Emily Tomorrow
an emily blunt rant

Exercise is a pain in the...delicate part of your psyche that believes the self-esteem you long for is hidden within a size six pair of jeans. You're subconscience wants to be good but yet leans into bad - it's funner. More better. It lures you from the sanctuary of your sunken couch to the carnival lights of the fridge promising, "Just one more tiny fiber-rich cracker with a smidgen of heart-healthy peanut butter. And as long as we're here why not grab the last of that left over noodle dish you whipped up yesterday...is that a candy apple there towards the back?"

Face it, the first step to weight loss and eternal happiness in your new-you is actually not dieting - ha - it's exercise. And in my case, opening the packages; my collection of audio, visual, or interactive dohinkies for the sveltetobe.

See, I bought a set of five tapes 'From Ass to Arms', err, something on that same, "Unfood snuffaluffagus yourself and get back into those mini-waisted man-catchin' skirts by spring" tapey things like that. Of course that was last December!

I was very excited to start on the physical fitness road back to that section of the closet marked like a scarlett letter of thinness S, for small. But, the best laid plans of voluptuous chicks…The S section was now just a deserted part of my wardrobe museum where a frightful amount of dust was gathering...I'm not usually a Procrastinasaurus Excusemongerex.

First it was the old, "I've got this party - I'll open the boxes later and work out when I get back." I still laugh aloud when I repeat that one to myself! After one tape actually made it to the opened and ready stage - even made it physically into the video contraption - the phone rang. I was rescued, err, reprieved. I'd just chat quickly - then absolutely, positevly, get back to my afternoon plans of sweating like a Ukrainian bore caught in a heat wave upon the deserted tundra. But when I got back from the phone, and hit rewind (wouldn't want to miss a single mesmerizing moment) the damned tape - literally - shot out of the machine and plummeted to the floor breaking the plastic casing into five evenly now-useless fragments. I shit you not. Arfg.

I was so distraught at the scene I just couldn't bring myself to pop in ARMS and sally forth. I thought, "Tomorrow I'll start." And ran to the fridge for some comfort cheese. My mental imaging I'd worked so hard on of my defined arms peaking out from a sexy tad-tight sleeveless shirt dissipating with each scurrying step.

Upon my next attempt I passed through the kitchen en route to the vhs player...when, I spot the blinking machine light - there's a message on the phone - "Come work for us for a couple weeks out here at the festival. You'll do our daily newsletter. We've got a swell bungalow for you complete with Chaplin's ghost and fruit trees in bearing stage beneath a glorious view of the rock face mountain." Then I think they said something like, "Or you could stay in the smog and ponder your anti-social life a bit, while the bills gather in the post and the fat molds firmly into those new tadlytight jeans ya bought." I think to myself, " I'll bring the three remaining new-me tapes and get a fresh start for a fresh year." So original…

Great there's a VCR in this delightful bungalow! But - what? This ex-playhouse of a playboy star doesn't' even have rugs? There's only the nuevo-riche design of fancy tile floors. They're pretty - but - freezing cold and rock hard, and me without my workout mat. If I owned one that is. Oh well, I can use blankets. So I get on my spandex cotton blend formfitting sweat wear and viola the phone rings yet again! Saved by the bell. I mean - drat. Why now? I was about to be slim and svelte again…

Party they said? Why that gives me an excuse to wear the mini-checkered piece with that silver Tiffany bobble thingy. Hmm, "Okay I can work out when I get back." Ah, but you're at the merci of your plus-size hosts and their sadistic caterer's idea of food and beverage. The selections are hoity toity, low on nutritional value and high on taste. Bravely I announced to the open-bar helmer, " Diet-Cola please." No Diet Coke advises this snooty-without-even-trying bar keep, who I'm sure normally slings hash at Carrow's. Her sunken post-model face stares at me in judgment of the attempted low-calorie intake. I say, "There's just Martini's or cheap red wine? Is that a glowworm on the label? Fine, I'll have a vodka Martini straight up; no nuthin' in it. NO - especially not an onion - whose sick idea was that? Hey where you goin' so fast friend? Lemme see one of those little fried delights you have resting on your faux silver tray." Five hours later I'm too pooped to pop in any tapes let alone actually undress for slumber. I awake - hairdo now stuck firmly to my puffy sodium retaining face ala Grinch circa 1965 - bombarded with the sharp notes dancing in my head!
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So, fast forward it's now mid-ish February - I've gained ten pounds since purchasing my new-you tapes "The Firm" and discovered See's Candies. I've just managed to pop one in - a tape not a candy - It's the LEGS workout I think. I have squeezed myself into the already snug sweat wear from last attempt to beauty and before I could hit play, I decided to write this rant.

Oopsie. Now there's the goshdarn phone beckoning me away from my search for thinner thighs... I'll work out after I catch up with the caller, do a load of laundry wash the dish, and, perhaps, give the dogs a quick walk. Yeah. Unless it's time for 'Law and Order' that is…then I'll start after that. But it's not good to exercise after 900pm - I could be up all night. Okay tomorrow. I'll start the tape nice and fresh, tomorrow.