Stupid Gym


Someone has poured battery acid into my thighs.

Ben Wah Balls are apparently lodged underneath the muscles in my back.

My stomach has begun to eat itself.

I freaking hate the gym.

It’s almost summertime and that means that boat season with the boyfriend is rapidly approaching. The average woman worries about three things around this time of year: swimwear, tanning, and cellulite. I am not an average woman.

Last year I bought one and a half bathing suits. Yep. I bought a half of one. (If you haven’t heard the story, educate yourself here:
The Bikini Transformation) This year I’m too cheap to stress about buying a new one when the 1.5 attire from 2008 is perfectly sufficient. That is not to say that I haven’t been tempted. I will admit that before my wallet could realize that my fingers were maneuvering the cursor over the “checkout” button in the Victoria’s Secret store, I did purchase a bazillion dollar bathing suit that looked amazing in the catalogue. It arrived in the mail at work and I snuck off to the bathroom to discover that I HATE HEIDI KLUM and I will never look anything like her. I returned the bathing suit and have refused to worry about it again.

I want to do a little exercise with you. Go into whatever word processing program you have on your computer, open a new document, and stare for a moment at the blank page. What you are seeing is my skin color. Despite the fact that I have no rhythm (can’t even clap and sing at the same time), I am a WHITE GIRL in the very literal sense. If “translucent” were a race, I could be their poster-child. I am not an Albino, which is only to say that my skin tone looks like it should have the potential to hold some pigment… but it doesn’t. The year of my junior prom, my best friend paid for me to go to the tanning bed with her three days a week for six weeks. For EIGHTEEN days I looked like a striped lobster and on prom night I was back to my “new document” shade of white. Needless to say, I gave up on tanning A LONG TIME AGO. I did hear over the weekend that white is “in” this year. Well, thank GOD! It’s only taken me 28 years of worthless skin-cancer attempts to be deemed fashionable! *Cheers* to the white girls.

I’d rather gouge myself in the eyeball than to write about feeling fat, but the fact is ladies… WE ALL DO. Don’t feel alone. I don’t care if you are a size two or a size twenty two – chances are you will never be 100% satisfied with your figure. On that note, if you are a size 2… SHUT UP. In fact, if you are below a size ten, you forfeit the right to bitch about being overweight. You get to suffer in silence (or with your other less-than-size-ten-friends ONLY.)

I promise to not bitch about being fat, but you must understand why I have joined the heinous gym. Last year, I went on this AMAZING diet where I lost 25 pounds in just FOUR WEEKS. Want to know my secret? It’s called the “Divorce and Death Diet”! After that transformation, I would like to see certain areas of my body return to their respective pre-childbirth places. I might be out of luck though because apparently the “boob lift” machine at the Y is in the shop for repair; I couldn’t find it anywhere.

If anyone has any brilliant advice for conquering the gym, I’m all ears. Any workout tips are GREATLY appreciated because I’m starting to look like a dumbass wandering around the circuit machines on the Wellness floor.

I’ve got to get my butt in bed now… I have to work out tomorrow. *insert vomit noise here*



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