an emily blunt rant
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?"
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.
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!
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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!
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.
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
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.