Me. That's right....me. I won the Fat Ass Award at the Marstons Mills Four Miler this past Saturday.
Let me first start out with saying - I never win anything. N-E-V-E-R! I don't win on scratch tickets, random drawings or board games. Do not pick me for you team in dodgeball. We won't win. Even if we're close to winning, something extraordinary will happen in the last 5 seconds that brings us back to second place. It's inevitable. I do not carry the winning luck.
Every single stinking race I enter, I try hard to win in my age group (30-34). But, it's not gonna happen. It seems to be the most popular age group for extreme runners. The winning girl usually has a body built like a swimsuit model and has kicked my sorry ass by at least 10 minutes timewise. I never bother to hang around after each race to hear the awards. My name will not be called and I don't really know many people in the race. I'm usually in my car and out of the parking lot before the last runner hits the finish line. But, this past weekend, I hung around afterwards. I was chatting it up with a fellow runner and gobbling up watermelon like my life depended on it. I was a bit wary of getting in my car just yet. I had forgotten to hit the bathroom before the race started and halfway through the 2 mile I'd almost peed my pants. Upon hitting the finish line, the control over my bladder came to a screeching halt and I might have tinkled a little bit. I did manage to get to the ladies room before the dam burst. The women at the scoring table must have thought I was going to hurl. Puking is a part of racing. I've learned never to be surprised to see a pile of vomit just over the finish line. Sometimes I have to leap over it. It happens. Some hurl, some shit their pants, some sprinkle in their pants. I'm happy to be a sprinkler. A little pee never hurt anyone.
But enough about my wet pants. On to my award...
Other than the obvious first place award and the age group categories, there are two awards often handed out. The Athena Champion and the Clydesdale Champion. These are weight class categories. The Athena is for women weighing over 150 pounds and the Clydesdale is for men weighing over 200 pounds. Please don't ask me what this has to do with running. My only thought is real runners (the ones who weigh next to nothing) probably think people who weigh the normal amount a person should weigh, can't run a decent race. People like me. I weigh 168 pounds. I am a solid mass of muscle and bone. Sure, I could lose 10 pounds and I would be ready for some photo shoots that don't involve women who have boobs. But any more and I would look like a bobble head doll.
I may be a Fat Ass but I've got a trophy, bitch!
Showing posts with label When I Try To Exercise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label When I Try To Exercise. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
#1 Rule In Running Club - Don't Talk About Running Club
I always thought the spinners at the gym were crazy. A troop of heavy legged, Type A women who became so aggressive about sharing the same workout room with the kick boxers and the yogis that the gym is building them their very own room. Their pack mentality was infamous. Their brutality and aggression unmatched. I never thought I would find another group of people like them until I joined the Hyannis Road Runners Club.
Even though I started less than 6 months ago, I consider myself to be a decent runner. I can finish a 7K without someone waiting at the finish line with a defibrillator. My time isn't pretty, but what the fuck? I finished without stopping, didn't I? But, I wanted to get better. My dream is to finish a half marathon. Joining the group would allow me to be trained properly. Silly me, thinking that running was just walking, but faster. There's foot placement, stride, heart monitoring, warming up, cooling down etc etc.
The club separates people into 4 categories: Walk, Walk/Run, Basic Running, and Run/Race. After throwing more than 8 races under my belt I figured I was in the run/race group. Fat Chance. Those guys consider anyone who runs above a 9 minute mile to be a "non-runner". They looked like a bunch of heavy muscled gazelles, sprinting around the track at breakneck speed. I was placed in the Basic Running group. The instructor, an adorable white haired man, looked like he weighed no more than 140 lbs. He was in sublime condition. I felt fat and dumpy standing next to a man that was more than twice my age.
My race running style has always been the same: get to the race, pace around until it starts, run the race, finish, drink water and leave. Well......that is wrong, wrong, WRONG. There needs to be warm ups, stretching and cool downs. My heart rates must be closely monitored and I should never get in my car right after running. Always wait until your heart rate returns to normal. My only thought after a race was how fast I could get to the nearest deli to eat an enormous sandwich.
These people are animals. They do not "cross-train". All they do is run. The thought of kick boxing, weight lifting or yoga was greeted with a curled up nostril. Training is serious stuff as I soon found out after my third set of combination sprints. I consider myself to be in really good shape. But, I was sweating like a pig and to make matters worse, I smelled!!! At first, I wasn't sure if it was me until we were running a grueling "cool down". I started smelling the oniony BO smell again and the woman that I had previously blamed it on was at least 40 paces behind me. I knew it wasn't the girl running next to me.
The more I ran, the worse I smelled. I picked through my brain and tried to conjure up what I'd had for lunch, thinking that was the problem. But, a grilled cheese and lentil soup wouldn't have caused the massive stink that flowed behind me like a cloud. I looked around to see if anyone noticed my foul odor. But, everyone was so caught up in the battle to breath normally, that my stench was unnoticed.
The worst part about it was I had to get in my car after all this. The cloth seats soaked up the funk and now my car smells like a locker room after 20 hairy sweaty men left their used socks on the floor. I have since switch from that weird rock deodorant to regular old Secret. Screw going the au natural route. I don't want to smell like a jock strap again.
Even though I started less than 6 months ago, I consider myself to be a decent runner. I can finish a 7K without someone waiting at the finish line with a defibrillator. My time isn't pretty, but what the fuck? I finished without stopping, didn't I? But, I wanted to get better. My dream is to finish a half marathon. Joining the group would allow me to be trained properly. Silly me, thinking that running was just walking, but faster. There's foot placement, stride, heart monitoring, warming up, cooling down etc etc.
The club separates people into 4 categories: Walk, Walk/Run, Basic Running, and Run/Race. After throwing more than 8 races under my belt I figured I was in the run/race group. Fat Chance. Those guys consider anyone who runs above a 9 minute mile to be a "non-runner". They looked like a bunch of heavy muscled gazelles, sprinting around the track at breakneck speed. I was placed in the Basic Running group. The instructor, an adorable white haired man, looked like he weighed no more than 140 lbs. He was in sublime condition. I felt fat and dumpy standing next to a man that was more than twice my age.
My race running style has always been the same: get to the race, pace around until it starts, run the race, finish, drink water and leave. Well......that is wrong, wrong, WRONG. There needs to be warm ups, stretching and cool downs. My heart rates must be closely monitored and I should never get in my car right after running. Always wait until your heart rate returns to normal. My only thought after a race was how fast I could get to the nearest deli to eat an enormous sandwich.
These people are animals. They do not "cross-train". All they do is run. The thought of kick boxing, weight lifting or yoga was greeted with a curled up nostril. Training is serious stuff as I soon found out after my third set of combination sprints. I consider myself to be in really good shape. But, I was sweating like a pig and to make matters worse, I smelled!!! At first, I wasn't sure if it was me until we were running a grueling "cool down". I started smelling the oniony BO smell again and the woman that I had previously blamed it on was at least 40 paces behind me. I knew it wasn't the girl running next to me.
The more I ran, the worse I smelled. I picked through my brain and tried to conjure up what I'd had for lunch, thinking that was the problem. But, a grilled cheese and lentil soup wouldn't have caused the massive stink that flowed behind me like a cloud. I looked around to see if anyone noticed my foul odor. But, everyone was so caught up in the battle to breath normally, that my stench was unnoticed.
The worst part about it was I had to get in my car after all this. The cloth seats soaked up the funk and now my car smells like a locker room after 20 hairy sweaty men left their used socks on the floor. I have since switch from that weird rock deodorant to regular old Secret. Screw going the au natural route. I don't want to smell like a jock strap again.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Rock Hard Nipple Racing
I'm still in training for my team triathlon on August 9th.
I'm the one sporting the rock hard nipples in the gray tank top. I didn't realize it was happening until we got back to the car. I'm gonna use band aids next week. So embarrassing! I wasn't cold and I don't think that I was horny. Who knows what invoked that reaction.
For the first time ever, TH watched me race. Although I was thrilled he was there, everything went wrong. I was so distracted, I forgot to drink my energy gel pack which is this vile stuff that is suppose to taste like fruit, but instead tastes like bile. I choked it down 10 minutes before the race and it proceeded to dance up my throat for the first mile. Yum.
At the exact moment I hit the 2nd mile marker, my iPod froze up right in the middle of a Dropkick Murphy's song. No tunes for the next 3 miles. Instead, I was treated to the sounds of the woman running with me as she grunted, panted and sang along with her iPod that was working quite well. She also decided to running right next to me even though we had an entire lane to run in. During the 3rd mile, she bumped into me 4 times, apologizing each time. If she'd done it a 5th time I was going to body slam her out of the way. During the last 1/2 mile, I was so annoyed that I sucked in a huge lung full of oxygen and plowed ahead, beating her by at least 30 seconds.
I never stay for the festivities after a race. I usually get my free bottle of water and leave, eager to get home, shower and inhale large quantities of egg and cheese wrapped in a flour tortilla. But, Big K wanted to stay. There was a rock band, cheeseburgers and beer. He was in the mood to party. It didn't matter if his wife had just run a 7K....in 82 degree heat....with 100% humidity....up some very large ass hills....and now sported some insane leg chaffing that looked like a venereal disease was creeping down her legs. He wanted some cooked cow.
I admit, sheepishly, it was fun to stay and enjoy the party. I'm sure everyone else enjoyed it too as they were able to stare at my rock hard nipples the whole time. TH made up for my lack of appetite and pounded a hamburger and oysters on the half shell. I wish I could have been as hard core as some of the other runners who were pounding free beer. I drank 4 bottles of water in 15 minutes instead.
My nipples and I will be at the Cape Cod Irish Pub's Road Race this Saturday. This is my last training race until I travel to Ohio on August 7th. Come and cheer me on! If you figure out who I am, I just might have a prize for ya!
I'm the one sporting the rock hard nipples in the gray tank top. I didn't realize it was happening until we got back to the car. I'm gonna use band aids next week. So embarrassing! I wasn't cold and I don't think that I was horny. Who knows what invoked that reaction.For the first time ever, TH watched me race. Although I was thrilled he was there, everything went wrong. I was so distracted, I forgot to drink my energy gel pack which is this vile stuff that is suppose to taste like fruit, but instead tastes like bile. I choked it down 10 minutes before the race and it proceeded to dance up my throat for the first mile. Yum.
At the exact moment I hit the 2nd mile marker, my iPod froze up right in the middle of a Dropkick Murphy's song. No tunes for the next 3 miles. Instead, I was treated to the sounds of the woman running with me as she grunted, panted and sang along with her iPod that was working quite well. She also decided to running right next to me even though we had an entire lane to run in. During the 3rd mile, she bumped into me 4 times, apologizing each time. If she'd done it a 5th time I was going to body slam her out of the way. During the last 1/2 mile, I was so annoyed that I sucked in a huge lung full of oxygen and plowed ahead, beating her by at least 30 seconds.
I never stay for the festivities after a race. I usually get my free bottle of water and leave, eager to get home, shower and inhale large quantities of egg and cheese wrapped in a flour tortilla. But, Big K wanted to stay. There was a rock band, cheeseburgers and beer. He was in the mood to party. It didn't matter if his wife had just run a 7K....in 82 degree heat....with 100% humidity....up some very large ass hills....and now sported some insane leg chaffing that looked like a venereal disease was creeping down her legs. He wanted some cooked cow.
I admit, sheepishly, it was fun to stay and enjoy the party. I'm sure everyone else enjoyed it too as they were able to stare at my rock hard nipples the whole time. TH made up for my lack of appetite and pounded a hamburger and oysters on the half shell. I wish I could have been as hard core as some of the other runners who were pounding free beer. I drank 4 bottles of water in 15 minutes instead.
My nipples and I will be at the Cape Cod Irish Pub's Road Race this Saturday. This is my last training race until I travel to Ohio on August 7th. Come and cheer me on! If you figure out who I am, I just might have a prize for ya!
Monday, May 11, 2009
This White Girl Can't Dance
When I was younger, I wanted to be one of the In Living Color Fly Girls. JLo had nothing to do with it. I wanted to dance like them. After failing miserably at the Running Man and the Roger Rabbit during a middle school dance, I begrudging admitted that I was no Martha Graham. Later in life, I found that copious amounts of alcohol would lubricate my hips and spine enough to bump and grind. Dancing for me has to be like sex - hot and steamy. Just give me someone to rub up against - male or female - and I'm off and dancing.
I've been trying to shake up my exercise routine of late. Three yoga classes, two kickboxing/body combat classes and miscellaneous hours of weight lifting per week have really toned up my flabby winter ass. I've managed to acquire two of the desired 6 pack muscles and I'm working on the other four. My new friend at the gym, Dollface, has pleaded with me to try the new DanceFit class. A former dancer herself, she promised me it's a fun workout and very easy to follow. Putting my skepticism aside, I agreed to try it. Who knows? Maybe my rhythm, like a fine wine, has matured with age. I did pose this question: How the hell am I suppose to dance in sneakers? I was use to swaying and dry humping in 4 inch heels. "Easy" she said. "You just buy some Foot Undeez"
As if sweating profusely and looking like a spastic ape on crack wasn't enough. Let's add a shoe that looks like a foot diaper.
DanceFit is taught by the same instructor who teaches kickboxing. A former bodyguard for Michael Jackson (before the controversy) and Jodi Whatley, this man can dance. He had joked around in previous kickboxing classes and busted out Jacksonish moves. He has talent and I was afraid I would be made to moonwalk. I donned my toe underwear and prepared for the worst.
I was relieved when the class started out with basic stretching and ballet positions. I though, "Hey, I can do this" as I plied with ease. It wasn't so horrible and I was feeling pretty good about my style. Suddenly, the music switched to "Pretty Young Thing" and the instructor busted out in a routine. Like any good teacher, he started with the basic steps and added on from there. Everyone else in the class was getting bits and pieces of it, laughing as they hopped from position to position. Dollface was mirroring him perfectly and looked like she was ready to tour with Britnay Spears. I stood there in my foot diapers panicking. I need a cocktail. Badly.
I managed to swallow the lump in my throat and willed my feet to move. They responded, but the rest of my body refused to follow. I moved with robotic, jerky motions that made it appear I had a pole rammed in my ass. If I got my feet to follow the complicated steps I was unable to follow the hand motions that made the routine complete. It was painful to watch. Add to this the fact that I was laughing uncontrollably. Yes, it was grotesque. I was always 4 steps behind, my turns were wobbly and my hand seemed to swat at the air instead of flow with each position.
I lack the basic coordination to follow instructions. I failed horribly at Zumba, was laughed out of Step Aerobics, and will not try Jazzercize. Because there is an element of raw, angry aggression, I can follow the moves in kickboxing and body combat. There is no dancing. Only the desire to maim and injure your imaginary opponent. Depending on my day, my opponent takes the form of many faces. The worse the day, the better my workout. I've had some really good imaginary sparring partners the past few weeks. But, there is no one to kill in DanceFit. There is only the slow drain of my self esteem and self-flagellation.
I will take the class again. I am determined to get it. I may or may not have a drink before hand. I will wear my foot panties (that's for you Casey) and look like I'm doing the Freddy. Why can't they make a class that works for my kinda dancing? I don't think they would put "Dry Hump Your Way to Fit" on the class schedule. I can't even get them to add pole dancing.
I've been trying to shake up my exercise routine of late. Three yoga classes, two kickboxing/body combat classes and miscellaneous hours of weight lifting per week have really toned up my flabby winter ass. I've managed to acquire two of the desired 6 pack muscles and I'm working on the other four. My new friend at the gym, Dollface, has pleaded with me to try the new DanceFit class. A former dancer herself, she promised me it's a fun workout and very easy to follow. Putting my skepticism aside, I agreed to try it. Who knows? Maybe my rhythm, like a fine wine, has matured with age. I did pose this question: How the hell am I suppose to dance in sneakers? I was use to swaying and dry humping in 4 inch heels. "Easy" she said. "You just buy some Foot Undeez"
As if sweating profusely and looking like a spastic ape on crack wasn't enough. Let's add a shoe that looks like a foot diaper. DanceFit is taught by the same instructor who teaches kickboxing. A former bodyguard for Michael Jackson (before the controversy) and Jodi Whatley, this man can dance. He had joked around in previous kickboxing classes and busted out Jacksonish moves. He has talent and I was afraid I would be made to moonwalk. I donned my toe underwear and prepared for the worst.
I was relieved when the class started out with basic stretching and ballet positions. I though, "Hey, I can do this" as I plied with ease. It wasn't so horrible and I was feeling pretty good about my style. Suddenly, the music switched to "Pretty Young Thing" and the instructor busted out in a routine. Like any good teacher, he started with the basic steps and added on from there. Everyone else in the class was getting bits and pieces of it, laughing as they hopped from position to position. Dollface was mirroring him perfectly and looked like she was ready to tour with Britnay Spears. I stood there in my foot diapers panicking. I need a cocktail. Badly.
I managed to swallow the lump in my throat and willed my feet to move. They responded, but the rest of my body refused to follow. I moved with robotic, jerky motions that made it appear I had a pole rammed in my ass. If I got my feet to follow the complicated steps I was unable to follow the hand motions that made the routine complete. It was painful to watch. Add to this the fact that I was laughing uncontrollably. Yes, it was grotesque. I was always 4 steps behind, my turns were wobbly and my hand seemed to swat at the air instead of flow with each position.
I lack the basic coordination to follow instructions. I failed horribly at Zumba, was laughed out of Step Aerobics, and will not try Jazzercize. Because there is an element of raw, angry aggression, I can follow the moves in kickboxing and body combat. There is no dancing. Only the desire to maim and injure your imaginary opponent. Depending on my day, my opponent takes the form of many faces. The worse the day, the better my workout. I've had some really good imaginary sparring partners the past few weeks. But, there is no one to kill in DanceFit. There is only the slow drain of my self esteem and self-flagellation.
I will take the class again. I am determined to get it. I may or may not have a drink before hand. I will wear my foot panties (that's for you Casey) and look like I'm doing the Freddy. Why can't they make a class that works for my kinda dancing? I don't think they would put "Dry Hump Your Way to Fit" on the class schedule. I can't even get them to add pole dancing.
Friday, April 24, 2009
This Post Is Sponsored By Extra Strength Tylenol
Dear Les Mills
I mean this with utter respect and love.
FUCK YOU!
How dare you create such a horrid, unbearable workout routine called "Body Combat"? How dare you inspire a 300lb, adorable man to lose weight, become incredibly buff and decide to be one of your robots? How dare he become the head of fitness classes at my gym? And how dare he teach your punishing class when my normal kickboxing instructor was ill on Wednesday?
GO BLOW YOURSELF!
Mike (adorable head of fitness classes guy), introduced our fragile bodies to your special form of torture on Wednesday. After 25 minutes of muscle punishing, mindfucking work, I have decided that you must have something against fat people. And now you've warped poor Mike. Mike is sweet and fun while he's standing at the counter talking about diets, music or just having a good time. He'll even talk about eating a cheeseburger with extra bacon. But, when your music starts he turns into some sort of maniacal drill instructor screaming about "moving our fat asses" and such. Flames shoot out of his mohawk as he's running around the room yelling "HAAAAAAAAAAAAARDER" "FAAAAAAAASTER" "I want to see those hands up" PUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNCH IT!" He throws his hands up in front of us as we're punching (without gloves) and makes us hit his palms. Do you know that I hit him so hard I split my knuckle open? Thankfully, once your demonic symphony ended, Mike morphed back into his normal state and we were allowed to talk about cheeseburgers again. I am concerned for his well being. While he may look fabulous after losing over 100 lbs, I believe that you may have control over his mind.
PLEASE KISS MY ASS.
Mr. Mills, my body has never been in so much pain. On Thursday, I fell out of bed when I tried to get up. Walking up stairs was impossible - I had to crawl. Showering required excess moaning - and it wasn't from my wet n' vibrator. I hobbled through my day motivated by coffee and Extra Strength Tylenol. Fancy Pants was so worried about me that he offered to run home and grab me some Tylenol with Codeine. At one point he threatened to call Big K. Apparently I looked like "someone who had never drank before and was having their first hangover". I lay with my head on my desk for most of the afternoon, groaning if my phone rang. Even my hair hurt. Knowing that I had a yoga class that night brought tears to my eyes as I gobbled down more Tylenol.
I still hurt today. I fear that Mike will be teaching again tomorrow and that will put a damper on my entire weekend. I had planned to use my legs and arms do things other than lie on the couch and moan in pain. Important things like sex, yard work and maybe some more sex. If Mike tortures me again, I will be shot for the weekend. I won't even be able to hold a vibrator for the allotted 30 seconds that I need to polish myself off.
I just thought it was important for you to know that I hate you and damn you to the furthest reaches of hell.
Oh, and here's one more....FUCK YOU!
Love and Kisses,
Serena
I mean this with utter respect and love.
FUCK YOU!
How dare you create such a horrid, unbearable workout routine called "Body Combat"? How dare you inspire a 300lb, adorable man to lose weight, become incredibly buff and decide to be one of your robots? How dare he become the head of fitness classes at my gym? And how dare he teach your punishing class when my normal kickboxing instructor was ill on Wednesday?
GO BLOW YOURSELF!
Mike (adorable head of fitness classes guy), introduced our fragile bodies to your special form of torture on Wednesday. After 25 minutes of muscle punishing, mindfucking work, I have decided that you must have something against fat people. And now you've warped poor Mike. Mike is sweet and fun while he's standing at the counter talking about diets, music or just having a good time. He'll even talk about eating a cheeseburger with extra bacon. But, when your music starts he turns into some sort of maniacal drill instructor screaming about "moving our fat asses" and such. Flames shoot out of his mohawk as he's running around the room yelling "HAAAAAAAAAAAAARDER" "FAAAAAAAASTER" "I want to see those hands up" PUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNCH IT!" He throws his hands up in front of us as we're punching (without gloves) and makes us hit his palms. Do you know that I hit him so hard I split my knuckle open? Thankfully, once your demonic symphony ended, Mike morphed back into his normal state and we were allowed to talk about cheeseburgers again. I am concerned for his well being. While he may look fabulous after losing over 100 lbs, I believe that you may have control over his mind.
PLEASE KISS MY ASS.
Mr. Mills, my body has never been in so much pain. On Thursday, I fell out of bed when I tried to get up. Walking up stairs was impossible - I had to crawl. Showering required excess moaning - and it wasn't from my wet n' vibrator. I hobbled through my day motivated by coffee and Extra Strength Tylenol. Fancy Pants was so worried about me that he offered to run home and grab me some Tylenol with Codeine. At one point he threatened to call Big K. Apparently I looked like "someone who had never drank before and was having their first hangover". I lay with my head on my desk for most of the afternoon, groaning if my phone rang. Even my hair hurt. Knowing that I had a yoga class that night brought tears to my eyes as I gobbled down more Tylenol.
I still hurt today. I fear that Mike will be teaching again tomorrow and that will put a damper on my entire weekend. I had planned to use my legs and arms do things other than lie on the couch and moan in pain. Important things like sex, yard work and maybe some more sex. If Mike tortures me again, I will be shot for the weekend. I won't even be able to hold a vibrator for the allotted 30 seconds that I need to polish myself off.
I just thought it was important for you to know that I hate you and damn you to the furthest reaches of hell.
Oh, and here's one more....FUCK YOU!
Love and Kisses,
Serena
Monday, February 23, 2009
Hollywood Thinks I'm A Fattie
I will admit that I'm not in the best shape. I have a slight Christmas Package (that's the fat that hangs out just under your abs), my thighs have the faint rippling of cellulite and my ass could use a serious overhaul. I wouldn't wear a bikini if you paid me a million bucks and promised me a weekend of passion with Vin Diesel and Jason Statham at a posh resort in the Caribbean. No way, no how, not happening.
Aside from that fact that fate dealt me a mean punch and choose not to bless me with bodacious Ta Ta's,(I got zip in that department) I feel pretty good about my body. I'm very strong. Freakishly strong. I enjoy "wowing" people with my strength. I'm also deceptionally heavy. Muscle weighs more than fat, right? Well, the next time you see me try to pick me up. You might just throw your back out. Big K scooped me up to carry me over the threshold on our wedding night and nearly slipped a disk. Densely packed. That's what I am.
I'm convinced that everything in Victoria's Secret is made for people who have big boobs, no shoulders and weigh under 100 pounds. Not only am I bitter that they never carry my bra size (36A is not that bizarre, Vicki) but all the fun outfits make me look like a ballerina on steroids. I was there this past weekend. After becoming thoroughly disgusted that they didn't even have one bra in my size (even the ugly cotton ones) I decided to check out the naughty section of the store. Every outfit I tried on made me hate my body. If I was TH and saw my wife dressed in that, my penis would curl up behind my balls and never come out. Thankfully, TH has a fetish for boy shorts and tiny tees. I look cute in those. Vicki, you're a big bitch. Why can't you make something that fits us big gals with little boobs.
I blame Hollywood for my body obsession. Sure, I want to look like Jennifer Aniston. But, I will need a personal trainer to come to my house everyday, a private yoga instructor, a chef, a trip to the spa every other week and a weekly body polish and facial. Not to mention a fabulous wardrobe.
Every time I open a Vogue, Cosmo or Vanity Fair I become more and more enraged. It's just not fair. I starve myself, work myself into a lather kickboxing and using the torture machines at the gym and I STILL can't come close to those women. It took this ad to make me feel better.
This is Jessica Alba in an ad for Campari. The picture on the left is real. The picture on the right is airbrush. Of course, they used the airbrushed one. The chick just had a baby and she looks unbelievable in the real picture. But, the assholes in the art department needed to make her waist impossibly small and her thighs impossibly slim. If I had just seen the doctored picture I would have thrown myself under a bus.
The motherfuckers need to stop fucking with us girls. Now if you will excuse me, I'm still going to throw myself under that bus.
Aside from that fact that fate dealt me a mean punch and choose not to bless me with bodacious Ta Ta's,(I got zip in that department) I feel pretty good about my body. I'm very strong. Freakishly strong. I enjoy "wowing" people with my strength. I'm also deceptionally heavy. Muscle weighs more than fat, right? Well, the next time you see me try to pick me up. You might just throw your back out. Big K scooped me up to carry me over the threshold on our wedding night and nearly slipped a disk. Densely packed. That's what I am.
I'm convinced that everything in Victoria's Secret is made for people who have big boobs, no shoulders and weigh under 100 pounds. Not only am I bitter that they never carry my bra size (36A is not that bizarre, Vicki) but all the fun outfits make me look like a ballerina on steroids. I was there this past weekend. After becoming thoroughly disgusted that they didn't even have one bra in my size (even the ugly cotton ones) I decided to check out the naughty section of the store. Every outfit I tried on made me hate my body. If I was TH and saw my wife dressed in that, my penis would curl up behind my balls and never come out. Thankfully, TH has a fetish for boy shorts and tiny tees. I look cute in those. Vicki, you're a big bitch. Why can't you make something that fits us big gals with little boobs.
I blame Hollywood for my body obsession. Sure, I want to look like Jennifer Aniston. But, I will need a personal trainer to come to my house everyday, a private yoga instructor, a chef, a trip to the spa every other week and a weekly body polish and facial. Not to mention a fabulous wardrobe.
Every time I open a Vogue, Cosmo or Vanity Fair I become more and more enraged. It's just not fair. I starve myself, work myself into a lather kickboxing and using the torture machines at the gym and I STILL can't come close to those women. It took this ad to make me feel better.
This is Jessica Alba in an ad for Campari. The picture on the left is real. The picture on the right is airbrush. Of course, they used the airbrushed one. The chick just had a baby and she looks unbelievable in the real picture. But, the assholes in the art department needed to make her waist impossibly small and her thighs impossibly slim. If I had just seen the doctored picture I would have thrown myself under a bus.
The motherfuckers need to stop fucking with us girls. Now if you will excuse me, I'm still going to throw myself under that bus.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Me So Horny
They say that men reach their sexual peak at around 18-23, just in time to bang every chick in college and a few when they get out. Women don't reach their sexual peak until 35-40. This is when men are starting to come down from theirs. I'm only 31 (32 in a month) What does this mean for me? I think about sex, talk about sex and want sex all the time. Can you imagine what I'm going to be like when I hit my peak? Poor TH....or better yet....Poor Energizer Bunny. Here's a stock tip for you now: Invest in Engerizer Battery stock. Their sales will go thru the roof in a few years. I will be their main comsumer. You may also want to invest in the porn companies like Vivid Video, Anabolic and Diabolic. I will be a heavy viewer of their material.
Lately, I've complained that things haven't been as frisky around the household. Both TH and I are physically unable to do anything other than sleep and eat. Such is the cost of dieting and working out to the extreme. I know that I shouldn't be so critical. Every married couple has their slumps. Yes, it's very romantic to cuddle and hold each other. But, that only lasts for 30 seconds or so and we're snoring and drooling on each other. Nothing is sexier than your spouse crawling into bed groaning and complaining they're pretty sure they pulled a groin muscle doing lunges.
Not only has my quality time with TH been compromised, but my "quality time" with myself has hit the skids. In the past, I was always looking for a bit of alone time to test out new toys or watch a new vid. Now, if you give me 10 minutes to myself, I catching a few zzz's or packing up my gym bag for the next day. Ladies and Gents, I haven't bought myself a new toy in a month and a half. This is a new record! I can't believe the guys at the toy store haven't set out a search part for me.
Even thought I'm exhausted to the core, I'm not brain dead. My loins still have some fire and it seems to flare up at the most inappropriate times:
I'm in kickboxing class yesterday. I'm not thinking about sex, I'm just trying to breathe and make through the hour of hell. The room is sweltering and the instructor thought it would be fun to throw in some complicated moves for us uncoordinated folks. The instructor is an decent looking guy. Not my type, but I'd shag him in a pinch. I'm trying to kick, elbow and jab at the same time without hitting my fellow suffragettes, when I caught a look at his butt. I'd never really noticed it before. It's kinda nice. All round looking in his gym pants. He was standing in front of me and we started doing some back and forth punching sequences. We started on the forward part when I caught a whiff of his cologne. Again, not my thing, but it worked. Great, now I'm horny. I have 15 minutes left of combat torture and I've got sex on the brain.
When working out in the weight room, it is imperative that I wear headphones with my iPod on at top volume. We have a large population of gorgeous, Brazilian men on the Cape and they all work out at my gym. I am steadfastly convinced that the sounds a guy makes when he's pumping weights is the same sound he makes when he's pumping other things. They're both aerobic activities and require concentration and effort. If I don't have Brittany Spears singing about a Circus in my head, then I feel like I'm in the middle of an orgy. Beautiful, exotic men all grunting and flexing. It's like I'm watching porn while I'm working out. I'm pretty sure I've lost a bit of my hearing in the past few days due to jamming up the volume on my iPod. It's killing me.
I hope Princess HASAY realizes what I have been giving up in my quest for a bikini body. I think I might try to bribe TH with a cheesecake and see if he might take a day off with me to let our bodies rest. I've gotta get me some soon!
Lately, I've complained that things haven't been as frisky around the household. Both TH and I are physically unable to do anything other than sleep and eat. Such is the cost of dieting and working out to the extreme. I know that I shouldn't be so critical. Every married couple has their slumps. Yes, it's very romantic to cuddle and hold each other. But, that only lasts for 30 seconds or so and we're snoring and drooling on each other. Nothing is sexier than your spouse crawling into bed groaning and complaining they're pretty sure they pulled a groin muscle doing lunges.
Not only has my quality time with TH been compromised, but my "quality time" with myself has hit the skids. In the past, I was always looking for a bit of alone time to test out new toys or watch a new vid. Now, if you give me 10 minutes to myself, I catching a few zzz's or packing up my gym bag for the next day. Ladies and Gents, I haven't bought myself a new toy in a month and a half. This is a new record! I can't believe the guys at the toy store haven't set out a search part for me.
Even thought I'm exhausted to the core, I'm not brain dead. My loins still have some fire and it seems to flare up at the most inappropriate times:
I'm in kickboxing class yesterday. I'm not thinking about sex, I'm just trying to breathe and make through the hour of hell. The room is sweltering and the instructor thought it would be fun to throw in some complicated moves for us uncoordinated folks. The instructor is an decent looking guy. Not my type, but I'd shag him in a pinch. I'm trying to kick, elbow and jab at the same time without hitting my fellow suffragettes, when I caught a look at his butt. I'd never really noticed it before. It's kinda nice. All round looking in his gym pants. He was standing in front of me and we started doing some back and forth punching sequences. We started on the forward part when I caught a whiff of his cologne. Again, not my thing, but it worked. Great, now I'm horny. I have 15 minutes left of combat torture and I've got sex on the brain.
When working out in the weight room, it is imperative that I wear headphones with my iPod on at top volume. We have a large population of gorgeous, Brazilian men on the Cape and they all work out at my gym. I am steadfastly convinced that the sounds a guy makes when he's pumping weights is the same sound he makes when he's pumping other things. They're both aerobic activities and require concentration and effort. If I don't have Brittany Spears singing about a Circus in my head, then I feel like I'm in the middle of an orgy. Beautiful, exotic men all grunting and flexing. It's like I'm watching porn while I'm working out. I'm pretty sure I've lost a bit of my hearing in the past few days due to jamming up the volume on my iPod. It's killing me.
I hope Princess HASAY realizes what I have been giving up in my quest for a bikini body. I think I might try to bribe TH with a cheesecake and see if he might take a day off with me to let our bodies rest. I've gotta get me some soon!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Why I'll Never Be A Good Yogi
I know that I've been AWOL lately. I'm trying to catch up, really I am. It's just that I'm tired. No, I'm not whining. I really am tired. Exhausted, as a matter of fact. I have been working my fat ass off at the gym. TH has been in perfect attendance as well; the couple that works out together, stays together. They also have no sex life. Due to the tireless reps, the classes, the iron that is pumped and the miles that are logged, we are as limp as wet noodles. Muscles are screaming, joints are aching and energy levels are low. Our sex life has been reduced to a kiss goodnight, a loving look and uttering the word "Sex?". My beloved toys are gathering dust as I nurse my aching glutes and rub my throbbing hamstrings. They always say the first few weeks are a killer. Now I know that the thing being murdered is my libido. Don't be alarmed! I have done this before. In another week or two, I will be bouncing with energy and twice as frisky as before. Be afraid, be very afraid! Exercise has a way of making me as horny as a teenager in heat.
Bored with lifting and bumping endlessly along on the treadmill, bike and elliptical thingy, I decided to look into the classes. Disappointed that they STILL aren't offering strip aerobics, I selected a yoga classes. I've taken yoga before so this wasn't a new activity for me. I'm not the great at it, but I can stumble along with the best of them. My poses aren't pretty. I know that you're suppose to ease into the stretch and breathe. Well, you can't tell that to a former gymnast. I was taught to stretch until your muscles are throbbing and then stretch some more. The teachers are always frustrated with me. "Use the block", they say. "Don't try to do to much to fast". Meanwhile, I'm trying to get by foot behind my head even though I feel like my neck is going to snap.
I'm at my first class and there are four of us, including the instructor. We're easing into the routine and sitting in the lotus position. We're breathing in unison and relaxing our minds. I can't relax. I've got 50 things running through my head and none of them are relaxing. I'm planning dinner, running through my schedule for the next day and wondering whose feet smell like cheese. The instructor tells us to take a deep breath in and let it out with a "HAAAAAAAA". We all breathe out in unison when "RUUUUUUUUUHHHHP!" The instructor lets out the biggest, juiciest fart. Not only was it loud, but the wood floor we were sitting on made it echo through-out the room. I was able to feel the vibration travel across the floor to where I was sitting.
You all know how I feel about bodily functions. I regress right back to being seven years old. Thank God everyone else had their eyes closed in relaxation as I watched my reflection in the mirror turn purple with suppressed laughter.
I know that farting is acceptable in yoga. In fact, anything natural is acceptable. The body is suppose to be in a relaxed state with energy shooting out of it. Natural gas seems to be one of those energy forces.
We make it through the next 45 minutes with only a few toots. I was concentrating on tearing all of the ligaments from my bones, so I was able to tune out her "energy shots". We were winding down the routine and sitting in Child's Pose, (If you don't know what this looks like, you should click the link to get the full effect of this) when she must have had a big boost of energy. RRRRRRRUUUUUUUHPPP! and then she breathed out "AAHHHH!"
I am in the pose, shaking with laughter. I can barely breathe and tears are streaming down my face.
Thankfully, this woman was just a fill in for the normal instructor, who doesn't fart, by the way. It appears that I will never be a true Yogi. There is no way I would let one rip in class, no matter how relaxed I am.
This other instructor makes me cry too. She is sadistic. I swear, the woman never stops for a second. All you people who think yoga is for pansy, think again.
Stay turned....I have cardio kick boxing tonight and I have no coordination.
Bored with lifting and bumping endlessly along on the treadmill, bike and elliptical thingy, I decided to look into the classes. Disappointed that they STILL aren't offering strip aerobics, I selected a yoga classes. I've taken yoga before so this wasn't a new activity for me. I'm not the great at it, but I can stumble along with the best of them. My poses aren't pretty. I know that you're suppose to ease into the stretch and breathe. Well, you can't tell that to a former gymnast. I was taught to stretch until your muscles are throbbing and then stretch some more. The teachers are always frustrated with me. "Use the block", they say. "Don't try to do to much to fast". Meanwhile, I'm trying to get by foot behind my head even though I feel like my neck is going to snap.
I'm at my first class and there are four of us, including the instructor. We're easing into the routine and sitting in the lotus position. We're breathing in unison and relaxing our minds. I can't relax. I've got 50 things running through my head and none of them are relaxing. I'm planning dinner, running through my schedule for the next day and wondering whose feet smell like cheese. The instructor tells us to take a deep breath in and let it out with a "HAAAAAAAA". We all breathe out in unison when "RUUUUUUUUUHHHHP!" The instructor lets out the biggest, juiciest fart. Not only was it loud, but the wood floor we were sitting on made it echo through-out the room. I was able to feel the vibration travel across the floor to where I was sitting.
You all know how I feel about bodily functions. I regress right back to being seven years old. Thank God everyone else had their eyes closed in relaxation as I watched my reflection in the mirror turn purple with suppressed laughter.
I know that farting is acceptable in yoga. In fact, anything natural is acceptable. The body is suppose to be in a relaxed state with energy shooting out of it. Natural gas seems to be one of those energy forces.
We make it through the next 45 minutes with only a few toots. I was concentrating on tearing all of the ligaments from my bones, so I was able to tune out her "energy shots". We were winding down the routine and sitting in Child's Pose, (If you don't know what this looks like, you should click the link to get the full effect of this) when she must have had a big boost of energy. RRRRRRRUUUUUUUHPPP! and then she breathed out "AAHHHH!"
I am in the pose, shaking with laughter. I can barely breathe and tears are streaming down my face.
Thankfully, this woman was just a fill in for the normal instructor, who doesn't fart, by the way. It appears that I will never be a true Yogi. There is no way I would let one rip in class, no matter how relaxed I am.
This other instructor makes me cry too. She is sadistic. I swear, the woman never stops for a second. All you people who think yoga is for pansy, think again.
Stay turned....I have cardio kick boxing tonight and I have no coordination.
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