Flashback Friday: Be Cool, Alright?

I’m re-blogging this post for #fbf, because I almost wrecked my diet the other day with Boston Market Cinnamon Apples and mashed potatoes. Like, it was so.close. Too close. As in, I circled the whole of Boston Market five times, drooling, staring, frothing at the mouth. I can never be seen there again. So, I’ll just live vicariously through my past foodscapades. Is it bad that this post doesn’t make me feel shameful, but hungry for macaroni and cheese, and nostalgic for my bacon grease sweats? 

Dear Boston Market Yeller, 

My boyfriend and I visited your establishment this past Saturday, around 6:00 PM. You greeted us by yelling, “Welcome to Boston Market. What can I help you with?” from behind the counter, at least 15 feet away, before we were even in the door. While the gesture was, thoughtful, semi-courteous, it was a little overwhelming, as every single individual in the restaurant turned to watch us come in. I’m sure realizing it wasn’t the Queen of England entering, but a couple in their fat pants, was quite disappointing. Had I known I would have been welcomed so warmly, I would have worn a more supportive bra and my fancy sweats, the ones without paint and bacon grease stains. 

I want to say I appreciate your tenacity, but it just came off as abrasive. My boyfriend and I ordered the meal for 3, and we really didn’t appreciate your need to repeat this fact no less than 10 times to your coworkers and what appeared to be the lady behind us. Yes, we were two people ordering the meal designed for three people. We had on elastic pants, was that not evidence enough that we were planning on eating heartily? Also, I would like to point out that it was highly probable that we had an adult or two waiting at home. We could have been being thrifty and mindful of our diets. This could have easily been the case. It wasn’t, but it could have been. 

Furthermore, we were taken aback by your method of checking customers out. Instead of doing it yourself, you yelled our order, repeatedly, across the entire kitchen to the young man, who must have been hard of hearing, because Sparks heard what we had for dinner, while he didn’t. After the 3rd time this young man had to ask you to repeat yourself, perhaps it was time to just take over. I’m so glad that our choices, the most fattening sides possible, were repeated for all to hear. Just for future reference, when two people come in, in oversized sweatshirts and they don’t take off their sunglasses, they would like their poor life choices kept between you and them, not shared with the entire restaurant. 

I am only writing this letter to you because you have potential. The passion you have for your product is evident, but I would suggest you work on your voice level and tact. You have zero tact. None. I would like to assume that most people visiting a Boston Market have serious plans of wrecking their diets. These people are already low, don’t assist them with their impending demise. Do you want to be an accessory for death by cookie dough? I don’t think so. Just be cool, alright? Sheesh. 

Signed, 
The Couple Who Bought a Meal For Three, and Ate It ALLLLLL 

***As an aside…

If hearing…
“Mashed with gravy, Mac and cheese, and cinnamon apples for THREE!”

“How many?” 

“THREE!”

“You said, mashed, apples, and spinach?” 

NO, mashed potatoes, gravy, MACARONI AND CHEESE, and cinnamon apples!” 

OK, I think I got it. And that was the meal for three?”

YES, the meal for three”

….doesn’t make you want to reevaluate your life, I don’t know what will. It’s time for a change. My “last resort” pants are tight and I’m certain my fat is trying to suffocate me in my sleep. Help. 

Flashback Friday: Cup O’ Crack 

For this week’s #fbf, I decided to re-post my Cup O’ Crack craziness. Currently, I’m on spring break and steadily eating my way to This-Isn’t-Even-Funny-Anymore-Get-a-Grip town. On my way home from brunch yesterday, I almost stopped at the store to get the ingredients for Cup O’ Crack. Thinking it wasn’t wise to have more than one serving of Cup O’ Crack in the house, I got a king-sized Reese’s and a bag of BBQ sunflower seeds. When I got home, I ate my loot, fell asleep on the couch, and woke up an hour later to sunflower seed shells everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I can’t even right now. So, how about I just wrap this up and get on with it…

When I’m stressed, worried, tired, happy, celebrating, mourning, or basically, whenever I’m breathing, I eat. I eat in a big way. I’m not proud of this, but it is what it is. Until I figure out how to separate my emotions from food, I’ll continue digging into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Buttah Core after a shitty day.

Sidebar: If you like peanut butter, you must go, right now, and buy this. I’m not shitting you. Slap on your wrinkly jeans, get your coat, car keys, and get your ass to 7-11. It’s that good.

So, I’ve recently taken to enjoying nightly, almost-instant microwaved marshmallow heaven, and its mind blowing. 

Let me tell you just how fucking fat I am. 

Are you ready?

OK, I pour enough mini marshmallows to fill a large mug about halfway. Then, I get my Chex Mix ready (I’ve thought about using something far tastier, like Fruity Pebbles, but those would most assuredly send me into a diabetic coma. So, I go with the healthier, smarter, er…least ridiculous option of plain corn cereal).

Pro tip: Only microwave the marshmallows for about 30 seconds. Any more than that and you will have a sticky, gooey explosion of epic proportions. Then, your boyfriend will attempt to microwave his leftovers and there will be an altercation. Apparently, marshmallow and spaghetti don’t pair well.

Once the sweet, sugary, pillowy clouds of fluff are nicely melted, I pour in about a 1/2 cup of Chex Mix and mix carefully. Gotta get those little tasteless shits covered in goodness.

Then, I eat that shit.

It’s sticky, sweet, crunchy, warm, satisfying. It satiates Martha*.

Oh, didn’t I tell you I’ve named my stomach fat? Her name is Martha. The fucking bitch.

When I’m eating this Cup O’ Crack, I’m in another world. I’m riding technicolor stripper boot-wearing unicorns. The sky is dotted with cupcake clouds and cotton candy snow floats down around me.

No, that’s crazy.

I’m actually sitting on the couch in my stretched out skull-print pajama pants, watching Drop Dead Diva, with marshmallow strings hanging from my chin.

Such a glamorous life I lead.

Jealous?

 

I wasn’t even playing. THIS is Cup O’ Crack!

*Apparently, my fat used to be called Martha. I must have forgotten I’d already named her. Eh. Martha…Bertha…pretty much the same name.

A Day in the Life of Fatty

Taking a cue from one of my most favorite bloggers, Charlotte, I decided to take part in a “photo an hour” post. Of course, this will be a glimpse into the life of a fatty, not a beautiful, professionally photographed portrayal of someone anyone would be envious of.

So, you’ve been warned. 

Today is the perfect day to do this as school was cancelled due to possible flooding. This means that the opportunities to get into some serious fatty predicaments are positively endless.

Let’s see what I ate (did):


My morning started as it always does, fancy-ing up my fat. This morning, however, I got to sleep in as it began as a two hour delayed start! So, this was around 8 AM. 


I was really looking forward to wearing this bad boy to school, but the school district called a “flood day”. I was already dressed, and since my shirt rings true anywhere I go, I kept it on. This was taken around 9 AM as I headed to my favorite coffee/bakery/ultimate temptation shop. 


Because cookies are a perfectly good breakfast food. I was still hanging out, blogging, eating endlessly, and using their WIFI at 10 AM. 


I left around 11, because coffee makes me have to poop. I warned you this was going to get real. 


When I got home, I checked the mail (this is real riveting stuff. Are you at the edge of your seat right about now?). To my delight, the mailbox wasn’t just full of bullshit don’t-bend-card-inside-just-kidding-made-ya-look mail. I got a Valentine from both my mom and my aunt. My mom knows how much my boyfriend and I like vintage stuff, so she sent two adorable cards from what looks like the 50s. 


I decided to take advantage of today’s free day off instead of what I did last time. Last “snow day” I accomplished taking a nap and eating us out of house and home. So, I started the bajillions of laundry loads that always await me on the weekend. Three of those loads are merely comprised of sheets. I.hate.laundry.so.fucking.much. 


Pizza Pringles are what all mature, physically fit, health conscious adult women buy and eat for lunch. (Spoiler alert: I’m not eating a real lunch so that I can be extra hungry for Texas Roadhouse later. An entire cylinder of Pringles is practically nothing). 


I got caught open-mouthed napping. As you can see by the bottom right photo, someone almost got cut. Laundry, bed making, and eating way too many Pringles left me flat-out spent. 


After I was so rudely disturbed during my beauty sleep, I decided to be productive and put the clean dishes away. Can you see that I’m just a walking cliche? 


Because I’ve had Typhoid Fever for a week now, I made myself some delicious herbal tea with Coffeemate coconut-flavored creamer. I know how to make literally anything unhealthy. If you ever need any help with that, I’m your gal! 


At this point in my day, I’m positively famished. Like the fatty geriatrics that we are, we left for dinner at precisely 4:27 PM. My fat pants were practically falling off of me after my agonizing fast. 


What I had dreamed about and waited for all day. There’s really nothing more that needs to be said.


My boyfriend was positively appalled that I would sneak hot, buttered biscuits out in my purse, stuffed inside of a student loan bill. I thought it was entirely apropos and ingenious. 


Just taking a little peek to see if these naughty things want to come out to play. 

And…I think that’s a wrap, folks.

If this taught me anything, it’s that I have a really fucking boring life. I need to start going to the gym or something. Good gracious. 

In Case There Was Any Question…


Source
I don’t know about you, but I sped right on out of 2016 in my cupcake delivery truck from Glutton hell, high on rocky road fudge and bleu cheese biscuits and crashed right into 2017 in a carb-induced coma, complete with egg nog dried into the corners of my mouth.

Whew. What a ride.

I spent most of my winter break carb-loading and comatose, covered in powdered sugar, next to an empty cookie tin. Cookie Monster doesn’t have shit on me. 

The result? 

Other than a blotchy, puffy face, I really couldn’t tell.

Thanks to my latest obsession of wearing leggings literally everyday, I never had to have the usual after-the-Holidays-can’t-fit-into-my-pants-crying-fit. 

My boyfriend would like to say that he’s eternally grateful to LuLaRoe and their leggings that keep his fat girlfriend half sane. 


Source
And, because I’d rather just not know, I don’t weigh myself. Even when I go to the doctor, I say, “Don’t tell me!”, as I anxiously get on the scale. I think they have, “Doesn’t want to know the extent of her fatness” written on my chart, because I don’t usually have to remind them. 

Normally, the way I can tell that I’ve overdone it and thus gained some weight is that some of my fat comes back up when I bend over to tie my shoes. 

Gross, I know. 

I’m just being honest. 

Because I’ve been the height of laziness over the last few weeks, I haven’t even put on real shoes. 

So, all of this to say- I couldn’t tell how much holiday weight I had gained. 

It was actually really refreshing at first to live blindly unaware of how much more stress I was putting on my overworked couch. 

I felt lighter, with each step to the refrigerator, thinking the damage couldn’t be that catastrophic.

However, behind my new lighthearted, unaware approach to my fatness was a nagging feeling that something would show me the truth. 

I figured my new leggings would finally give in to the pressure and the seams would come undone.

Or, while leaning on the door of the refrigerator, the whole thing would come crashing forward with the weight of my shitty food choices and my massive body. 

But…

No signs. Nothing.

That is, until I went to the bathroom at the salon where my masseuse rents a massage room. 

I was just sitting there, like any other normal person, doing their business. I was probably noticing the appalling state of my holey underwear or picking at my cuticles. 

Until.

Until I looked up and into the mirror directly in front of me. 

How I didn’t die of shock right then and there is a profound mystery to me. 

If at any point you feel the need to be slapped in the face with the reality of your fatness, just sit on a toilet in front of a fucking mirror.

After that terrible shock to my heart, it’s been green beans and chicken broth every day.

No, I’m lying. 

After my massage, I went straight to the store and bought a 12 pack of cupcakes and drowned my sorrow in frosting. 

Here’s my Yelp review of the salon and their asshole mirror:


So, in case any of you really need to know how far your weight gain has gotten out of control, or you’re a masochist, just get naked and sit down on a toilet in front of a full length mirror. 

#dead 💀

I’d like to thank one of my Facebook friends, followers, and old high school classmate for giving me the idea to turn my Yelp review into a blog post. Thanks, girl! 

A Fatty’s Dream-LuLaRoe

You guys! Have ya’ll heard of LuLaRoe yet? If not, you’re super late to the Fatty Pants Party! 

I am not crazy, therefore, I do not sell LuLaRoe (I personally know almost all of the consultants I buy from, and they are all lovely ladies. They are not really crazy at all, other than the fact that they actively choose to sell clothes to cerifiably crazy women, i.e., MOI). So, this is not a paid review or any of that shite. 

I’m just genuinely obsessed. 

What I like most about LuLaRoe is the fact that I now wear leggings seven days a week. That’s all the days, yo.

The day my principal walked into my classroom donning unicorn LuLaRoe leggings, it was game on. 

I don’t even know what jeans are anymore. Since discovering the obsession-worthy patterns and unreal buttery softness of LLR leggings, I refuse to wear anything that constricts my fat and makes me breathless when I lean over to tie my shoes. 

No more, jeans! No.more. 

Not only have the leggings replaced all other leg coverings I used to wear, the other styles LuLaRoe offers are MAGIC FOR FATTIES.

I currently own eight pairs of leggings (waiting on a pair I just bought today). I also own seven other pieces that aren’t leggings. This is my favorite skirt of all time:


I’m a cheapskate. So, for me to buy clothing that starts at $25 a piece, LLR must be pretty magical. 

Maybe I’m delusional, and I really look like Bertha the elephant clad in seafoam and gray arrows. Or… I LOOK FUCKING AMAZING! 

Here I am in my striped Carly and my super sweet cassette tape leggings (the boyfriend calls these the “Cosby sweater ones” 😂).


For OBVIOUS reasons I HAD to have these!


Yes, I walk out of the house with these wild things on.


It was hard to capture the true green of the shirt. I really do know how to match. I promise!


This was me limbering up for Thanksgiving. In LuLaRoe, of course #duh.


I really ought to be working for LuLaRoe’s advertising department. This crazy town collage was to show how utterly stretchy and giving the leggings are. They also don’t look too bad on my second butt. Winning!


Dudes, I even voted in my LLR! I like to stray away from the norm, and I felt there were already too many face selfies with the ubiquitous “I voted” sticker.


Treatin my babies right 👍


My fat loves my LuLaRoe. Since I stopped trying to suck my fat into too tight jeans, I’ve been surprisingly happier and more relaxed. Everyone who knows me in real life ought to stop hating and be thankful my new obsession benefits those around me. 

You’re welcome. 

#leggingsarelife #leggingsarepants #yestheyareasshole

Fat Pants 

In honor of my favorite eating day ever, I thought I’d reblog this post. Stay tuned for an all new Thanksgiving-I’m-fat-so-fuck-it post!  

I need this in my life! Seriously, though!

 
Believe it or not, I’m new to the marvel that is fat pants. Of course, I’ve always participated in the “fat pants” life, but God forbid I give my holey flannel pants, that I’ve had since middle school, a name that explains why the elastic has been stretched out for 5 years, but they stay on, because the band fits snugly between two fat rolls. God forbid. 

I can’t wait to get into my elastic waistbands everyday. Erryday. I can hardly wait to get inside the privacy of my own home before I start disrobing. My pants are unbuttoned and the bra strap has been unhooked before I even park my car. As I make my way up to the door, I’m removing said bra under my shirt. It’s a fucking art form, getting prepared for fat-pants-time. If you don’t know, you’re not doing it right. 

Speaking of…

People who lounge in jeans and say they are comfortable are straight up liars or completely delusional. Ain’t no one comfortable in denim. No one. Put on some damn sweatpants like the rest of us-your jeans-lounging is making my fat hurt. 

Now, when I said before that I am new to fat pants, it’s essentially true when it comes to the holidays. Just recently I’ve discovered that you don’t have to bust the buttons off your pants after Thanksgiving dinner, because you can wear fucking sweats to dinner. 

Who am I trying to impress with my sausage casing tights and LBD, anyway? No one in my family gives one crap what anyone is wearing. All we are concerned with is, “Where dat gravy at?” I mean, really. 

 

Pinterest always knows just what to say

 
I have spent far too many years being positively miserable after a smorgasbord of regret to even comprehend. 

No more skinny jeans that leave impressions, from the band and seams, in my skin for a week. 

No more dresses that require sucking it in, because after dinner it’s physically impossible to suck in an 8 pound food baby. 

No more fashion tights, because the band always gives way, rolls down my stomach, and doesn’t stop until it’s obvious “One Size Fits All” is a damn, filthy lie. 

NO MORE

Tomorrow I am doing Thanksgiving the Fat Girl way, the Champion Eater way. I’m going to dinner like I mean business. 

Sweatpants=no pain, all gain. 

Thanksgiving is the one day that it’s OK to eat your weight in food. I want to enjoy it, dammit. 

#teamfatpants

 

Courtesy of Buzzfeed

 

Apple Hill: Where Diets Go to Die

I blogged last year about my time in Glutton’s Paradise AKA Apple Hill. This post basically outed me as a food whore. It’s not like we didn’t already know that with the type of posts I write, but this was my first post involving any type of visual proof. 

Since, I’ve been pretty IDGAF about what my pictures I post here and on social media portray.

I’m fat and I’m addicted to rainbow sprinkles. 

Get over it. 

So, without further ado, here are this year’s pictures of the annual Eat-Until-You-Are-Comatose-And-Then-Eat-Some-More trip. 

Aside from my “Oh Poop” sign, this is my favorite thing ever purchased at the Hill.

The first meal 🙌

If this were the only thing I got to eat the whole weekend, I’d have been good.

Attempting a sexy “Getting Down on My Caramel Apple” look.

This was how much I predicted I’d weigh after the Weekend o’ Gluttony.

Why are these so entertaining? We had to do all of them!

What a quaint, little creek.

 

We got to enjoy a beautiful view as we got stupid drunk at the brewery.

#cloudporn

The best Vanilla Stout EVA!

The offerings that we got to partake in, quite happily!

We tried to take a picture showing how sad we were that some of our girls weren’t with us this trip. Are we convincing?

The best sight in all creation. Apple cider crumb donut. I couldn’t even.

SPERNKLES!!

Would you think less of me if you knew I ate all of these in one morning?

When this llama realized I had nothing to give it, it had no time for me, and, I SWEAR I heard it say, “Bitch, please!”

#yolo

How you doin’?

Just sippin on my diabeetus juice.

In hindsight, an apple cider float AND a blackberry treat was overkill…

THIS is an Arkansas Black, and the only healthy thing I ate the entire weekend.

Purty

Chillin with my homies.

Wine tasting and hard apple cider-where it all went downhill.

So.much.quaint

Had my “sunglasses” been centered, this would have been THE PERFECT I’m-so-deep-but-adorable Instagram snap. Shucks.

Cute AF

I felt holding my baked treats up in the sky for a picture evoked an almost spiritual experience. It didn’t look lame at all.

Adorbs

We are HAWT!

All weekend I kept seeing a “pig hole” (what are these called?) and we never seemed to be able to do it. FINALLY, I got to be the pig. It was everything I had hoped it would be.

The last goody we ate before leaving Apple Hill. I was able to squeeze it in, because I had my fat pants on #prepared

And, because I wasn’t done being ridiculous, I decided I’d be an actual cupcake for Halloween. Here’s my attempt at being a cupcake for my students:

In ending, here is my promo photo for LuLaRoe leggings.  If you haven’t gotten sucked in yet, RUN…to the nearest pop up. They are the best leggings I’ve ever sucked my fat into. The.best.

Notice how stretchy they are. Notice how they delicately caress my bottom butt. Notice how busy they are so you can’t see my bumps and lady lumps. 

So, even after a weekend of eating my weight in food, I can still rock a semi-decent look. 

#winning

Aerial Antics

“What’s the weight limit?”

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. 

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?”

Her: “Oh”

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.

Attempt 1: 

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.

Attempt 2:

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. 

Attempt 3:

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. 

Ridiculousness.

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. 

Assholes.

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. 

Then.

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.

Ta-da! 

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. 

#win

Straight outta any yoga


Source

Seven Minutes in Heaven-Help-Me

Image courtesy of Popsugar Fitness


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 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. F 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. 

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. 

My arms are going to fall off and I’m going to die. 

No effing way it’s only been 45 seconds. 

Hold up. 

My timer has to be glitching. 

Oh, phew! The next exercise. I almost puked. 

Um, I can’t balance on a ball on my side and lift my leg. Like, that’s humanly impossible. 

Well, I  can, but I can lift my leg about a millimeter off the floor.

Hey, it’s something! 

Oooh, a lay down one! I totally rock the socks off lay down fitness. 

Ow. This hurts my 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. 

Simple. 

OK. That was a barf burp. 

Gross. 

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. 

I’m feeling much better. That break gave me the oomph I needed to get me through. 

It’s been three fucking minutes???? 

I think I’ve given this all I’ve got and besides, I’ve worked so hard, I’m literally seeing stars. 

Maybe 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. 

The next time I do this, I’ll give it more like 70%. Soon I’ll be giving this 100%, and I’ll be rocking a smoking hot bod. 

This workout deserves an extra dollop of Tru Whip with sprinkles! 

Guys, I only half-assed my way through three minutes of a seven minute workout. 

I think there’s no hope for me!