I knew I shouldn’t have joined the gym, dammit! I must admit, though, when the voice in my head said, “you’ll pay for this”, I thought it meant that I would be really sore. If I knew that this is how it would end up, I wouldn’t have signed those papers.
Yesterday, I decide to go hit the treadmill and a rip60 class in the hopes of dropping a few lumps of fat gifted to me by Number Four. As I am getting ready, I remember that I have a pair of plastic sauna pants in my closet. I put them on, since the more you sweat the more you lose. I ran to the store to grab a plastic water bottle, some ear buds and a couple of post workout candy bars (don’t judge me!). After that, I head to the gym and jump on a treadmill. After about 15 minutes, I walk over to the area where the class will be held. Let me paint this picture for you: The rip60 class isn’t held in a classroom. The suspension mount is set up in the middle of the gym. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GYM. It is not enclosed. It is not blocked from view. It is held IN PLAIN VIEW, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GYM. Anyhoo, we warm up with neck and hip rotations, then we grab on to the bands and start doing lunges and squats. After several sets of these exercises, the instructor tells us to get into plank position and hold it for 60 seconds. I comply. I bend over and ease down to the ground to assume the plank position on my toes and forearms. I am straining to hold the position as the instructor begins walking around, counting down and checking our form. She bends down at my side and I prepare to adjust my form, when she asks, “are you wearing pants under those?”
“No”, I answered.
“Well, your pants are ripped”, she replied.
I sit up and feel and sure enough, there is a rip along my inner thigh. I tell her I am going to check in my car for some shorts. As I stand up, I see behind me, there is a small group of people who have stopped and are looking in my direction. I make another assessment of the situation and realize it is worse than I thought. The rip goes from the inner thigh of one leg, across my promised land and down the inner thigh of the other leg. The only part of my lower body that was covered were my knees and calves. I just gave half of Gold’s Gym a free shot of my striped hot pink Hanes her ways and post baby thighs and ass cheeks. I did it in the fucking plank position too, with shaky legs and clenched ass and all. Someone kill me. I ran out of the gym, my arms flailing wildly and screaming “I’M NEVER COMING HERE AGAIN! NEVER!” Okay, not really but that is what I felt like doing. No, I walked out of that gym with my head held high and my ass hanging out. I don’t know if I can show my face there again. Maybe everyone was so focused on my ass that no one will recognize my face!
There is more than one way to skin this cat. I admit, I have little patience for bullshit, HOWEVER, I usually do a good job of masking my desire to torch a kitten and put my head through a wall. Give credit where credit is due! I know that instances that puzzle me or piss me off would garner the same reaction from every other normal person. Here are a few guidelines for being a positive presence in normal society:
- Let me begin with an act that, albeit well-intentioned, is extremely irritating. Let me paint you a picture: You are walking into a store or mall or any other public building and, as you open the door, you notice that about a quarter-mile back another person is headed for the door. You, vying for the “good Samaritan” award, decide to hold the door open for the stranger in the distance. What you may not realize is that you have now obligated a stranger that is half a football field away to haul ass to the door to avoid seeming ungrateful for the gesture and to ensure that your good deed is not carried out in vain. I didn’t come to McDonald’s for a cardio workout, dammit! For future reference, unless the person is less than 5 feet away or doesn’t have arms, you are relieved of your self-imposed position as door valet.
- That brings me to my next topic–elevator etiquette: For starters, let people OFF the elevator before you get on. Second, it is, actually, VERY rude to practically hurdle over the stroller in front of you, even if it is a reflex brought on by the intense fear of having to wait for the next elevator. Unless you are in possession of a human organ that is about to expire, wait in line like every-fucking-body else. Also, going back to my first point, don’t hold the elevator for people who are more than ten steps from the doors. On the other hand, don’t be an asshole and start punching the door close button when people are right behind you.
Finally, and most importantly, have you been wondering if that woman next to you in the checkout is pregnant? Are you dying to ask her? Don’t! A good rule of thumb is, unless a woman specifically states that she is pregnant or you see an infant dangling from a woman’s vagina, NEVER ASSUME PREGNANCY. If you really want to ruin a bitch’s day, ask a woman who is not pregnant when she is due. If you want to make bitch want to jump off a cliff, find a woman who has just had a baby, rub her belly and ask her when she is due. If you are really quiet, you can hear what is left of her self-confidence shatter.
What would you add to this?
Maybe I am still a bit hormonal or oversensitive but I want people to STOP telling me, “You look good for having just had a baby”. To me, it is the same as saying, “You look like fat dog shit but it’s okay because you just had a baby”. I know I look like shit. I haven’t brushed my hair in weeks. I haven’t lost even a portion of the baby weight and I haven’t slept since the second trimester. You don’t have to try to convince me I look decent, especially when you are so horrible at it, you basically tell me I look like ass.
Moving on–I have been telling my husband over and again, I would really appreciate him taking on the laundry, including folding and putting away (the steps he ALWAYS ignores), on his days off. Number Four has proved to be more than a bit overwhelming, especially when coupled with a busy toddler. I have never been up for any awards for housewife of the year but the house seems to have gone to hell in a handbasket since the latest arrival. So, the other day, the hubs has a day off and he decides he is going to roll up his sleeves and help me get some shit in order. The garage. I shit you not. He spent all fucking day organizing the muthafucking garage. It looks immaculate but what the shit am I supposed to do with a clean garage? I might be pissed about that one for a while.
Finally–When you call a doctor and tell them that your child has been coughing and congested and they ask, “Does he/she have a temperature”? Well, I sure as shit hope so! I would think not having a temperature would indicate that one was a bit late with the call to the doctor. I am just sayin’
Number Four is six weeks old and I only weigh ten pounds less than I did the last hour of my pregnancy. What the fuck? Here is a picture of me naked:I have been so disciplined with my efforts to get back down to my fighting weight too! I know all the dieting rules and tips.
- White food has no calories. With that in mind, I have been eating a lot of bread and things like pasta with alfredo sauce, mozzarella and parmesan cheeses and things of the like.
- The calories in hot foods/liquids are burned up. If I want a drink, I have stuck with hot chocolate and room temperature Dr. Pepper (it’s winter. Our heat has been on inside the house. It counts.) I like cheese but cold cheese would have too many calories so, instead, I have queso or grilled cheese.
- I like Oreos. A lot. But, I know better than just to cram the cookie in my mouth! I break open the cookie and lick out the filling, which is white and, therefore, calorie free. I throw away the cookie part or, if I want to eat it, I heat it up in the microwave.
- Wine burns calories. Just opening a bottle burns 500 calories. I drink wine several times a week.
Can someone please tell me, now, why the hell I am not already in my pre-pregnancy clothes? Hell, I should be a fucking waif, given the level of discipline I have demonstrated! What do I have to do? Exercise? That will be a cold day in hell. Let me tell you something, if you see me running down the street, call the fucking police. Rest assured, I didn’t take up a healthy hobby, I am in fear for my life. Treadmills make no sense to me. First of all, it requires you to run, which is bad enough, but to top it off, you don’t go anywhere. The same goes for stationary bikes and stair climbers. What kind of sick, twisted mind made fucking stairs that don’t get you anywhere? But I digress.
I think I need to increase my wine intake.