About a Girl

This morning marked the second morning in a row that I promised myself that I would get up early and go to the gym. And, um….yeah. I didn’t. Well, in fact, I did. I woke up early, stumbled to the bathroom, and proceeded to fall asleep on the toilet for a staggering amount of time. When I finally awoke, head bobbing next to an embarrassing pile of magazines, I crawled back in bed and set the alarm for one full hour later, which meant I arose at…

8:15. Per fucking usual.

This whole impetus to get my bulbous ass out of bed to go to the (free, in my neighborfuckinghood) gym, was spurred on by a recent trip to the mall to spruce up my pathetic wee little wardrobe. Unfortunately, although I no longer have PMS, or even MS for that matter, the neverending Triscuit-and-wasabi-almond binge has caught up with me in the form of the most dangerously rotund behind and um…belly. Which meant that I not only had the illustrious camel toe (which remains unexplainable), but I was rocking all kinds of other issues as well, including an ass that stuck out like some sort of strange wedding dress bustle, no matter what I put on.

So basically: I want to lose weight. The dichotomous angle to this statement is that I’m really not that upset about how I look. Weight doesn’t upset me THAT much, and I firmly believe if I really cared, I’d have done more about it a long time ago. Naked? I’m cool. I’m happy naked. In a bathing suit? Oddly, I am also fine.

Clothes. I hate the way I look in clothes, and the worst part is that it’s not that I want to buy some sort of gorgeous slinky dress. It’s that I want to buy more T-shirts. I want to be able to buy clothes without a lot of effort. And while I know losing weight is a lot of effort, I’d so much rather put the effort into losing weight than buying clothes. Because honestly? I am in no mood to change my wardrobe of T-shirts, skirts and cargo pants. But I would like to be able to buy DIFFERENT T-shirts and maybe wear a belt with my cargo pants. And I’d like to do it in five minutes or less, because I have better things to do with my time than going to the mall. Like, uh, go to the gym, I guess. I never said my logic was foolproof.

Anyway, the trip was completely and utterly discouraging, as whenever I wasn’t lamenting my muffin top, I was plagued by camel toe and thigh bulge. And please – let’s not forget the penis haircut** that made EVERYTHING disturbingly phallic and awful. And while this would be the perfect moment for most women to console themselves with a handbag or shoe purchase, my handbag quota has already been blown at Kate Spade, and unfortunately my French pedicure* has rendered my finger-like toes too freaky to stuff into any sort of shoes, much less the open-toed variety that are needed drain the buckets of summer-induced footsweat.

I needed a cheap fix…and so to Bath and Body Works. Which – oh hell, look: I know good bath products. I am a bit of a freakish snob about them, and have a staggering collection that I’m embarrassed about, and I KNOW Bath and Body Works is shit and smells like plastic and cheap fruit. But I maintain that their bubble bath is to die for in terms of bubble production, which is saying quite a bit. And while unfortunately, I already have plenty of that, when you can’t buy pants without delivering a blazing arrow to your mysteriously puffy crotch, there really is nowhere left to turn.

And so, I bought gels and lotions in Black Raspberry Vanilla and Tropical Passionfruit (NEW! Oh god, gag! GAG!). And um, what was I thinking? When I was in college, I lived for a time in my sorority house*** with two girls who were the most flatulent people I’d ever met, other than myself. C. was a fan of the Sun Ripened Raspberry scent, and through some strange, inexplicable code of conduct, the raspberry body spray ended up being used as the Universal Fart Mask. If anyone farted in a 100-foot radius, we whipped out the raspberry body spray and spritzed with abandon. And so, after a full year of this, I have come to associate the smell of raspberries with college farts. Which means today, when I tried out my new black raspberry lotion in an effort to perk up my Tuesday, I essentially coated myself in fruity farts and lived in a fart stench all day.

I have a penis haircut, a camel toe and I smell of giant raspberry farts. These are the moments I am thankful I am already married (for three years! Tomorrow, which is today, by the time most of you read this!)

*Nope, I still haven’t changed it.

Nirvana

19 comments August 1st, 2006