On Being in Sorry Shape
If you’ve been a reader for any length of time, you may remember that exercise and I have never been on good terms. However, the recent addition of discounted gym memberships to our already huge list of kick-ass employee benefits has me ready to give physical fitness the chance it deserves.
I’d like to tell you that my change of heart is due to a personal breakthrough that involves me becoming uber health conscious or that I’ve vowed to treat my body like a temple. Not so. The impetus for this life revolution is simply that the weather just turned nice and there ain’t no way in hell I’d stroll a beach with this body. (That and my pants
don’t fit quite as well as they used to.)
Sure, I’m all for being healthier and living longer and having more energy and sleeping better and all that jazz. But I’ll be honest. The promise of better circulation isn’t going to get my lazy ass to the gym. It will get me to eat right, sleep well, and take vitamins. Why? Those things are easy. Exercise is not.
Unfortunately, while looking good is the best motivator to get me to the gym, it’s probably the biggest deterrent keeping me from the gym as well. Cause let’s think about this. Who will be at the gym with me? All my coworkers. Good God! Do I really want the head of finance to see me getting my belly fat measured? Do I need my colleagues to know what I look like in yoga pants? Do I feel comfortable enough with my boss to risk him catching me exiting the pool?
Hell no.
I like my coworkers in a “I’m cool spending time together outside of the office” kind of way, but NOT in a “I’m down with you getting an eyeful of my cellulite” kind of way.
Now I need to get into shape just so I can start going to the gym!
Sometimes It Pays to Be Poor
I remember the days when I bought only whatever food was on special at the local supermarket, when I was barely able to make minimum payments on my credit cards, and when my “nice” clothes came from Target. It sucked living paycheck to paycheck. There’s no doubt about that. But there was one small (yet significant) benefit to being dirt poor . . .
I actually got a tax refund.
Nowadays I’m not poor, but I’m certainly not rich either. I foolishly assumed that my obvious not-wealthiness would translate into a decent tax refund this year. (This is where I’ll point out that accounting was never part of my school coursework.)
While I’m still at least a decimal place off from owning, say, a luxury car, I have managed to elevate my financial status into the “You’re getting hosed” tax bracket.
It would be one thing if I owed a little money. I’d be disappointed, but I’d get over it. I don’t owe a little money. I owe a LOT of money — something that would have been nice to know before putting a down payment on my new (used) car. So although I should be thrilled that I make twice the salary today than I did several years ago, in reality I spent my Sunday hollering about how I was being raped by the government.
The Captain informed me that the problem is that I don’t have enough deductions. I figure that means to prepare for next April I’d better start house-hunting since at this point my chance of popping out a kid by the end of the year is iffy.
Down with Daylight Savings Time
Daylight Savings Time is kicking my ass.
Sure, initially I was on board with the possibility of coming home in daylight (I worked late every day this week and drove home in the dark anyway). I was honestly willing to sacrifice that one precious hour of sleep. I even enjoyed two mornings of peace and quiet because the cats have no concept of changing the clocks and didn’t realize I should be waking up any second to feed them.
The problem is that now, due to Daylight Savings Time, I have to get up before Mr. Sun. That is a bad thing.
Without sunlight streaming through my window, when my alarm goes off in the morning, I smack the snooze and immediately fall back asleep. I haven’t been able to get out of bed on time once this week and I’ve been exhausted all day every day. I know I’m getting the same amount of sleep, yet since Daylight Savings Time I’ve been feeling like this:
I don’t know about everyone else, but I think I’ll spend my weekend in bed.
Desperate to Be on TV?
I remember that as a teenager I thought the lowest form of self-debasement was putting on a chicken suit and dancing outside a dry cleaners to help increase business. (It wasn’t until I became a school mascot for a night that I realized that no one knows who’s actually in the costume, so your dignity isn’t really compromised.)
Nowadays, I flinch the same way whenever I see the Valtrex chick. I couldn’t say how lucrative a business starring in those commercials might be, but I doubt it’s enough money to be forever thereafter known as the “herpes girl.” I mean, even if you actually HAVE herpes, do you really want the whole world to know about it?
Remember the Noxema girl? Me neither. But I heard that she was insanely popular after she did those commercials. People would recognize her everywhere. I don’t think I’d want to be recognized if I were the Valtrex chick. Can you imagine trying to eat at a nice restaurant when all of a sudden someone says (much too loudly), “Oh my God! It’s the Valtrex girl!” And then some guy runs over to tell you how much your product has changed his life and how he hasn’t had an outbreak in ages and how his genitals thank you, and could you maybe autograph his wanker?
Yeah, I don’t need that.
And I imagine dating might be awkward . . .
Anyway, what if the people that star in these commercials are trying to become serious actors in big blockbuster films? Don’t they ever wonder if their participation in those ad campaigns could hurt their chances of getting a much coveted role later?
Well, thank you very much for coming in today. We’ll call you.
Wait a minute, that’s it? I’m perfect for this role! Perfect!
Yes, you did read very well for it, it’s just that –
What?
You see, 007 does not have ED.
Neither do I! It was just a commercial I did to keep from starving when I came out to this town. Surely you can understand that.
No. Now, if it were syphilis or gonorrhea, we might be able to work with you . . .
I do not have erectile dysfunction!
Great. That’s great. Er . . . thanks for coming in. We’ll call you.
Why don’t these companies spare desperate souls the aftermath of being the Enzyte spokesperson and use animated characters instead? Look at Zoloft. With all the depressed people in the world, Zoloft chose to use those rocks or circles or whatever they’re supposed to be. Why can’t other companies use sad little shapes too? Levitra or Viagra or Cialis could, of course, use squares (wouldn’t YOU buy their medication if you thought you were a square?) And Valtrex commercials could be populated by . . . maybe trapezoids. No, a rhombus. Yes, a rhombus sounds like a shape that might have an STD.
That’s right, poor budding actors with no judgment or vision — just say NO to pharmaceuticals.
You can thank me later.
Winter Wardrobe Wonderland
As in, “I wonder what they were thinking.”
Long ago I learned to accept that women’s apparel is neither sensible nor functional. Secretly, I believe that these clothes are designed by men who continually come up with more and more ridiculous garments in the hopes that ladies everywhere will reach the peak of their frustration and swear off clothing altogether.
There is no other way to explain the single most idiotic piece of clothing I have ever experienced the misfortune of trying on. We’re talking stupider than guachos. More pointless than crotchless underpants.
The midriff sweater.
What genius came up with this concept? A sweater that barely grazes the navel.
Women don’t wear itchy, bulky sweaters because we think we look sexy. We wear them because we’re cold! For example, I sleep with a sheet, two blankets, two afghans, a comforter, and the hide of a wooly mammoth on me, and still I’ll shiver. I’m cold. Women are always cold. That’s why men think fireplaces are romantic. They create fires to get their women warm . . . so they’ll take their clothes off.
How am I supposed to stay toasty and snug in a garment that covers only half of my torso? Midriffs are fine in the summer when, realistically, clothing should be optional, but unless you’re an Arctic hooker, there is no feasible reason for wearing half a sweater. Honestly, what excuse could you devise?
“I’m too ticklish to wear wool on my abdominal area.”
“My navel ring snags the knitting.”
“My grandma ran out of yarn.”
What’s worse is that if you’ve ever forgotten to rescue a sweater from the wash before it wound up in the dryer . . . well, you now know how Shrinky Dinks work.
So, imagine that you actually own one of these midriff sweaters and your significant other, in a moment of selfless devotion, does your laundry for you. If you can manage to stretch the Barbie-sized garment enough to get it over your head after you extract it from the lint trap, you’ll find that it barely covers your nipples. You are now the proud owner of a wooly demi bra . . . with three-quarter length sleeves.