A Clown With a Knife is the Only Reason to Run…

The fight with my ass is never ending. At the moment I am winning. I am dieting. My ass left me no choice. My beloved sheath dresses are so stretched across the backside, wearing of such is an embarrassment. Even a strappy sandal with an ankle cuff can no longer divert attention and save the look. Even I glance away in shame.

I have lost ten pounds. Bully for me. I am bitchy, crying, unable to write. I hate the world and everyone in it, especially vegetables. My biggest self discovery? I am a nicer person with wine. Not just happier and more bubbly, actually a nicer, kinder, gentler human being with alcohol. This revelation prompts additional moments of self discovery. I peruse Pinterest for some good feelings. After all, is Pinterest not the place females travel for our fix of dream closets, perfect lives and photos of Robert Downey Jr? Perhaps there are answers to boosting my diet state of mind on the Health and Fitness tab and possibly some low cal dishes on the Food and Drink feature.

Conclusion? I am not meant for life without pasta or wine or baked goods. And why are M&Ms not a food group? While I would commit all manner of sin for a chocolate croissant, I vow to stick to a diet which includes vegetables, fruits and protein. Generally, not a big protein girl. I prefer a diet rich in dairy, carbs, alcohol and candy. There is a reason my ass declared victory and got a parade. She deserves it. Well played, Ass, well played.

Venturing to Pinterest for support, I find some interesting tidbits. Unfortunately none are filled with cheese.

“How to Become an Inner Thigh Star,” promotes thigh gap and way too many exercises for anyone with a job and no domestic help. It touts the usual: exercises to do at your desk, the joy of thigh squeezing and the ever popular, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” Liar.

“Four Ways to Walk Off the Weight” espouses all the places one can walk–at the office, to the office, take the stairs, park further away. Blah, blah, blah. Are none of these chicks in a hurry to get home and pour a glass of wine? I walk everyday, well most days. And yesterday, I even ran a little. A few steps. I thought I saw a scorpion. And then I remembered I could just step on him as I was wearing a sneaker. Therein lies the rub. Have you ever seen anyone look good running? A real person; not Gisele. The bitch.

First, the outfit. If the shorts are too tight, there’s chafing, and then a little moisture. Are you supposed to wear panties under there? And does anyone else find that material uncomfortably hot? And then there’s the hair. Up or down? Down is cute and sexy, like in all the pictures, but then it’s flying all over the place and could attract flying insects. A pony, on the other hand, bounces uncomfortably and then my neck hurts so I have to stop and massage it a little.

The shoes are torture. Since my foot is unaccustomed to being flat upon the ground, it take a few steps and some inner “you can do its” to psyche myself up to continue. And can we talk bras? A sports bra–those of us without Scottsdale’s standard issue professionally crafted set, are so squished in a sports bra, we appear twelve-year-old boyish and must compensate with a cute outfit. And we’re right back to the moist running shorts.

So I don The Norwegian’s basketball shorts, a cute tank with my Victoria’s Secret push up bra that I will sink wash later, or not, and little white skechers. I’ve been rockin’ the high pony atop my head, full makeup and say a high voiced “hi” to everyone I see on the trail. The Norwegian’s shorts are so big, I look positively tiny. And with the girls up and out I can almost pass for forty-seven. Pfft.

Pinterest also offers, “How to Throw a Green Party,” meaning salad and vegetables and kale and spinach and other things with leaves. Really? A party? Who would I invite? Just for fun, I rifle through my contacts to see who amongst my pals would attend a “green” party. No takers. No surprise there. I don’t surround myself with people who are not loving, supportive and borderline alcoholic. If I want to surround myself with sober people eating salads, I could go to a gym for God sake.

Here’s another gem. “Feeling healthy and feeling good about yourself is not a luxury–it is an absolute necessity.” No lie. I get this one. It is not a luxury to drink Italian whites, French Pinot Noirs, Grey Goose dirty martinis, eat fine cheeses from around the world, experience Swiss chocolates and inhale fifty-five pretzel rolls. On this we agree. The food coma induced by the finest of artisanal breads is an exceptional measure of feeling swell, is it not?

“If you can still look cute at the end of your workout–you didn’t train hard enough.” It’s one of those little e-cards. Usually they are funny. This one missed the mark. If you still look cute at the end of your workout, you are a kickass girl who gets the point. Duh. If working out means looking like a sweatball sans makeup in need of a hair wash with smashed boobs soaked in your own filth, I pass.

If at the end of a long day stringing words together, prompting others to buy things while wearing stunning suits, I believe I am entitled to a cocktail, can you imagine what I might expect at the end of a run? If there isn’t a tub of Java Chip, a couple of Oreos, perhaps a few chocolate pretzels and a warm baguette, I’m out.

So basically, the ten pounds has come off through diet and walking, occasional running if I see a scorpion or an invisible snake. I heard it, I did. It was in the bushes ready to strike. ‘Cuz Lord knows unless it’s a snake or a clown with a knife, I’m not running.


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