Friday, January 2, 2015

     I love the last two minutes of my workout. I know it’s almost over, and I will feel so proud and fit. I know that no matter how irritable I may be or how fat I might feel, that 20-40-minute workout will transform me. I will be sweeter than Meg Ryan, more cheerful than Betty White, more lithe than Jane Fonda and more energetic than the energizer bunny on speed. . . and, I will be 1/100th of an inch closer to my bubble butt goal.

(Like she will look like this at 71!)

     I find it rather ironic that in the 50s, I used to wear sweatshirts to hide my butt. I used to hang out with my girlfriend who weighed 230 pounds just so my butt would look smaller.I remember looking in the store windows as I walked by thinking, “Oh, Lord, my butt is so gross.” Now people are paying good money to have what I tried to avoid all these years. Nope. I don’t get it. I find nothing attractive about a piece of flesh that a family of six could sit on like a porch swing. But then I don’t get facial hair and neck tattoos either.

     Working out is the new “in” thing. People go to the gym for hours. I met a woman yesterday, and I asked her what she did with her time now that she’s retired. She said,
“We spend a lot of time at Gold’s Gym.” Like what? do you live there? Do you have book club there? do you do their garden? I asked how much time they spend there, and she said at least a couple of hours per day. That’s 14 hours a week at the gym with all that sweat and muscle-flashing? I looked at her trying to find some visible signs of her obsession, but I couldn’t find any. She was a nice lady, though, and who am I to judge what people do with their time? She wasn’t home writing some lame blog sitting on her flat cheeks.

     Mr. Wonderful claims he is a “leg” man. Yeah, right. He rarely looks at my legs unless I haven’t shaved, and then he just stares without uttering a peep. Men are so subtle. Then when some twenty-something hottie with huge tatas walks into a restaurant in front of us, I have to reel his tongue back into its cavern and adjust his neck. wtf. I had large tatas once, but that was when my buttocks was the size of Babar’s. One must be thankful for the gifts from the Big Guy, and he decided mine was writing limericks. Who knew?