*For those of you just tuning in, my ex's name isn't really Gil; everyone's names (except for mine) are changed to protect the less-than-innocent. Jess actually came up with the name Gil. It's short for Massengil because he's such an immense douche.
Now, admittedly, it wasn't a HUGE shock to see a photo of Gil with his arms around some chica as when we were married he tapped more ass than a six-fingered proctologist. But there was something familiar about this young woman. . .something intriguing.
She was posing near a pool wearing a swimsuit top and shorts. Her arms were toned and tan and she had the slender, muscled legs of a dancer. She had the kind of breasts that seemed to defy gravity and each one of her six-pack abs were clearly defined. I was contemplating burning the photo in effigy when I looked at the young woman's face and realized "HOLY SHIT! That was ME!"
Somehow, somewhere between my divorce and the present moment, that lithe little athlete whose weight dropped faster than Kirstie Alley on a greased firepole turned into the paragon of sloth that stands before you today. Granted, I'm a hell of a lot happier these days, but is it too much to ask to be happy AND hot? Yeah, I know, I'm more self-absorbed than a Swiffer mop, but it is time for a serious overhaul, because at this point I have so much chocolate and refined sugar in my system that they should hang me up and have a Mexican kid whack my ass with a stick.
I've been doing pretty well with this liver-cleansing diet my doctor has me on...*
*I even went on one of those two week raw juice fasts and do you know what I lost? Fourteen days of my life. . .and would someone please tell me why it's called a "fast", because that was the slowest two weeks of my goddamn life.
...but when I get tired or stressed then yo quiro Taco Bell, y'all. Kale and blueberries might be magically delicious, but let's face it: after effects notwithstanding, shitty food makes you feel fucking amazing. Junk food is like a codependent drinking buddy; he tosses an arm over your shoulder and says this round is on him. Don't worry! You can buy the next round, 'kay? The next thing you know, you're waking up on the couch; fat, lethargic, and totally clueless as to how you got there. Healthy eating is like your A.A. sponsor; he drags you off of the couch, slaps the shit out of you, and makes you twelve-step your ass to the produce aisle. Crappy eating is purely emotion-driven with little regard to nutrition or actual hunger. In fact, I would venture a guess that if we took a souped-up DeLorean "back to the future" when humans have evolved to far that they no longer actually ingest food orally we'd still see an entire nation of people sporting backtits and FUPAs. Because Americans are, by and large, a hedonistic species. We like instant gratification,*
*As evidenced by our creation of microwaveable mac-n-cheese and drive-thru liquor stores. "U-S-A! U-S-A!"
I know that the only answer to weight loss is a slow and steady regimen of reduced dietary intake and increased physical activity, but at this point it just seems more expedient to start smoking crack. Anyhoo, since giving up Crunchwrap Supremes will not be happening any time in the immediate future, it looks like it's time to mix up my exercise routine a scootch.*
*And by 'scootch' I mean actually start one. Lately my only form of exercise has been jogging my memory about how much I fucking hate to exercise, eating a peanut butter sandwich, and going back to bed. Cross training!
My friend Kelly swears by Spinning class and claims it took her down two dress sizes. Yeah, I tried a Spinning class one time. One. Damn. Time. Sure, at first I felt pretty good; had a nice little sweat breaking. . .then the instructor screamed "HILL!" and we started amping up until my heart was skipping faster than Harvey Fierstein on his way to a Cher concert. About twenty minutes into class I slithered off of the bike, stumbled my way into the locker room, and spent the next ten minutes doubled over puking like I was George Bush and that toilet was the Japanese Prime Minister. Suffice to say, I did not attempt that class again.
Pretty sure this is how I look doing Zumba.
I kinda dig Zumba, but every time I take a class I wind up next to some Stretch Armstrong-y leathery she-beast that smells like Patchouli oil and for the next six hours my joints start popping like a Saturday Night Special going off at a North Portland parking lot. That shit ain't right. By and large, when it comes to exercise I am about as social as Howard Hughes during cold and flu season so I prefer the more solitary activity of running. Sadly, as I am also a princess who doesn't like to get her hair wet and lives somewhere where it rains nine months out of the year, my outdoor running is limited to the months of June to August.
Usually I am OK logging some decent mileage on the treadmill, but every time I go to the rec center, invariably some asshat has tuned every TV in the joint to CNN and hidden the remotes in some Osama bin Laden-esque spider hole so they can't be changed. Now, liberal politics aside, it is impossible to exercise to CNN without having a coronary every thirty seconds when they bust in with a "LIVE SPECIAL REPORT!" Thank you, Wolf Blitzer, but I don't need to go into instant defib each time you deliver the ground-breaking news that there is still a war going on in Iraq. Until I hear otherwise, I'm just going to assume they're getting bombed like Lindsay Lohan on a three-day weekend and leave it at that. And the music the rec center plays? Bitch, please. I'm sure someone went to a lot of trouble to find the perfect blend of OutKast and The Baja Men on their Pandora station, but it makes me want to slam my head against the weight bench. I can not stand exercising to music. The only reason I wear an iPod is so that I can ignore people without looking like an asshole.
I know that eventually I will have to accept the fact that I no longer have the body or the metabolism that I had in my early thirties but damn it, I'm just not that mature yet. So for now I will continue to chase that elusive rainbow until passersby wonder how that wildebeest with hypothyroidism escaped from the Portland Zoo and what it's doing running through town with a tuneless iPod.
Feel the burn.