You all have been witness to my love/hate (mostly hate)relationship with exercise.
In my teens and twenties, I had been employed in places where I was on my feet for ten to eighteen hours a day. Your Dutchess is a kick ass Jack of all Trades. There is a whole array of jobs in my work history. Whatever I was doing, I was always ass busting busy and skipped breakfast and lunch most days. That shit catches up to you eventually, btw.
In my thirties, I started teaching and then, at 40, traded my 2 inch heeled work shoes for 5 inch stilettos and became the Sexy Vice President of Duke and My's company (big title, little work from home) and a Corona drinking, Xanax popping, stay at home Mom.
All that sitting behind a teaching desk all those years, and then sitting on the fucking couch with my laptop and eating bon-bons the past 3 years has my ass spreading faster than the goddamn swine flu. I knew I had to do something.
My first thought was that I would join all the other crazy assholes who jog. I made it through a quarter of a mile before my goddamn boobs jumped off my chest and went home. I found them in the kitchen, eating frosting from the container and drinking my fucking boxed wine.
My next bright idea was Tae Bo. I made it 3 damn days before I cursed Billy fucking Blanks and his shiny, bald head to hell and back. I limped outside and set that fucking DVD on fire. I sat drinking a cold Corona and watching it delicately melt the edges off. I may have been maniacally giggling my ass off too.
I then decided that I probably wouldn't do anything about the size my ass if I wasn't held accountable, so I opened a phonebook.
"Buff Bods, how can I help you?"
"I have an ass spread the size on fucking Montana. Help me."
She explained the process to me as I sat there dumbfounded. Basically, for the low, low price of HOLY SHIT YOU PEOPLE ARE FUCKING CRAZY??? I could pick a body out of a book and they would get me there. The fourth time I asked her to repeat the fee, I demanded it come with "a bodybuilder to ride around in my goddamn trunk and keep me pepped up. A body builder wearing a fucking super-hero costume. Red tights. I like red." The Bitch hung up on me.
My next call was to a fitness boot camp. When the dickwad screamed at me with so much enthusiasm that I smelled his fucking breath over the phone, I quietly disconnected the call and then ripped the goddamn phone out of the wall for good measure.
Finally, I found Barbie. Barbie worked at a local fitness club and I'm sure, was delivered to our planet from a solar system three-hundred-trillion light fucking years away. She was sent here to destroy us.
Barbie was happy to be up and stretching in the morning and wearing makeup. I was one, "Whoo! Feel that burn!", away from beating her to fucking death with my 3 pound dumbbell.
Barbie called my ass a, "problem area". I called Barbie's calfs "Mr. & Mrs. Beefcake".
Every morning, we would begin our workout the same way. She would stand outside my truck window and beg me to open the door and I would cry and tell her to go make me a motherfucking sandwich. All in all, I thought we had a good relationship.
I ran and stretched and pivoted and climbed and burned and burned and burned. I squeezed and pictured the thin me and portioned my food and drank water, that's right, I DRANK FUCKING WATER, MOM, AND IT DIDN'T DO JACK FUCKING SQUAT FOR MY SKIN. (And I know that bubble gum doesn't stick to your goddamn ribs, either, you sadist)
Sadly, Barbie and I had to part ways when she couldn't handle the crying any more. I will always remember thoes 10 days fondly and I'm sure she will forever remember me since I sent her flowers for firing my ass.
Once I was fired by Barbie the Bitchy Trainer, I decided fuck it, I'm old and fucking tired. Give me the goddamn Hershey's kisses, the Ben & Jerry's and go fuck yourselves. (BTW Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz is my new obsession)
Last night it dawned on me that now, I'm really fucked. The Duke and I are going to the Caribbean in early November, and I need a few more bathing suits. Bathing suits are all on sale right now here in the frozen fucking tundra because winter is breathing down out damn necks. So I foolishly thought today would be a damn fine day to go shopping for the Caribbean trip. I was in such a delicious mood, (read stoned) I decided to invite my Mother along.
"Mom...what is that?" I was standing in front of a full-length mirror at a department store trying on bathing suits. I should have just thrown myself face-first into a fucking wood chipper.
"What?" She pulled her glasses down from her head and placed them on the end of her nose. "Your ass?"
"No, Mom. I can see my ass. The whole northern fucking hemisphere can see my ass. That. Right there."
She leaned in for a closer look and wrinkled her nose in concentration. I prayed to the god's of dressing room's that the attendant wouldn't choose that second to open the goddamn door. I mean, what the hell would I say? Just a sniff test! Minty clean ass and all that!
"That?" She poked at my right butt cheek. "It's a dimple."
I stared at her in horror. "No," I breathed. "No. No. NO. Look again. It could be a ... tumor. Maybe it's a tumor."
"You would rather have a tumor than a dimple?"
"Yes. No! I ... it can't ... don't they make cream for this shit?"
"No, but they make those little skirts that go around the bathing suit. Want me to go get you one?"
I sat down, cursed Ben & Jerry and whimpered. "Shit. Why don't you just get me a fucking mu mu and a bucket of fried chicken while you're at it."
"Oh, suck it up. Exercise."
So, now, I'm ready to try, again. I bought Lean Cuisines and stuck them in the freezer and that's half the goddamn battle, I think. (I haven't actually eaten them, but I bought them. Baby steps, asshats. Baby steps)
Also, I am now a proud owner of the Wii Jillian Michael's fitness program. It looks fucking awesome and I think I can really make a go of it. I only need to know one thing. Does the fucker come with a beer/cup holder?
Sis? Get the Epsom salt, Xanax, and copious amounts of Corona ready. I have a bad feeling about this.