistently exercising, I was 20 years old and in desperate need of an exercise regimen outside of lifting beer mugs and slices of pizza to my greasy lips. I was living and working in a college town, having been ousted from the college itself with a .8 grade point average.  My dad had promptly pulled the plug on financial support, but I stayed in town because I was dating a townie who worked at JC Penney. VERY promising.

I got a job working as a drug store cashier to continue paying my rent, and my roommate happened to work at Pizza Hut, so her free pizza perks kept our grocery budget down.

It didn’t, however, have the same effect on my weight. I gained thirty pounds in the span of a year and a half, and even though my ass was the size of Texas, I couldn’t get it up and motivated to do any exercise at all.

Until I got dumped by Mr. JC Penney.

Mr. JCP was one of the Dipshidiots I mentioned in my Mama’s Boy post. You might recall that one of them was a seminarian? Well, Mr. JCP wasn’t a seminarian during the time we dated, but he went on to be one, I’m told. Back when we were dating, he kept breaking up with me so that he could stay celibate in preparation for his dream of becoming an Anglican Priest. That’s the kind, by the way, that can get married, so, uhhh, let’s not kid ourselves.

My guess is 90 percent of the straight guys who enter the seminary in their twenties have bagged at least one babe or two, and God’s not gonna hold that against them. I mean, being a guy, God’s probably even going to high-five them for it, with one of his gigantic hands.

Anywho. Mr. JCP would break up with me every other month or so because he said that’s what God wanted him to do, and I didn’t get too upset because who can get pissed off at God, for chrissakes? The last time he broke up with me, however, I found out that the Big Man Upstairs had nothing to do with it. In fact, it was the Little Man Downstairs that was calling all the shots, since Mr. JCP had been banging half the desperate bimbos at Penneys, including the married ones!

Devastated, crushed, and completely Looney Tunes, I didn’t show up for work, I wouldn’t leave my room, I stopped showering, I drank a lot of Natural Light, and I gorged myself on everything that Pizza Hut’s expansive menu had to offer. After about a week of this abuse, I looked in my full-length mirror and said, “Aw, HELL naw!” I shimmied my fat ass into some sweatpants, blew the dust off my sneakers, headed outside, and ran faster than Forrest Gump the day he took a bullet to the butt saving other people’s asses in Vietnam.

Of course, I only made it about a block before I passed out and had to receive mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from a random pedestrian. (Not really, but you get my point. I was out of shape). That day, though not exactly epic in terms of miles run or calories burned, was a hugely pivotal day because on it, The Angry Exerciser was born.

The Angry Exerciser was a fat-burning persona of vengeance who APPEARED to the casual onlooker to be running, stair-climbing, or ellipticalling herself to death, but internally, she was kicking ass in a mixed martial arts cage match with cheaters, liars, various JC Penney employees, and the occasional clergyman.

In six month’s time, I was able to shed the extra thirty pounds, buy a new wardrobe, move out of the college town, and start taking community college classes so that I could eventually go back to a four-year-college. I dialed my exercise regimen back to a maintenance level of twice or three times a week, and eventually I noticed that The Angry Exerciser had packed her bags and gone on vacation.

That wasn’t the last I would see of her, though, not by a long shot. She would be back many, many, many more times in my life, when some Ass Hat would dump me, cheat on me, tell me I was gaining weight, flirt with one of my friends, stop calling me, stand me up for a date, do the White Man’s Overbite with some other girl on the dance floor, or all of the above.

Eventually, The Angry Exerciser just decided to unpack her travel suitcase and move in with me, because being the co-dependent type, I woke up one day and found I couldn’t do a lick of exercise without her.

Even now, nineteen years (oh, for Eff’s sake, really? NINETEEN YEARS?), one husband, and three kids later, though I don’t have any cheaters or liars to currently fuel The Angry Exerciser’s rage, I still desperately need her in order to work out. So I trick her, coax her out with her old memories, put ear buds in her ears, and make her listen to Pink, Kelly Clarkson, Maroon 5, Miranda Lambert, Cee-Lo Green (you know the one), Florence + the Machine, and yes, shudder, Miley Cyrus. (I can’t stand the little twerker, but who can resist “Wrecking Ball?” Who)?!

I do whatever it takes to get The Angry Exerciser back, because even though the Mind and Heart can heal themselves from Dipshidiot Rejection, the Ass never forgets.

TheI despise exercise. (Hey, that rhymed!) Something about getting sweaty and out of breath just doesn’t appeal to me.  Those are the kind of activities that I usually get out of by claiming I have a headache or are having my “ladies’ days.”

Either way, I hate working out, which is evident as soon as you lay eyes on me, as my body is pretty much all mush and lots of guacamole.  Lots.

Zumba is a great way to lose weight, and it’s a lot of fun, if you think fun is bouncing around in a poorly ventilated room with a bunch of post-menopausal women and Gary, the creepy overweight guy who is at every class.  Every.  Fricking.  Class.

Some say running is best.  In my skinny days I ran and had a love/hate relationship with it.  I hated every second of the run but loved the loaded nachos that awaited me.  Now I prefer to skip the running and go straight to the nachos.

Aerobics is also another way to lose those extra pounds….if it was 1986.

The stationary bike is something many turn to in order to feel the burn.  Unfortunately, all I feel is the seat slowly riding up my a$$.  I really don’t want something shoved up there that’s been up many others before me.  I’m also just not that kind of girl.

What about an elliptal machine? That’s probably the best of all evils but it still requires me to go to the gym, and it smells like old man farts there so I prefer to stay away.  Those farts are probaly from Gary.

That leaves only one other option, and it’s the easiest of ways to exercise.  It requires no trips to the gym and no one will be around to judge you for just how hard you’re panting after 2 minutes.  It’s my exercise of choice, if I had to choose.  Of course, my favorite choice is to avoid it all together, but if I’m forced to try to fit into those ever-shrinking Pajama Jeans, sometimes it’s necessary to walk it off.

What is it?  Walking. It’s not hard and has the least chance of injury, so it’s a great choice for me.

Because you guys liked my Fat Girl’s Guide To Yoga so much, I decided to do a Fat Girl’s Guide to Walking.  Once again, it’s on a diagram so it requires minimal reading.  These tips are pure gold so enjoy.  And the best part of walking as a form of exercise?  You get to avoid Gary-farts.

Thefatgirlsguidetowalking (1)

Wanna know where else I’m on the web this week?  Here you go!

10 Signs You’re Pushing 40 And Don’t Give An Eff

5 Totally Superficial Things I’m Thankful For (Don’t Judge Me)

8 Things That Really Fricking Suck About Dating A Worry-Wart

 

fat girl's guide to yogaI’m not a fan of exercise.  Who is, really?  It’s a necessary part of life, but that doesn’t make it any less horrible.  When I was in high school and college I worked out all the time; so much so it was almost an addiction.  Sometime in law school I found a new addiction: Oreos.  And Doritos.  And pizza.  And Taco Bell.

Of course, I also discovered fat rolls.

I’ve gone back and forth with different workouts over the years but nothing has really stuck.  So I turned to the only option left. Yoga.

Yes, yoga.  At first I thought this would be a great workout because it meant I could sit down and call it exercise.  I also loved that I didn’t have to wear shoes.  I figured it couldn’t be that hard if it didn’t require footwear.

Obviously I was greatly mistaken.  After trying yoga several times I’ve decided that I hate it.  No.  I despise it.  I realize there are people who think it’s great, but there are also people in the world who don’t like cookie cake.  It takes all kinds of crazies to make the world go ’round.

Since I want to save my readers from the misery of downward dog, I’ve created a fat girl’s guide to yoga.  It’s pretty with pictures so it’s easy to read.  Yoga requires effort but following a guide on how to do yoga should be effortless.fatgirlsguidetoyoga (2)

I’m on the web other places this week!

Why Water Parks Are Like Bars

What’s In The Kardashians’ Storage Unit

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I’ve started going to the gym.  Award please.

Since I’ve been sick I haven’t been able to work out.  Best.  Excuse.  Ever.

Now that I’m feeling better, I have no reason to let my gym membership go unused (a.k.a. my fat tax).  I hit the gym this weekend with my husband, who is a total gym rat.  Being married to a guy with zero body fat is hard enough, but going to the gym with him is even worse.

Walking into the gym we were greeted by several regulars, all of whom said hello to him.  When their attention shifted to me, I saw pity in their eyes, but I could tell they were giving me a supportive “good for you” glance as well.

I approached the dreaded elliptical machine with hatred in my eyes and pre-emptive soreness in my thighs.  I knew that machine was going to beat up on me and I was hesitant to let the torture begin.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I mounted the machine and slowly moved my feet.  “Pedal faster!” it immediately shouted at me.  Okay, it didn’t shout it, but the exclamation point said it all.

It was calling me out on my half-assed attempt at exercise.  (Which is funny, because I certainly have more than half an ass.)

I don’t respond well to peer pressure, but I knew the machine wouldn’t register the calories I would burn if I continued at that pace, and I wanted to burn a few calories so I could eat the Sweet Tarts I had at home.  So I stepped it up.  Literally.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

Immediately I realized I hated working out and wanted to stop.  Why do people do this to themselves?

I looked over at my husband running on the treadmill.  He looked like a goddamned gazelle.

I pushed on, thinking about my beloved Sweet Tarts and how I was going to spend some quality time with them when I got home.  I thought that would get me through the work out.

It didn’t.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I hid the timer with a towel, as I didn’t want to watch the seconds tick away slowly.  I also wanted my towel close by.

I was already getting winded and I had barely pedaled faster, as per the machine’s instructions.

Soon I began sweating and my breath was labored.  I knew I was almost done with my 30 minutes but I couldn’t resist the urge to look at the timer.

It had been 2 minutes and 53 seconds.  Seriously?!

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

How did people do this on a regular basis?  How was my husband flying through the air without so much as a drop of sweat?

The only solace I took was seeing my favorite gym-goer.  He’s an old man who wears a lifting belt no matter what exercise he does.  The best part?  He uses the weight machines, hence, no need for the weight belt.

He looked at me and smiled and then gave me a thumbs up.  I have no idea what that meant, but I can only assume he farted and his thumbs up was to show he felt better.  That guy is one gassy beast, so I feel confident saying that’s the reason.

Somehow I managed to finish my workout on Beatrice, which is what I named that dreadful machine.  Beatrice was less than kind to me and yelled at me to “speed up!’ more than once.  She was a fricking drill sergeant.

I stepped off Beatrice and wiped her down, even though she deserved to wallow in my sweat.  I stumbled getting off of her but was careful not to fall face-first into her evil twin sister, Bertha who was standing next to her.  She looked equally as menacing as Beatrice and not at all forgiving.  I knew they were going to talk about me when I left.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I headed to the door with my husband, proud I completed the workout, but mad I sweated enough to necessitate a shower.

‘”See you tomorrow!”  my husband said to the woman at the front desk as we left.  Um, what?  Tomorrow? I didn’t care if I never saw Beatrice again.  Apparently I was going to have to endure her screaming the following day.

One thing was for certain.  I was going to need another roll of Sweet Tarts if this gym thing was going to continue.

return to the gym

 

the fat taxIt’s tax season once again.  Normally I like the change in seasons as it gives me an excuse to buy new clothes to keep with the trends*, but tax season is no such fun.

*SPOILER ALERT:  The trends are always Pajama Jeans.

Come to think of it, I still buy new clothes when tax season comes around.  I can’t be expected to look at W2s in last year’s sweatpants.

All this talk of taxes and deductions (and clothes purchases) got me thinking about my waistline and how I need to reduce that along with my adjusted gross income.  If only it was that easy.

Sure, I could eat healthier.  I could, but I won’t.  I’d like to tell you that I’m going to make a conscious effort to limit myself to only 3 Oreos per night, but I’d also like to not make myself into a liar.

photo credit: 401(K) 2013 via photopin cc

photo credit: 401(K) 2013 via photopin cc

I’d like to tell you that instead of potato chips, I’ll eat kale chips instead.  However, baked weeds don’t have the same flavor as fried potatoes, so I can’t tell you such a thing.

And yes, potatoes are vegetables.  I googled it.

Since I’m not willing to eat roughage and limit my intake of processed foods,  I figured maybe I would focus on exercise and going to the gym.  As many of you know, I used to be quite the gym-goer.

Once a week makes you a regular gym-goer, right?

photo credit: I like via photopin cc

photo credit: I like via photopin cc

From personal training to zumba classes, I used to take a more active role in…well…being active.  Lately?  Not so much.  Granted, I’ve had health issues that have prevented my from hitting the gym, but those issues haven’t affected me for the past 10 years in that way…I just don’t like to go and I’m not going to start now.

So what to do?  Nothing.  I’m going to do nothing.

Maybe my monthly gym membership is just a tax.  A fine I have to pay for being fat.

A part of me wants to concede my defeat and cancel the membership entirely.  It’s not like I’m walking around in a size 0 pair of sweats.  My double chin tells the world I see the inside of a potato chip bag much more than the inside of the gym.

photo credit: stephenvance via photopin cc

photo credit: stephenvance via photopin cc

And yet, my gym membership remains active…unlike me.

Instead of making the effort to go to the gym and cancel my membership (there’s steps, so it’s a workout just to go there), I’ve decided to call it my “fat tax” and leave it at that.

There are taxes on all sorts of things in our great nation and this is just going to be another one of those things.  People pay additional taxes on cigarettes and alcohol.  Why not pay a tax on being fat?

If it means I can sit at home, watch “The Bachelor” and not feel guilty about avoiding the gym, then I’m all for levying this tax against me.

Hopefully it comes with a complimentary bag of chips…and Oreos.

 

tumultuous relationship with fro yoI’m in an abusive relationship. No, I’m not abusing Matt, at least not physically. The relationship I’m talking about is a love affair; a forbidden affair, but one I can’t terminate no matter how much I try.

The object of my affections? Fro Yo.

For those of you not familiar with this fine establishment, they serve various flavors of frozen yogurt along with a toppings bar of every thing from gummy bears to crushed up candy bars.

You serve yourself as much frozen yogurt as you want, and then load it up with as many toppings as you want as well.

It’s basically diabetes in a cup.

It’s perfection.

photo credit: Matthew McVickar via photopin cc

photo credit: Matthew McVickar via photopin cc

How is Fro Yo abusive, you ask? He seems so sophisticated with his trendy concept and welcoming rewards card. Don’t be fooled. That’s how he gets you.

You see, Fro Yo is abusive because he knows I need him. He knows I can’t live without him. Who can, really? Well, I supposed lactose intolerant people could totally live without him. Whatever.

He’s so smooth and cool and he knows it.  Not only is he aloof and confident, he’s literally smooth and cool.  He’s cold, actually.  He’s kind of a bad boy, and I like it.

I know what you’re thinking; is it just mind games?  How is he physically abusive to you?

Um, it’s called a brain freeze.  Ever had one?  Pure.  Pain.

And yet, I want more.  I want more of the brain freeze.  I want more of the headache.  I want more, more, more!

It’s not all whipped cream and crushed candy bars though.  There’s a dark side to Fro Yo.  He requires constant attention or he pouts and has a meltdown.

He also makes me feel bad about myself.  Sure, there’s the ecstasy of the time we spend together, but when it’s over, I drive home with my head hung in shame, kicking myself for being so gullible and giving in to his seductive ways.

photo credit: Kalexanderson via photopin cc

photo credit: Kalexanderson via photopin cc

As if I don’t feel bad enough about my overindulgence, there’s the stains he leaves on my shirt, and the indigestion he leaves in my chest that remind me of our dirty deed.

I try to hide our relationship with my husband, but I think he knows.  He can smell Fro Yo when I walk in the door, and I know he can see remnants of our night together in the corner of my mouth.

Matt looks away.  He doesn’t want to know.

However, despite all of the turmoil Fro Yo brings to my life, every time time he calls my name, I come running.  Well, not so much running because I’m physically not capable of running.

This is yet another example of the permanent effects Fro Yo has on me.  He has such a hold that he affects my joints and my (in)ability to engage in cardiovascular activities.

Why can’t I stop?  Maybe Robert Palmer is right, and I’m addicted to love.  I probably am.  Or maybe, just maybe, I’m addicted to lactose.

Either way, I don’t care.  If loving him is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hot date with a cool guy….

113It’s summer time, which means it’s time to hit the pool instead of hitting the gym.

Yeah right, like I hit the gym the rest of the year.

If did, I probably would enjoy the pool a bit more.  Hence, my theory for how to survive the swimsuit season.  Read about it here.  It’s an awesome idea.  (Duh).

So now that you’re equipped to go to the pool and not feel bad about how you look in a swimming suit (because you read my post), you need a few more staples.

Not stomach staples.  You look great the way you are.  Didn’t you read my swimsuit theory?

Read about the five things you need to take to the pool here.  Yes, I’m making you go to another site.  Deal with it.

You know you’d click just about anywhere to learn about what to take to the pool.  So one more click!

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http://www.inthepowderroom.com/read/me-time/2013-06-a-summer-survival-kit-for-the-pool.html

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ASSAULTI’m a bit of an eater.  Okay, maybe that’s an understatement.  It’s like saying Tiger Woods dabbles in golf, or that Kayne West is only a bit of a douche bag.

This girl loves to eat and doesn’t like anything to stand in the way of her and any sort of dipping sauce.

So when I went to lunch with my friend Scissorhands (not her real name) and her mom, I was there for the company, but I was also there for the food!

I arrived and we began chit chatting and catching up, all the while pretending as if I was interested in our conversation and not the appetizers at the table next to.  (Would it kill them to offer their neighbor a bite of their dip?)

We figured out our orders and the overly perky waitress came back to take down our requests.  My friends are healthy and skinny, but I love them despite these obvious flaws.

They both ordered healthy dishes, and the waitress then turned her attention to me.  I could tell she was rooting for me to order something healthy too.  I could see it in her face.

It’s probably the same look I have when I root for the addict on Intervention to stay away from the back alley heroin deal, knowing full well they will find themselves giving blow jobs in a garage for a couple bucks to score some “h.”

photo credit: Sebastian Mary via photopin cc

photo credit: Sebastian Mary via photopin cc

Much like the heroin junkee, I sucomed to my addiction and ordered a pizza.  I like to think it was a healthy pizza, as it had olive oil, mushrooms and goat cheese on it.

But I suppose calling a pizza healthy is like calling this blog funny.  We all want the statement to be true, but it just isn’t.

The waitress looked at me with disappointment in her eyes. “Would you like a salad with that?” she asked, hopeful I would agree to eat at least one thing that day that wasn’t filled with carbs and trans fat.

Um, no thanks,” I said, glaring at her and wondering why she cared so much about my health.  Obviously I was a woman who knew what she wanted, and I wanted a crispy crust on my fatty pizza.

salad

Plus, I always feel stupid ordering a salad at a restaurant.

I feel like the waiter is thinking “Yeah, like this ONE salad is going to help you lose the 100 pounds you need to drop.  Just give up fatty and get the lasagna.”

The waitress walked away quickly.  I can only assume the get up in her step was because she knew my cholesterol must be high based upon my eating choices, and she wanted to get my order in before I died and she failed to get her tip.

I was on to her game.

I patiently waited for my food,  performing an ocular pat-down of every item that came out of the kitchen.

My stomach was growling and I had a hard time focusing on the conversation over the sound of my stomach eating itself.

Finally, the food arrived.  Well, some of the food.  Apparently the waitress felt like torturing me some more, so she brought out the food my friends ordered, and left me to sit and wait, salivating at the prospect of my food being so close, yet so far away.

I waited for her to say something spiteful, like “Dance, monkey, dance,” but instead she smiled at me and said “Yours takes a little longer and will be out shortly.

Translation:  I’m going to make you wait for your food, as it’s probably the only time today you will have an increase in heart rate.  (She wasn’t wrong.)

After what felt like a lifetime, but was probably only 3 minutes, the waitress brought out my pizza.  I couldn’t tell if it was what I ordered or not because the entire pizza was covered in arugula.  Seriously.  It was covering the entire carb-loaded plate of goodness.

food with lettuceShe looked at me with satisfaction in her eyes, and I swear I saw her flip me off as she walked away.  No wait, that was me who did the flipping off…

Why would this woman douse my pizza in tree leaves?  I didn’t understand it.  I considered asking her for dressing for my impromptu salad, but was afraid she would come back to the table wielding veggies and a fruit cup, so I refrained.

Despite its lack of dressing (and lack of anything fried or flavorful), it wasn’t half bad.  I mean, it wasn’t good enough for me to continue eating it, but it wasn’t horrible either.

Maybe that waitress was onto something with the healthy eating.

I would give that some thought as I rolled through the Dairy Queen drive thru later for dessert.

I pushed the leaves aside and began devouring the pizza goodness.  After a while, the lettuce became so overwhelming that I considered eating it to make more room for the pizza on my plate.

I took a bite of “salad” and figured it would be the best way to spite the waitress, as I was sure she wasn’t expecting me to eat it. In fact, I was confident she had a running bet with the dishwasher in the back as to whether I would touch the leafy greens.  Well she was about to lose her $5 bet to Manuel.

I stabbed some lettuce and shoved it in my mouth before I could reconsider my spiteful eating.

311

It’s the holiday weekend, which marks the beginning of summer, or as I like to call it, the beginning of BBQ season.

Summertime is the perfect excuse to always have french onion dip in your fridge, and at least 3 bags of Ruffles potato chips in the cupboard.

Okay, since it’s not 1932 and you don’t have a cupboard, you can keep them in your pantry.

But with all the fun of the summer months also comes the dreadful swim suit debacle.

Questions like “why didn’t I start a diet in January?” or “why do I eat so many carbs?” or “how is 2 Broke Girls still on the air?” regularly float through my head this time of year.

Seriously, who watches that show?

A better way to view theWith the dreaded bathing suit season comes the thought of dieting, hunger, and the inevitable bad mood that follows when you cut off access to this girl’s carbs.

However, this year I have a different point of view to the bathing suit season.

Instead of starving myself and forcing those around me to become alcohol dependent, as that is the only way to deal with me when I’m trying to eat less than 3,000 calories a day, I’ve come up with a new approach.

Isn't this a better site to see on the beach than flabby thighs?

Isn’t this a better site to see on the beach than flabby thighs? (I’m sure she’s reading Immanuel Kant….or maybe it’s just a book with pretty pictures. Where’s Waldo may be over her head.)

I’m not going to focus on how I look in a bathing suit. I’m going to focus on those around me and how they look in said bathing suit.  (Not mine.  They can wear their own suits.)

I realize this doesn’t immediately make sense, but neither does Justin Beiber getting another album.  Bear with me.

I’ve decided that during the summer months when I’m lounging by the pool, I’m only going to surround myself with skinny people with awesome bodies.

Yes, you read that right.

I am willingly going to be the fattest person in my entourage instead of realizing halfway through the day that I’m the lovable fat friend and the only one in the group wearing Spanx and still looking overweight.

Instead, I’m going to embrace it and make a conscious effort to be around only skinny people.

The reason?  No, I’m not a masochist, although for some reason I continue to buy the Greek veggie dip telling myself every time “this time it’s gonna be good.”

Aside from that form of self torture, I’m not really into that.

But I figure if I surround myself with skinny people who look good at the pool, my view for the day will be delightful.

These chicks seem pumped about the idea.

These chicks seem pumped about the idea.

As far as the eye can see I will view attractive, bronzed bodies with minimal cellulite and the ability to walk without their legs rubbing together.

It will be perfection!

After all, I’m not the one who has to stare at flabby arms and a gut filled with Chipotle…that’s my friends who have to do that!  Suckas!!!!

I think this idea is fool proof and it will be effective immediately.

I realize this seems like discrimination, but I like to think of it as a beautification requirement where I am surrounded by “happy little bodies,” which are much like the “happy little trees” Bob Ross used to paint, although hopefully these bodies will have less bush.

Yes, I really just made that joke.  Low brow?  Yes.  Hilarious?  Also yes.

So if I ask you to go to the pool with me this summer, you should take it as a compliment.

Aside from the fact you will have the honor of chilling with me poolside and partaking in my awesome snacks, of which you can only have one, you should also be happy to know that I consider you a hard body who will make me feel better about myself.

And isn’t that really what friendships are all about?

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:

Spanx

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.