Flashback Friday: Whip My Ass Ass

Just today, I thought I’d finally join in on my student’s Just Dance brain break video. They always ask if I’ll dance with them, but I just say, “Oh, I don’t want to scare you.” That seems to make them stop asking, so I can continue to sit like a fat lump, wondering where my childhood energy and zest for sudden movements went to. I don’t know what came over me today, but I wanted to Kung Foo Fight like funky Billy Chin for some reason. 


It was a terrible idea. When I started “swinging with the hand”, I knocked over a stand, my coffee, and stumbled into the map on the wall, which made it roll up with a deafening, thunderous roar. 

All of my students stopped dead in their ninja tracks. 

Their eyes said it all: My teacher is so not cool.

This is why trying to find my non-existent moves is best when behind closed doors. 

I’m just so glad I didn’t let anyone talk me into joining the teacher talent show group. 


Behold, my last attempt at Just Dance:

So, my boyfriend has been going to personal training kickboxing three times a week (he’ll probably look like a white, mustachioed Oscar de la Hoya in a month-f*%#ing men), and while he’s gone, I hork out on junk and watch Netflix. 

It occurred to me that it’s not really in my best interest to get even fatter while my boyfriend beefs up. It’s one thing if you’re polishing off a package of Oreos, together, in stained, oversized t-shirts, in front of American Horror Story, and a whole other nasty animal to glutton alone, while the other is being punched in the stomach by an MMA fighter. It’s kinda not fair. 

So, I thought- what better time to drag out my dusty yoga mat and bust out a couple sloth-like moves. 

Side note- anyone remember the reason I started this blog-the yoga journey I kicked off like a bat out of hell? Or, more like a fat girl with no real idea that it would require an immense amount of effort I wasn’t ready to give? Yeah…that’s not embarrassing or anything. 

So, my yoga mat wasn’t just dusty from little use, it literally was crusty-hard from old sweat from my last yoga session, 45 years ago. It actually almost cracked in two. 

Well, I promptly threw it back into the closet and about gave up, until I remembered that I’ve always meant to be a breakout dance star, a la Flashdance (or more realistically, MTV’s Made). So, what better idea than to Whip/Nae Nae my way to fitness?

I don’t really have anything to say about my solo dance party, other than if you’re going to sweat it out to Just Dance, and you have as much rhythm as a flag pole, close your blinds, your curtains, and turn your lights off. Ain’t no one ready to see what you think is “dancing”. 

My Whip Nae/Nae looked more like “Quick/Call 911/I Have Whip Lash. 

FYI: flexibility is a prerequisite to whipping your whatever. 

I fear I’ll never be able to turn my head, freely, to the right again. 

This is why eating the rest of my Mom’s cream cheese pumpkin bars was a better idea. 

It’s like I never learn. 


Love Thyself 

Today I went to hot yoga for the first time in months. I went to yoga all summer, but it was the “lay down” kind (yin yoga), so that basically doesn’t count. You can’t call an hour long stretch a workout. I mean, you could, but you would be a big, fat liar. So, after a summer of going to yoga, I finally went back to yoga. Actual effort yoga. 

All day I was dreading the inevitable. The feeling weak. The sweating from my elbows, even. The wanting to pass out and die. It took every ounce of my being to change into my yoga clothes and steer my car in the direction of the studio. 

I easily could have bailed on my friend and my commitment. I could have told her I had diarrhea. I could have told her I was painfully bloated. I could have told her I threw out my back reaching for the secret Oreos on the top shelf. The excuses are endless when you’re a chub and you aren’t exercise’s biggest fan. Too many excuses, and so little motivation is what usually ails me. 

What was different about today? I wish I knew. I wish there was some secret formula to finding motivation where all can be found are donut crumbs and regret. 

The scary thing is, next time I could, possibly, choose the lame excuse route. I could choose to have an IDGAF attitude and drown my fat regrets in the grease of my Juicy’s cheeseburger. But, maybe I won’t. Maybe I won’t. 

What I’ve learned since starting this yoga journey, the one thing that’s really got to me, is…self love. No, not that kind, ya nasty freak. Like, love for yourself, your weaknesses, your strengths, your failures, and your successes. 

At the end of the session tonight, the instructor told us to give ourselves a big hug-knees to chest. She said to really bring it in. As I struggled to breathe, as I slowly suffocated myself in my stomach, I realized something. I realized that I need to love myself. I need to celebrate my successes. I need to honor my commitments. I need to forgive myself when I fail. I need to let go and just live. 

Sure, I’ll likely bail on a yoga session some time in the (very) near future, but other times I won’t. That’s the point. I’m not perfect. No one is. There will be days I’ll make it to yoga and sweat my ass off in all my Namaste glory. Other days I might pop a button off my work pants in the middle of guided reading, and then go home and drink an entire bottle of wine. It’s a crapshoot. 

The point? There will be days I feel strong and able. There will be days I feel like shit. No matter what, I need to love myself. No more excuses. 

Front Butt Thighs

I frequently wonder how it would feel to have decent looking inner thighs. I hate my inner thighs with the passion of the gods. I hide them behind long layering tanks and Grandma bathing suit skirts. I’m pretty sure my own boyfriend has not seen them in the light of day. If I want to pretend I’m sexy, I tuck them between my thighs and clamp my legs shut. I now understand what transvestites go through. I feel your “tuck and pray” pain, guys. 

I check out other women’s crotchal-area with envy, like a total perv. Instead of salivating over another woman’s handbag or cute haircut, I totally crave their smooth thighs. I am envious of women who can wear skinny jeans without all of the layering tanks and spanks required to make me not look like a bean bag with a head. 

I feel like my saggy thighs are totally my mom’s fault, along with my prematurely graying hair and manly calves. I’m basically a carbon-copy of my mom, right down to the swaying thigh skin. If my mom wasn’t the most amazing woman to walk this Earth, I would have a real bone to pick with her. Instead, we just complain together as we make brownies and homemade fudge sauce. 

This past Friday, I hosted an It Works party. If you don’t recognize the name, you will know what I’m talking about when I say miracle body wraps. Yup, I got wrapped, along with some friends. It was part hilarious-fun-female-bonding, and part I-hate-my-body-don’t-look-at-me-why-was-I-born. 

Let me explain. 

Before the wrap is the essential, “before picture”. It’s mandatory. I recruited a long-time friend who’s seen me in my birthday suit and at my absolute worst. Who cares if she sees my frog skin crotch? So, she snapped quite a few pictures from multiple angles and really got down in there. I was terrified to see her work. 

And rightfully fucking so. 

When I say it was disgusting, you really have no idea. Some of you may wonder how it could be possible one is not aware of what they look like naked. Well, it’s possible when you avoid the mirror like the plague, while naked, that’s fucking how. 

One picture she took confused me. It was an ass. It was a really saggy ass with dimples and pimples, the whole smorgasbord. MY INNER THIGHS LOOK LIKE AN ASS. 

I have front butt thighs and…

I can’t. I can’t even. What else can I say? There’s nothing more to say. I HAVE A BUTT. ON MY THIGHS. 

After some time to accept this disgusting realization, I’ve decided my front butt has got to go. I’m now even more glad that I spent $150 on body wraps, fat inhibitors, and tightening gel from It Works. I’m also going to be kicking my yoga practice into high gear. Perhaps, I’ll dust off my beach cruiser and take it for a spin. Anything, anything to get rid of my second butt. Anything. 

I have a picture of a before and after of my thighs, but the thought of sharing it with all the world is more terrifying than those arriving-at-school-naked-on-the-first-day-of-school dreams. No. Just, no. So, here is proof I wrapped my nasty thighs. You’re welcome. 

Thank you, Pinterest, for your endless array of memes and ecards to make me feel better about myself. Laughing through the pain, yo.