Monthly Archives: July 2011
Let’s travel in time to this past Saturday, shall we? My work-out buddy (hereby known as E, until I decide a better moniker for her) and I had our initial session with our new trainer, Heather. E and I got to the gym right on time for our 12 pm appointment, and waited. And waited. Heather finally decided to stroll toward our table around 12:10, plopped into her chair open-legged, and began talking with absolutely no introduction.
“Mbghio bfji rghio gthjiob tihhjri. Bdfijiti bhi ghign?”
That’s all I heard for two reasons.
You know those girls who make you do a double-take when they talk because their voice sounds like Barry White?
The second reason is that she was mumbling in her muffled baritone toward the table. No eye contact. Something about metabolism, and water, and what do I eat. I answered her in my usual intelligent manner, making eye contact with the side of her face:
“Uhhh…I used to eat bad stuff….like…fried stuff and whatever, but now I eat good stuff, like fruits and vegetables, and like, turkey and stuff.” Man. I should really think about going into the nutrition field if this teaching thing doesn’t work out.
This intelligent exchange continued for the next five minutes or so, as Heather muttered into the table and shoved papers toward us to sign. I started to wonder if she would notice if I started answering her questions using only Barry White song titles since she seemed so uninterested in my answers.
Heather: So, what are your goals?
Me: Staying Power.
Heather: Have you had a trainer before?
Me: You’re The First, The Last, My Everything.
Heather: Do you have any specific areas on which you’d like to focus?
Me: Honey Please Can’t Ya See? You See The Trouble With Me.
Heather: Ok, we’re gonna go over here so I can measure you.
Me: I’ll Do For You Anything You Want Me To.
On Tuesday, it was time for our first workout. Heather led us to a corner of the gym and
adjusted her package demonstrated the leg circuit for us. After the third time through it, there was a nuclear war happening in my thighs. She wanted us to do it ONE MORE TIME.
Since I’m paying for this, I want to give it my all. I’m not giving up. (Never, Never Gonna Give Ya Up) I powered through the fourth time, huffing and puffing, wiping my nose on my shirt sleeve, then dropping the kettlebell to the floor and guzzling water. My heart rate was somewhere in the 340 range. That may have been slightly exaggerated.
We started to walk toward the bench press and I was feeling like a champ. I made it! My 11-inch thighs are gonna be ripped!
Then, things started looking a little strange.
White spots filled my vision. Stomach churned. Room was spinning.
Great. Instead of impressing Barr…Heather with my outstanding endurance, I’m now sitting on a bench, breathing deeply and wondering if she would crush my head between her thighs if I puked right here. I’ve always been good at first impressions.
“You ok?” (What Am I Gonna Do With You) “You’d better take a walk.” (Baby, We Better Try To Get It Together)
Three days later, my legs are still sore. Barry’s on a mission to kill me, but if it gets me ripped, I can handle it. Just don’t expect me to look like one of those female bodybuilders. I haven’t had time to stock my baby oil supply
Just look at it. I know what you’re thinking.
It’s terrifying, right?
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been irrationally repulsed by babies. I’m not sure why. I mean, I don’t remember a baby ever doing anything to me. It’s not like I had this traumatic experience in first grade when a diaper-clad thug mugged my “Strawberry Shortcake” lunchbox from me, wielding a diaper pin as a weapon.
Yet, when someone brings their newborn into a gaggle of squealing women, I’m always the one who steps outside the circle, avoiding that inevitable question:
“Do you want to hold her?”
No. I do not want to hold your child. She can’t even hold up her own head. There is approximately a 94% chance that I am going to end up having some sort of bodily function on my clothing, and the worst part is that I don’t know from which orifice it could erupt. Also, I value my hearing and the sounds that come from that tiny mouth could give a banshee a run for its money.
I’ve been married for almost three years. I’m at that point in life when it’s expected that I’ll procreate at any moment. From the second a woman leaves her wedding reception, her job becomes Professional Incubator. You can’t even eat too much and comment that you feel a little sick, or else everyone begins assuming you’re With Child. About 6 weeks after my wedding, I walked into a family gathering and the first thing that was said to me was, “Why aren’t you pregnant yet?”
Why, hello. Nice to see you, too.
Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I’m not a mother hater. In fact, I am quite the opposite. Anyone who is willing to welcome one of these screaming, sleep-depriving, hungry beings into their home has all the respect in the world from me. The idea of babysitting overwhelms me so much that I’ve never done it. I haven’t even changed a diaper or fed a baby before.
But it’s so different when it’s your own! You’ll see!
Now you’re thinking, “Crap! Now what am I going to write as a comment?”
Maybe that’s true. Maybe it is different, but at this point, I don’t want to find out. You see, I value my sleep very much. When I don’t have to be any where, I tend to sleep about 10-12 hours a night. I get very angry when said sleep is interrupted. I also enjoy making spontaneous plans and going on random adventures with my friends. Basically, what I’m trying to say is that I’m far too selfish and I have no plans to change that fact.
Also, I’m not too keen on the idea of pregnancy.
I imagine it as being similar to the part in Alien when a creature bursts out of her stomach. It’s common knowledge, thanks to my last post, that I need to eat a sandwich. Something tells me that stick-figures were not built for child rearing. I think the big deciding factor was the moment I learned the definition of the word episiotomy. If you don’t know what it means, don’t look it up.
You can’t say I didn’t tell you so.
We need to start adding chlorine to the gene pool.
It’s a fact. Too many people have spawned without taking the gene pool into consideration. I would like to do the world a favor. After all, in the last four months, my husband has initiated a bouillon cube sucking contest and my friend and I took pictures of ourselves with pretzel stick walrus teeth.
It’s probably for the best.
Shiny, metallic pants must have been all the rage when I was in eighth grade. At least, I thought that was the case because I had three pairs of them in a variety of colors as my complete wardrobe that year.
Have you ever gone through old journals or pictures of yourself and thought, “Who allowed Richard Simmons to be my stylist?” or, “What would compel me to chronicle the details of eating at Frisch’s with my family as a quality diary entry?”
Going through boxes of childhood memorabilia can be a very humbling experience. Everyone tells you while you’re a teenager that you’re young and dumb, and of course that’s the last thing any kid wants to hear or believe. I went through a box of old stuff the other day and was appalled at how inane my writing was. The evidence that I encountered in that box argued that this is probably true. I decided that I must have been the most annoying thing on Earth in 1998 aside from Beanie Babies.
Exhibit A: Me at the pool with a friend, my grandma, and my sister. I’m probably about 10 or 11 here and if you could see Grandma’s “WTF” expression, you would know even she thought I was a lunatic.
Another poor life decision. Someone needed to have a unibrow intervention with me. (Just imagine brows like Bert and Ernie.) Also, sneakers should never have been worn with that outfit.
You see, the root of the problem is that my only example of fashion at this point in life was my mother. Mom dressed me until I was in fifth grade. There are pictures of me as a fourth grader sporting sweatsuits with cats, hearts and glitter on them. Even in 1995, this wasn’t acceptable. That was the day of bowl cuts, Michael Jordan jerseys, and flannel shirts. Wearing purple cotton from head to 4-inches-above-toe was how Mom thought I should roll. With that being said, we move to another disturbing image that I foreshadowed earlier.
There are almost no words for this. As I mentioned before, I had three pairs of these metallic pants in silver, pink, and gold. I owned no other pants besides these, as those who haven’t blocked middle school memories from their minds can attest. We won’t even go into the wig and hat.
We now move to the high school years. It came time for my freshman homecoming dance and my mom volunteered to do my hair. This ended up being the one and only time that my mom did my hair. You would think that the fact that she, to this day, has a mullet as her choice of hair style would be a gigantic red flag. However, it happened, and for hours that night, my friends had a multitude of laughs at this:
I was teased almost as much as my hair was that night.
Unfortunately, that was far from the end of my poor choices. This last gem falls into the “awkward prom photo” category. The best part about this one is that I coerced my now-husband into growing out his hair for my prom. Thus, I created a tragic image for both of us to treasure for life.
There are so many places to go with this one. Starting with the obvious, you have the awkward prom pose. Next, you have my horrid dress color choice, which blends into my pasty albino skin. Then, the decision to wear gloves which are too big for my spindly arms and a tiara, which no one should ever wear unless their mother is the queen. Finally, you can see I forced him into growing a circa 1999 Justin Timberlake white boy ‘fro, which speaks for itself.
Luckily, I attended Miami University (aka J. Crew U) after high school, where I learned that you never match your eyeshadow to your shirt and wearing screen printed tees with clever sayings is not as attractive as you might think.
I would call the subject of this post my awkward phase, but it’s not exactly a phase when it lasts for 20 years, is it?
It makes me feel better to know that everyone can relate with feelings of shame about your younger years. I mean, we’ve all been there, right?
Awkward pat on the shoulder, at least?