I’m totally not using today’s post as an excuse to brag about my first half marathon, which I ran a few weeks ago with a time of 2 hours and 10 minutes. I’m not.
Just like I haven’t started every single conversation since finishing the race with this: “Oh, really? You ate a grilled cheese for lunch today? That reminds me of the time I ran a half marathooooooooooon..." I drag it out because that's how I sound when I'm being pretentious. (By the way, if the conversation is not about grilled cheese, insert absolutely anything that the person you’re talking to said. It doesn’t matter because this is not about them and it never will be again. It’s about you and your half marathon.)
Okay, yes. Yes, I think it’s completely obvious that I’m using this post as an excuse to brag, dammit. Stupid narcissistic tendencies! But I promise that’s the last you’ll hear of it. Because this post was actually drafted a couple of months ago, well before I finished my first half marathoooooooon.
Shit. Shit. Okay, that’s the last you’ll hear of it today. Promise. Now back to my regularly-scheduled post, “Hitting the Gym”:
I have worked out at least 5 days a week since I was 20 years old. I like to say it’s a passion, but the real reason is that with the way my fat ass eats, I can’t afford NOT to go to the gym.
When my husband and I were first dating, he made some comment that I guess he considered a compliment: “Hey, thanks for all of the effort you put into working out. I know you like to look good for me.”
I remember I stopped and gave him one of my best big-nosed smirks. (I like to pronounce that big-nose-ed, in case you were wondering.) “Bitch, please,” I snapped. “I’ve been at this shit for years—long before you entered my life. I don’t do it for you. I do it for me.”
Although the hubs does get to reap the benefits of having a hard-bodied (riiiiiiight), bleach-blonde (fake), smoking (I mean ciggies) hot trophy (I mean trashy) wife with a long gorgeous horseface (if you’re into that type of look—neigh, neigh, motherfckers), the reasons I work out for myself look more like this:
1.) On-site daycare.
In the grand scheme of 16 years of working out, this reason has only somewhat recently popped up (We had our first son 4 1/2 years ago), but it’s at the top of the list because it’s so important to me. I don’t care if I have to run 10 miles to get away from my kids for a little while when I need a break. At my pace, that’s a good hour and a half that I get to listen to my music, read my magazines, and just be alone for a little while to think about how awesome I am.
2.) A possible daytime talk show makeover.
I make sure that my body’s slamming (I mean, it’s not, but usually people don’t notice as they cannot seem to tear their eyes away from this monstrosity of a nose when they talk to me) while the rest of me is dumpy. How dumpy, you might ask? I’m talking dumpy, bitches. The dumpier, the better: think thick, fluffy eyebrows that grow to the point of lightly kissing my hairline, a discontinuation of chin-whisker plucking so that I have a cute little 5 o’clock shadow sometimes, and yoga pants with spaghetti-o and poop stains from wild diaper changes on them. That way, hopefully one of my asshole friends will try, in a misguided kind of way, to nark on me to Ellen or Kathie and Hoda and I’ll get a Mommy Makeover.
And you know what great body + expensive new designer clothes + a makeup artist + national television exposure = don’t you?
A whole gaggle of ex-boyfriends seeing me and being sorry that they dumped my trashy ass.
Yes, I know that I was a skank who cheated on most of them several times, but is that really a reason to dump someone? Oh, it is? Whatevs…
3.) Forget ex-boyfriends…
…have you seen the guys at the gym? Hellooooo,hotties! Even the old sugahdaddies working out in belted mom jeans have kept themselves up into their 80’s. They’re usually a little hunchbacked, but that’s okay: If they can get past The Nose, I can overlook The Hump. Because I go to the gym to find new boyfriends!
What’s that you say? You guys don’t cheat on your husbands? Really? It’s just me?
WOW. Who knew?
4.) I saw one guy wearing a 200-lap t-shirt as he walked around the track.
I assume that’s the same as the mile-high club, only in gym lingo. And ladies, let me tell you: I’m all in.
I talk a good game, don’t I? But do you wanna know how I really feel? Sex=yuck.
That's how the hubs knows all of that cheating on him talk is only a farce. Because if I have a hard time keeping up with our grueling once-a-week sched, you can bet your ass I'm not doing it again on the side with some asshole boyfriend who doesn't even have to share household chores with me.
What do you mean, you're leaving when we're finished? Get your ass off the couch and do the dishes!
Nope. Give me a Real Housewives marathon and a bucket of Reese’s over that any day of the week. In fact, I’ll pay any one of you ladies to come over and bone my husband so I can have my Housewives and Reese’s bucket in peace. What’s that you say? That’s prostitution, and it’s illegal?
Not in Las Vegas, it’s not. Get the shit packed, hubs, because we’re moving!
Seriously, what was the point of #4 again…
5.) …or this whole list?
Alright, I’m done with this. I’m going to go gorge on some cheese dip. I don’t need chips; I just dip whatever’s close by into it and suck it off. I’ve got a pad of post-it notes right next to me that’ll work just fine.
I’ll work it off at the gym tomorrow.
I wanted to take the chance to mention that the lovely, talented, and kind Jill Smokler's new book, Motherhood Comes Naturally (and Other Vicious Lies) is now available. Jill's one of my cyberpeeps, you know, who has kept in contact since she was awesome enough to feature one of my posts on her famous blog, Scary Mommy. I told her I'd be more than happy to spread the exciting news about her book. I'll bet, like, 1 copy of it will be sold as a result of the crazy advertisement she's getting with my blog's 3 readers. Seriously, though, I guarantee the book will be hilarious. I'm totally getting a copy. Congrats on another book, Jill!