How Fatty Got Her Groove Back-The Journey

I was going to post a satirical piece about how I’d fare in a zombie apocalypse, but I felt that topic and type of humor would be in poor taste in light of recent events. To that, my thoughts are with those who have been forever affected by the shooting in Vegas. 

I will save the zombie post for another time. 

In its place is a throwback post about an experience I had with a friend in a Warm Flow yoga class. 

This is a humorous post, and I’m choosing to share this, because laughter is what gets me through tough times. I wish no sufferers and family members of victims any disrespect, and I only hope that they find again some happiness and humor in this scary world. 

Last week, A and I decided to give yoga at The Studio another shot, as our heated Vinyasa experience wasn’t the shit show we had envisioned it would be. We have a very limited availability while school is still in session, so our time frame in which to subject ourselves to exercise misery is tough to manage. 

We have both admitted that if we went home prior to working out, upon entering our respective homes, the pull of our couches and fat pants would be too great. 

Because we both understand the large scope of our eternal laziness, we felt it best to not even go home, but to drive straight to the studio. Do not pass “go”, do not collect any slurpees at 7-11 on your way, just get there before the tiny, minuscule flicker of desire has died. That’s been the game plan. 

A different class was offered at our preferred time called, Warm Flow. The name calls to mind a nice warm bath, a calm breeze on a summer day, the natural ebb and flow of the tide. In fat girl speak, it sounded easy.

However, we quickly found out it was anything but. What I didn’t notice upon signing up, was the level of this particular class. The level was a 2-3. In case you aren’t yoga literate, that level means: DA-FUQ. 

Yes, we attended a far too advanced-way hotter than heated Vinyasa-I’m glad I’m still alive to tell about it-yoga class. If heated Vinyasa was hot, this was the pits of hell unbearable. To make matters so much more uncomfortable, I noticed halfway through the class that we were directly underneath the heating vent. It was not even halfway pleasant. The only positive thing I could think of was, “At least I’m sweating my fat off. At least that.” 

Now, as this was a higher level yoga class, the moves were embarrassingly out of reach for us both. A faired slightly better than I, but overall we were both sweaty piles of disgrace. With the heat and the impossible contortions happening, I was actually not even embarrassed that I spent 99% of that class in child’s pose, or sitting slumped over on my mat, in a stupor. 

That was, at least, until the “Starer”.Yes, folks, we had an ogler. 

It was always my understanding that yoga was a kind of private experience. I always thought everyone would be too busy “ohm-ing” and listening to their breath to notice the ineptitude of others. Well, the “Starer” did not get that memo.

When there were only 15 glorious minutes of the class left, the instructor told us we would have time to practice our hand stands. After a snort and an eye roll, A and I decided we would just continue standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. The instructor must have thought that wasn’t kosher, because she actually moved our sweaty mats to the wall in a you’re-gonna-still-try-ya-fatties way. 

We tried the downward dog jumps in place of handstands, because, come on, I saw a broken nose in my immediate future. It was after this that we all found ourselves seated (yes!) on our mats, more or less, facing each other. It was at this point, I noticed the “Starer”. 

The way this person looked at me was more “OMG I can’t believe I’ve just seen the rare Pygmy Three-Toed Sloth” and less, “Wow, it’s a fat person attempting yoga.”

The “Starer” seemed shocked, curious, amused, and slightly disgusted all at the same time. What I wanted to say to this person was: “I know I’m not your usual level 3 Warm Flow yoga participant, but maybe you need to worry more about yo’self and your breathing or that really painful looking camel toe you have going on.”

I knew saying that wouldn’t have made me any friends, and I still have eight classes left on my Groupon for The Studio. I would actually like to show my sweaty face there again. 

And…I’ve discovered I actually want to continue this “yoga thing”.  It seems unbelievable, but I used to be a fairly limber child. When I was just learning to get up as a baby, I would do the splits. My mom thought something was wrong with me, but maybe I’m just naturally flexible? 

Before I got super awkward and tall, I did dance and gymnastics. My body actually used to be able to contort into a handstand backbend. I think I lost my flexibility, but Imma get it back. 

So, to the “Starer”, just you wait. Just.you.wait. *fist waving in air*

“How Fatty Got Her Groove Back” my journey will be called. 

Me, contemplating going back to yoga šŸ¤”

Update: I have yet to get my “groove” back. 

#MyFirstPostRevisited #fbf

I was tagged by Stomper Dad to participate in #MyFirstPostRevisited. It sounded like fun and it goes along nicely with the Flashback Friday thing I’ve got going on. 

Here we come to the rules:

Obvious rules:

  • No cheating. (It must be your first post. Not your second post, not one you loveā€¦first post only.)
  • Link back to the person who tagged you (thank them if you feel like it or, if not, curse them with a plague of ladybugs).

Other rules:

  • Copy and paste your old post into a new post or reblog your own bad self. (Either way is fine but NO editing.) 
  • Put the hashtag #MyFirstPostRevisited in your title. 
  • Tag five other bloggers to take up this challenge. 
  • Notify your tags in the comment section of their blog
  • Feel free to cut and paste the badge to use in your post.
  • Include the rules in your post.

People who should also do this: 

An Historian About Town

Charlotte Graham 

No Love For Fatties
Hot Mess
Carrots in My Carryon 



Without further ado, here’s my first ever Fatty McCupcakes post. 
I’m still cringing at my grammatical errors and rambling. The horror. 

I’m actually fatter than I was when I started my blog and “weight loss journey”, my downward dog probably looks more like upended orangutan now, and what was I watching? It looks like Richard Simmons??

Everyone has a blog. I know. Almost just as many people have a blog about their journey from fat life to one of self-acceptance (or sadness, because being thin almost always means no more cupcakes). Despite this, I’m beginning a blog about my journey. How cliche. Whether it will be told from the perspective of a fat girl trying to accept her jiggly arms or through the eyes of a 32-year-old woman who has almost no idea what she is doing with her life has not been decided at this point. I’ll write about my fatness. I’ll write about my need to feel accepted in whatever form. I’ll write about my opinions from “fat acceptance” to the state of our crumbling world, both literally and figuratively. I’ll write about my life experiences, both past and present. I’ll write about the joys and pains of educating our future. I’ll just write, funny, thought-provoking, controversial, whatever.

A total aside-every ‘her’ I’ve typed thus far has auto-corrected to ‘Her’. Her wants to be capitalized. I’m not sure if this means anything, but I really, really want it to. Maybe it means I’m an important, inspiring, worthy woman and my blog will actually be read by others? Maybe it will inspire others? Maybe I’ll make you laugh, cry, or even make you eternally grateful you’re not me. Even if this little sign doesn’t mean anything and my blog is a total bomb or a total unknown in a world full of writers trying to find their way via WordPress, I will continue to write. I am writing for me. Writing is therapeutic, calming, exciting, inspiring and it’s something I will do regardless of how many followers or comments I receive. I’m really not writing for the exposure. I’m writing because I physically have to. When you wake up in the middle of the night to write down a thought so you don’t forget it, or when you park your car after just driving home from work and you have no idea what streets you took or how you even got home because you were mentally writing your next Facebook post or Yelp review, it’s time to start writing a blog again. For the safety of all people on the road, for my sanity, I’m writing again.

Thanks to Facebook and our over-sharing generation most of my readers (I’m already assuming I’ll have readers) know who I am. I’m not yet decided on whether who I am on Facebook or who I am at work or with friends is really who I am. Maybe I’ll find out someday.

Obviously, my name gives it away, I’m a voluptuous cupcake-lover (that’s being kind. I’m fat and I inhale Mix cupcakes in my closet and then I burn the evidence). I’m anal retentive. I’m funnier on paper. In person, I’m likely suffering from Aspergers. I hold on to everything (no, not in a hoarder way, more in an OCD-way). I beat a dead horse. I’m a germaphobe and I guess the secrets out? How did everyone know? I hate being looked at, but I usually feel ignored. I live in the past far too much. I have massive wanderlust, but I’m terrifed of the dangers and uncomfortable aspects of travel. I’m petrified of death, that death is just darkness. I collect Bath & Body Works products, but I hate materialism and have considered living more simply (it’ll never happen…). I notice and remember people, feelings, memories and details fair too perfectly. I’m either an excellent candidate for the Scotland Yard or I’m a creeper. I have only started discovering who I am. Haven’t we all just begun?

I’ve already lost most of you. I’m rambling at this point. I will stop for now. One tiny hint before I go: reading my words outloud might come easier, as I write how I think- a jumbled, mess of thoughts, feelings, desires and fears all wrapped up in a pretty pink bow, because I’m also a neat freak. Welcome to my world.

And the Journey Continues…

Today was the 4th time I’ve attended a yoga class in a time frame of less than 5 years. Meaning, I’ve gone every week for a month now. There ought to be some prize for this, I feel quite deserving. 

Last week’s session was rough. I didn’t drink enough water prior, and I forgot, somehow, that I have asthma. Not being able to breathe in yoga is frowned upon. Also, I felt immensely dizzy and just awful. I spent most of my time in child’s pose, seeing squiggly lines, and trying not to puke. 

Today, I drank more water and used my inhaler (what a novel idea) and the difference in my ability was immense. I did not feel lightheaded until the up and down, over and over ridiculousness. I also fend strangely stronger than before. Could be because I haven’t given up after my second attempt, so GO ME. 

I did some yoga research, and I’ve found that feeling dizzy is more common when doing yoga than I previously thought. I would have blamed it on my utter lack of physical ability, but I’m not the only one getting the spins. I hope the dizziness lessens, because passing out in yoga would be the end of my yoga journey, at least at The Studio. I can deal with being the fattest chick there, but being the fattest one there who passes out in a puddle of sweat? Um. No. 

So, my pal, Amy kindly took some very off-center, and highly unattractive photos of me doing some super basic moves. I know one is the Warrior, and one is the Tree. The other one, it could be called Fuck My Life, for all I know. 

I would like to explain why I blurred out my face. It’s because I have a terrifying workout face. It truly needs some work. GAH. I also couldn’t showcase my ugly mug AND my sweaty pits. So, sweaty pits won. Of course, enjoy. Also, don’t laugh too hard. 

    

  

  

 No, my foot is not on the wall, looks like it though. I’m not that bad!  

Thank you, Pinterest and Buzzfeed for the awesome ecard that was totally made for me in mind. 

Try AgainĀ 

This is my second post of the day, but only because I had to try downward dog again after speaking to a friend about what I was doing wrong in my previous picture. She said to lean into my hands more, and yes, that does sound like what the instructor said last week, but I was too busy trying not to pass out to pay any attention to her. 

I tried to lean forward into my hands more, while raising my ass into the air further. My wrists still seem so weak, but I felt like what I was doing seemed more accurate. I will know more when I go to class on Thursday. 

Along with working on my flexibility, I am also trying to strengthen my core. I am starting the plank challenge over, as it seemed, we, as teachers, don’t have the time before and after school to stay consistent with doing our planks everyday. So, here I am starting at the beginning with a 20 second plank, because, shit yes, that’s nothing. 

Here we go! 

  
I’m not sure, but it looks better? As avid fans can see, this time I’m watching Girls (such a great scene to pause, at least it’s not Hannah’s bewbs). 

  
What you can see here is that my belly looks Ć¼ber unflattering in this position. What you can’t see is that, after 10 seconds, I was shaking like a leaf. 

BeginningĀ 

I’m sitting here, looking at the pictures my boyfriend just took of me doing two very basic yoga moves, and I’m contemplating two possible responses: 

1. Wash a red velvet cupcake down with a s’mores Frapp, while crying all over my floral-print Muu Muu.

Or

2. Never eat again, subsisting on only air, while living the life of a hermit, relying on Amazon Prime to deliver anything I’ll ever need so as to never see the outside world until I don’t look like that in a picture. Ever. Again. 

I felt saying, “drive off a cliff” was too morbid. 

Actually, what I’m going to do is get a sugar-free Frapp and then scroll through Pinterest, looking for healthy food recipes, because THIS GIRL ain’t giving up. As mentioned in my previous post, I am beginning a journey to find my hidden, possibly natural, flexibility. I used to be lithe and fit (when I was 8). I think I can find that body again (I mean, I don’t want to look 8, just fit). I want to be able to contort myself in all sorts of amazing yoga positions. I think I can do this. No, I know I can do this. Furthermore, since posting the following super embarrassing photos of myself, and claiming I’ll be successful, it would be far too embarrassing to fail. I can’t fail. 

So, without further adieu, here are my level Negative 0 moves. Please don’t critique at this point. If I’m not doing something right, it’s because I can’t, or I simply don’t know how. I will learn. I will continue to post my progression via pictures and experiences as I learn more about yoga and my body. Wish me luck. 

Ugh, here we go. 

   
 

I thought I had a butt, but I guess I don’t. Also, I need to work on my concentration face, yikes.