My Reintroduction To The Treadmill, Or Wendy’s Boy: One, Me: Nada

This is how it came to pass…

Wendy’s Boy (blathering on about inconsequential matters): Blah blah blah, I like to run, blahdiddty blah blah…

Me (watching Season Three of The O.C., so clearly focused on when they are going to blow Marissa up rather than the telephonic conversation): Uh huh.

Wendy’s Boy (suspiciously perky): Blaaaaahhhhh bladumdeedum blah blah. What time should I pick you up for our Workout Date? Blahblah…

Me (in a full-on HOLY SHIT! Panic): WORKOUT DATE? WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY “WORKOUT DATE?”

Last night, all annoyingly punctual, Wendy’s Boy arrived at Chez Apartment clad in the snazziest wick-away pants Under Armour manufactures. I was a tad less enthusiastic about the date and still in my Lawyerly Clothes. My brand-new-purchased-in-a-panic-over-lunch workout apparel was heavy on the spandex and frankly, I wasn’t too eager to sausage my Midwestern Sexy bedonadonk into anything black and stretchy.

Wendy’s Boy (totally unaware that his workout pants accentuated the positive, so to speak): I guess you were late getting home from The Place Of Lawyerly Things?

Me (wondering if I could force feed Bionic Kitty my sneakers in the next five minutes): It’s more that I want to give you some disclaimers before I suit up. But first, what’s on the Gym Agenda?

Wendy’s Boy (getting comfortable on the couch): I thought we could do a brisk treadmill run for about an hour, hour and a half. And maybe follow it with some light weights. And for a cool down, I brought my Metal Man Abs DVD.

Me (pretty sure ten minutes of running would necessitate an ER visit to jump start my heart): To be clear, I’ve not been in an athletic facility since 2000. Early ’00. Possibly 1999. Which would mean I’ve not actually exercised this century. You’re going to have to scale back your expectations. Dramatically.

Wendy’s Boy (all smirks and smiles): I was kidding. We’ll easy you back in. Your email outlining the Non-Negotiable Terms And Conditions (Which Must Be Properly Acknowledged And Notarized Proceeding Our Workout Date) did repeatedly mention this was your reintroduction to All Things Gym. By the way, I brought this…

Me (looking at a printout of my email, gussied up with a proper notarial statement and seal): Are you serious?

Wendy’s Boy (trying to suppress the gloat but not really succeeding): I figured if I went to the trouble of finding a notary, you’d feel guilty enough to actually work out. This is my trump card. Now go put on your exercise clothes.

Me (mumbling as I headed to the bedroom to rescue my running shoes from Bionic Kitty): You know me waaaaaaaay too well for the third date.

Wendy’s Boy (shouting after me): I can’t wait to see your ass in lycra!

Yesterday On The Way Home, or Why Walking Up The Megascalator Is Not My Ideal Fitness Plan

Approaching Rosslyn Megascalator: “Hair Bands and Other Secret Shame Music” is my current iPod playlist of choice. I’m mentally debating if Axel Rose is still hot enough to feature in my Dirty Roadie Fantasy, when suddenly, Eye of the Tiger comes on. Inexplicably, I become deluded inspired. Ignoring 29 years of determined exercise avoidance and my recent application to the Biggest Loser, I decide to show the megascalator a little ownage. I can climb the escalator! I will climb the escalator. Yee-haw!

Step 1: Ha! Watch me go!

Step 19: This? Is easy! Who needs a gym when there’s the Metro?

Step 23: I think I’ve just discovered the key to reaching Tiny Perky Assville. I wonder if I could somehow patent this exercise regime and promote it on an infomercial? My muscley butt could be the centerpiece of the entire thing. They could bounce quarters off my fanny on QVC!

Step 45: OK, successfully climbing up the Mother Of All Moving Staircases is all about pace. I’ve just gotta pace myself. Must ignore those climbers passing me. This is not a contest. It’s my moment of Workout Glory and I’m not gonna be all self-judgy simply because I climb noticeably lot slower than that old guy with a cane. I am a fitness winner.

Step 48: Rocky’s stairs were shorter. Unfair advantage.

Step 53: God, am I even a fourth of the way? No? Shitballs.

Step 70: Now? Still no? Fuuuuuuuck.

Step 95: Would it be bad 911-etiquette to call and have them meet me at the top? Preferably with the heart-restarter paddle things?

Step 110: I want a Sherpa.

Step 126: One. Foot. In. Front. Of. The. Other.

Step 143: I think I’ve become a cautionary tale for 22-year-olds: this is what happens after a decade of Snickers and vodka.

Step 157: Altitude sickness is setting in.

I’ve lost count of what step: I’m half way and still have not passed out. Damn you, Baby Jesus! You are supposed to be merciful. Just end my personal agony, for cryin’ out loud!

Using the hand rail to haul myself up the step: (no thoughts; all available bodily resources are being diverted to my heart and lungs)

At the point where I literally can’t feel my legs: I think I am going to take a taxi up the big hill to Chez Apartment. It’ll be worth the $5 and the $5 in yes-I’m-a-pathetic-loser-but-no-judging-tip-money.

At the top, which I later learned is 364 steps up: Excuse me while I go die.

A List Of My New Year’s Resolutions And What Will Realistically Result From Said Resolutions

New Year’s Resolution: Lose 15 pounds.

Predicted Outcome: Over the course of the year, my secret love of cheese will be too strong for me to repress and consequently, I will consume vast wheels of Gouda. Ounce by ounce, I will in fact gain 15 pounds until my thighs are the diameter of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline.

New Year’s Resolution: Develop a taste for cheap vodka. Or learn to filter it. Thus, saving money because crap vodka is tons more bank account friendly than Grey Goose.

Predicted Outcome: A liver transplant will become an immediate necessity instead of a theoretical possibility. I will be stuck with hefty co-pays and outrageous health insurance deductibles, thereby eradicating any savings I might otherwise have achieved.

New Year’s Resolution: No longer surf the interwebs while at the Place of Lawyerly Things and devote time saved to becoming a model employee.

Predicted Outcome: I will continue with the current No Working On Friday schedule. And maybe expand this demanding schedule, because everybody knows Thursday is the new Friday.

New Year’s Resolution: Learn Chinese.

Predicted Outcome: I will order lots of Chinese food.

New Year’s Resolution: Meet Chuck Norris.

Predicted Outcome: Get all episodes of Walker, Texas Ranger from Netflicks and watch incessantly. Maybe practice my roundhouse kick. Hi-ya!

New Year’s Resolution: Think of a password other than “password.”

Predicted Outcome: Start using “password2.”

New Year’s Resolution: Stop making fun of people on the Metro.

Predicted Outcome: Such wishful thinking.

New Year’s Resolution: Perform a Service to Humanity and burn eCrush’s madras pants.

Predicted Outcome: He will most likely replace the pants with a wardrobe item equally as offensive and emasculating, which I will likewise have to publicly make fun of and covertly steal. This in turn will begin a vicious cycle of wardrobe confiscation that will only end when all madras fabrics are banned from the earth.

New Year’s Resolution: Remove all Miley Cyrus songs from my iPod.

Predicted Outcome: I will download Jonas Brothers, Selma Gomez or similar up and coming D-Rock in an effort to fill the teenbop void. I will continue to put this music on my “Music of Shame” playlist, which is actually what I renamed my Top 25 Most Played.

New Year’s Resolution: Put Bionic Kitty on a diet.

Predicted Outcome: She will eat my couch in protest. It will sorta be like Ghandi’s hunger strike, but in reverse.

New Year’s Resolution: Engage in random acts of kindness. Like no more drunk dialing, drunk texting, or drunk yelling.

Predicted Outcome: I will substitute drunk mooning, drunk boob flashing or drunk Insulting A Metro Employee and eventually be arrested for my rowdy behavior. It’ll make great blog fodder. And because I engage in “post now, think later” blog posting, my mother will read it. I’ll then receive a phone call in which she will repeatedly threatened to enroll me in Betty Ford, AA, or Promises.

New Year’s Resolution: Move from NoVA to the District.

Predicted Outcome: This will actually happen. In fact, it’ll usher in the Golden Age of My Social Life, which I will fondly refer to as the Ascendancy of Glory when I reminisce about it during my kid-rearing years.

New Year’s Resolution: Travel more.

Predicted Outcome: Hello, Maryland.

The Best of Intentions

Little Brother and Sister-In-Law-To-Be’s wedding is in six months and I have no desire to be immortalized in the pictures looking like a bloated Jersey Cow. It’s a pretty sure bet my mother is going to prominently display a super sized family wedding photo over the mantel, sort of like her personal altar of hope dedicated to the new baby makers. I’m going to have to look at that picture until my mother is able to replace it with a life-sized glossy of her first grandchild. And that ETA? At least five years, unless Little Sister pulls out a surprise finish in the Reproduction Race or human cloning is legalized. Frankly, that’s way too long to stare at my extra wide bedonkadonk encased in peony.

Thus, I recently developed My Personal Two Step Guide To Eradicating My Front Butt. Step one: eat less chocolate/fried stuff/cheese/bread/cupcakes/chocolate/Twix. Step two: exercise more. And by that I mean actually start exercising. Plus, stop taking cabs for all transportation ventures under a mile and a half. The plan went into effect last night.

For about five minutes, it went well. My Skinny Resolve held strong and I convinced myself that I wouldn’t die a slow, grueling death if I walked home from The Second Job That Keeps Me Sane; that a walk would make an ideal first step on my cardiovascular journey. I ambled the one point one miles home, only mildly cursing about the rain and my lack of proper foot wear. Despite a few pink Crocs/puddles mishaps, the Thinner Quest was off to a good start and I was so proud of me, I attempted a self-butt slap. Except when I got back to Chez Apartment, I decided to cook dinner. Keep in mind, my kitchen skills basically consistent of microwave, dial Papa Johns, and make deluxe ice cream sundaes. I should have known better than to attempt a veggie pizza from scratch. After an hour, when I finally battled the smoke alarm into submission, I was exhausted and gave into the easy allure of French Fries. Just French Fries. On a plate. With a glass of cherry Kool-Aid. For dinner. Sigh. While technically oven-baked and therefore, not actually forbidden under the “fried stuff” category, I’m pretty sure the meal went against the spirit of the Look Good In Peony Plan.

Also, I meant to go to the gym and reintroduce myself to the treadmill before watching True Blood yesterday evening. Problem was I reintroduced myself to the crazy kids of The O.C. instead. For seven hours, I drooled over Benjamin McKenzie and hated on Mischa Barton’s super strength will power, which enables her to turn down everything but macrobiotic foods. At 2 a.m., after I accepted that Mischa would always have visible collarbones and Benjamin‘s only facial expression was the Poor Man’s James Dean, I went to bed, promising myself I’d wake up and go to the gym. Yeah, right. That so did not happen.

And now it’s lunchtime. Chiptole beckons. But I will be strong, damn it. Because peony? It’s not my friend.

It’s Wednesday Weigh-in Hell

Weight Watchers is making me neurotic. Well more neurotic than nature and law school made me, anyway. Each week, on Wednesday afternoon, I have to weigh-in. My entire week revolves around this five minute experience. What I eat, what I drink, exercising, how often I go out, where I go, what I wear on weigh-in days…But I am not alone. There are at least 20 other crazy WW followers who experience the same neurosis I do each Wednesday.

I have to show up before my weekly meeting to be weighed. I generally like to be there extra early to avoid what I lovingly refer to as the Cattle Call, or the lining up of all of us WWers while we wait for our moment of torture. Each person has a preference as to who weighs them. Personally, I don’t want the nice, old lady to weigh me, I want the scary, judgemental lady. She glares at you if you don’t lose weight and while she doesn’t say anything, she has The I’m SO Disappointed in You Look down to an art. It’s enough to make me shed all excess clothes and jewelry from my body while I’m on the scale–just in case it keeps me from getting The Look. Heck, I will fart on the scale if I think it will help.

Still, there are some women who are worse than I am. Use of the bathroom before the Cattle Call is imperative for some. I know one woman who doesn’t drink anything after 2:00 that afternoon in case she can’t pee it out. One woman has come in the same clothes each week for over 40 weeks. She’s lost over 80 pounds (good for her!!) but STILL wears the same clothes. Heck, she won’t even safety pin them in case that adds. Instead, she just sort of spends the meeting hugging them to her body. It might be getting time for an intervention.

My favorite (sarcasm, sarcasm) part of the weigh-in experience is knowing that I need to lose the equivalent of a small third grader. And knowing that I struggle to lose the equivalent of a large kiwi each week. Still, that’s a kiwi that might one day come off the size of my butt, so I’ll take what I can get!

I Want a Brownie…NOW!!!

There comes a point in every girl’s life where she wants to be skinnier than she is. I don’t care if the girl is Renee “Feed Me An Oreo Before My Stomach Implodes Into Itself” Zwelleger, she has them. For me, those “desire to be skinnier” moments are pretty much any time I’m conscious. After having my friends tell me repeatedly that I have the self-esteem of a slug, I joined Weight Watchers. It’s an attempt to feel better about myself both by doing something about what I don’t like and by generally picking out the people in the room who are fatter than I am (yep, I’m going to hell).

Not only am now I on a diet–I mean lifestyle change–but I am also standing on a scale once a week, in public no less, with clothes on (no self-respecting woman weighs herself with clothes on because she might weight more), in the afternoon (hello, that adds weight, too) and having somebody besides a health professional record the number. And I pay for this. With actual cash. It seems that not only do I have low self-esteem, but I am also certifiably insane.

So on Weight Watchers, there is an allotted number of points a person gets each day. Food is all assigned a point value based on several factors like calories and fat and yummyness factor. Obviously, the higher all those numbers are, the more points the food is worth and the more I generally like to eat it. A person can pick and choose what to eat as long as they don’t exceed their points for the day. Hypothetically, if I ate a Snickers for breakfast, I could not eat anything else besides lettuce and water and broccoli florets (all zero points) for the remainder of the day. OK, it’s not really that bad, but it is still darn sucky. Trying to decide what to eat each day is akin calculating to complex algorithmic geomathmatical physics equations. Breakfast needs to be low in points but still food to trick my stomach into thinking it’s filled until lunch, and there’s a bonus for not tasting like cardboard. Lunch is always a salad. Always. It’s just easier because lettuce is no points so I can actually use a teaspoon of dressing (which is worth six bajillion) and maybe engage my taste buds. Plus, lettuce cleans me out and that’s a bonus on weigh-in days. (Is that an overshare?) Anyway, I try to eat a sensible dinner as well. Preferably, involving something that is not totally green in color.

Generally, I stay within my points, but it’s a struggle. Planning in advance with my job is difficult. Eating healthy when McDonald’s is on every corner is basically fate taunting me. Plus, I like stuff that’s not exactly on the Weight Watchers meal plan. Notice, my daily meals didn’t include anything with the words “Godiva” or “Hershey” or “Nestle” attached to it. There was no “cake” or “cookie” or “brownie” or “ice cream” or anything that would satisfy my excessive, strong, very-much-present sweet tooth. All the good stuff is generally off limits. Now, I’m a very flawed human being, and let’s face it, I cheat. And when I do, I lick the wrapper to make sure I get every single one of those calories and each little particle onto my taste buds. Heck, if I’m going to cheat, I better do it right. And I live for those moments. I dream about JuJu Bees these days, and I don’t even like them. I just can’t have them, so suddenly, I would sacrifice more to eat them than I would for a new pair of Kate Spade sandals. Sacrilege.

I also obsess about everybody else’s food and stare longingly at my boss’ lunch time brownie with chocolate frosting. And her peppermint patties. And her candy bowl. And…But undoubtedly, the worst part about being on The Program is a Chipotle Burrito is a day and a half of my point allowance. What’s a girl to do???????????

Why the Gym Sucks, or My Butt Better Get Smaller, Darn It!

After long, careful, and semi-delusional consideration, I joined a gym. It was one of those things where I figured if I paid enough, I might actually use it. But who am I kidding? I paid a small fortune for my vacuum cleaner, and after the suction power novelty wore off, my carpets went back to being dirty. And like my vacuum cleaner, I probably won’t use my gym membership unless I have a Gosh Darn Really Good Reason. In my heart of hearts, I know I won’t step foot back into the bastion of cardio unless I know (with 100% certainty) that I have to show my thighs in public this summer. Without the threat of wearing an actual bathing suit on an actual beach in front of actual people (excluding my family, who have to love me even with my wobbly blindingly white thighs), I know I am stronger than any “I ate how many Oreos?” related guilt.

Even with the shock of paying gym fees that could fund the retirement of a body builder, the gym is not someplace I go without an extended mental pep talk. First, there’s locker room trauma to overcome. No matter how strategically I pick my locker, I always end up next to the one person decides to get naked and dilly dally around while she changes. This woman does not understand locker room etiquette. For clarification purposes, the unwritten locker room rules are:
1. Nobody wants to see the new boob job, even if it was expensive and they would look real on a 15 year-old with a future as a porn star.
2. Very few people outside of France and Florida are nudists. Limit nudie tendencies accordingly.
3. The old, excessively fat woman who has struggled valiantly with gravity, and sadly lost, will invariably be in the sauna. Avoid it unless there is a trained medical professional on your cell phone speed dial.
4. Peripheral vision is not a good thing.
Locker room etiquette is an important thing. If followed, it helps to lessen the stress of wearing lycra in public and makes the gym an easier ordeal to stomach. Otherwise, the locker room represents the beginning of gym induced psychosis.

The actual workout area is an even bigger ego slaying minefield. It is filled with sculpted, toned, skinny blonde women who have been genetically modified to no longer produce sweat. And I am sooooooo not one of them. For me, watching them on elliptical machines, cardo-ing away like skinny, graceful gazelles is extremely intimidating. While they push it to the max, their perfectly made-up-so-they-don’t-look-made-up faces sparkle, and their heads bop strangely to the right, in time to Hollaback Girl. It’s eerie. Kind of like 50 Stepford Jane Fondas.

Since I fully recognize that I am unable to compete with the athletic perfection of the women on the ellipticals, I usually opt for the treadmill. Running on one of these things is not only boring, it is also personally embarrassing. I am a heavy walker and consequently, I am a pounding runner. Unlike a normal person, when I walk, my heel hammers into the floor with each step. When I run, it’s like I am trying to start an earthquake with my foot. On a treadmill, I sound like I am creating sound effects for a bad ‘50s sci-fi movie about a 1,000 foot woman who eats Reno. By the time the gym manager begins to approach me in order to protect the equipment, I usually have had enough and will end the emotional beat-down. But sometimes, I am a real sucker and decide that a little time on the exercise bike would help the butt reduction. Yeah. Fun. And did I mention, I always forget my towel? Thus, I am not only a fat, sweating gym-goer, but also one who is unable to wipe up her sweaty butt print from the exercise bike. At this point, I just wish somebody would hit me in the head with a 5 lb. hand weight and end it all…

Needless to say, the gym is not my Happy Place. And I haven’t even mentioned the Big Boy Area (aka Free Weights)…

Why the Gym Sucks, or My Butt Better Get Smaller, Darn It!

After long, careful, and semi-delusional consideration, I joined a gym. It was one of those things where I figured if I paid enough, I might actually use it. But who am I kidding? I paid a small fortune for my vacuum cleaner, and after the suction power novelty wore off, my carpets went back to being dirty. And like my vacuum cleaner, I probably won’t use my gym membership unless I have a Gosh Darn Really Good Reason. In my heart of hearts, I know I won’t step foot back into the bastion of cardio unless I know (with 100% certainty) that I have to show my thighs in public this summer. Without the threat of wearing an actual bathing suit on an actual beach in front of actual people (excluding my family, who have to love me even with my wobbly blindingly white thighs), I know I am stronger than any “I ate how many Oreos?” related guilt.

Even with the shock of paying gym fees that could fund the retirement of a body builder, the gym is not someplace I go without an extended mental pep talk. First, there’s locker room trauma to overcome. No matter how strategically I pick my locker, I always end up next to the one person decides to get naked and dilly dally around while she changes. This woman does not understand locker room etiquette. For clarification purposes, the unwritten locker room rules are:
1. Nobody wants to see the new boob job, even if it was expensive and they would look real on a 15 year-old with a future as a porn star.
2. Very few people outside of France and Florida are nudists. Limit nudie tendencies accordingly.
3. The old, excessively fat woman who has struggled valiantly with gravity, and sadly lost, will invariably be in the sauna. Avoid it unless there is a trained medical professional on your cell phone speed dial.
4. Peripheral vision is not a good thing.
Locker room etiquette is an important thing. If followed, it helps to lessen the stress of wearing lycra in public and makes the gym an easier ordeal to stomach. Otherwise, the locker room represents the beginning of gym induced psychosis.

The actual workout area is an even bigger ego slaying minefield. It is filled with sculpted, toned, skinny blonde women who have been genetically modified to no longer produce sweat. And I am sooooooo not one of them. For me, watching them on elliptical machines, cardo-ing away like skinny, graceful gazelles is extremely intimidating. While they push it to the max, their perfectly made-up-so-they-don’t-look-made-up faces sparkle, and their heads bop strangely to the right, in time to Hollaback Girl. It’s eerie. Kind of like 50 Stepford Jane Fondas.

Since I fully recognize that I am unable to compete with the athletic perfection of the women on the ellipticals, I usually opt for the treadmill. Running on one of these things is not only boring, it is also personally embarrassing. I am a heavy walker and consequently, I am a pounding runner. Unlike a normal person, when I walk, my heel hammers into the floor with each step. When I run, it’s like I am trying to start an earthquake with my foot. On a treadmill, I sound like I am creating sound effects for a bad ‘50s sci-fi movie about a 1,000 foot woman who eats Reno. By the time the gym manager begins to approach me in order to protect the equipment, I usually have had enough and will end the emotional beat-down. But sometimes, I am a real sucker and decide that a little time on the exercise bike would help the butt reduction. Yeah. Fun. And did I mention, I always forget my towel? Thus, I am not only a fat, sweating gym-goer, but also one who is unable to wipe up her sweaty butt print from the exercise bike. At this point, I just wish somebody would hit me in the head with a 5 lb. hand weight and end it all…

Needless to say, the gym is not my Happy Place. And I haven’t even mentioned the Big Boy Area (aka Free Weights)…