Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Witness the Unfitness

Every woman has the occassional fat day, some more that others. Namely me. You'll notice in this blog that write about 'fat' quite a bit. This is due to the fact that I am not far off from becoming a porker. Actually if I each another crunchie I will accept name-calling because I deserve it.

This is why I have made the conscious and painful decision to join a gym. I have never stepped over that threshold into a world of sweat and tight clothing. It's not for me. I can not run with wild abandon on a treadmill without worrying if I look sweaty and fat. Which I do.

But now I have no choice. It's now or never and frankly I love fashion to much to turn into one of those disturbing Wal-mart Americans whose bodies are so morphed by fat it looks like they are carrying around flesh coloured fanny packs.

The truth is, I need a personal trainer, a man, a viscious nazi screaming in my ears to run harder and crunch faster. However I can not afford such luxuries.

A while ago my dear friend Lauren, who employed one of these maniancal trainers, encouranged me to run with her. I did. I can run, I am a good runner but I choose not too. It is far easier to watch Grey's Anatomy and smoke cigarettes. But what motivated me, for about 2 days, was Lauren's amazing bod.

I once met her trainer. He was terrifying, orange tanned, wrinkled midget who said he would love to 'sculpt' my body (cue vomit). I declined. I have had a very bad past experience with trainers. She was a stick of a woman, her muscles would put Madonna to shame. She had big brown menacing eyes and red coked up nose. She made me do German push ups that involved very technical breathing. I stuck around for about 3 months.

Lauren ditched her personal trainer after he whipped her into shape. She has the body of a Victoria's Secret model. The other day she was complaining about needing to lose weight for her trip to Italy. I wanted to strip naked and show her what fat looked like and demonstrate how much she did not need to lose weight. I thought better of it. Poor girl has already had to endure me in a bikini on a beach. Speaking of, now I know why we always went to the smallest beaches and lay on rocks facing away from people on the beach. Poor girl, I must apologise.

Now that I am earning actual money and not peanuts, I will go sign my name down for some physical torture. I cannot spend another minute moaning about my expansion. I don't want to have to start wearing control underwear.

Gym here I come. Kill me now.

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