We’re all on a mission of some sort.
For some, their mission is to become a better person, or donate more money to charity. For others, it’s to get to that booger that’s way in the back and has gotten all hard and pointy. Other people are trying to see how many times they can scratch their butt in public without being caught. (“I’m up to five, bro! Up top!”) Some people in my community are on a mission to see how many years they can shun the dentist and still keep that one tooth in the front. I know someone who calls it Chomper. Still, others are on a mission to make all teachers seem to be the human reincarnation of Satan in our country. There’s a reason I remain anonymous on here. (Oh no, she di’int just get on a political soapbox on a humor blog! *z-snap*)
Anyway, the point is, we all have a mission in life.
Chances are, you came to this blog on a mission for porn.
You see, I have a slight obsession with checking my stats. In the past week, about 60% of my hits were referred from a Google Images search. Nearly all of those image searches include the name “Jenna Marbles” and some sort of body part or adjective. Just look:
This list makes me proud to be a woman. I mean, instead of searches for “jenna marbles smart” or “jenna marbles funny,” we have searches for her full body, boobs, under wear (btdubs, it’s one word, you horny moron), and legs. As Jenna has stated in her “How To Get Ready For A Date” vlog, we’re all sexual objects, anyway. We shouldn’t try to be interesting, or intelligent, or wear anything that won’t show off our “sweater puppies.”
So, go ahead, you 15 year old perverts. Keep searching for “jenna marbles hot” and “jenna marbles boobies” (Yeah, I got that one today. They can’t be any older than 14 for that big boy wording). Continue to type things like “moms cleavage” into your Google search box.
Back up the freaking Oedipal train.
Someone was searching for moms cleavage and found my blog?? And I thought I had issues. I bet they were really disappointed when they clicked here. This is probably the same kind of kid who was breastfeeding until age 6. Ah, mom’s cleavage. Makes me feel so cuddly, warm and safe. Amirite???? (And covered in baby powder.)
So, thanks to the 10% of you who actually stop by and read. To the other 90% of you, keep searching for your porn. I admire someone who has perseverance. I hope you achieve your goal. (Crossed the line?)
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