TouchedByMadness

Bare

Dear naked woman at the gym,

I can’t help but notice that all of the three times I’ve run into you, you’ve been naked. Yes, I realize that every time I’ve seen you we’ve been in the locker room, but still, you don’t find it odd that I’ve never seen you in a stitch of clothing?

I am also perceptive enough to have picked up on the fact that no matter how many other ladies are in the locker room, you choose to speak to me. The first time it was just us, so I didn’t think anything of it. But the last two times? There were other strangers to chat with. What’s up with that?

It could be because the last two times our lockers were practically next to each other. Do you recognize my green lock? Or do you always use the same locker and I’ve unwittingly picked your area both those times? I’ve started using the lockers on the other side of the room now. No offense. Just giving you space.

I have to admit I’m still confused by our last conversation. You said that normally you’d be wearing a bathing suit (I’ve never witnessed you in said suit, by the way), but the pool was closed. Ok . . . so why does the pool being off-limits necessitate nudity? Did you not bring any other exercise clothes? And what fitness routine did you plan to do in your disrobed state? Are you coming on to me, naked woman? I’m all for naked exercise, but in the privacy of my own home . . . with my boyfriend.

I want you to know that I do appreciate that you’re trying so hard to get my attention, but I’m not really ready to follow you back to your colony. Please understand. It’s not you, it’s me. I like pants.

Sincerely,
Stacey

Reunion

“Stacey - Hi. I am bad at these yearbook writing things and that sucks cause reading this is how you’ll remember me. I wish I learned to write better in UCONN English. Oh well, maybe college. But it’s been great knowing you for 4 years. You’ve always been a good friend and I will always remember you. I wish you luck in everything forever and ever. C-ya.”

Oh yes, it’s that dreaded time. I just got an invitation to my ten year reunion. Ack! When did I get so damn old?

“Stacey - Thanks for helping me get a good grade on our project. The best of luck to you in the future.”

No wonder I’m suddenly picking up all these friends on Facebook. And here I thought I miraculously got popular.

“Stacey - Calculus is over forever! Have a great time in college, but don’t forget to study - right?”

Seriously, am I even going to remember these people? It’s not like I had a huge social circle in high school. Would any of them remember me?

“Stacey: Are you sure Karl wouldn’t be a great mate? Think of the offspring! I’d love to teach them! I can only hope you both enjoyed yourself and took some Spanish out of here (B217). The best to you in what you’re about to make happen.”

Oh God, do the teachers come to these things? They must all expect me to be running some Fortune 500 company by now. Dammit. Why couldn’t I have invented MySpace?

“Stacey, remember, life doesn’t stop after high school. Keep it up . . . you’re gonna be somebody.”

Wait a minute. I hated high school. Everyone thought I was the biggest geek ever. Even my friends thought I was a dork. I had to go to the junior prom with our neighbor’s son. I didn’t find a date to the senior semiformal. High school was one of the worst experiences of my life.

“Stacey, hey, you were allway a cool chic. I’ll always look to you! You’re an awsome student! Good Luck in college, even though you don’t need it.”

What if I’m attacked by an assassin by my old locker and have to kill him with a pen? Just cause I saw it in a movie doesn’t mean I’m prepared for it. And you can never be too careful.

“Stacey, I will not trade report cards with you, I don’t care if you beg me!”

Is there a real reason to go to these things? Besides wanting to see if the cheerleaders got fat? Will there be an open bar?

“Stacey - Congratulations - you made it. I wish you the best of luck in all that you do forever. Always be yourself and success is sure to find you. St. Joe’s is waiting for you - hopefully it will still be standing when you leave!!!”

Well, if high school reunions are anything like yearbook messages, everyone will be all nostalgic and way nicer to me than they ever pretended to be in the hallways back in our teens. Oh . . . and they’ll say “forever” a lot.

Somehow I’m still not convinced it’s a good idea. I’d like to phone a friend.

Have you attended any of your high school reunions? What did you think of the experience?

Keep Moving Forward

“My clothes are all too big! I’ve lost twelve pounds since I’ve started exercising with my Wii Fit!”

“I fluctuate a lot. But all told, in the last several months I’ve lost a net of . . . um, four.”

“Well . . . you go to the gym. You’re probably just putting on a lot of muscle weight.”

It’s a good thing my goal is to have the ass of a Brazilian supermodel. Cause if it was weight-loss, I’d totally be discouraged. (I am making progress on the Brazilian supermodel thing though. I bought a bottle of self-tanning lotion. Brazilian supermodels don’t have pasty behinds.)

Ok, to be honest, I took about a month off from any serious fitness efforts. However, with the army prom thingy looming in the not-so-distant future, I’ve decided it’s time to get my decidedly un-Brazilian ass back to the gym. Because a.) I’d really like to fit into the clingy red dress without having to duct tape my thighs together, b.) I’d like to mitigate the effects of this disease I have whereby I instantly gain thirty pounds in photographs (it’s called “Photo Bloat” and it’s real. The Captain has it too), and c.) I’m still paying for the membership.

After my first couple days back, I remembered why I stopped going. My motivation is seriously lacking. I’m bored. I’d happily blame it on the fact that the televisions in the cardio room are perpetually set to ESPN, Fox News, and the Rachael Ray show, but something tells me that’s a cop out. So rather than piss and moan, I decided to try something different. Shake things up.

Oh boy.

I didn’t want to take things too far out of my comfort zone, so I began my workout on my favorite elliptical, #6.

When I first joined the gym, the trainer who gave me the tour explained to me this “favorite machine phenomenon.” I rolled my eyes and wondered how anyone could really think one treadmill was so much better than all the other identical treadmills. Losers. Now I pout if I see someone else on #6. In my defense, I fully understand that #6 works the same as the other ellipticals. However, from #6 I can see my reflection in the office windows across the way, where the blurriness creates the illusion that the poles to exercise my upper body are somehow attached to my thighs. Which means I spend my entire twenty minutes trying to jog myself out of my imaginary leg braces, mentally crying, “Run, Forrest, run!”

What? It’s a very emotional part of that movie.

Ahem.

Anyway, I thought to change things up a bit I would try the “x-train reverse” program. My sister has mentioned she does this and she has a body to die for, so I figure it’s got to be good.

For the first five minutes of the workout I jog forward as I normally would (Run Forrest!). Then it’s time to go backward.

Oh lord.

At this point I should pause to mention that it took me four days to coordinate moving my upper and lower body in sync walking forward. Backward was not pretty.

I decide it’s best to watch my feet, as if that alone is enough to keep me from falling off the machine and making a fool of myself. After ten seconds my thighs are already starting to burn and my body is freaking out trying to determine where the hell my center of gravity went. At the end of two minutes, it’s time to jog forward again.

Now I am completely fixated on the clock, wondering how long until I have to repeat that crazy backward business. The five minutes blow by and the machine instructs me to reverse. More burning, swearing, and trying my best not to fall down.

It’s only two minutes, I tell myself. Two minutes isn’t a long time.

The two minute mark comes and goes. I’m still in reverse mode.

Maybe it gets a little longer each time. I bet now it’s three minutes.

Three minutes go by. Then five.

Did I miss it? It must be time to go forward.

I’m gasping for air. I look at my reflection. I appear to be taking a casual stroll. And those polls on my legs? Might as well be a walker. Oh yeah. Bet I’m burning a hell of a lot of calories now.

Screw this.

For the last minute and a half I jog forward. I let out happy sighs when the machine beeps with my workout summary. I descend the elliptical trainer not so much by my own power, but by the force of gravity. I wonder if there’s a club rule against napping on the couches. My ass hurts.

And I still have the rest of my workout routine to go. Shit.

In conclusion: forward good, backward bad.

You’re welcome.

Don’t Say Funny Things If You Don’t Want Them Subsequently Blogged

Him: Hi.

Me: Alright! I didn’t go to the gym today. I went to the mall.

I can’t possibly be scolded for this as the Captain knows well how much I hate the mall. Also, clearly I could never be trusted with government secrets.

Him: Oh?

Me: I was looking for a dress for your army prom thingy.

Yes, army prom. I swear that’s what it says on the tickets. Ok, maybe “military ball.” Whatever.

Him: And how’d you do?

Me: I came home with two books from Barnes & Noble . . . and no dress.

He shakes his head and walks away from me.

Hey, book shopping doesn’t require mirrors.

Me: Wait, but I didn’t mean to come home with books instead. I went to the mall with a very singular purpose. I parked right outside of Macy’s and went straight to the dress department. I tried a couple dresses on that were ok but I didn’t love. So then I tried JCPenney, which is apparently where all the ho dresses are. If you want to go clubbing and have sex in a dirty bathroom, shop at JCPenney. If you want to look nice and elegant, better stick to Macy’s.

Him: Ok . . .

Me: So on my way back to the other end of the mall I had to walk by the bookstore and I got distracted. I just wanted to see if they had this particular book, which they did. And then I had to get that book a friend . . . But anyway, I did find a dress . . . sorta. It’s red and pretty but very clingy. Very. So if I buy it, I can’t get it til closer to the ball, after I spend more time at the gym. Cause it fits ok now, but if I put on any weight in the next month, it’s not going to look good.

Him: I see.

Me: It clings to everything.

But in a sophisticated way!

Me: Honestly, I spent some time contemplating if I could even wear underwear. You could definitely see panty lines and I’m wearing pretty flimsy panties today.

Him: Go commando. It’s appropriate. It’s a military event.

Poisoned

Back when I had my own apartment, I didn’t have much of a social life (realistically, not much has changed in that respect), but I did have extended basic cable.

On the weekends I typically parked my derriere (and laptop) on the living room sofa and spent my afternoons lusting over Hal Sparks while loving the 80s, noting (and disregarding) fashion tips from Stacy and Clinton, and wondering if my sister’s hospital rotations were anything like Scrubs.

But, by far, my favorite idiot box entertainment was the America’s Next Top Model marathon.

ANTM was my heroin. Succumbing to the urge to watch super-thin women vying for the title of prettiest live mannequin violated most of the principles I claimed to hold dear. Yet I couldn’t tear myself away. I’d sit there bare-faced in jeans and a hoodie, completely mesmerized by underweight girls with long legs and amazing cheekbones. During commercial breaks I would make pouty faces in the mirror and imagine life as a model. Sure I had thick thighs, bad skin, a wicked overbite, crooked teeth, and a large nose that looks like it’s been broken a few times, but clearly my career as a Victoria’s Secret Angel failed to take off only because I was a mere five foot three and three quarters inches tall.

I was still perfecting my pout, waiting to be discovered, and nursing my ANTM addiction when I saw an episode where several plus-size girls joined the competition. I remember feeling such sympathy for those women because the skinny girls made them look and feel like heifers by comparison and Janice Dickinson was a real bitch about their curvy bodies.

God, I can’t imagine being them, I thought. It must be a constant battle just to maintain healthy self-esteem.

As I watched with rapt attention, one of the plus-size models broke down and started fretting about her shape. The lithe, svelte, traditional models blamed her lack of self control. They scolded her for eating too much and not exercising enough. Then they belittled her for letting herself go and being overweight.

“But I’m a size eight,” the girl cried.

[insert record scratch sound effect]

A size eight?! That’s not plus-size. That’s not even average. Christ, I’m a size eight, and that girl had to be a good head taller than me. She probably weighed less than me too. And she was the fat chick!

My entire sense of self-image shattered.

Like most women, I’m not always happy with the way I look. I dislike mirrors, and when obligated to stand before one, I usually feel a mix of disgust and shame. It doesn’t matter that I’m in ok shape, all I can focus on are my flaws. I hate that I can’t be comfortable in my own skin. I hate that a thorough search of my house would turn up at least one Glamour or In Style because I think I need advice on how to look more attractive. I hate that I feel guilty for wearing sneakers instead of stilettos. I hate that the total investment put into my makeup bag could probably fund dinner for an entire African village. And I hate that I can’t bring myself to just be done with it all.

When I exercise at the gym or avoid certain cuts of clothing or apply mascara, I try to tell myself that I’m doing it for me. I justify that I’m helping myself to look good and feel good. But as much as I live in a state of denial, I am aware that I’m doing these things just as much for the high school boys who rejected me, the optometrist who told me if I wore glasses I’d never get a date, and the models who think a size eight is equivalent to a fat ass. Yes, you’re one of my sources of motivation to look hot, Janice Dickinson, and for that honor you can go fuck yourself.