What The F*ck, Exercise? Seriously?

I figured now that I've  put weight back on  getting married in the fall  decided to get healthier, I'd bust out the ole sports bra and start moving and shakin' again.

I find, most often, the hardest part is   getting out of bed   putting down the bag of Doritos   brushing my teeth and leaving the house   actually putting on the workout gear, and running shoes. Once that's done  and the Dorito crumb have been brushed off somewhat   it's easy-peasy-lemon-squeez-y to get to the workout facility/gym/bed.

So... uh... yeah, anyway... I actually GET my ass to the gym. I forget my own yoga mat (ALWAYS) and have the guts to put my bare feet on a potentially-fungus-covered public-use yoga mat. Socks are off. Sitting on my arse bones waiting for class to start.

Sitting.

Waiting.

Wishing.

Not to be confused with a Jack Johnson song. Much less trippy-esque, much more potential foot fungus. Maybe even butt fungus. Yoga pants are only so thick, people.

Your ass could be next.

Then, after some more waiting, the instructor doesn't show up. W.T.F. Seriously?? ....REALLY?? Seriously? I put in all this effort to   cease consuming Doritos  get my ass down here and you can't be bothered to show up to your teaching post? Not even call? Just let the room full of us sit there like assholes, waiting, wishing?

Puts the "LAY" in Frito-Lay?

See, the Doritos appear to be the better choice. Or, at the very least, the most INTERESTING choice.

So, fine. Not to be discouraged,   though all it takes is one instance of bullshit to make me want to throw my hands in the air, sulk like a victim and never return   I head back to yoga. To find out that it has been indefinitely cancelled. SERIOUSLY?? (See people, this is why this blog is named the way it is).

Fine, f*ck you skinny yoga beeyotch.

I'll try Zumba. I tried a fitness studio elsewhere, in another town, with KICKASS Zumba results.

Back in my hometown, after eating a few bags of Twizzlers, I decided to brush the cobwebs off my gym membership card. And try Zumba once more.

Oh lordy.

My assumption was that you had to have rhythm to instruct these classes. You know, at least keep to the beat. I know, I am so fucking demanding, aren't I?

The instructor couldn't even dance. Hear that? COULDN'T.EVEN.DANCE.  Everyone around me was named Mae, and Ethel, and Myrtle. (No, not the turtle). Fuck. Really? Seriously?



Thought I would give another instructor a chance. Got on my gear. Went to the gym. Waited for Zumba class to start. No instructor showed. No call. Nothing. Front desk staff said they had no idea what was going on.

DAMMIT.

Seriously?

I'm  expanding because of it  lovin' it. Goddamn dollar drink days.

I'm going to McDonald's to get a large Coke. I'm pretty sure the 82 grams of sugar will make me feel better. And help wash down these Doritos.

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Woolly Mammoth Much?

So, have you ever accidentally skipped a Saturday's worth of brow plucking... only to realize in your tacky mirrored closet doors in the bright sunlight (as you let the dogs outside) that you have somehow morphed into a woolly mammoth?

If you said no, you're a fucking liar.

Or a dude.

Approximation. Slightly less tusk-y.

Also? The person who invented the 5-times or 10-times magnification mirror is one sadistic motherfucker.

Have you ever had a day where you kicked some ass at work and felt great? Did a workshop and felt like you accomplished a lot? Had fun being a social butterfly, gettin' out there, feeling good? Then looked in one of those goddamn mirrors?

GAH.

Some things are just not meant to be seen that close up. Or in high definition.

Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck. Just IMAGINE his EAR HAIR!

Moments like this make me wish that:

A) I had a home waxing kit
B) I had the balls to actually use the wax and personally, painfully tear it off of my face without losing flesh
C) Spend my life savings on total body laser hair removal. Give or take a few regions.


I'm pretty sure that I need that dude that drives the blade-sharpening truck around the neighbourhood (with creepy music) to help restore what once was back to my tweezers. They are currently shuddering in the bathroom drawer.

You know the guy... he preys on suckers like me and Feyoncé™ who are all green 'n shit and use a push blade mower. You'd recognize our house by the uneven, patchy grass and general inability to cut down that wheat grass weedy-shizz.

Anyway, gonna have to set "tweeze" as a recurrent event in the ol' Google calendar. With reminders. Reminders, people.

Next thing I know, my nose hair is going to stake it's own country on my face. Fuck.

But with more flag... (image)

Whatever. It makes it more of a challenge to see my real beauty.

Just bring your machetes, bitches.

;-)

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Hot & Sweaty

Awwwww yeeeeeeah, boooooyeeeeeeeeee.

I went clubbin' tonight. And though I am Canadian, I don't mean baby seals.

OH! HAI! I iz layin' around, bein' Canadian and adorable. What's that long club-like thing in yer hand? *innocent eyes... tearing up...*

I went to the good ole local dance bar. I didn't want to go, because it often caters to the "older" crowd... then I sort of realized that I AM that demographic.

Though, admittedly, better than a bunch of 19 year olds grinding up on each other.

The DJ had the nerve to play "Saturday Night" by Whigfield... and mention that shit was on the charts in 1995. Which, if you were wondering, was over half my lifetime ago. FUCK. Thanks DJ.

I DO remember being at an "all ages" club dancing to that song. Feyoncé™ bragged that it wasn't half HIS lifetime ago. I just concluded it means he is REALLY old.

So, as much as I joke about the crowd, I did indeed feel pretty good that I wasn't the oldest by a decade.

I shook my booty. I incorporated moves from my Zumba class. I sweat and realized I don't have the endurance I once did as a desperate single girl in my twenties.

A polyester shirt (What, don't hate, that shit is CLUB GOLD), 2 feet of smothering hair, new metallic earring that stuck to my neck sweat, and boots over jeans because I left my funky sandals somewhere else over the weekend: All things conducive to cooking yourself from the inside out.

I was a sweat factory. I'd like to think it was a stunning "dewy" look, but in truth, my eyelids were even sweating. MY EYELIDS, people. Feyoncé™ joked that next time he would have to wear a toque and scarf to experience the same effect. Pffff. Men.

Not to be confused with C & C Music Factory, or their song "Gonna Make You Sweat" which I ALSO remember dancing to in or around 1992. I had that TAPE... word to your mother.

I realized that a lot of my old favourites are fucking RETRO now. Dear Gawd.

I requested my new favourite song - the explicit version of Enrique Iglesias' "Tonight I'm 'LOVING' You", and they played the clean version. Feyoncé™ requested "More" by Usher, but it was not meant to be. Probably for the best in the end, because I probably would have overheated... much like a 31 year old car.

It WAS good to get out there and shake my ass again. It's been a long, long time.

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