The other night I attempted to get dumped by inviting my beau to a folksy, estrogen-heavy performance by Toby Lightman. He usually reserves Monday nights for himself as a rule. He claims he is required by his laundry machine, though I believe he keeps his distance to avoid the inevitable CSI Miami episode. For this reason, it was particularly generous of him to drive me, in the rain, to Arlington and sit through equal parts acoustic man-bashing and sappy love ballads.
I was thrilled, giddy with her clever lyrics, thoughtful sentiment, and country/bluesy twang. He appeared to be ready to trade me in for a tattooed death metal drummer chick or throw himself from the nearest monument...i can't be sure which.
As in that weird movie Mating Habits of the Earth-Bound Human, i guess it is true that while dating it is not necessarily the activities we enjoy, but rather the company.
I did appreciate the company thoroughly. And for only a barbeque dinner in exchange, i think i made out like a bandit.
We joked that when the time comes for me to endure uncomfortable male activities, perhaps DC Meatfest or the National Beer Guzzling/Chest Beating Festival, he'll have an ace in the hole with which to convince me. In the meantime, I promise to only play the cd i bought last night solo so not to invoke any traumatic flashbacks.
Don't Wake Me by Toby Lightman
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Do the Jane Fonda
I joined a gym the other day. I even met with a personal trainer. What I thought was going to be a complimentary ass whopping turned out to be a sales pitch for mega-expensive PT sessions. Having never been a member of a gym before, I had no idea this was a risk.
Pinching chubby spots, the trainer’s brow furrowed. “What do you eat?” he asks.
“Pasta and cream sauce,” I reply. The brow tangles even more.
“Do you drink alcohol?”
“Yes, bourbon.” He shakes his head.
“How much?”
“A lot.”
And so the conversation went… He scribbled down notes and returned to me with a hopeful look. “I think I can help you,” he grinned, “but you’ll have to be on a diet and work out all the time.” Disappointed, I slump over to the elliptical machine.
What I think was missed in my PT evaluation was that I wasn’t at the gym with aspirations of supermodel stick-figureness. I like my curves and, even more, I like my lifestyle. I’ve already reconciled the fact that my love of pasta will never allow me arms like Madonna and I’m ok with that. Furthermore, I’m chronically lazy; the Mistress of Excuses, the Princess of Bad Influence.
What I’m looking for in an exercise program is the exact least amount of effort I need to put forth to keep eating and drinking whatever I like and stay relatively the same size, accounting for age and seasonal changes. I don’t need rock-hard abs or buns of steel…I just want to look ok naked and have a happy life. I need more than a celery stick, a cigarette, and a laxative (thanks for that C.V.) to be at my best. I’m not fooled by those starving, unhappy faces in magazines.
And for $75 an hour, I think personal training is for the birds. I usually don’t spend $75/hour having fun, after all.
I fired my PT before he even got to make me sweat. Not because I don’t think he could have transformed me into a 5’4” brick house, but because it just doesn’t sound like much fun to eat lettuce instead of noodles and run in place instead of sipping champagne with my friends.
I do plan to show face at the gym every now and then though. They do have some (almost) fun-looking classes and yoga. As long as nobody (and by “nobody” I mostly mean meathead D-bags looking for a screw) talks to me, I think I could be self-persuaded to lift a weight in addition to my pasta fork. Wish me luck!
Jane Fonda by Mickey Avalon
Pinching chubby spots, the trainer’s brow furrowed. “What do you eat?” he asks.
“Pasta and cream sauce,” I reply. The brow tangles even more.
“Do you drink alcohol?”
“Yes, bourbon.” He shakes his head.
“How much?”
“A lot.”
And so the conversation went… He scribbled down notes and returned to me with a hopeful look. “I think I can help you,” he grinned, “but you’ll have to be on a diet and work out all the time.” Disappointed, I slump over to the elliptical machine.
What I think was missed in my PT evaluation was that I wasn’t at the gym with aspirations of supermodel stick-figureness. I like my curves and, even more, I like my lifestyle. I’ve already reconciled the fact that my love of pasta will never allow me arms like Madonna and I’m ok with that. Furthermore, I’m chronically lazy; the Mistress of Excuses, the Princess of Bad Influence.
What I’m looking for in an exercise program is the exact least amount of effort I need to put forth to keep eating and drinking whatever I like and stay relatively the same size, accounting for age and seasonal changes. I don’t need rock-hard abs or buns of steel…I just want to look ok naked and have a happy life. I need more than a celery stick, a cigarette, and a laxative (thanks for that C.V.) to be at my best. I’m not fooled by those starving, unhappy faces in magazines.
And for $75 an hour, I think personal training is for the birds. I usually don’t spend $75/hour having fun, after all.
I fired my PT before he even got to make me sweat. Not because I don’t think he could have transformed me into a 5’4” brick house, but because it just doesn’t sound like much fun to eat lettuce instead of noodles and run in place instead of sipping champagne with my friends.
I do plan to show face at the gym every now and then though. They do have some (almost) fun-looking classes and yoga. As long as nobody (and by “nobody” I mostly mean meathead D-bags looking for a screw) talks to me, I think I could be self-persuaded to lift a weight in addition to my pasta fork. Wish me luck!
Jane Fonda by Mickey Avalon
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