Ahhhh…massages. In a perfect world, massages are an über relaxing experience for the body and the mind.
But, when you’re an over-thinker, just because the lights are dim, there’s soft music playing, and you’re laying on a comfy, heated table, doesn’t mean your brain immediately takes a vacation. Usually this is when the brain is most active and alert.
The other day, as I was getting my massage, instead of finding my inner chill and namaste and all that other impossible-to-do-when-you’re-neurotic relaxation crap, I was instead obsessing over the fact that I forgot to shave my toes.
How could I have forgotten that those bristly bastards had gotten so out of control they were poking through my socks?
What else did I forget?
Did I wear my Limburger cheese boots without socks again?
Why are you the way that you are, dude?
They’re just really easy to slip on…
I’m an asshole.
As my massage therapist worked closer and closer to my porcupine stubs, I reflected on all of the other things that I obsess/worry/think about before, during, and after a massage:
1. Did I shave everywhere? Like, what if an extra long downstairs hair pops out while she’s doing my thigh? Ugh. I’m basically Robin Williams’ knuckles.
2. For some reason, whenever it’s my monthly massage time, my body thinks it’s fart go-time. I probably am doing irreparable damage with all of the clenching I’m doing.
3. OMG. Can she tell I’m holding in a fart?
4. I always forget to have my boyfriend check for back decor. So, it’s almost 100% certain that at every massage I’ve ever gone to, I have some ugly, one-eyed puss monster that the lucky lady who has to touch me gets to rub over. *shudders*
5. I wonder if she notices how bloated I am this month? Bloated? Self, she knows you’re fat. She literally kneads your fat like bread dough. Never does she think you’re just “bloated”.
6. What does she think about as she’s rubbing my fat ankles and calloused feet? Does she think about having to hold down her lunch or is she mentally making her grocery list?
7. Do other people forget to shave their toes? Do other people even have to shave their toes?
So, now I feel the need to apologize to my massage therapist. I’m sorry that sometimes my body is prickly in random places and that my stomach sometimes sounds like a koala’s mating call. I swear I don’t try to be this way.
Anyone else feel like this during a massage or am I just insane?
You might have noticed that I was MIA on Wednesday (my usual new-post-day). I’ve been so busy that I’ve hardly had time to write. This makes me entirely too sad, so I’m planning on getting my writing shit together in a massive way.
For this week’s #flashbackfriday, I thought I’d share my post about the Leggings Spread. I’m sharing this particular post, because I need to be reminded of my own advice.
It’s no secret that I believe 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. 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 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 said stomach spilled over the top, like overflowing bread dough in the oven.
It happened in slo-mo and I just sat, stunned, watching my overflowing 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.
Every month, I get a massage. The wonderful masseuse I go to is extremely talented AND gives teachers a killer discount. Even if she charged full price, I’d go. It’s for my sanity and it’s a real fucking treat. It’s a win-win.
Every month, because of said massage, I also get treated to a visual display that damn near gives me heart palpitations.
I know I’m going to see it, so I don’t know why it’s always such a shock to my system. Just like damn clockwork, it happens every month. Still, it’s such a sight that no amount of preparation would suffice.
I’m sure most of you are thinking that maybe my masseuse has a wall of mirrors in her room. So, when I’m hastily undressing, I get a real candid view of myself. Or, maybe, her ceiling is one big, fat mirror, so I have to stare at myself as my body spreads out and over the massage table.
No. It’s much worse.
THERE IS A FULL-LENGTH MIRROR…
IN FRONT OF THE EFFING TOILET…
IN THE BATHROOM…
AT THE SALON.
In fact, the whole room is just one asshole mirror.
WHO, IN GOD’S NAME, thought it would be a good idea to put a mirror in so people could view themselves on the toilet?
I don’t care if you’re Twiggy or Daenerys-friggin’-Targaryen, no one wants to watch themselves disgrace a public toilet.
Not only do I not need to watch my toilet activities, I really don’t need to be reminded of exactly how fat I am.
Before a massage, I should be readying my brain for zen thoughts, not being shocked clean off the toilet when I see how my gut, so elegantly, drapes itself over my lap and into the toilet bowl.
If this wasn’t already bad enough, the toilet is way too close to the wall on one side. You have to practically become one with the wall just to sit on the throne of shame. It’s a real nightmare for germaphobes. And, for people who have asses that need to be given a wide berth.
So, why subject myself to this masochistic ritual every month?
Well, quite simply, it’s because I have the bladder capacity of a thimble. Even if I really don’t need to go to the bathroom, my neurotic brain thinks I do and I spend the entire time trying not to have to use the restroom.
I know. It’s exhausting.
So, as terrifying as the Funhouse of Horrors really is, using it is a necessity in order to fully enjoy my massage.
These last few months, I’ve been trying to just not look.
If you’ve ever had to talk to someone with a boil smack dab in the middle of their forehead or a goiter growing out of their neck, you’ll know it’s impossible to not stare at the elephant in the room.
It’s impossible not to look.
Also, each month, I’m hoping I saw it wrong, and it won’t nearly be as bad.
Nope. It’s that bad.
I’ve even left a Yelp review for the salon*, but no one has taken the hint.
So, I’m left with being reminded of how truly fat I am every month.
Maybe the continued shock to my system is good for my heart?
*My wonderful masseuse has no affiliation with the disgraceful mirror in this post.
As I was standing in the line at the grocery store, wearing my “Namaste In Shape” tank, I pondered how bad it looked that I was buying two pieces of cake, a bottle of Moscato and a bag of Cheetos.
I mean, I know people were judging the chubby chick buying, at least, 4,000 calories worth of junk, in a shirt that proclaims she’d rather stay in shape.
I’d be judging me too.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not delusional. I know this tank doesn’t magically make me look like a yoga-obsessed health freak. As much as I’d like it to camouflage all of my lumps and bumps, and be the fat person’s version of the magical Cloak of Invisibility, I know it’s not.
I just like the color and the fit. It doesn’t cling to my stomach and it doesn’t get wedged between my back fat rolls.
It’s the perfect compliment to my fat pants.
It just so happens to make a false statement. Extremely false. A bold-faced lie.
I’ve never been fit. Literally never. I’ve gone from baby fat to teenager fat to adult fat.
So, as I stood, balancing my evening of fuck-it-I-had-a-bad-week, I got to thinking about all of the ridiculous things I’ve done in my favorite tank o’ lies:
1. Walked to 7-11 to purchase chocolate and peanut butter cupcakes. At least I walked. (If you’ve never had these cupcakes and you like peanut butter, you’ve been majorly missing out.)
2. Stood in line outside at our neighborhood burger and wing stand. Drool stains. No bra. Zero fucks.
3. Sat on the couch with a paper towel bib as I balanced half a watermelon on my lap.
4. Made a tray of no-bake Reese’s diabetes bars that I hid in my sock drawer and inhaled over the next two days.
5. Rode the elevator up two flights of stairs to the gym, where I just used the bathroom.
6. Laid on the couch with Netflix and three beers, not getting up to do the dinner dishes or even to get first dessert.
7. Drove, not even two blocks, to mail a letter- a letter officially cancelling the gym membership I had for a year but never used.
It’s been super fun going over all the fun I’ve had in my trusty tank. Maybe, at some point, before it becomes more chocolate syrup stain than cotton, I’ll wear it to exercise.
If y’all ever see a shirt that says “Namast’ay Fat”, let me know ASAP.
In honor of Back to School, I decided to drop some fun teaching truth bombs (Also, I’m swamped this week and list posts are the easiest #sorrynotsorry). Even if you’re not a teacher, you’ll likely relate. If your job is high stress, but also high reward, you’ll for sure relate. Because I really should be labeling all the things instead of writing a blog post, let’s just begin:
1. Unless you’re crazily devoted to a fitness plan or you have a superhero’s will and control, you will eat every carb in your house after a bad day.
2. Forget about the college “Freshmen Fifteen”. There’s such as a thing as the “Teacher Twenty”. Or, sometimes, the “Educator Eighty”. Also, this can happen during year one or year ten.
3. You will eat your weight in mini-size chocolate candy. Sometimes in one day.
4. If the day after Valentine’s/Christmas/Easter clearance candy has been cleaned out, you can thank a teacher.
5. You will get fat. So fat.
6. If food isn’t your happy place (congratulations on not being “pregnant” every year), you will drink copious amounts of wine and at some point in your career, consider rehab, but only the facilities that are more like spas and only because it would be the best sanity-saving vacation ever.
7. If it comes down to toilet paper or a shiny new pack of Expo markers at the end of the month, markers win-hands down.
8. You save straws, bits of fabric, tissue boxes, and one 3 inch piece of string, because it all just may come in handy at some point.
9. They never come in handy.
10. Your teacher cabinet/closet/cupboard is a portal to Narnia or another dimension, because it’s where all of your supplies go to never be found again.
11. No matter how poor you are, you always find a way to buy $80 worth of crap from the Target Dollar Spot.
12. No matter how frustrating your students can be sometimes, you’re fiercely protective of them when they’re criticized by another teacher who doesn’t know them as well as you.
13. Your students are your family. Your tribe. You love them. Every year, your heart opens up to allow for 20 more spaces.
14. You crop dust. It’s only fair.
15. If you weren’t an emotional person or crier before becoming an educator, you can kiss your shyness/pride goodbye.
16. You will cry over everything.
17. You will have to kindly remind your students that, “Maybe someone needs to go to the restroom” after toxic waste lunch bombs are dropped all afternoon.
18. If your student’s book order money is short, you pay what they’re missing without a second thought.
19. You only go to the bathroom during the day once a week, but during that exact time, admin will walk in. It’s basically a scientific fact.
20. Your teacher look is such a work of art that an eyebrow raise, lip purse, and nose wrinkle can mean 875 different things and no matter the day, the kid, or the teacher friend, the message is always received loud and clear.
For Flashback Friday, I thought I’d share one of the first posts I wrote when I first started this blog. I think it got a measly two likes. It’s pretty much terrible, but it’s so incredibly accurate when it comes to my best friend, Cupcake and I.
The back story behind this little exchange is that I was attempting to diet, and I was in the I’m-so-starving-I’d-lick-the-remnants-from-a-chocolate-wrapper-found-in-the-garbage-yeah-I’m-serious-so-fuck-you-and-your-judgy-eyes stage.
I’d asked my teacher friend and classroom neighbor to help me resist the myriad treat situations that occur constantly at our school (really, any school, anywhere).
She was also “dieting”.
Two weakling, enablers trying to help each other diet.
It was comical.
Also, she had no idea the extent of my gluttony, or that I could sniff out a cupcake from three miles away.
Without further ado: The Cupcake Incident
Sitting at desk. The whiff of cupcake starts wafting in from room next door.
Phone call is urgent, sweaty palms.
Child: “This is Ms. S’s room. How may I help you?”
Me: “Well, aren’t you just the most professional-sounding 3rd grader I’ve ever heard. May I speak with Ms. S?”
No response. Phone is dropped on table.
Ms. S: “This is Ms. S…”
Me: (whisper voice, barely audible) “Cupcake? I smell.”
Ms. Silver: “Uh, this is Ms. S. Hello?”
Me: (slightly more audible) “Birthday cupcake? Cupcake?”
Ms. S: “I don’t know who this is. I don’t have cupcakes. You are mistaken. Good day.”
Me: (yelling voice) “You know who this is, and I want CUPCAKE!”
Running for the door just as a darling child delivers very roughed-up cupcake.
Drool is now escaping.
Ms. S appears at door, tries to intercept, unsuccessfully.
Cupcake frosting already entering mouth.
Ms. S (the bitch) tries to swat frosting out of mouth.
Instead of cupcake, the smell of revenge is now pungent.
Ms. S is more elderly, thus, escape successful.
Entire cupcake is lodged in mouth.
Exchange ends with both Ms. S and culprit crouching over frosting remnants on tray, greedily licking fingers. Animals.
*It is necessary to note that no child was injured in cupcake incident. Nor were children present during bloody exchange. They were outside getting exercise, like civilized human beings.
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.
For this week’s installment of #fbf, I am re-posting about how my armpits have gained weight, because it still very much applies to my life. Enjoy, and here is hoping you don’t share my affliction!
So, I’m about to be really real here. Some of you might not be able to handle the truth bombs coming at you. Brace yourselves (do you notice that I feel the need to say “brace yourselves” almost every post? I wonder if that’s bad?).
I haven’t shaved my armpits in at least a month. Probably more like two months. I know.
What does my poor boyfriend think of this utter disregard of my sex appeal? I know you’re all wondering. Despite the fact that he has no say in the removal of my body hair, as he does not have to spend hours doing it, he, admittedly, is not a fan. At all.
What reason do I possibly have to avoid shaving long enough to have pit hair that could rival that of Meat Loaf’s hair, circa 1977? Really, it all comes down to the fact that I’m lazy af. And, its cardigan season. Double duh.
This post really isn’t about shaving (or not shaving) armpits. No. This post is about what I discovered when I succumbed to peer pressure and finally shaved under my arms.
Usually, I don’t look to see how great of a job I am doing when I shave my pits, because I just don’t care. Normally, it’s just a quick swipe, then on to the next hairy location on my body. This morning, however, I figured I had better look, as there was a significant amount of hair there. Long hair.
After my usual quick swipe job, what I saw was equal parts amusing and terrifying. My armpits looked like a balding Chewbacca.
Good Lord. I better go back over a couple (20) times.
After taking another go at it, my armpits still looked like an-in-denial-comb-over.
What the actual hell? How is there still hair there? What fresh hell is this? I have been at this for at least 10 minutes. My fingers are even getting pruney.
I went over and over my poor, now irritated pits, and still there were stragglers. No luck. It had to be my razor. After attempting to shave with my boyfriend’s questionable-use razor, I decided to do some inspecting.
There’s still hair! What is going on? What is…What the…There is something bulbous going on. OMG.
Good God Almighty. No. Please no.
It’s the only explanation.
Some of my boobs have moved into my armpits.
Instead of migrating south for winter, my breasts decided to wait out the cold on separate coasts. That was the only explanation for the lumpy, bumpy state of my pits.
Except, after even more thorough inspection (at this point, the water has run cold, I have a crick in my neck, and I’m practically 100% prune), all of my boobs were in their usual locations. They hadn’t done much moving since I last discovered 33 is not like 23 at all.
So, what kind of debauchery was this? What was going on?
Suddenly, it hit me.
My armpits are fat.
Now, along with every other part of my body, I have to feel insecure about my damn armpits. How will I survive tank top season? It’s bad enough that I have fat wings, now this?
When I have let it sink in that I have obese armpits, I will let everyone know what my next move is. I think this might be that glaring red flag that I hear so much about.
*Did I trick ya? As much as it would be awesome if that was my hairy armpit in the above picture, it’s not. Alas, it’s the boyfriend’s. Don’t even ask how I got him to let me snap a pic of his pit…