I’ve been to the gym three out of the last four days. Where the Hell are my results? The number on the scale hasn’t budged, and I still can’t button my skinny jeans or pull them over my fat ass for that matter.
Don’t I sound like a typical 21st century American? I want results instantly and if I don’t get them I’ll make it happen. Thank goodness I don’t have the money to plop down in the direction of a plastic surgeon with a vacuum and scalpel I hope I wouldn’t even be tempted. The other ridiculous choice is this machine I saw this weekend. You stand on it and it vibrates you whole body really hard, “burning fat”. Oh what the Hell ever. The Girl and I immediately flashed on those vibrating machines with the waist bands. And you know what was really sad? Someone was seriously entertaining buying one. In this economy? Really? Dude, join a health club and employ a few people. People have way too much money. I would like to think I would use all that money to employ a trainer to baby-sit my exercise regime and my food choices.
And the other option behind Door Number 3: Puking and diet pills. Worse than the surgeon in long term side effects. What’s really alarming about that option is the fastest growing population of anorexics and bulimics are in my age group or so I read in nursing research a couple of years ago. Wow, just wow. If you missed the Dorm Barforama with your besties in 1983 here’s your second big chance! And God knows I hate being like everyone else so I guess I’ll stick to the gym and find a diet plan that works for me and doesn’t make me feel like I’m missing out on food I enjoy. This whole getting fat thing has made June bitter bitter bitter.
Or maybe it’s not the fat part that’s making me bitter. Maybe it’s the getting-my-ass-kicked-on-the-cross-country-ski-machine-by-a-woman-easily-in-her-seventies part that is making me bitter.
Granny better watch out. I’m gonna do level three for fifteen minutes tomorrow and then I’m going to faint and then I’m gonna have a moon pie.