I Joined A Gym
Mamacita says: Whenever I wear sneakers, my feet feel really bulky and heavy. I feel as though I’ve got two barges on the ends of my legs, or maybe those gigantic slippers that look so much like real furry animals, they scare people when they open the closet door and see them 
on the closet floor. Or worse, those huge animal slippers that look for all the world as if you’ve stuck your foot up their butt or through their stomach and impaled them.
Back in the middle school, the 6th grade girls used to have backpacks that looked like dead 
animals with their front paws wrapped around the students’ necks. Watching them walking up and down the halls, animal backpacks clinging desperately to their backs, looked a lot like one of those weird science fiction stories wherein the human race was enslaved by equine aliens, and made to serve as packhorses.
I always loved to walk around the track when the weather was nice; I usually managed about five miles each time, so I’m not exactly anybody’s idea of athletic. Now, though, we’ve joined a gym. Tonight was the first time. My too-frequently-used excuse of “I can’t do it tonight; it’s too cold/rainy/crowded/dark/whatever” is no longer valid. The gym is open 24/7/365.
I love it.
With a little luck, maybe I’ll get a few more pounds off my very poundful self. Or at least firm that jello up a little.
Jello that isn’t firm is just, well, Kool-aid.
Jiggly-ball was funny on Scrubs, but in real life, it’s just butt-ugly. Those sneakers still feel really, really huge and heavy. And a gym that’s still open at 3 a.m. is an omen: it was time.
Sorry about the mess. It's those darn cats.
Mamacita says:
Dear cats,
I know you aren’t guilty of everything I blame you for, but having you living here sure takes the heat off me sometimes.
If it weren’t for you, I’d have to do a lot more cleaning. Not that I don’t have the cleaning to do, but when I blame the cat, I don’t feel obligated to pick things up right away.
You know, as in “Darn cat knocked all those pens off the table again!” Heh, like I’m going to bend over and pick up all at once what I can take care of with my toes, eventually, by just sitting here typing and getting them one at a time, when they roll near enough to my feet. If indeed they ever can, what with all those shoes under the table which, coincidentally, all fit me.
Let’s hear it for those prehensile toes now!
“Darn cat knocked all those dishes out of the cabinets, ate off them, and just left them piled in the sink.”
I wonder if cats can be taught to load a dishwasher.
Now, would any of you believe “Darn cats cleaned all the stuff out from under the beds and just left it stacked in the hallway’?
Yeah, me neither. Sigh.
Oh No She Dinnit: Rude, Politically Incorrect, Hateful, Hurtful, Judgmental UFO Sightings
Mamacita says: I know they make all kinds of clothing in every imaginable size, and this is of course nothing but my personal opinion – and I’m full of personal opinions – but it just seems to me that anybody over 12 years old looks more than stupid in a Hannah Montana t-shirt. Are people who shop in the Big Girls’ department really looking for Hannah Montana purses? Sneakers? And if so, WHY? Tinker Bell and Hello Kitty should not be worn once a certain size is reached. I mean, all you need to complete such an outfit is a long denim skirt, poodle socks, tennis shoes, and a lot of hair spray. Ugh.
I wonder, too, about the kind of woman who would purchase a size 28 two-piece swimsuit. I mean, besides the fact that she’s the general size and weight of a caterpillar tractor. Me, I’m more interested in covering that sight UP, not forcing the world to see it. I don’t want to see it. Do you want to see it? I thought not. Nobody wants to see that. Be nice to the world’s feng shui. Don’t flaunt anything that looks or acts like jello. Advice: If you look like a large ice cream cone from a distance, don’t wear it.
Advertising, which is something a lot of mothers don’t seem to realize they’re doing when they put themselves and their young daughters in suggestive clothing that barely covers the subject and then get all bothered when people notice, is another subject altogether.
This classy shirt, for example, comes in all sizes, from tiny to 5 XL.
How sweet to see a mother and daughter with similar interests. Excuse me for just a second while I make a phone call to CPS. Back in a sec.
Now, I know in advance that some people will take offense because I hold these opinions, and because I made them public. All I can say to that is, say whatever you want on your own blog.
Whenever I look in the mirror, I feel that I have abused the body God trusted me with, and I’m ashamed of that. I’m working hard to spruce it up, too.
But until I get it looking more as it should look, ie properly cared-for and maintained, I’m going to cover up as much evidence of my lack of proper maintenance as possible. And I’d appreciate it if others would, too.
I am NOT talking about body image or distorted perception, nor am I saying that a 25-year-old woman should weigh less than her cat if she is to be considered beautiful. I am saying that people who have not treated their bodies properly and are now reaping the consequences, should not force the rest of the world to look at the results.
Mmmm, chocolate. Be right back. Oh, and YAY, the pizza guy is here!
Now, where was I? Oh yes. I just don’t understand why I look like this. It CAN’T be any decisions and choices I personally made. It must be my thyroid.
Yes, I know that sometimes it is. But for most of us, it’s the decisions and choices. Get real. We all know it.
Good thing they make those attractive hip-hugger jeans in my size. Miley wears them, so they must be cool.
And don’t those kindergarteners look adorable in their Daisy Dukes and those one-shoulder halter tops? The glittery high-heeled sandals just MAKE the outfit!
P.S. I’m going to direct you all to my friend Kim’s blog. A post she made several years ago is still so incredibly funny; I just know you’ll all love it! And you’ll love Kim, too. While you’re there, tell her to start posting again. I miss her.
P.P.S. Did I hurt your feelings? Heck, I hurt my OWN feelings! But not as badly as I hurt when I look in the mirror.
P.P.P.S. I once had a student who weighed a good 400 pounds before breakfast. She wore shorts every day, commando, even in winter, because she was always dripping-with-sweat-hot. I know this because she always sat in the front of the classroom, legs outspread, like an old man in overalls in the middle airplane seat, only without the overalls. Sometimes she’d reach up in there and sort of fold her thigh fat over, to catch some breeze. She frequently wiggled her knees back and forth, back and forth, to make her own breeze. The whole room shook when she did that. She stayed after class and cried a lot because nobody wanted to sit near her and she didn’t understand why. I didn’t know what to tell her, so I tried to comfort her by saying it was hard for many people to cozy up to strangers.
Especially when the stranger smelled like tuna, vibrated like an earthquake, and displayed more crotch than Britney Spears, every single day. I tried to feel sympathy for her, but it was hard because during every three-hour class session she devoured five or six bags of chips, a dozen candy bars, and six Coke Classics. Sometimes she brought sandwiches. Her homework was always grease-marked and covered with mustard smears. Her research paper was about how disgraceful it was that smokers had no self control, or perception about making others uncomfortable. Her bibliography page had a big smashed malted milk ball right in the middle. What’s to be done? I have no idea.
Okay, I’m not hungry now.
