I Was So Buff, Until That Three Musketeers Bar.
I went to the gym today. One of the perks of being (once again) unemployed is that I can go to the gym! No excuses! Well, I tried to create excuses:
No clean worky-outy pants. (Too bad, wear a dirty pair.)
Too fat to be seen in worky-outy pants. (Should have thought of that before you got fat.)
Only pair of worky-outy shoes is Nike brand, and they operate sweatshops. (How conveniently you forget such things when you wear all your Gap, Banana Republic, and Old Navy sweatshop clothes.)
Nikes have soles falling off. (Luckily, I own shoe glue! And holy shit– it’s actually where I thought it would be!)
I don’t have bottled water. (Jezus fucking kee-rist on a popsicle stick. Take a Vitamin Water.)
Vitamin Water isn’t cold. (Leave the house. Now.)
I’m too fat to be seen in the gym. (Yeah. Ba-bye.)
So I dragged my sorry ass to the gym. My gym is, thankfully, not populated by young hardbodies. My gym teems with sixty- to seventy-year-olds. The good thing about this is that I look like a young hardbody in comparison. The bad thing is that they can outwalk and outcycle me 4:1. Don’t even get me started on machines bearing weights. I’m pretty sure a woman in her sixties sniggered at me at the butterfly press machine. Several times I fought the urge to say, “What?? I haven’t been to the gym in years. I’m only doing 20 pounds/10 minutes to start out with.” Plus, I think it’s rude when people look at your machine to see how pathetic you are. FUCK YOU, OLD LADY. I’m pacing myself.
I worked out, gently, for 40 minutes, congratulated myself, and came home and ate leftover meatloaf and half a Three Musketeers bar. Sure, I just ate 10 times more calories than I burned, but by exercising I jumpstarted my metabolism, right? That has to count for something.
It Would Happen In This Order
We’re watching Super Nanny. This family has six kids, and the mom just confessed to Super Nanny Jo that she puts the younger ones in harnesses when they go out in public.
My Son: She puts those kids in harnesses.
Me: If I had six kids, I’d put them in harnesses, too. Well, actually, I’d kill myself first.
My Son: You’d kill yourself, and then you’d put the kids in harnesses?
Me: Yes. That’s the order in which those two things would occur.
This family is a classic His, Hers & Ours set-up. He brought two kids, she brought one, and then they had three together. The dad is off working all the time while the mom is at home with six kids (three of whom are home all the time). The mom confesses to Super Nanny Jo that she’s overwhelmed and needs help learning how to handle six children on her own.
Me: She can knock that number down to four just by divorcing his ass!
My Son: That’s a pretty good reduction.
Me: She can get that number even lower by putting up a couple for adoption. Just keep the two you like best.
