Just in case we needed more proof that I’m inept and would be 100% useless in a survival situation. Happy Flashback Friday, folks!
It all started with this picture:
Actually, it started with Silver Donkeys at The Depot. Day drinking never, ever makes for a dull time.
Add some binge watching of Naked and Afraid, mix in my crazy friend, Alyssa, and you have our insane 21 Minute Naked and Afraid Challenge in the wilds of Oxbow Park, in the heart of Reno. It was intense.
In all seriousness, this started with her idea to spoof the above picture. Obviously, the woman above is quite talented and lithe. We are not. We are the direct opposite. She thought it would be hilarious to go out into nature and take ridiculous pictures of our pudgy bodies, attempting to contort into serious yoga positions. It was insanely entertaining. Either we are hysterical, or just really, really immature 30-somethings. Well, here are our yoga spoofs:
This is Alyssa’s version of the tree pose. It’s called, “Ride Em Cowboy”.
This one is called, “Smelly Poop Lip”.
I’m becoming one with Mother Nature. I need to work on my “serious face”, because it’s the same as my “pooping face”.
These are called, “We Can’t Believe We Didn’t Break the Bridge!”
These are “The Warrior”, but because it took us 10 minutes to get to the rocks we stood on, these have been renamed, “Take the Damn Picture, I’m Done, and the Rocks Are Burning My Fucking Feet”.
Now, at this point, we are incredibly winded and tired, but we have more poses to do, so we forge on. Along the path, we are accosted by flying insects and there are red ants everywhere. It’s hot, we are sweating, and our mouths are parched. Suddenly…it turns into Naked and Afraid (Except, we didn’t get naked. Getting arrested for public nudity is usually frowned upon amongst the responsible adult crowd I’d like to say I’m a part of).
We decide to make shelter, find weapons, and pretend to make fire, all in the name of survival. We know we would hardly make it an hour in serious wilderness, so we named our wilderness attempt, the “21 Minute Survival Challenge”.
We took photos of our attempt to survive our harrowing journey through a city park. Enjoy.
Just chilling in our shelter. We scored and found a busted guitar. It will provide great rain coverage. Two minutes in and we are really feeling the effects of dehydration. We are sweating too much. It must be 88 degrees, and the walk-in was exhausting. I don’t know if I can do this.
Attempting to make fire and I break a nail. I was close to my breaking point here, and if it wasn’t for Alyssa’s support, I would have tapped out. It was that close.
8 minutes in and we are still in search of food. We are dying of hunger. The energy we are exerting in search of nourishment is depleting our fat stores. We can feel our body eating our fat. We also almost died crossing this dangerous canyon. It had to be at least 2 feet down. It was the most terrifying moment of our ordeal.
We decide to not expend any more energy in search of water and food. We cuddle in our shelter to stay warm. Except, it’s almost 90 degrees, and what was that? Your walking stick?
Red ant attack! Additionally, cuddling proved awkward.
Desperate for protein, we shamefully, hungrily consider the used condom caught while fishing. That was our low point. 12 minutes in, and things are bleak. Morale is low. Our stomachs are growling and our lips are cracking from dehydration.
Success! Alyssa catches a water-logged, half-eaten hamburger encased in its wrapper. It looks to be only a few days old. In desperate times, one must take desperate measures. We still have diarrhea, and we are afraid we have caught a sexually communicable disease from the river. This survival shit isn’t for the weak.
Weak from exertion and lack of food and water, I cannot make it back up the hill from the river. Alyssa uses her last bit of strength to rescue me. I thought she was a bossy bitch at first, but we have built a bond that can’t be broken through this experience.
Operation Retrieve Flip Flop was a success. We really needed this win for our morale.
Silly times! Look! We’re dirty!
Due to vicious red ant attacks, we resort to resting on a log. Lesson learned: red ants live in logs too. Only 6 minutes left. We are running on empty and are motivating each other by reminiscing about our favorite meals. What I wouldn’t do for some ribs!
My joints are stiff from lack of water, and it takes me almost 3 minutes to exit log. We are almost late to hike to extraction!
I have never been so happy to hear a train in my life! We are so ecstatic, we cry, and hug, and cry some more!
After our grueling 21 minutes in the wild, Alyssa and I have learned a lot about ourselves and nature. First, nature sucks, and it messes up your manicures and pedicures. It also makes you sweaty and dirty. Ick. Second, we are both confident that given an opportunity to travel to some remote location as a part of the show, Naked and Afraid, we would survive for precisely 10 minutes. Nature isn’t for the weak or lazy, and we are lazy as fuck.
The chick at Starbucks acted like we were rabid, or on crack. We forgot we smeared charcoal on our faces. Oops.
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.
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.
This week’s #fbf post is one of my favorites. I wanted to post it this week as I’ve been considering getting back into aerial yoga. For those who’ve been following me long enough, you might know that I had to quit my aerial hijinks, because it messed up my equilibrium. It was terrible. Well, I’m now armed with Sea-Bands, non-drowsy Dramamine, and I know how to perform some head maneuvers that will hopefully help me regain equilibrium if I’m struck with vertigo again. Now all I need to do is get my arse off the couch…
“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.
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.
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.
Hello All! It is me again. I have some exciting news! The pictures I took for the magazine have finally been edited and sent to me to use on my blog! This was way back in November, and I thought the day that I would get to share these on my blog would never come!
These pictures are the ones I wanted to be featured in the magazine. They were not the ones chosen, but, oh well, because even more importantly, I get to share them with my lovely readers!
I believe I shared already that modeling ain’t for no punk bitch. Let me reiterate, I give massive props to models. They are incredibly resilient and strong. I was exhausted after 4 hours of shooting in the same position!
The photographer actually took my crazy venture seriously, and he took some 400 pictures. He spent an hour just setting things up to look ‘just right’. I am eternally grateful.
Because, obviously, I am no model, I assumed he would snap a couple pictures and then move on to more serious projects. No, he was incredibly professional and kind.
Without further ado, I present to you the fruits of my “modeling” labor.
Guys, I’m feeling like a really important person right now. Tomorrow, I’m getting my makeup and hair done, for the first time ever (for a photoshoot, not in that I’ve never done my hair and makeup before. What a terrifying thought), to get pictures done, professionally, for the magazine. Holy shit. It doesn’t feel real, and sometimes I wonder when I’m going to wake up from the best dream ever.
Because I’m Fatty McCupcakes, my photoshoot won’t be your run of the mill, smile-like-you-aren’t-feeling-lame-in-your-sensible-blazer-pantsuit-kind. No, it’s going to involve me attempting yoga, AND it will involve cupcakes. Oh, yes. I can’t wait to share them with everyone!
In preparation for this shoot, I’ve arranged times and dates with the photographer, reserved an empty yoga studio, and recruited my best friend to be there for moral support. Not once did I think I would need to consider clothing, makeup, or hair. I feel like my woman card should be revoked. Embarrassingly, I was more concerned with deciding on the cupcakes-white cake, buttercream frosting, blue sprinkles. I mean, that’s the most important part. Isn’t it?
I’m so glad that the photographer, and a friend from high school, both, asked, “Have you arranged for someone to do your makeup?”
I was seriously going to just roll up in my usual cheapo foundation and mascara. I had no idea that makeup was a huge part of getting your pictures done. I’m definitely no model, so I was just going to hope for the best. Thank God everyone else has their shit together. I might have looked like Sloth. I still might.
Today I picked up the cupcakes that will be involved in the photoshoot. That sounds kind of dirty…I promise they will not be abused. They will be eaten after I get to take my Spanx off. Oh yes. They will be eaten, but they won’t be treated unfairly.
When I was purchasing my cupcakes, the bagger asked me, “Would you like a bag for your muffins?”
What the. How the. I have no words.
HOW CAN SOMEONE CONFUSE CUPCAKES FOR MUFFINS?
Cupcakes have frosting.
Cupcakes are cake.
Cupcakes have sprinkles.
Phew, now that we’ve cleared that up, I might sneak a muffin to appease the butterflies in my stomach. Mmmm muffins.
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.
Guys, don’t go to yoga when you have gas. It’s a really, really bad idea. Also, it’s nearly impossible to meditate when you are trying really hard to hold in air that desperately wants out. I know this is graphic, and somewhat crude, but it’s real life.
Last night I attended a reiki yin yoga session. After dinner. After lunchtime sushi. After cereal with milk. It truly was a recipe for disaster. I should have told my friend I couldn’t go because I needed to sit on the couch and fart all night. Instead, I thought it would be fine, the gas would go away, and it would be all zen and Namaste.
Not only did I have horrible gas, I also had acid reflux in a major way. Nothing says ‘you’re 32’ like regretting you didn’t eat 10 Tums before physical exertion. Remember Jeff Foxworthy’s, “You Might Be a Redneck…” routine? I totally need to make a ton of memes with, “You Might Be In Your 30’s If…”.
Some examples would be:
You might be in your 30’s if you actually consider buying Dr. Scholl’s, because they look comfortable. Instead, you buy the really stylish shoes, and are rewarded with your first corn.
You might be in your 30’s if you catch yourself mentally chastising young’ins and their inappropriate fashion choices.
You might be in your 30’s if prepping for a big night of drinking means steering clear of greens all day and popping Prilosec like its the end of days.
You might be in your 30’s if you constantly tell yourself you need to get your shit together, but you still buy the purse you can barely afford. Because purses.
You might be in your 30’s if the thought of going home to watch The Office reruns, in your fat pants, genuinely gets you through your day.
So, after I’m made rich with all of the tee shirt royalties and jazz, I’ll create an anti-gas pill that actually fucking works.
Not only was I trying not to throw up stomach acid the entire yoga session, my stomach was making obnoxious gas noises. Quite audibly. Even worse, this yoga session was a reiki one. Reiki basically means the instructor comes around and puts their hands on you. I think it’s so you can feel their warmth or something. I’ll have to do further research, obviously.
Well, when she got to me, my bowel party was in full swing. The room was quiet, except for my intestines. They were gurgling, rolling, squeaking, and popping. I knew she could hear it. Fucking Sparks could hear it. I actually had to flex my toes to keep it in. Instead of going to my happy place, I kept imagining the absolute nightmare it would be if I relaxed and let it go. It would obviously be a silent, but deadly bastard. I would be able to count the seconds until it reached her. She would recoil, and I would promptly die. There is no coming back from farting on your yoga instructor.
In ending, I will not be attending yoga when I have gas. Because I have gas basically everyday, I’m in real trouble.
I have to know, people, do you toot at yoga? What is your method? Please tell me your strategy, as I desperately, painfully need to know.
I have been a pretty shameless glutton most of my summer break. Weekends are hard for me to stay on track, let alone an entire school break. Give me almost 2 months of freedom, and endless hours to meet friends and family for breakfast, brunch, elevenses, lunch, afternoon tea, linner, dinner, cocktails, and late night binge-fests, and you pretty much have a recipe for disaster with a chocolate ganache and cherry on top.
I fully plan on getting my act together when school, and a regular schedule commences. Until then, I’m trying not to be too bad. I got a half sandwich, instead of feeling satisfied at Greatful Gardens the other day. Last night, I ate only one bag of kettlecorn popcorn. Most astonishingly, I imbibed in one, count em’: oneMoscow Mule at The Depot yesterday.
After lunch, I usually want something sweet. Yesterday, I was craving some frozen yogurt with cookie dough and marshmallow topping something fierce. I told myself, “No, Fat Katie!”, and went home and ate a Popsicle instead (I’m also quickly running out of money-summer break, and being a fatty is EXPENSIVE).
Additionally, I am working hard at not drinking my calories (I mean, unless it’s alcohol. Because alcohol). I’m also trying to drink green tea a couple times a day. I know it’s not a miracle fix, but it has been shown to boost metabolism. Disclaimer: I am, by no means, against “quick fixes”. I will, usually, buy in to any weight loss fad that requires absolutely zero effort.
Another reason I’ve decided to not end my summer break in “Super Glutton” mode is: I spent $160 on It Works products. I purchased a month’s supply of wraps and fat inhibitors, hair, skin, and nails vitamins, and firming gel. My hard-earned credit card purchase just can’t be in vain. It doesn’t seem right to wash fat inhibitors down with a donut. Well, maybe it does, but I don’t want the donut to cancel out the hard work the supplement is doing. I’m not simply trying to maintain. Oh no. This lard has got to go.
My Fat Fighting Box of Shame
These are some real horse pills. And they taste like horse sweat.
Because ain’t nobody want to see my front butt. Here is another area that has got to get with the program and tighten up. I’m sick of my swinging arm flab.
Totally unedited and deelicious!
At least I remembered to shave my armpits for ya’ll.
I know firming gel and supplements are not the only answer. I’m doing yoga, too. Remember? I bet you forgot, as I haven’t posted any embarrassing yoga pics lately. Stay tuned.
*The little red mark on my arm is from my very first boyfriend, Karl Martin. We were having a pinching contest (we were 12). He won.