What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I be like normal people? Why can’t I be a calm, cool, collected individual? The anxiety, the rash decisions, the guilt. It’s all too much.
I’m useless, mental, insane, compulsively-driven at the very sight of…of cupcakes. I know. What the fuck is wrong with me?
The other day we had a staff meeting where cupcakes were present. They were brought out at the very start of the meeting. They were for a birthday, so tradition dictates that you don’t partake until ‘Happy Birthday’ is sung. Um. Why you people gotta play with me like that?
The.whole.time I sneaked peeks over at those beautiful confections of sugar goodness. It was mean, really.
They were taunting me.
How can you expect anyone, particularly one with an unhealthy relationship to cake, to actually pay attention to the matters at hand when there are cupcakes RIGHT OVER THERE?
I think I know what we discussed at the staff meeting, but really, all I was concerned with was whether or not I would have time to eat my cupcake before the school day started.
During the height of my anxiety, when I was contemplating how bad it would look if I just snatched one and ran out, I began to notice everyone else.
They were all just casually drinking their coffee and jotting down notes.
I’m having the sweats and I’m feeling like an animal in heat and these people are cool as fucking cucumbers. Really.
It’s moments like these, during staff meetings where I have to abstain, with temptation taunting me, when I wonder how I’m not 400 pounds.
The fact that a fucking cupcake can mentally control me to such a degree is embarrassing. Normal people want one, but they don’t salivate like a starving dog begging for scraps.
My many, fervent, stolen glances over at the rainbow cake bombs, did the trick and it was finally time to get one! *Fat clap*
I basically mowed everyone down to get to them first. I’m that person.
I was instantly ashamed, but my regret didn’t stop me from checking the teacher’s lounge, at lunch, to see if there were any left.
Have you ever heard of Wish? If not, I can sum it up pretty plainly: It’s an online shopping mall of horrors.
Basically, you can get anything from Bluetooth headsets to refrigerator cover organizers (you didn’t think you needed one, did you?) for insanely low prices.
Now that I think of it, I have been meaning to get a pair of Geordi la Forge sunglasses.
The only catch is that 99% of what you buy ships from China, so it may or may not ever make it to you.
The positive to this is that, five months from now, when you’ve completely forgotten you’d ordered a $2 waffle/pancake/egg/cake baking mold, it’s like a mini surprise Christmas when it arrives.
That is, if what you ordered isn’t utter crap.
To be fair, out of the five or so things I’ve ordered off Wish, I recall only one thing totally sucking.
So, to that, do not order clothes from Wish unless you weigh precisely 80 pounds, soaking wet.
I was feeling like playing it dangerously, so I ordered this hideous gauzy, lime green monstrosity. It was similar to this:
When I finally got it, three years later, the gauzy neon look was totally out. Not to mention, the XL size wouldn’t even fit over my fat head. Had it fit, it would have made a fabulous choker necklace, as it was My Size Barbie size.
So, I wasted $7 and three years of my life waiting for something I forgot I ordered. Not a big deal in the whole scheme of things.
Wish is harmless, if you go into it knowing you can’t be in dire need of any item you deem worthy of buying, and you understand that the quality is just a notch above the Dollar Store.
Lately, I’ve been bombarded, accosted by Wish ads on Facebook. I swear, every other post is a random Wish ad.
Why this is of any interest to myself (and, hopefully, you) is the nature of what Wish is advertising.
It’s weird af.
And, unlike most ads on Facebook that are creepily accurate and timely (I’m not even ashamed to admit that I was googling “hemorrhoid cream”-it’s great for undereye puffiness-and not five minutes later an ad for Preparation H showed up in my Facebook ads), these “suggestions” are downright nope-eff-you-Wish.
The following are not things I’ve previously Googled.
WTF?! Why? Please tell me this is a mouth trainer for when you want to make a face that expresses surprise, but your facial muscles are too weak, so this helps make them strong, and literally nothing else.
What.in.the.holy.hell is this? I have so many questions.
Is this a fake pregnancy belly? (I’m only guessing that, because the description says, “LIZ 5-7 Months…”)
Why does one need an artificial pregnancy belly? Is this for a messed up April Fool’s joke? A scam? A weird fetish? Also, why is this not $2 like everything else?
$221 for a fake blob of flesh is not a steal! I say!
OK. This thing is actually kind of cute…
EXCEPT IT’S A MINIATURE PENIS WITH EYES AND AN ASS CRACK.
Is this a pencil topper or something?
Now, this next one is definitely PG-13, maybe R-rated. If you’re an innocent, dainty flower, maybe you’ve read enough. Just sayin’.
So, when I first saw this one, I legit thought it was just a regular old hammock. These were my thoughts:
What have you got now, Wish?
What is that?
Is that a hammock?
Two people in a hammock? That’s just asking for trou…
What the hell are they doing?!
My virgin eyes!
I think they’re…doing it in a hammock!
I had to get confirmation.
Me: “Babe! Look at this hammock for sale on Wish! They are being quite unsafe! Imagine me, just me in a hammock. I’d just be innocently trying to get into the damn thing to read or nap, and I’d probably get wrapped up, spin like an out-of-control gyro meat machine, and end up flat on my face. Who is crazy enough to attempt sex in a fucking hammock?”
Him: “Yup. That looks exactly like what they’re doing. We’d probably break the damn thing, and, with my luck, I’d get a potted plant up my ass.”
Behold, you can buy a sex swing hammock for $31 on Wish!
(Not sure I’d trust it. But, that’s just me.)
Sorry, I was gagging on my diet root beer.
Every time I see this, I can’t even.
I’ve paid close to $50 for Spanx that are intended to do literally the opposite of what these $5 tights that wouldn’t fit an American infant are trying to do.
Why, why are we trying to make oddly placed bubbles of thigh fat fashionable? Is this a thing? Please tell me it’s not.
Wish, what the ever-loving fuck?
I’m a satire writer. I felt the need to start with that, in case you’re new here or you haven’t already realized that 90% of my blog is humor-based.
So, I think almost anything is laugh-till-I-pee funny.
My friends either love or hate going to the movies with me, because there’s a 110% chance I’ll be the loudest one laughing at every.single hint of a joke.
I laugh at myself and my ineptness. I laugh at fart and poop jokes. Hell, I laugh at farts. Every fart. I laugh at the fact that my boyfriend and I call each other Miss and Mr. Poopy Butthole (instead of the usual “Honey” or “Sweetie” *gagging noise*). I laugh at my students’ corny straight-from-the-dollar-special-Scholastic-knock-knock-book. Like, I genuinely laugh. I laugh at puppies simply being puppy-y. I laugh when conversations turn awkward. I laugh at my dad’s pronunciation of a Yoo-hoo as Yo-ho.
I fucking think everything is funny.
Not everything is funny.
What makes me stop dead in my tracks during a laughing fit?
What makes me instantly get on my high horse soap box?
You want to know?
It’s when people pass off utter, on-purpose stupidity as “cute”.
I’m all for laughing at silly things like this:
Because it’s not stupidity, it’s a misunderstanding, turned hilarity.
Recently, I stumbled upon a stupid af BuzzFeed article about–are you ready for this–Chrissy Teigen’s butthole.
Get this, despite having had sex with her husband, however many hundreds (thousands) of times, she had no clue he’d spied her butthole.
Apparently, she had always assumed her coffee crumpet was the one sacred place left on her body that her husband had not seen.
Chrissy, didn’t you ever wonder why all of your friends were getting their assholes bleached? No, it wasn’t for health reasons. SMH.
I really don’t aim to be a snotty bitch, but, really? How can someone be that dumb?
Furthermore, why are we perpetuating the stupidity by glorifying it?
All images from BuzzFeed, obviously.
I was planning on completely dismissing this article as a slow news day at BuzzFeed, until I continued reading (why did I continue reading??), and was forced to choke down her grammatically incorrect, cringe-worthy tweet.
There are at least 11,378 fools out there who either didn’t even notice the lack of any understanding of grammar whatsoever in her post or they just didn’t care.
WE NEED TO START CARING.
As an educator, it is literally my job to spread knowledge and to stop the scourge of ignorance.
Why are we continuing to share, repost, retweet, and glorify stupidity masked in I’m-pretty-so-it’s-OK?
So, I did my due diligence as an educator, and I commented on the poor grammar and lame subject of an article someone actually got paid to write, and I was met with being called a “judgemental bitch”.
I will be honest, I was my usual snarky, dripping-in-satire-self, but I simply can’t sit by, as someone’s stupidity is celebrated, and do nothing.
In hindsight, maybe I should have privately messaged Chrissy, and said something along the lines of:
“Chrissy, sweetie, I’m not being mean when I say this, and really, I’m just trying to help you, but you might want to invest in a basic human anatomy book. While you’re at, you might want to also add to your Amazon cart, “Grammar For Dummies”. Actually, no. What am I thinking? You’re paid for your good looks. You don’t need basic common sense. Nah. You’re good. Forget I even said anything.”
While I’m at it, ladies, can we stop playing the dumb, because it’s perceived-as-cute-card?
Maybe Chrissy Teigen is secretly a rocket scientist, but since women are still more valued for their looks, she plays that role, because a girl’s gotta eat?
Either way, I don’t care how “judgemental” I’m perceived to be, I’m going to continue fighting ignorance one snarky, time-wasting social media comment war at a time.
My mom is a great storyteller. Family stories have been passed down, retold countless times, and loved since I can remember. On Sunday, my mom told us a story I had never heard before, and how it’s even possible she never told us this doozy, I do not know.
Because it’s pure gold.
Back in the time of Mom Jeans, VHS, and Kenny Loggins cassette tapes, my mom and her brother had a battle of epic proportions.
It was Christmastime, and my uncle was visiting, as he did every year. My cousin and I were young, and likely we were the reason the whole fam bam was at the park in the middle of December.
For some insane reason, the topic of who was faster on foot between my mom and my uncle came up in conversation. My uncle swore he’d literally beat the pants off of my mom.
Well, that pretty much sealed the deal.
My mom and uncle readied themselves for a foot race that would easily rival that of Usain Bolt…if he were middle aged, out of shape, and if he considered tight Lee jeans appropriate running attire.
Quite handy for the two marathon runners was that the particular park where we were had parallel bridges, not too far away from each other. My grandmother, humoring her two always-picked-last-for-sports-children said she’d call “ready or not”.
I guess now is a good time to paint the scene.
My good ol’ Uncle Gary, or, My Own Personal John Candy was one of the best parts of my childhood. If my mom was a good storyteller, it’s only because she learned the craft from the king of all storytellers-her older brother.
He was round, and, just like Santa, when he laughed, his belly shook like a bowl full of jelly. (And he laughed a lot, because he always had a new, mildly inappropriate joke up his sleeve.)
In essence, he was pleasantly, perfectly plump (he wouldn’t have been Uncle Gary had he been any different).
As for my mom, it was she who I inherited my overly curvaceous bod, cellulite, and body hair from, so…
I think the picture is fairly clear.
They were 100% the kids who cheated on running the mile in PE class (or walked the entirety, coming in with a record time of 12 minutes).
Basically, we had a pair of real marathon winners.
I don’t think my mom even took the race seriously. She probably figured she’d have to embarrass him by beating the pants off him in front of God and everybody, or that he had a cheat or a trick ready and waiting.
This was why she was far more concerned with what he was doing at the starting line, instead of readying herself for moving more quickly than she had in years.
She was staring him down, incredulity and an ounce of fear growing, as his Rocky-esque stance proved he was ready and actually serious.
Suddenly, Grandma called, “Go!” and it was all just a blur of color block windbreaker and handlebar mustache.
My mom was glued to her spot. Stunned.
Pretty quickly, she couldn’t contain her laughter and broke down in hysterics.
She said, “At the starting gate, I collapsed in laughter. I saw him there, this 300 pound man, with his 32 year-old shoes flapping, going like the wind.”
As my mom was dissolving into a puddle of tear-soaked Jordache, Grandma was yelling, “Go, Judy! Just go a little bit, Judy!”
After listening to this story, it was only natural that I dared my brother to our own relay race.
I was fairly certain I’d beat the crap out of him. I’d only been an aerial yogaist for five weeks straight, and all of my walks to 7-11 had to make me more capable of movement than him.
The last time I was witness to him doing anything that resembled physical exertion was when we went on a family picnic five years ago, and I dragged him on a “hike” up to a lookout, barely half a mile away. It was not his favorite.
I figured I’d finish and have time to bake a cake before he came across the finish line.
As he confidently, unwaveringly got into his runner’s stance, I began to doubt myself as a shoe-in for first place.
Maybe he runs during his time off? Had I somehow completely missed that aspect of his life?
I said to my mom, “I think I’m kinda scared!”
She replied, “Maybe you should be. Sometimes fat people surprise you and they run like the wind!”
Spoiler Alert: I lost miserably.
Not only did I lose, I came incredibly close to eating asphalt.
You know when you are trying to go faster than your body can catch up and your head has literally a head start? Well, that was me the entire 20 or so feet we ran.
Not only did he beat me by running a hell of a lot faster than me, he did so with bare feet.
When my dad yelled, “Go!” (BTW, my dad was excited enough to watch this spectacle, that he actually paused the golf he was watching, and said, “Now, I gotta see this.” as he practically ran outside), I thought my body would be moving quicker than it did. It was like I was in slo-mo, shlepping through molasses. Before I could even start actually moving, he had propelled his body through the finish line with his Fred Flinstone feet.
It wasn’t even a competition.
Moral of the story: Don’t underestimate people carrying around some extra weight, because they can move. With the exception of this fat chick. I can’t move quickly for anything.
Also, family stories are better when you don’t try to reenact them. Don’t let history repeat itself, people!
I just realized that some of my newer readers might not know that I used to write for the U.K.-based online magazine, Shopper Lottie. It got to be a little much on top of working and coming up with content for my blog, because the Shopper Lottie content had to be original and not previously published. I guess I’m really not the writing machine that I would like to be. Still, it was a really awesome experience, and I still adore the magazine creator, Charlotte.
Since it’s almost summer break, I thought I’d share a post I wrote for Shopper Lottie about that fun realization when you’re super not summer body ready.
I have at least three posts sitting in my drafts folder just waiting to be finished. My excuse for not having a polished piece this week is that I’m a teacher and it’s the last week of school.
I’m just feeling lucky that my brain hasn’t melted.
Yesterday was spent out in the sun all day for Field Day. I could barely even.
I silently mouth or say outright, “WTF?!” at least 20 times a day in response to a wide assortment of inconveniences, ridiculous happenstances, strange personal choices, and annoyances.
It’s basically my go-to response, because I’m a lady like that.
So, for this week’s installment of #WTFW, I am sharing some WTFs with you. Ready or not, here they come!
1. How is it that one minute I’m watching a video on how to make strawberry cheesecake macarons, and then, somehow, it’s three hours later and I’m in deep, searching through a rando’s Facebook pictures of their dog? Or, why is it I spend an ungodly amount of time scrolling the comment section of a video on how to fold a shirt? Why do I waste my time like this? I think I need therapy.
2. When, after walking precisely 20 miles round trip to the work room, staff lounge, admin’s office, back to the work room for the tape I forgot, and back to my classroom, I realize my Fitbit is still charging on my computer. None of those steps counted. Might as well just go home and go to bed. The day is a wash. FML.
3. When one second I am peacefully, albeit horribly, singing to my latest favorite tune in the car, and the next, I am screaming obscenities, that would make a sailor blush, at the idiot who is driving 30 miles an hour on the FUCKING FREEWAY.
4. Sometimes I start my makeup on the opposite side of my face that I always start with, and I wonder if I’ve somehow entered a parallel universe. Or, I worry I’m losing my mind, because what kind of routine-driven person does that kind of thing?
5. Sometimes (always) I ask my boyfriend really ridiculous, inane questions that, most likely, make him question his undying love for me and are, 100%, why he has more gray hairs and some new wrinkles. I’ve personally aged the poor man. Some examples would be:
“Did you wash your hands?”
“Do you think it’s safe to eat this salami I left in my bag all day?”
“Did you lock the doors (for the 8,563rd time)?”
“Can you smell my breath from over there?”
“Do you think anyone at Panda Express will notice I’m not wearing a bra?”
“What do you think it means when someone’s pee is green? Asking for a friend.”
And, his absolute favorite: “Can you hold my purse while I use the restroom?”
I don’t know why I’m crazy, I just am.
6. When I buy my Friday Treat Donut at Starbucks (for $2, might I add) and there are freaking free donuts in the staff lounge. Fatty don’t play. WTF!
So, tell me: What makes you go “WTF”? I need some humor to get me through this last week, people!
I decided to repost this for #fbf, because it’s still relevant, and I’m finally advocating for my health. Yup, I’m finally getting serious about losing some extra weight. What are your views on body positivity? Let me know in the comments.
I have changed my view so many times on the topic of body positivity in relation to weight loss. I started out thinking body positivity was just another excuse for attention (the very existence of millions of Instagram accounts created for the sole purpose of the vapid need for praise and acceptance from strangers is just one tiny piece of evidence) and just one of the many ways people make it all about looks and appearance. Yes, I really felt this way (and if I am being honest, still feel this way about selfies and Instagram accounts filled to the brim with egocentric pictures). I also had a hard time watching people promote being unhealthy. Then, I changed my tune after learning more about the meaning behind body positivity. After this, I started to believe that being overweight doesn’t always mean being unhealthy. Thus, began my intense eating-everything-streak, simply in the name of being big and beautiful.
I’ve been logging my Weight Watchers points for a month now. Amazingly, I have not yet starved to death. Who would have thought I could survive on less than 80,000 calories a day?
As much as I’m enjoying not feeling positively disgusting as I eat my way through a large triple cheese pizza, I also miss the days when I would inhale a package of Zingers, or hyperventilate over a warm brownie, smothered in caramel sauce and melting cake batter ice cream.
Last weekend, I went to the Cheesecake Factory with a friend. I had a salad like a good fat girl. Just for shits and giggles, I calculated how many points my favorite slice of cheesecake would be.
For those of you not familiar with Weight Watchers, just know that a grande Caramel Light Frappuccino is 7 points, so is a 1/2 cup of ice cream. Just for comparison, you know.
Now, are you sitting down? Have you had your morning movement? I wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen when you’re blown clear out of your seat.
A piece of Cheesecake Factory’s Reese’s Cheesecake is 67 mother-effing points.
(And, it clocks in at a whopping 1,480 calories!)
I get 37 points for one day. I couldn’t even eat anything else for the entire day and I’d be 30 friggin points over my daily allotment.
I’m still reeling from this news. It’s no freaking wonder I have an ass the size of Texas. I’ve probably been eating 7,000 calories a day! Who knew things had so many calories! Doh!
So, in the spirit of eating healthier, I looked into what I could eat/make that would be not so calorie-laden and still a “treat”.
Also, I’m not gonna lie, I wanted to bake some ridiculous, kale-infused gluten-free, vegan, hipster monstrosity that I could satire the hell out of.
I searched “healthy brownies” on Pinterest, and this is the recipe I settled on:
Not only do these “brownies” contain black beans, they also call for avocado.
Now, let me just say that I’m kind of (and, by “kind of”, I mean I’ve never gotten on the hipster-led bandwagon) over the kale, coconut oil, and gluten-free everything that’s still all the rage.
I didn’t set out to make these “brownies” because I enjoy, or pretend to enjoy, eating “treats” that are more vegetable than what they claim to be replacing.
I made these to, hopefully, find an alternative to my usual carb- and sugar-laden goodies that are making me more fat.
I just want something to satiate that bitch, Martha (my fat gut).
Before I continue, I feel I must point out that I’m not, by any stretch of the word, a photographer. So, I’m definitely not a food photographer. My unfocused, off-center photos were taken with my scratched rose gold iPhone 6.
Also, I didn’t follow the ingredients exactly. The recipe called for a large flax egg. What in the hell is a flax egg? I know one kind of egg, and that’s egg.
I also didn’t go out and buy expensive-as-hell coconut oil just to use a teaspoon for this recipe. No, I don’t just have coconut oil on hand.
I was supposed to use organic, all natural cocoa powder. It says “natural” right on the Hershey’s box of unsweetened cocoa powder (that I already had). So, I felt pretty pleased with myself that I didn’t have to spend half of my paycheck at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s just to make 12 brownies.
I had light brown sugar, but the recipe called for dark brown sugar. Again, I deviated from the recipe, but how different could the two be??
After I gathered all of the necessary ingredients together, I readied the tools needed for the job.
It was then that I realized I hadn’t seen my 8×8 pan in quite some time. In order to see all of the cabinet space where we keep our kitchen appliances, I have to get down on my hands and knees and take a picture of inside the cabinet, due to the positioning of the cabinet, and because I can’t get my massive head inside to look all the way back and to the right. With the picture as my guide, I can blindly reach for whatever I’m after. This is 100% why I never make anything.
There was no 8×8, but I did spy a muffin pan. After thinking long and hard about my missing 8×8 pan, I realized I have never owned an 8×8 baking pan. That must be why I couldn’t figure out when I last saw it.
Before I could even get down to business, I somehow knocked the open bag of chocolate chips right into the garbage. I was off to a fabulous start.
The recipe said to use a food processor. I’m not adult enough to own one of those, so I used my Magic Bullet.
I figured the black beans were the only ingredient that really needed to be processed, despite the fact that the recipe said to process all of the ingredients. I do what I want!
Mainly, I was more concerned about the black beans, because I didn’t want to bite into a brownie to be surprised by a whole bean. That would have just killed the mood. Amiright?
This just looks absolutely barftastic, doesn’t it? When is it ever OK to pair avocado and black beans with sugar. I guess when you’re making healthy “brownies”, obviously. But, *shudder*
After adding the cocoa powder and mixing real well, the batter actually looked and smelled just like real brownies. I wanted to take a little taste, but salmonella.
I must admit that while they were baking, they smelled exactly like real brownies. I was really salivating like crazy.
It was divine.
Sadly, that’s about as brownie as these “treats” got.
Ya’ll, these are not brownies.
They aren’t disgusting, but I will never waste an avocado like this again. Criminal.
Part of why I love brownies is the texture. My favorite kind of brownie is the kind that is almost underbaked (Paul Hollywood voice), so they are chewy, and you can taste what differentiates them from vegetables-freaking gluten.
Not only was the texture more baked refried bean than ooey, gooey goodness, they were way too dark chocolate-y.
Also, after my first and only bite, I got a bit of black bean skin stuck in my teeth.
I gave some to my neighbor, because he’s dieting right now. He said he liked them. I’m fairly certain he’s a lying bastard.
Verdict: Unless you like pasty brownies that are dark chocolatey enough that one bite will send you into a migraine of epic proportions, don’t try this at home.
Happy Monday! Yesterday, I spent ages customizing a new theme for my blog page. I felt my page needed some updating and a fresh new look. Mostly, I want my blog to be easy to navigate and fun to look at.
I would love feedback about the new look. Specifically, is my fat gob too much right there, front and center? I feel like it is a little shocking, especially for those who visit my blog upon just waking up.
Since customizing this new theme, my “about” and “home” links have disappeared. My “about” page still exists, but I don’t know how to get to it!
(I know it still exists, because I followed the link provided on the Bloggers Bash post.)
This is no bueno! Since Wordpress support has been so expeditious in their replies as of late, I am likely not going to get the help I need from them this year.
Anyone have any idea why this might have happened?
Let me know what you think about my new theme and layout, along with why I might have a missing menu!
I am, quite possibly, the laziest, weakest bish on this planet. You think you might be the crowning winner of this coveted title? Just wait, you will be voting for this fatty real soon.
I was sitting at a work training a few weeks ago. As usual, I was eavesdropping. Two super fit women were discussing this free app that follows you through a seven minute workout. Seven minutes.
Gurrrrrl, that’s so my kind of workout. Forget those hour long, sweat and puke sessions at the yoga studio. Forget the bike rides around the block that take me the rest of the night to recover from. Forget spending my hard-earned Netflix and chill with Ben & Jerry time on being uncomfortable and sweaty. Eff.that.noise.
So, obviously I downloaded the app and gave it a whirl.
I imagined myself looking exactly like the fit chick in the video, because in seven minutes I can do anything.
Actually, seven minutes is a long time. I can’t do anything in seven minutes.
Well, I did something, but it looked nothing like the stupidly svelte girl in the video. I didn’t look a thing like the girl who didn’t even break a sweat. The girl who doesn’t even need to do seven fucking minutes of fitness.
This was the breakdown of my seven minutes of shame:
Oh, this is easy!! I can do a million of these over-the-head-body-ball-things.
I can feel my abs growing stronger and stronger. Also, my arms are stupid strong.
Actually, my arms are limp noodles and I don’t like this.
My arms are going to fall off and I’m going to die.
*looks at app timer on phone*
No effing way it’s only been 45 seconds.
My timer has to be glitching. *spends 30 seconds checking*
Oh, phew! The next exercise. Thank God. I almost puked.
Um, I can’t balance on a ball on my side and lift my leg. Like, that’s humanly impossible.
*awkwardly spends entire time devoted to ball balance exercise trying to get on ball*
What a friggin joke. I’d like to see anyone but Extreme Exercise Girl balance on a ball like that.
Oooh, a lay down one! I totally rock the socks off lay-down-fitness.
Ow. These hurt my virgin tailbone. 3 is good.
Yussss! Another lay down one and all I have to do is lift my legs into the air as I hold myself up, balancing my gut on the ball.
OK. That was a barf burp.
I’m feeling insanely sweaty. I’m gonna skip the push ups to take off my bra. I don’t want to sweat in my bra. I just washed it two months ago.
*exerts more energy in taking off sweaty bra than in the entire workout*
I’m feeling much better. That break gave me the oomph I needed to get me through.
I bet I only have a minute or two left. I can do this and finish strong!
*glances at phone*
It’s been three fucking minutes????
I think I’ve given this all I’ve got. Besides, I’ve worked so hard, I’m literally seeing stars.
I bet it’s not medically safe for me to workout.
Well, I think I’m done. Seven minutes is the maximum amount, and it takes time to get to that level of endurance.
I’ll get there eventually.
Guys, I half-assed my way through three minutes of a seven minute workout.
I couldn’t even make it through seven minutes of physical activity.