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.
It’s no secret that it’s my belief that leggings are life. They are insanely comfortable, they don’t cut painfully into your fat, and they don’t feel the need to remind you every time you yank them on that you’ve been laying the butter on pretty heavy lately.
I seriously have a definite love affair with my collection of leggings. It’s almost sick, guys.
I treat them better than my poor boyfriend.
I never dry them, and I bought a deliciously scented fabric softener to make them smell irresistible (is it weird I feel the need to have my pants smelling irresistible?) I also bought special hangers, because you don’t put these babies in a drawer.
Because I’ve been so comfortable and happy, I’ve hardly noticed it.
Noticed what, you ask?
Due to the elastic, forgiving nature of leggings, it’s easy to not realize when your girth starts to spread in all directions.
I’ve been ignorantly blissful about my weight these past few months.
That is, until I decided to wear jeans to school. Whatever possessed me to think this was a good idea is beyond me.
Because all of my jeans have a ridiculous amount of stretch, I didn’t really notice it until I sat down in my chair at school.
Thank you, Baby Jesus and all that is holy, that this occurred before my class was present.
When I sat down, due to the sheer force of my stomach, my pants jumped ship as Bertha spilled over the top, like overflowing bread dough in the oven.
It happened in slo-mo and I just sat, stunned, watching my spilling fat.
The rest of the day I spent sucking as much in as possible as to not knock an unsuspecting kid in the face with my fat.
Fuck. I’m disgusting.
I’ve figured out what the real purpose of jeans are-they are your First Alert Weight Gain System. If you can still breathe in your buttoned jeans, you’re golden. If you need an inhaler after buttoning, you fat, friend.
Real pants are assholes, but they are like those true friends who don’t feed you any bullshit. They both won’t hesitate to tell you you’re looking like a polar bear in a puffy jacket.
Maybe real pants aren’t as useless as I’ve been believing. As soon as I can fit into my jeans again, I’ll maybe put them back into the wardrobe rotation. But, just so we’re clear, I’m still wearing leggings the majority of the week. I’m not about jean-everyday- life anymore.
An extra special “thank you” to my boyfriend, who just said, “You want me to do what?” and “OK, let’s do this” when I told him I wanted to recreate squeezing into my jeans.
Ladies, learn from me. Even if you don’t plan on actually wearing those asshole jeans, try them on, at least once a month, to monitor how far your Leggings Spread has grown.
Recently, I decided I haven’t seen enough of the rugged Nevada countryside, nor have I been on enough hikes (the last time I went on a hike I almost died from Burst Lung Due to Lack of Use. It’s a real diagnosis. Look it up. Just kidding, but really, I almost hyperventilated at least 20 times. So…that’s probably why I haven’t been on a hike since).
So, today, I got up in enough time to make some nutritious oatmeal (don’t tell anyone it was loaded with brown sugar), filled up my dusty Nalgene, and found my running shoes that were in the deep recesses of my closet.
I dragged a friend and myself up to the Galena Creek Trail off the Mount Rose Highway.
I’m working on a post on Friday at 1 in the afternoon*, because I’ve been in bed for two days still feeling like I’m swinging in a yoga silk.
It started last week. At the end of class, when we wrapped up like fat vampires (well, I’m the fat vampire) to cool down, the new instructor moved us so we spun in our coffins of carnival-ride-hell. It was absolutely terrible.
Just thinking about it now makes me want to vom. Ugh. Bleck!
This past Wednesday, I asked the instructor not to make me sway *there it is again. Excuse me while I calm down my gag reflex*
Everything was fine until she forgot. She realized just seconds later and got me to stop moving, but the damage was already done.
That whole night I had dreams of all sorts of nauseating things. I’d detail them, but I just can’t without my head spinning.
The next morning, I barely got out of the shower alive. I’m a real wuss when it comes to fitness and committing to eating plans, but I’m simply not one to call in sick all the time. However, there was just no way I’d make it in. I could barely stand for five minutes without feeling like I was in a fun house of horrors.
As a teacher, it’s usually just easier to suffer through the pain than to put in for a sub, create last minute sub plans, and ask your already-overworked-fellow teachers to help you out.
This meme knows:
However, sometimes it’s the difference between barfing during your Number Talk and barfing with dignity in the privacy of your own bathroom.
Already, long story short, I think aerial yoga is making me motion sick.
Seriously, this just fucking figures.
Right when I feel my body feeling tighter. Right when my arms have less swing. Right when I’m feeling a definition in my sausage legs, the fitness that can be thanked for this miraculous change makes me physically ill.
I try to get fit, but fit don’t want this.
Fuck it all. Seriously.
In other news, I guess there are worse things than fitness being attributed to sudden illness, because I got a message on Plenty of Fish by…
Friends, when I received my first message from this “guy”, I thought he was the first truly honest dude on a dating site.
Instead of finding out after you’re already invested, he’s kind enough to lay it all out, right in his username.
Adult Baby says to me:
I will pour myself a bowl of cereal, get more on the table and floor than in my bowl, and I won’t even notice.
I can’t hold down a job, unless posting horribly written Yelp reviews about massage parlors that offer happy endings counts as a job.
You will have to clean up after me, because I’ve never bought a cleaning supply in my life. Not even a trash can. Is that a cleaning supply?
This is what I thought. For a quick minute, I thought maybe he was kind of secretly smart and almost kind for being just so outright about his immaturity.
Then, the term “Adult Baby” was explained to me.
I’ll never be the same again.
Just google it. Just.google.it.
I am pretty much convinced that every dude on every dating site out there just wants to get in your pants or they want you to change their pants.
I thought for a quick minute that maybe they weren’t all creeps, because I was talking to a really intelligent and witty guy. It was more than just talking. We met for drinks and he took me to sushi. Other than talking way too much and being incredibly long-winded, he seemed like someone I could really see myself getting to know. He knew how to form a complete sentence. He knew who Gary Oldman was. He had a job. It seemed like a win. When I didn’t respond to his endless sexual innuendo jokes that obviously meant he was trying to talk sex, he was suddenly not interested. Cool, bro.
They seem to all be like this.
I don’t even know. Maybe I’ll know in my next blog post.
Well, I’m off to Google, “exercise that won’t make me motion sick” and to delete the dating site apps on my phone. Or, do I keep them for the sole purpose of endless entertainment?
What a varied and exciting life I lead.
*Obviously it’s not Friday anymore. Even more obviously, I’m a total procrastinator and didn’t finish my post on said Friday.
This is the first, most important question when you’re a curvier-than-most kinda gal, and you’re about to suspend your glorious bod on a silk hammock hanging from the ceiling.
I mean, right? That was the very first question that popped into my head when my friend first mentioned aerial yoga.
I can’t even type that without chuckling.
Yes, I did aerial yoga. Not once. Not even twice. Three times. I’ve done aerial yoga three times, and for the hesitant, I have yet to yank the silks from the ceiling. That’s winning.
When I asked the instructor (who looked like she was freaking twelve and 100% for sure didn’t have a trace of cellulite any where on her body) what the weight limit was, this was how the exchange went:
Me (whispering): “Oh, um, hey. Uh, what’s, like, the, uh,(voice even lower) weight limit?”
Freaking, “oh”? This chick is trying to give me heart palpitations before we even start doing hard stuff. Bitch.
Me: Just staring, sweating profusely.
If there is a weight limit and I’m over it, I’m just going to go drive my car into a vat of Rocky Road, because, fuck it.
Her (finally): There’s a weight limit, but it’s like 600 pounds. You’re good.
Could you have maybe led with that, so that I didn’t have to spend 20 excruciating seconds thinking I’d have to leave because I’m too fucking large for hammock yoga?!
Some people’s kids…
So, I thought I’d, for ease of reading, write three sections, each devoted to my three attempts at aerial yoga. Not only would it be easier to just skip to the part that has the most swear words, thus the more humorous of tries, but each event has been so incredibly different. Each time I was spastic in such varying, unusually interesting (in a I-want-to-study-your-ineptness-because-I’ve-never-seen-someone-not-know-how-to-work-their-adult-body-so-profoundly) ways, it’s almost sad. Except it’s fucking hilarious because it wasn’t you. It was me.
A friend from work first asked me to join her and her sister-in-law in aerial (every time I attempt to type “aerial”, my phone autocorrects it to “areola”. What the heck, phone?) three weeks ago. I was totally down, because, at the very least, I’d have great blog material.
Good Lord Almighty.
I thought my friend would be more like me. As in, ridiculously inept and inflexible. In fact, I’m fairly certain she said she wasn’t very good at being limber on a yoga hammock. Liar!
For the umpteenth time, I was the fattest, most incapable person in the room. It was OK, though, because I just laughed through the whole thing, so I wasn’t seriously trying to be an agile acrobat. It was all just for the laughs.
I laughed when the instructor modeled some impossible pose that involved wrapping yourself up like a 7 Layer burrito and then flipping yourself over like no big deal.
Ha. Yeah, that’s not happening.
I laughed when everyone was doing aerial planks, and I face planted.
Ha. I meant to do that.
I laughed (with relief) when it was finally time to lay in the hammock like an obese caterpillar in its too tight cocoon.
Ha. I made it to the best part of class; the lay down part.
It was a fun class that was spent trying not to look like I was seriously trying to be a real aerial yoga-ist.
The second time, I went with another friend from work. This friend has the body of a gymnast and the ass of a Kardashian. She’s uber fit and moves her body like a ballerina. The bitch. I don’t know why I continually put myself in situations where I’m suffocating myself with my stomach fat while she’s glistening gold sweat from her abs. Oh, I know. Because she’s hilarious, and no matter what we do, I get a good ab workout from laughing.
One of the first moves in this particular class involves falling gracefully sideways (while suspended with the silk, obviously), on your tippy toes, as you circle back around.
UH. YEAH RIGHT.
Little Miss-I-Can-Do-Anything-With-My-Body-and-Look-Fabulous and I both were circling around like drunks trying to look sexy on a stripper pole. It was ridiculous.
We could not.stop.laughing. I’m fairly certain that I tinkled a tiny bit at one point. Oops.
The rest of the class was actually more success than failure. It was amazing. Some of the poses that I didn’t even attempt the first time, I could almost do. I attempted hanging from my fat this time because I realized halfway through that I was actually a tad bit better than the first go-round. It was at this point I realized that I’d continue, and that this was more than just a stunt to get some good writing material.
My friend, of course, rocked the class like an expert. The bitch.
This time, my friends and I made up the majority of the class. I went with the friend who originally invited me, Khloe Kardashian, and another teacher friend (another lithe, surprise yoga star).
This was the class where all sorts of hell broke loose.
First, it was a different instructor. Right off the bat, that made me nervous. I had just begun moving past elephant-on-a-tightrope-graceful, into beginner stage.
This new chick is gonna eff it all up.
And she did.
The new instructor was way harder. So.much.harder.
Who does she think we are, Cirque du Soleil performers? Come on!
Not only were the moves she had us do harder, they required way more ab and arm strength than I have in my entire fucking body.
At one point, she had us bent over the silks, hanging from the spot right below the hips. For future reference, this is a tender area. It hurts to hang with all of your body from this area. Maybe I’ll build up some calluses, or something. That’ll be sexy.
Well, it was at this point, I lost all control of my center, my body, my pride.
I don’t know how it happened. Maybe it was because my giant head weighs so much, or what, but somehow I ended up feet over head, and I just started flipping over the silk, like you see young children do on the monkey bars.
One flip that resulted in really no one noticing did not suffice. Two flips that I could have played off as on purpose was not enough. No, I flipped…I don’t even know how many times.
There was a point at which I genuinely thought I would die. Or, at the very least end up seriously injuring myself.
I kept picturing myself finally coming to rest flat on my face, breaking my nose and glasses into my stupid face.
Eventually, I ended up flat on my fat ass, with a large thump. Or was it more a messy schlop? I don’t know.
What I do know is my asshole friends were peeing their pants laughing. Everyone was. Even the instructor felt compelled to laugh before asking if I was OK.
I was totally fine, so I started laughing too. If you can’t beat em, join em (while deviously planning your revenge).
I bumbled through the rest of the class fairly competently until it came time to do assisted handstands.
The last time I could actually do a handstand I was in the 4th grade.
The last time I attempted a handstand was about a year ago when a friend and I accidentally attended an expert level yoga class. We laughed our way through the crane pose, the eight-angle pose, and all the other impossible yoga poses, not being able to do any of them. When it came time to do a handstand, we just flat-out refused and sat on our fat asses, watching the others stand on their hands with ease. The instructor took it as a personal affront and actually dragged our mats to the wall and pointed at them, like a pouty child. We half-heartedly made for the floor with our hands in position, chickened out, and just sat on our spreading asses again. That was my only adult handstand attempt. Until this class.
Somehow I found myself suspended by the silks, my legs high in the air, and my forearms resting on the floor. This was a feat in itself. Then, the insane instructor told us to take it to a handstand.
By pure miracle, I pushed myself up with my weak jelly arms, and I was in an assisted handstand.
Blood was rushing to my head. My arms were shaking impossibly, but I was doing it.
We were told the way to get out of the pose was to let go of the ground and pull yourself up the silk.
At this point I’m pouring buckets of sweat onto the floor. Even if I wanted to let go and pull myself up, my hands were far too sweaty and I simply did not have the core strength.
Shaking like a leaf in the wind, I looked around and most of the asshole people in the room had pulled themselves up and they were out of their silks, standing.
Me: “Um. Help?”
Instructor (still laughing at me): “Hun, you’ll just have to kind of fall out of it.”
Wow. Really? How does she fucking figure that?
Me: “Uh. OK…”
So, with everyone’s eyes on me again, I somehow untangled my sausage legs from the silks, and my behemoth body just schlopped onto the floor for the second time that night.
And, there you have it, folks! Fatty McCupcakes does aerial yoga!
Despite my utter ineptness, I’m going again. It’s fun. When you’re tired you get to make the silk into a hammock and lay in it. AND my arms and abs are getting stronger.
Hey! It’s been a minute, but I finally have a new Shopper Lottie post up. I guess I was too busy getting my summer body on. Haha. Just kidding. I was too busy figuring out how best to eat my latest addiction (Tru Whip and rainbow sprinkles) without gaining any more weight. Losing the Winter of ’02 Weight for Summer Campaign ended when I couldn’t quit Taco Tuesday. Ya’ll know. You know.
Check it out here:
Sudden Summer Shame
I’d love to know if you have any good tips for cleverly disguising or proudly displaying your not-ready-for-summer-bod. Let me know in the comments over at SL!
Damn, Fitbit. Why you gotta play me like that? Between Friday and Saturday, I logged 33,806 steps, walked 14.91 miles, was active for 258 minutes, and I have a blister on my toe in the shape of Owen Wilson’s nose, yet my Fitbit is still harping on me today to get my steps in? What’s that you say? You mean, I have to move everyday? I should log 10,000 steps everyday? You mean…I’m not done?
So, in order to do this thing called, “fitness”, and to be successful at said fitness, I have to do it everyday?
Never mind. I’ll just be returning this here Fitbit, if you don’t mind.
Only half kidding. In all seriousness guys, 10,000 steps a day for someone whose favorite pastime is savoring rainbow sprinkles with a dollop of Cool Whip while watching past episodes of Biggest Loser on Hulu is asking a lot.
My grand weekend of getting in some killer steps was thanks to a quick trip over the hill to San Francisco. Not like, a marathon or anything (obviously, that was your first guess).
If you have ever been to San Francisco, you know transportation in the city is either: a horror-themed roller coaster-like driving experience, with hobos popping out when you least expect it and you’re honked at for not mowing down pedestrians or it’sa serious walking nightmare experience. I chose walking, and damn those bunions hurt (just kidding, I don’t have bunions. I don’t even know what they are, but I bet they’d be hurting if I had them).
So, I guess my grand walking adventure in San Francisco where my thighs almost ignited due to rubbage did not, in fact, make me instantly fit and svelte.
Oh, the pain and suffering!
My rant about my demanding, asshole Fitbit turned into some pictures from the trip. You’re welcome.
I’m trying to live a healthier lifestyle, despite being Fatty McCupcakes. It’s a process and, if I may, I’d like to compare it to withdrawals addicts experience. Yes, really. My mind craves the sweet carb-y goodness of cupcakes, but my body can’t take the abuse any further. It’s a real battle, an immense struggle. I would like to share how I’ve made some (subtle) changes to my frame of mind and behavior.
1. I ate one Girl Scout cookie. Not the whole box. Win.
2. Instead of purchasing a new IPhone, I preordered the Fitbit Alta. I.cannot.wait.until.it.arrives.
My phone looks like this and, still, I chose the Fitbit. That is true dedication, my friends.
3. I ate one cup of Multigrain Cheerios with 3/4 cup nonfat milk and four strawberries for breakfast today. AND I didn’t go back for three more cups of cereal to eat with the rest of the milk, either.
I eat my cereal in a mug so it looks like I have more than I really do. Genius, right?
4. I went on a walk four times last week. It felt good to be outside, inhaling the cool air tinged with the smell of fireplace. It felt good to get my blood pumping, muscles working.
5. Perhaps due to my better eating choices and physical exercise, I didn’t get a premenstrual migraine this month for the first time in six months.
Small gains that may seem silly to some, but these little things have given me the motivation to keep on, keepin’ on.