What a Feeling
My friend's husband told her the other day that she could stand to work on her butt.
To be fair, she asked him how her ass was looking these days. She's pregnant and her weight is getting all redistributed. Although she has probably lost weight up to this point, her body is changing and her clothes are fitting differently, so she's just trying to figure out what's changing. And, when you can't check out your own ass, you ask someone you love to check it out for you.
After the inevitable shit storm subsided, she took a practical approach and looked on the internet (because that is what we do at work) for some ass-appropriate exercises. Squats were the ultimate winner in the make-my-ass-look-better bonanza and it was my impression that, between episodes of Band of Brothers from On Demand and a recap of entertainment news on E!, she was going to fit some in last night.
I was rather inspired by her dedication and thought to myself, "Self, you should get on that bandwagon yourself. Everyone could stand to work on their butt a bit."
So I've got the television on, listening to Ryan Seacrest prattle about Paris and Brittney going out on the town together and, wow!, are her boobs big these days or what? Anyway, I push the chair out of the way and start on the squats.
Until I feel that look on the back of my neck.
Hello, cat.
The cat is sitting on the dining room table, at which I never eat, so quit your groaning about cat hair and such. Besides, you know you let your dog lick off your plates after you eat at them. Or lick your face. Whatever.
I can read the cat's expression:
"Who do you think you're fooling?"
"Shut up, cat. You don't know. I'm really going to do it this time."
"Whatever, girl. I've watched you do everything from that 6:30 yoga show on Oxygen to Tae Bo. Tae Bo--that was a hoot. You're lucky you didn't break something on that one."
"So I'm not that coordinated. I work out. I have weights. Lame weights, but weights."
"Girl, please. The only time you get those sad things out is when you're considering wearing something with short sleeves. Save your stories for someone who might believe you."
"Hey, I do so use those. The other night even. During Titanic."
"Is that the one where they yell 'Jack!' and "Rose!' at each other for thirty minutes and then you cry."
"I wasn't crying at that one. It was Hoosiers I cried at."
"Whatever."
So today, when I am thankful that my office chair has wheels because I can't haul myself out of it due to extreme muscle pain, I simply think to myself that this time, it'll be different. This time I really will stretch out and exercise three to four times a week. And I will eat more green leafy vegetables. And I will take vitamins. And I will stop drinking so much beer on Wednesdays. And I will stop making late night phone calls. Or sending text messages, for that matter. And I will get more calcium. And I will stop buying black heels, because, really, five pair are enough. And I will go to bed earlier. And get to work earlier. And I will stop keeping secrets and repeating gossip and being petty and thinking it is all about me and...
Oh, screw it. The cat's right. Who do I think I'm kidding?
To be fair, she asked him how her ass was looking these days. She's pregnant and her weight is getting all redistributed. Although she has probably lost weight up to this point, her body is changing and her clothes are fitting differently, so she's just trying to figure out what's changing. And, when you can't check out your own ass, you ask someone you love to check it out for you.
After the inevitable shit storm subsided, she took a practical approach and looked on the internet (because that is what we do at work) for some ass-appropriate exercises. Squats were the ultimate winner in the make-my-ass-look-better bonanza and it was my impression that, between episodes of Band of Brothers from On Demand and a recap of entertainment news on E!, she was going to fit some in last night.
I was rather inspired by her dedication and thought to myself, "Self, you should get on that bandwagon yourself. Everyone could stand to work on their butt a bit."
So I've got the television on, listening to Ryan Seacrest prattle about Paris and Brittney going out on the town together and, wow!, are her boobs big these days or what? Anyway, I push the chair out of the way and start on the squats.
Until I feel that look on the back of my neck.
Hello, cat.
The cat is sitting on the dining room table, at which I never eat, so quit your groaning about cat hair and such. Besides, you know you let your dog lick off your plates after you eat at them. Or lick your face. Whatever.
I can read the cat's expression:
"Who do you think you're fooling?"
"Shut up, cat. You don't know. I'm really going to do it this time."
"Whatever, girl. I've watched you do everything from that 6:30 yoga show on Oxygen to Tae Bo. Tae Bo--that was a hoot. You're lucky you didn't break something on that one."
"So I'm not that coordinated. I work out. I have weights. Lame weights, but weights."
"Girl, please. The only time you get those sad things out is when you're considering wearing something with short sleeves. Save your stories for someone who might believe you."
"Hey, I do so use those. The other night even. During Titanic."
"Is that the one where they yell 'Jack!' and "Rose!' at each other for thirty minutes and then you cry."
"I wasn't crying at that one. It was Hoosiers I cried at."
"Whatever."
So today, when I am thankful that my office chair has wheels because I can't haul myself out of it due to extreme muscle pain, I simply think to myself that this time, it'll be different. This time I really will stretch out and exercise three to four times a week. And I will eat more green leafy vegetables. And I will take vitamins. And I will stop drinking so much beer on Wednesdays. And I will stop making late night phone calls. Or sending text messages, for that matter. And I will get more calcium. And I will stop buying black heels, because, really, five pair are enough. And I will go to bed earlier. And get to work earlier. And I will stop keeping secrets and repeating gossip and being petty and thinking it is all about me and...
Oh, screw it. The cat's right. Who do I think I'm kidding?
posted by Miss Head at
5:25 AM
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