I remember the day I signed up for the gym, the guy helping me said “I get the feeling I won’t see you often” and when I asked why, he replied with “you look like the lazy type.” I thought to myself, who the hell does this guy think he is? A year later, I see he was a man with great judgment.
On blue moons where I use my glute muscles for more than just popping a squat, I get a kick out of taking my mom to work out with me. I see how uncoordinated she is and next to her I feel like an Olympian. More than repeating my sets, I repeat the question “Why can’t we afford lipo?” I just don’t get it. I would deal with skipping the light bill for a month of darkness if it meant I can wear my birthday suit in the light. That was a joke, but the following isn’t. I’ve gone to bed in work out attire completed with a sports bra and all, hoping to wake up transformed to #GYMMODE #CROSSFITLIFE. But obviously I’m the only one aware that gym clothes also make for great PJs. What I’m trying to say is, if each one of my thighs had a name they would be “Mostly” and “Pizza”.
The Hunger Games VS Dr. 90210
Now that I’m 21 and have beer calories to add to my list of worries, I’ve decided to take my lard pants off and try to blend in here at Planet Attractive, Miami. So naturally I turned to the internet for help on how to. As a daily rub in the face I forced myself to follow health nuts. You know the kind that fill your Instagram feed with “selfies” and pictures of their negative 23 calorie meal. I secretly and surprisingly love their passion. But now that I’m conducting this race of a science experiment on how to make muffin tops inexistent, I’m spotting cheaters. Not relationship cheaters, that’s Maury’s job. Fit cheaters. I can’t ignore the idea that there are lab rats busting their balls (Pf, not me I’m naturally gorg) and taking orders from a Kim Kardashian “beautiful backside” video, while others are just writing checks and within hours of anesthesia, BAM bodies worthy of a Kanye West video. If you’re that girl that is able to give a slinky a boner, high five and I’ma let you finish and all but others have denied a lot of pizza to get where you are. The romantic in me wants to believe there is hard dedication behind those abs. Otherwise I wouldn’t know whether to compliment you for hard work or your plastic surgeon for craft. In order to be fair game, I request to see you suffer over a plate of spinach because my name is Misery and I’d love some company over here.
Being jiggle-free isn’t even the greatest of accomplishments now. Just when you thought losing those 5 pounds was enough, you discover things like bleaching your asshole.. Did you know that was a thing? The color of your asshole now determines whether a man thinks you’re cute enough to provide you with vitamin D. It doesn’t stop there. Vampire facials, now your face can have its period too. Removing fat from your ass to add your lips, talk about bad breath. The nightmare only gets worse. Cropping your Pikachu’s loose skin to make it appear “youthful” is now normal. How is it that they want our most womanly part of our body, to resemble a child’s? I own two pairs of lips and my womanhood is all about letting them look and speak what they hunger for. Being that we can’t contort to seeing our own asshole without a hand mirror, this tells me we are doing it for men. But.. if it is men that cannot handle how we age, can’t we get them to restore and repair a bigger set of balls? I know, you’re thinking why I haven’t ran for president at this point.
Here’s to fighting to grow strong and natural, let us not be remembered for the society of the Mrs. Potato Heads but the generation who beat cellulite.
