Posts Tagged ‘laugh at yourself’

adidasredHey, look. Another write-up on abs!

Not really.

Take a peek at any magazine rack anywhere and you’ll see “Rock Hard Abs” in bold print near a set of…uh…rock hard abs. I get a little depressed when I see those racks (the magazines…and the abs).

I’m fairly certain I have abs…somewhere…under the crinkly skin nobody sees unless I parade around in the dark under a spotlight in a sports bra (guess that would mean I wouldn’t be in the dark, huh?). I’m certain they’re supposed to be located in the “gap”. No, not the Gap – but that space between my tube boobs and belly button (which could be mistaken for an Apple branding snafu: iButton??).

I think I found them.

On a good day I can suck in enough air to look like I got a Tupac two-pack there.

legoabs

Somewhere across the country there’s a secret collective of post-op dairy farmers. They haven’t been clear on their target market, or the cost of their product to consumers when it officially hits store shelves. One thing is clear: confidential sources have revealed they’re milking it for all it is worth.

Ugh.

Piece of advice: if you fell off the post-op salad truck, STOP posting, ‘What do I DO???” all over the internet. If you are a weight loss surgery post op for any length of time (two seconds, two months, two years, two decades), you know what you are supposed to do…unless of course you were hit on the head with fried Twinkies. Then you could be suffering from WLSPOA (weight loss surgery post op amnesia).

To avoid becoming a POW, try the following steps:

1. Talk to someone. You have a primary care doctor, you have a surgeon, you have a nutritionist. If any of these professionals have mysteriously vanished out of your life (alien abduction?)…FIND SOMEONE NEW. If you’re unable to do so then my assumption would be you reside on an island in total solitude, which means you have no access to communications and will not read this anyway.

2. If you know you’re eating habits are bad, and you know you have consumed that which you probably are not supposed to (like a container of crispy oatmeal chocolate chip cookies from Trader Joe’s), get over it. It’s summer. You can grow stuff. Even better, you can pay someone who grew it already.

3. If you have the phrase “I can’t afford to” flashing behind your eyelids in reference to item #2, hold your tongue. Chances are incredulously high you have, oh let’s see: all the cable channels, all the movie channels, a smart phone and a big ol’ plan.

I whine to a select few of my friends, none of whom give me one ounce of slack because they’ve been privy to my weight loss changes. I don’t complain online all that often. Usually I will talk to someone who puts me in my place. I also yell at people. Ask my friend Anne. I chased her bum back across the football field at boot camp a few weeks ago for short-cutting the track, later I made her do half leap frogs. My trainer gives me no slack at all-and it has nothing to do my picture he put on his car advertisement. It’s because he remembers when I was the fattest woman in the gym, how my stomach drug the ground during push ups, or how 40lbs made a world of difference in climbing 17 steps.

God, you have so much to celebrate. Don’t be a POW. Don’t focus on the prison and the chains…neither hold you anymore.

If that doesn’t encourage you, get stuck somewhere. I got wedged in that little space there between the bed and nightstand over the weekend to fix the carpet. I hadn’t laughed that hard at myself in a long, long time.

smallspotigotstuckin

I went with Bestie last night with L-Act and D-Tek to the castle of the Pastry King. They needed to check on a garden, Pastry King was visiting another realm, I needed to pick Bestie’s brain.

Any amount of time spent in the vicinity of teenagers who get along like brother and sister and not like dueling squires, definitely bound to be interesting. As the chariot rattled down the road of death (seriously…I bet an entire family was swallowed alive in their chariot by the craters chiseled in that road!), L-Act ended a sentence with: “…I can act gay.”

I promptly informed him he was in error. He replied, “I can too act gay.” Bestie and I both said, “You SO cannot act gay.”

The next few comments left us a in massive fit of laughter and Bestie overshot the entrance to the castle by a good 200 feet.

IMG_1077After we got wet and dirty dug holes and planted stuff, L-Act and D-Tek took care of a few chores in the castle. I was overwhelmed by MOC syndrome (Mud on Car)…”OMG Muddy” appeared out of nowhere on the rear door. I admitted to the deed…sort of…

Best part of the night was after we left the castle of the Pastry King. Bestie asked D-Tek about a place in town and if they had deserts. The next five minutes were filled with D-Tek’s tale of sugary sweetness, she had the same glee in her voice when the Pastry King speaks such wonders. She is her fathers daughter.

After a chai frappuccino, a mocha frappuccino with no coffee, a lemon pop, triple venti carmel frappuccino and a decaf (really???), L-Act popped out the playlist. We spent the next 30 minutes singing badly and laughing loudly (with tears). Bestie overshot the turn to take D-Tek to her palace because we were laughing so hard. Closer we got to D-Tek’s palace, the harder we laughed. Then the snorting. Then the laughter turned to squeals (that was me)….then Bestie shut us down for fear of what D-Tek’s mom would think (you know, that we were all nuts).

This has nothing to do with exercise (unless you want to count the 40lb bags of potting soil I helped drag around and four holes I dug). I’m disgustingly happy, and having so much fun just being alive.

shoeLast June I decided I was going to try out the StairMaster at the candy store gym.

With determination driven by sheer purpose (I think I can, I think I can, I think I can) I strode across the gym. Tucked at the end of the last row of cardio paraphernalia were a handful of StairMaster machines. A lady was on the end unit, the second was empty, a gentleman was on the third one.

Second thought…the use of “gentleman” is premature.

I stuck my water bottle in the water bottle hole. Draped the smelly towel my membership entitled me to use for free over the hand rail (which smelled like it had been buried in a garbage can); got my playlist together (that’s code for I un-knotted my earphones), and finally with a cocky sense of purpose (know-it all-ness) I climbed upon the machine. Seven feet in the air I pushed the settings through to the program I wanted and pressed start (quick tip: what you set the elliptical to does not apply to the StairMaster. You might want to write that down.).

I made a mental note that the heart rate figures I inputted were most likely wrong because the stairs started to move very rapidly, simulating – oh, I don’t know – how one might run up a flight of stairs! I made a go of it and attempted to get my footing while I desperately searched for a warning label that would have given some detail as to why my feet weren’t fitted to the steps. I also made another mental note: write Nautilus a letter which would state a warning label that shared the bottom step disappears would be vital…and lifesaving.

I knew I needed to stop the machine and start over. I grabbed the top of the rail to pull myself up. My foot slipped off a step and as I slid down the length of the machine I uttered loudly, “You have GOT to be kidding me.”

The lady to the right and the gentleman to the left never moved. They continued to stare ahead and climb to their destinations.

I managed to get myself together and got the machine to cooperate. 30 minutes later I had logged 95 floors. I’m not entirely certain how floors are determined, but I don’t care. I did it.

Afterward I hit the elliptical, and got grossed out when the little skinny chick next to me left the machine and didn’t clean it.

Eew.