Archive for the 'An ass the size of Rhode Island' Category

Pain in the ass

June 24, 2007 | Filed under: An ass the size of Rhode Island

“A bear, however hard he tries, grows tubby without exercise.” ~A.A. Milne

I’ve never understood the eagerness with which some can carry on a conversation about their weight loss efforts. With such enthusiasm and aplomb as to how fantastic things are going and how they feel so much better and lighter and did you hear about the free unicorns that come when you lose 15 pounds?

Then again, I have a great ability to become frustrated when things are not going according to plan. Very frustrated in that I’m going to slam this door now and possibly throw my sneakers out the sunroof kind of way. It’s so very charming, as I’m sure one can imagine.

It’s not really that things aren’t going well or that there really is much to discuss, it just is. The process of ‘toning’ and ‘getting healthy’ is inane, long, boring and so fucking tedious. It’s full of ups and downs…and generally, how much is there to say?

Thus far, the only profound thing that I am able to come up with is that yesterday, my trainer kicked my ass so hard that I’m now forced to write while standing up. Because apparently there are massive amounts of nerves and muscles and such in my ass and thighs, which have been worked in ways once thought unfathomable.

Let’s just say that if I had the ability, coordination and…um…proper appendage to pee while standing up, I totally would.

Join me for a meal?

June 11, 2007 | Filed under: An ass the size of Rhode Island

“In the Middle Ages, they had guillotines, stretch racks, whips and chains.  Nowadays, we have a much more effective torture device called the bathroom scale.”  ~Stephen Phillips

On Memorial Day, I decided to make the painful decision to put myself on Weight Watchers. There wasn’t a specific event, unless you count the tremendous way that I can imbibe three meals straight of fried clams and French fries and then a chimichanga to boot. I will interject here by questioning why no one ever mentioned to me that burritos could be fried? Why? Why keep such a delicious secret to yourselves?

Anyway, I returned home and said well this is it and just signed up for it. I’ve told approximately three people about it, including Jonna who was great support when I told her that I went to Friday’s and ate my entire entrée. Including breadsticks. My favorite response was from Amy – after I decided to not eat risotto in favor of more wine - who gently touched my arm and looked genuinely concerned when she asked “But why??” That makes me love her even more than I thought possible, because she is totally oblivious to the way the fat just jiggles around my belly.

Other than that, I doubt it’s all that noticeable the way I run away immediately after I’ve eaten to hover over the computer quickly adding up Points values to see if I’ve hit my magic number yet. And then I get on the elliptical for 52 minutes to gain some activity points value so that I can drown my sorrows in a perfect 5 oz pour of wine (2 Points!)

This evening my mother made low carb pasta, but then decided to throw in some butter – STRAIGHT UP BUTTER – and grated parmesan cheese. I then literally stared her down and grilled her as to exactly how much she put into the pasta. Down to the number of “oh just a toss” of parmesan she put into my pasta because those are my precious, precious points. And I am super anal when it comes to the difference between 1 tablespoon and 1 ½ tsps. Why is it so difficult to pay attention to just how much was put in? WHY?

Thus far 2.5 lbs lost. I’m sure I’ll be on a roll if I continue my regularly scheduled dinner time inquisition as to exactly how many pats of butter were put into the pot. And was it a regular sliced pat or just a thinly sliced one? I DEMAND TO KNOW.

Life changing

June 5, 2007 | Filed under: An ass the size of Rhode Island, Whoopdie Doo

“Just around the corner in every woman’s mind - is a lovely dress, a wonderful suit, or entire costume which will make an enchanting new creature of her.” ~Wilhela Cushman

A while back, I was discussing genetics with my aunt and to sum it up, apparently while we women are all well endowed, we just got the short end of the stick when it comes to the perky department. In short, I have pretty crappy boobs. Something I long ago accepted and have always said that if there were any plastic surgery that I would get breast augmentation. Not that it’s a huge debilitating problem, but they always just look so sad and depressed. But I would be sad and depressed and practically on the floor if someone kept attempting to squish me into an area the size of a ramekin each and every day.

Suffice it to say, with the new and improved job and new and improved paycheck, I can now afford to not walk around hoisting my bra up or having boobs down to my knees. This is of monumental significance when you are 23 and thinking that at some point, you would like to get pregnant and really the problem will only perpetuate itself, so it should be alleviated as much as possible now. I like to take somewhat preventative measures with most everything. It’s part of my charm and chronic, genetic neuroses.

I went to Nordstrom the other day, after realizing that driving to Rhode Island for a bra fitting is a might ridiculous, but it had to be done and Nordstrom is what Oprah said. Obviously then we all must do as the Queen says. Contrary to popular belief it was not the least bit awkward. Even that part when the woman told me to take off my dress and I was left practically naked. You just do it, get it over with and leave $250 poorer but with breasts that have suddenly found new meaning in life what, with their new accommodations and all. And I’m happier as well now that my boobs are no longer acquainted with my knee-caps.

Sizeable issues

May 28, 2007 | Filed under: An ass the size of Rhode Island, Humdrum

“Self-respect is the root of discipline: The sense of dignity grows with the ability to say no to oneself.” ~Abraham Joshua Heschel

Yesterday afternoon I went into The Black Dog to pick something out for Noah. Now a) Having a Noah, is like having a niece or nephew or grandchild or something: I get to buy him all the ‘aballs’ and old man pajamas and things I just deem cute and play with him, all without any of the heavy lifting. And b) The Black Dog is one of the most overpriced places ever to grace God’s green earth. So if one doesn’t mind paying $27 for a t-shirt with a black lab on the front, then I say go for it. I swear that the cotton used for some of that must have tiny flecks of gold, especially after watching a woman shell out $150 for two sweatshirts and a bumper sticker.

While perusing the shelves, I noted that the children’s sizes were considerably cheaper than the adult sizes. Upon further inspection, I picked out a youth size large and hold it up to my chest and note that ‘Hey! This expensive piece of cotton that must be fresh from the gin, actually might fit me.’ And lo’ it did fit in a way that doesn’t show off a muffin top or compress my two boobs into a uniboob. I was pleased. Not only because I wear a youth size large, as I already do some shopping in the junior’s section, but also because I pulled the proverbial wool over the eyes of the Black Dog establishment and saved myself a whopping $4.50; which I then used to purchase my third clam plate. The latter was to celebrate that I could eat three clam plates in 72 hours and still fit into child size clothing.

I’m not exactly what one would call fat or obese, unless this was the seventh grade again, and then I’d be called far worse. But I’m not exactly a size 2 or a size 8 for that matter. As far as I’m concerned, I can easily run a 5K and slip into a dress from Anthropologie or Forever 21, so really, why worry? Especially since the Great Ephedra Disaster of 2005, I’m perfectly content in eating and working out and keeping the two at some sort of equilibrium so that I don’t feel like I might be in desperate need of stomach stapling each and every time I have a filet o fish.

My rationality on this subject only comes after near tears last week in the Target dressing room when a dress fit perfectly everywhere besides my boobs. Suffice it to say that the next size up made it look like I painted a burlap sack with pink stripes and added pockets to jazz the number up a bit. When I mentioned this to El Madre, she gave me that skeptical ‘uh, no you’re just fat with broad shoulders look.’ But really I am built like a linebacker – it’s really hot. Today at Banana Republic, while trying on a blazer, she finally believed that no, my boobs are just huge by remarking, loudly, “Wow, you’re boobs are huge.” Precious, I know.

That said and even with any respite logic, I still am harboring some sort of dislike towards myself. Even though I can shop with ease, I still feel like I could look better. For every item of clothing I purchase in a junior’s size, thus ‘cheating’ the man out of $10, there is a blazer or shirt that leaves a lovely gape between the 2nd and 3rd button. Or a slight pull at the shoulders when I lift my arms. Either way, I’m going to be pragmatic and say that something’s got to give, and for once it’s not my waistband. For even though I am perfectly content, I still feel like I could be and would like to be better.