I’m 53…halfway to hell. Do I really need to look good for the remainder of my journey? Perhaps not. I’ve invested way too much time in pursuit of the perfect body. Time to short the trade, I fear. I’m tired of the gym. I’m tired of Yoga. I’m tired of it all. And not for the reasons you may think. I love being active. I walk, I box, I bike, I lift…I do it all. Before you think me to some sort of highly motivated machine…. you should know I chase fat and calories like it’s my J.O.B. There is literally no motivation stronger than the meal I wake up thinking about. I may not excel in the “goes intas” but I can straight fraction out how much I need to workout to eat everything my heart desires. So being active is an act of necessity. So why am I ready to break up with my long time lova? I’m glad you asked….
If I could go to the gym, bust out my workout and come home unscathed, I’d consider it a fair trade. But no. I am visually assaulted by workout pants with built in ass cheeks, moose knuckle that should have been put to pasture years ago, dreadlocked armpit hair that smells worse than it looks…etc. And that’s just the women! My pain tolerance is at max capacity. I’m not going to pretend to understand why a petite young girl would want an ass the size of a watermelon. Can someone explain this to me? Who’s grabbin all that ass? Somebody with strong hands that’s who! I could live with a little extra junk in the trunk if that was the only noticeable offense. Don’t get me started on the “Moose Knuckle.” And just so we are clear…. I AM STILL TALKING ABOUT THE WOMEN HERE! I 100% understand this to be a man junk reference. Once you’ve seen beef curtains the size of hurricane shutters, we go gender neutral on the subject…. mmmkkkay. I all but regurge my protein shake at the site of a crunch wrap supreme spilling out of an innocent little taco shell. Here’s a little tip…if the seam separates North and South America…go up a size or 10 and find the “nippy” version of puss pads. We are shooting for no more than a Gordita here sisters. That is all.
Switching lanes…I decided to pull out of the gym and see if the Yogi chicks were a little less…. well less. I will say this…they are a peaceful bunch. They welcomed me into their inner circle with love and compassion. Yeh…that was a little much. I’m used to the rough crowd not the hugging soft spoken peace makers. My energy was a bit much for them. How do I know this? Um…they told me. In their nice peaceful way of course. Lots of “What are you carrying? We can help you let go.” Um it’s a case of Rose’ and unless we do liver squats I don’t foresee that happening. I made sure to belly up waaaaay in back. I had all the blocks and props to hold me up bcs let’s face it I’m wound tighter than a tick. I was looking forward to one of them farting. I always heard yoga girls toot. Sadly that did not happen in my short tenure as a yogi…4 weeks to be clear. The biggest shock was the bi-lingual requirement. I mean…I can fake stretch and breathe like Darth Vader without issue. However comma, when you start speaking in tongues, I get skurrrred. The flow (in my mind) went like this “Chattenooga (been there), Tadahsanah (think I ate that on a pita once) Vinyasa (one of my favorite wines) and my personal fav…Shovyassana (fancy nap at the end). I liked the napping part. If they would let me come back and sleep for an hour, I could totally get into it. Call it what you like.
I considered one last option …join the YMCA! I know…at face value it sounds awful. Kids peeing in pools, fat chicks bouncing to Zumba. All these visions played in my head. I was thinking more along the lines of racquetball. 180 degrees from Yoga but more in line with my psycho energy. I approached my husband to see if he wanted to bang balls with me. Not so much. Was there a valid reason? I do not recall one. Something about kids peeing in the pool. Can’t be sure what that has to do with racquetball but ok. My mind went all “Sleeping with the Enemy.” I’ll secretly join the Y, get all buff and make my move. That move being to alphabetize the pantry and align the towels which is my OCD dream. Le sigh.
So here we are…back at square one. My choices seem clear. Be peacefully fat OR blinded by thinness. Is there no middle ground? I fear not. Carry on sisters…