Tag Archives: working out

About As Much As I Love Geraldo Rivera’s Mustache

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That girl.

The one whose overly pushy, Sicilian boyfriend was able to convince her that entering a beauty pageant, despite the fact she was allergic to hair spray, 4-inch heels, up-dos and beauty pageants, would be a super awesome way to get scholarship money for her overpriced private college education.

miss-america-beauty-pageant1

The one with absolutely no rhythm or hand-eye coordination, who was forced to perform a group dance number to Cher’s Believe.

The one who discovered, upon signing up, that she needed something, como se talent? Since she had not been practicing the art of lap tap dance or clarinet since the age of 5, she wrote a comedic monologue about her trials with teenage acne.

The one who survived blissfully on nothing but McDonald’s cheeseburgers and Sour Patch Kids until realizing that it wasn’t just televised beauty pageants that had bikini competitions. She then ate nothing but granny smith apples for an entire month. Why granny smith? You’ll have to ask her.

That girl.

She’s gotta stop posting such ludicrous pictures of herself on THE INTERNETS.

For crying out loud, it’s embarrassing.

For her, that is.

Dear Universe,

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Why dost thou continue to sabotage me? Here I always thought you were on my side.  For the first time in my miserable, out-of-shape existence, I’m trying to do something about it.  This week, I turned a new leaf. Whitestrips, here I come.  Jogging, here I come.  Well… I’m not really sure what whitestrips had to do with the whole being-out-of-shape thing, but they certainly have a way of making me feel more fit.

Come Monday, I wanted to jog, but SOMEONE decided to make Monday a holiday full of tasty treats, lounging in the sun, and irresistible bbq delights didn’t they?!  Oh please, don’t even think about looking over your shoulder.  What did you expect me to do, dishonor the veterans?

Come Tuesday, it was my mother’s birthday and even though she hates birthdays, I was forced by guilt, only child syndrome, and the powers that be to make her pies and other delectible things.  And who’s fault is that? I’ll tell you one thing – not mine.

Come Wednesday, I wanted to go jogging, but you rained, which forced me to stay inside and do nothing but lay in bed and watch Tyra Show reruns all day. Since I couldn’t jog, I decided to make it vegetable night so I could at least save on a few calories.  Again, the amount of effort that I’m exuding here is incredible.  But then you ever so gently whispered sweet nothings in my ear regarding the delectible things that were inhabiting my fridge from the day before. All I can say is that I was brought up to believe that you don’t waste food, okay?  So I had a giant bowl of ice cream.  No biggie.  An hour later, I decided that if I just ate the rest of the box then I wouldn’t be tempted for the remainder of the week.  Again, brilliant.

…Then about ten o’clock, I decided that I could really go for a bacon-grilled cheese sandwich with a side of pasta.

Look what you freakin did!?

Come Thursday, I rounded up my support system, actually drank some water, and went to the bike path.  But after I reached half way around the track, I got a stabbing pain in my stomach.  The pain was followed by dizziness, which led to nausea, which led to me collapsing in the middle of the path.  An old man came by and said, “Are you okay DOLL?”  When my support system, who had long since jogged away without me, realized I was lying in the grass, I discovered I had a migraine.

Oh, well isn’t that just cute. What’s it gonna be tomorrow, ha?  A bio-nuclear attack?  My liver suddenly explodes and I become a horrific, but interesting scientific rarity?  My car gets hijacked and I’m left for dead in a nearby ditch?  What?

Dear Matthew McConaughey,

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Dear Matthew McConaughey,

Can you make a different movie already?  Wait.  What was that?  OH, you can’t.  It’s physically impossible?  Okay.  So I can just expect the same movie with the same plot and same actress, where you discover you were some sort of “bet,” and then you get fake mad, and then storm out, only to read an article that the girl wrote in her column about you saying that she really was in love, so you chase her down via boat or scooter at the end of the movie, in a outdoorsy scene set to a cheesy made-only-for-a-girly-movie song?

Well that just hurts my heart,

Blunt.

As you can see so aptly demonstrated in this picture, I have set lofty expectations for myself in 2009.  Obama isn’t the only one ushering in “CHANGE,”  kids.

One thing I’ve left off the list is working out.  I always thought there was no need to work out unless I was borderline obese.  Well, after sitting at home and being subjected daytime talkshows for the past 4 months, I’ve realized there might be reasons other than just the threat of morbid obesity why I shouldn’t sit in my chair for 12 hours straight everyday, eating assorted leftover holiday candy.  But is that gonna stop me?  The fact that you even ask that question makes me realize that we aren’t as tight as I thought.

So check it.  One of the few only downfalls of working for yourself, is that you have to shovel out money for health insurance.  And you better believe, I’m not doing that.  Nonetheless, my father feels otherwise. 

Dad: You’ve got to get insurance.  What if you have a big accident?

Me: I sit in my office 24/7 and I never leave the house.  What’s gonna happen?

Dad:  Diabetes from your sedentary lifestyle?

Me:  Okay. Fine… I’ll look into it.

Well, my dad knew there about as much of a chance that Angelina Jolie would stop adopting exotic children than there would be of me actually following through with that statement.  So about a week later, I get a text from my friend/insurance agent saying that my dad picked out a policy for me and I need to come sign it.  Oh. Seriously?

A couple weeks later, I begrudgingly go to sign the papers.  As I’m sitting there shooting the breeze and answering questions about my gastrointestinal family history, I notice a fax cover sheet on top of my file.  From my father.  And it reads:

To: Justin   From:  Denny

Subject:  Please call me if my daughter “forgets” to come in and sign the paperwork.

For a split second, I had to recover from the whiplash I experienced from my dad throwing me under the bus, until I realized that my dad was absolutely correct in assuming that I’d probably blow this off and then tell him I forgot.  Then, just when I thought I was in the clear – I got a call from the insurance company:

Insurance:  Hello, this is the insurance company, we’re trying to process your request for a policy.  Can you clarify some things?

Me:  Sure.

Insurance:  So, your records show you were admitted to the ER in 2006.  Can you explain that?

Me:  [honestly, not even remembering that happened….]  Um, I really don’t remember.

Insurance:  It says something about shortness of breath and hyperventilation?

Me:  Oh… oh.  Yea.  Anxiety attack.  Forgot about that, sorry.  Crazy boyfriend, don’t ask. 

Insurance:  Ok. Well has the problem been resolved?

Me:  Well, he’s across the ocean now, if that’s what you mean. 

Insurance:  Okaaaaay.  What about the x-rays you had on your leg in 2007?

Me:  Oh… yea.  Forgot about that, sorry.  My hip pops out of joint at random times and I can’t walk.  Hurts like a beotch.

Insurance:  Pops out of joint?

Me:  Yes.  They told me I need to exercise to strengthen the ligaments.

Insurance:  So has your exercising resolved the problem?

Me:  [I don’t recall saying that I actually took the advice?]  Uh, suure.  Why yes, it has.

Insurance:  Good.  And lastly, why did you go to an ear specialist?

Me:  Good question.  He didn’t fix crap.