Now that the crazy busy portion of the year is just about behind me, I think it is time I did something about what’s behind me.
Namely, my behind.
Turns out that two months of not exercising and eating delicious turkey-and-bacon clubs on toasted marble rye makes one really embarrassingly grateful for elastic-waist pants.
I do this sort of research, folks, so you don’t have to.
So I was out eating lunch one day last week with a cute guy-friend, flattering myself –hilariously, in retrospect — that I was looking semi-cute too, when in walked some skank ho in low-cut chinos with a penchant for twitching her bony little ass all over the place. I think she was applying for a job, although her size zero chinos cost more than a waitress there would make in a month. What do I know. Maybe she was just chatting up the line cook.
Anyway, old bonybutt is waving her freak flag out by the fry station and my buddy and I are transfixed by the frequency with which she is flexing and twitching her good thing, which she CLEARLY thinks is one heck of a GREAT thing.
My boy opines that it ain’t that great of an ass. Unconvincingly, I might add.
But I am looking at it and I suddenly know with perfect clarity that both of her pale, pimply white cheeks could fit into one of my stretch denim hip pockets and still have room for a flirty little twitch every time some sexy line cook happened by. I look glumly down at my lunch — yet another bacon-centric sandwich — and know the game is up.
It is time to return to the gym. And make out with the salad bar.
AND LO. I stayed up an extra half hour laying out my slimmingest spandex ensemble and my treadmill-friendly sneakers so I could get up a half-hour earlier and haul my ladylike saddlebags into the widening bucket seat in my car and drive to the Y for a little jaunt on the treadmill.
THEY ARE CLOSED FOR CLEANING ALL THE WEEK LONG. AND IT IS RAINING.
You see? You see what fickle fate deals me on a regular basis?
What am I supposed to do? Pretend bacon just DOESN’T EXIST all week?