Mr. Rainbow Pants meets Mrs. Running Shoes

Flavored creamer is making me fat.
Lack of exercise, excessive alcohol consumption, age and bar food, no. Its the goddamn creamer.
I usually take my coffee black with sugar and even given the amount of sugar I use, it calculates to way less calories than the thick milky satanic goodness of Hazelnut coffee creamer. But no one else at work uses sugar, they all have to drink creamer in their coffee so I am thrust every morning into making my coffee like everyone else who works with me.
One might imagine that I would simply remember to bring in sugar for my personal consumption, but one would be wrong. I can't remember. These tasks are too difficult for me; total brain stoppage and thus my hips grow uncontrollably like Tetsuo, eventually to engulf small children and dogs.
(...the horror...the horror...)
I am. A potential pachyderm.

Not really. And to be honest, I don't give a fuck as long as my breathing is steady enough to have sex, my husband still playfully slaps my ass and calls me sexy and my heart doesn't feel like it is pounding out of my chest walking to the next room. I used to give a fuck. I used to give too much of a fuck. I used to weigh myself every day, decline cake, cry when I looked at my child bearing hips. But these thoughts no longer consume me and what matters the most to me is that I smile, and live as full of a life as possible, without wasting it pounding pavement and obsessing about the hands of time. It's already too short.

Everyone I know is in this weird "Get in Shape" mode as of late. Like they collectively woke up somehow heavier, spazzed, created a Facebook Fan Page to loose the nasty pounds together, this new age spiritual soul fulfilling trip to fucking Mecca.
Diet. Running. Gym. Workout. Weights. Measuring tape. Scales. I lost five pounds! I love my new ass!
Congratulations, but meh.
Seriously, it isn't fun and I know it isn't fun, even you know it isn't fun, if it were fun it wouldn't be an event, you would just do it normally and not announce it to the world, like when you eat dinner and no one really gives a shit so you don't bother telling people you did that task either. If it were fun and people were only doing it for the fun factor, I wouldn't have to listen to people bitch about consuming bland diet food, or complain about being injured, yet refuse to take days or weeks off for fear of their pot belly returning or losing even the slightest bit of muscle tone. It is only during that moment that the true reason reveals itself concerning your "love" of being on a treadmill in a stuffy gym on display like a bunch of circus performers, or running around a lake with your cross training friends at 5am, before it is even logical for your ass to technically be out of bed having gone to sleep at midnight.

What drives our need to feel good about ourselves, is everyones else's visualization of us and the medias concoction of the acceptable standard to body image, regardless of bone size and genetics. Thats my observation. It's the motivation. The determining factor.
Endless amounts of unaltered fat pictures showing up on friends Facebook walls, our assumed high school mates judgement, the horror of your double chin, not because you are overweight, but because you tilted your head the wrong way when the photo was shot. An inundation of celebrities who can afford to spend 3 hours a day in a gym or have a personal trainer following behind them, grabbing cupcakes from their hands and replacing with celery stalks. The pictures you see in advertisements, are so heavily manipulated without regard to the damage it inflicts to the masses (especially, our youth) who cannot disassociate; this constant barrage of unrealistic imagery pounded daily into their brains via advertising and fashion fucktards who have set the bar to: Size 3 ass, Cup C tits, no wrinkles or gray hair at 35 like it is normal, healthy and achievable without fairy dust and unicorn granted wishes. It is disgusting, these skeletons that walk around with little to no body shape. But we all want to be one, just like Mr. Rainbow Pants, who cant bear to swim against the stream. Patti Smith was in a documentary I watched the other night, looking old. Grey hair, visible mustache, wrinkly skin, but fuck off, it was Patti Smith and she doesn't give a fuck what you think. As she should. As we all should. I cheered loudly.

Reality is that most people don't give a shit about how you look, unless you happen to be 600lbs. too large and your only hope for rescue from a bed ridden state is some reality TV show. Even then they only care as much because its a train wreck, empathy flew out the door with "OMFG, look at HIM". If you are really doing something for yourself, change your lifestyle. In twenty years do you still see yourself running ten miles a day? Find a better way, traffic is bad any way, you are potentially setting yourself up to be run over then it won't matter if you had an extra 5lbs, in fact, if you had been fatter you might have had enough cushion to keep your knee damaging ass alive.

Eat some pie, just don't eat the whole goddamn thing.
Walk somewhere occasionally, instead of taking a car.
This should be easy for pretty much ALL of us.

Some of you have given birth, your activity level has decreased since having to rush to seven classes, five days a week, heart beat racing from the stress of trying to remember if you did the homework assigned; molecular makeup and chemical processes have changed you with age. It's why you can't have twinkies for breakfast everyday and not see the result in your thighs. It's why you have grey hair, your teeth darken, skin requires more lotion. We all go through it. Can we not just move past combatting these fairy-tale issues together, so that we are not wasting money on needless and potentially more damaging processes (affordable plastic surgery payment plans) to keep an eternal youthful image, which is so illogical it smells like vanilla scented cherubs.

I am 35 and getting older. I do not look like I did when I was 21. I never will. Am cool with this. Seriously. You cannot take a generic chart and plot my health upon it, because part of that equation is how I feel (physically and psychologically), not just my measurements. I am fast approaching the age where women start dying their hair, to cover the grey and you know what... I don't fucking want to. I see what you have to go through, the amount of money you spend on this one task alone. Why do I have to join your group, can't you join mine? Why is it such a big fucking deal. WHAT IS THE BIG FUCKING DEAL I HAVE GREY HAIR NOT CANCER.

Can't we just be happy with how we look and feel? Cant we find some way to get exercise that makes us happy, is reasonable, and doesn't require the kind of dedication scientists devote to finding the cure for AIDS? It just seems too fucking overblown to me. I get the desire to feel better, even I want to feel better. But if that equates to spending an hour of my time, five days a week, doing some monotonous boring activity and giving up ice cream, fuck it.
Instead of taking the car to the corner store, 5 blocks away, walk. Hit a racquetball. Take some dance lessons and practice with your partner every night over a bottle of wine and samples of cheese. Don't eat processed food. Turn off the television. Remind yourself to be happy, in every state of being your mind and body are at: rest, movement, and in transition. Stress will kill you faster than fat. Quite honestly, you are lucky to have simply woken up from the night before. Celebrate. It really is, that much of a miracle.

Rant: Over.
Lunch: Pasta. Throughly, enjoyed.
Dinner: Chicken, red wine and laughter. Can't wait.

I love you all, by the way, and I don't give a fuck what you look like.
Just don't smell like pee.

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