To the precisely two followers left here, hello. I am alive. I am still fat. Still living the leggings and cupcake life. Still self-deprecating. Still living the dream.
I thought I would get on here and post something, anything because I am actually seriously working on my satirical memoir. I am a little rusty in the writing department so I figured I should practice writing by posting more often than every other two years.
Recently, I decided I haven’t seen enough of the rugged Nevada countryside, nor have I been on enough hikes (the last time I went on a hike I almost died from Burst Lung Due to Lack of Use. It’s a real diagnosis. Look it up. Just kidding, but really, I almost hyperventilated at least 20 times. So…that’s probably why I haven’t been on a hike since).
So, today, I got up in enough time to make some nutritious oatmeal (don’t tell anyone it was loaded with brown sugar), filled up my dusty Nalgene, and found my running shoes that were in the deep recesses of my closet.
I dragged a friend and myself up to the Galena Creek Trail off the Mount Rose Highway. Continue reading “These Hiking Boots Were Made For Quittin'”
I’m working on a post on Friday at 1 in the afternoon*, because I’ve been in bed for two days still feeling like I’m swinging in a yoga silk. Ugh.
It started last week. At the end of class, when we wrapped up like fat vampires (well, I’m the fat vampire) to cool down, the new instructor moved us so we spun in our coffins of carnival-ride-hell. It was absolutely terrible. Terrible.
Just thinking about it now makes me want to vom. Ugh. Bleck!
This past Wednesday, I asked the instructor not to make me sway *there it is again. Excuse me while I calm down my gag reflex*
Everything was fine until she forgot. She realized just seconds later and got me to stop moving, but the damage was already done.
That whole night I had dreams of all sorts of nauseating things. I’d detail them, but I just can’t without my head spinning.
The next morning, I barely got out of the shower alive. I’m a real wuss when it comes to fitness and committing to eating plans, but I’m simply not one to call in sick all the time. However, there was just no way I’d make it in. I could barely stand for five minutes without feeling like I was in a fun house of horrors.
As a teacher, it’s usually just easier to suffer through the pain than to put in for a sub, create last minute sub plans, and ask your already-overworked-fellow teachers to help you out.
This meme knows:
However, sometimes it’s the difference between barfing during your Number Talk and barfing with dignity in the privacy of your own bathroom.
Already, long story short, I think aerial yoga is making me motion sick.
Seriously, this just fucking figures.
Right when I feel my body feeling tighter. Right when my arms have less swing. Right when I’m feeling a definition in my sausage legs, the fitness that can be thanked for this miraculous change makes me physically ill.
I try to get fit, but fit don’t want this.
Fuck it all. Seriously.
In other news, I guess there are worse things than fitness being attributed to sudden illness, because I got a message on Plenty of Fish by… Adult Baby
Friends, when I received my first message from this “guy”, I thought he was the first truly honest dude on a dating site.
Instead of finding out after you’re already invested, he’s kind enough to lay it all out, right in his username. Adult Baby says to me: I will pour myself a bowl of cereal, get more on the table and floor than in my bowl, and I won’t even notice. I can’t hold down a job, unless posting horribly written Yelp reviews about massage parlors that offer happy endings counts as a job. You will have to clean up after me, because I’ve never bought a cleaning supply in my life. Not even a trash can. Is that a cleaning supply?
This is what I thought. For a quick minute, I thought maybe he was kind of secretly smart and almost kind for being just so outright about his immaturity.
Then, the term “Adult Baby” was explained to me. I’ll never be the same again.
Just google it. Just.google.it. It doesn’t happen a lot, but I’m speechless
I am pretty much convinced that every dude on every dating site out there just wants to get in your pants or they want you to change their pants.
I’ll pass.
I thought for a quick minute that maybe they weren’t all creeps, because I was talking to a really intelligent and witty guy. It was more than just talking. We met for drinks and he took me to sushi. Other than talking way too much and being incredibly long-winded, he seemed like someone I could really see myself getting to know. He knew how to form a complete sentence. He knew who Gary Oldman was. He had a job. It seemed like a win. When I didn’t respond to his endless sexual innuendo jokes that obviously meant he was trying to talk sex, he was suddenly not interested. Cool, bro.
They seem to all be like this. He didn’t even get it…
I’m just…
I don’t even know. Maybe I’ll know in my next blog post.
Well, I’m off to Google, “exercise that won’t make me motion sick” and to delete the dating site apps on my phone. Or, do I keep them for the sole purpose of endless entertainment?
What a varied and exciting life I lead. *Obviously it’s not Friday anymore. Even more obviously, I’m a total procrastinator and didn’t finish my post on said Friday.
Today I went to get my hooves polished. It occurred to me during the pedicure that there ought to be a list of things to do and not do when you go for a pedicure. Touching someone else’s feet is almost an intimate thing, and like when you are readying for a passionate night of lovin’, it is always a good idea to do some prepping beforehand. Thus, my list of Pedicure Etiquette was born.
Do:
Shave your legs the day prior (it is misinformation to shave the day of a pedicure-unless you want to look like you have the plague the next day. Fresh skin and salt or sugar scrub don’t mix).
Shave your legs at least a week beforehand. No one wants to rub lotion into your leg-fro.
Perhaps do a little pruning before your appointment. Whipping out 3 inch-long toe nails is just dangerous for everyone involved.
Maybe shave your toes. Pretty mint and gold polish on Burt-Reynolds-toenails is the epitome of an oxymoron.
Don’t:
Stare blindly, in massage ecstasy, at the pedicurist while they are gently massaging between your toes. It brings to mind the line, “It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.” Just no.
Sit spread eagle. I have never had to sit down wind, so I am just assuming when I say- it has the potential to be unpleasant.
Wear leggings with a hole in the crotch, because, it shouldn’t be obvious that your legs aren’t the only thing you are letting go au naturel.
Eat a burrito beforehand.
Really, I just feel bad for my pedicurist, because I never follow these rules. I just want to apologize now to whoever has the distinct pleasure of working with my old man ankles for feet. I really am truly sorry. I would say I feel your pain, but feet are nasty, and I would never do what you do. You are all basically saints. I’ve been trying to put lotion on them more often. Can you tell?
