The Dieting Chronicles of Dumpy Von Marshmallow Waist and Duchess McMilkshakes: Weeks 3 & 4

A week or so late and a lot of dollars short, here we are with our Thanksgiving update. We might also be late posting, because the diet struggle bus got caught in traffic in Eat Everything Even When You’re Full and Fat Food Town.

Shit doesn’t work…

How was Thanksgiving? Did you eat your weight in pie?

A: Thanksgiving was SO good!! I didn’t eat my weight in pie but I drank it in wine and other various cocktails (evidently, I forgot I was 36, and had to be up real early the next day). There only ended up being 8 of us, but we ate and drank and laughed until no noise came out. I had everything I wanted and didn’t feel guilty for a single second. It was legitimately the best day I’ve had in months!

When you get to laugh like this with your family, you’re winning at life (plus, it’s a great ab workout).

K: Damn near. I started out the day trying to be really disciplined, though, so I made diet pumpkin cinnamon rolls that are supposed to be only 3 Weight Watchers points per roll for breakfast.

Spoiler Alert: My boyfriend has requested that if I promise cinnamon rolls again they not be made with Greek yogurt and pumpkin purée.

He was not a fan, and if I’m being honest, they were not worth driving to my parents’ house to borrow a rolling pin because I don’t own one and then having to knead weird Greek yogurt-y dough.

After the disappointment of not-sweet-at-all cinnamon rolls, it was game time when dinner rolled around. I basically stuffed myself silly. I barely even came up to breathe mid-bite. I guess what I’m thankful for this year is not asphyxiating at the Thanksgiving dinner table.

I inhaled this plate in record time. It would have been embarrassing had I not been so amazed/impressed with myself.

How is the diet going, by the way?

A: Soooooo I kinda hate it. Not the diet itself; Weight watchers is fine, and probably the least sadistic diet in the industry at the moment. What I hate is the fact that I can’t behave like a normal person around food, so I have to call on other people (who also can’t act right) to tell me what to do. It’s bullshit. You want to know what else is bullshit?! If I want to shop at normal stores, and not have Omar The Tent Maker design my wedding dress, I’m going to have to follow some sort of program for the rest of my life. I could sit and eat an entire container of Oreos just thinking about it.

K: I think I’m doing half alright, actually*

*This was more than a week ago.

RED ALERT. NOT DOING ALRIGHT.

I’m struggling HARD. The abso-fucking-lute worse time to start a diet is during the holidays? What was I thinking? This was my dinner and drink of choice this past Friday night:

Fried and more fried. Not a wise choice.
I almost count this as medicinal after the week I had, so…

And then it just kind of spiraled out of control the rest of the weekend, because once fries tough my lips it’s OVER.

Le sigh.

Was it hard to get back on the stinking, sucky ass diet horse after the biggest eating holiday of the year?

A: It took me an extra day to get back to it because Friday I felt like a bag of smashed assholes, and I needed grease and sleep; rinse, lather and repeat. Then, I made the mistake of weighing myself, and magically found it much easier to get back to it. On any given day I can fluctuate 2-4 pounds just in water and how full I am anyway, so let’s just say the number wasn’t great. For the record, I would do it all again (hangover and all) because it was good for my soul to be with the people I love, and disconnect from the day-to-day nonsense for a few glorious hours.

K: See above.

What are you hating right now about this diet thing?

A: In theory it’s a great plan. They make healthier foods zero points in hopes you’ll choose things like eggs and veggies over a 12 point donut for breakfast thus staying fuller for longer, and giving your overworked, over-caffeinated body some of the things it actually needs. The problem is, I find myself skipping healthier options in order to make room for the naughtier ones. A glazed donut is 12 points. My favorite yogurt with almonds and a scoop of protein is 8 points. The donut always wins.

K: Three things:

1. I hate leftover chicken with my entire being. The second you reheat it, it takes on a whole new flavor that activates my gag reflex. In order to force it down, I drown it in BBQ sauce. It used to be “free” to dip your chicken in the sweet sauce, now it’s not. Because chicken is a “free” food, I’m eating chicken all the time. I’m just gagging as I eat every meal. It’s great.

Literally me, cooking chicken, knowing it’s gonna taste like garbage when I eat it for lunch the next day.

(I’m still dipping my chicken in BBQ sauce and not counting it and Weight Watchers can suck it.)

2. How much spaghetti squash can one person eat? Because, I think I’m at the lifetime limit already. IJUSTWANTSOMEFUCKINGPASTAALRIGHT.

3. Cauliflower rice is not rice. Like, not even remotely close to being rice. Frankly, I’m appalled.

Anything you’re loving?

A: Love is a pretty strong word to describe a diet. I love that I might not die of diabetes if I lose 40 more pounds. I appreciate that my pants fit better. Which brings me to another point: How did I ever wear said pants before this, when they are still so tight now? I think they were holding on for dear life and no one had the heart to tell me my cellulite was showing. But yeah, there’s no love here. Just broccoli and my attitude.

K: I love the idea that I am heading in a healthier direction. I love that my pants are a teeny, tiny bit looser. I love that I look a little more you-know-I-don’t-think-she’s-pregnant-I-think-she-just-ate-a-burrito-for-lunch. Also, I LOVE eating poached eggs for breakfast instead of a bagel smothered in cream cheese.

(The last one is a lie.)

Walking past the bad stuffs we really want bad, trying not to scream

How are ya’ll doing? Anyone trying to diet now? How’s it treatin’ ya? Let us know in the comments!

The Dieting Chronicles of Dumpy von Marshmallow Waist and Duchess McMilkshakes*

Ya’ll, the weight loss motivation is finally getting serious up in here! (Right in time for all of the delicious Thanksgiving and Christmas season goodies. Smart.)

I’ve found me a Weight Watchers girlfriend and she’s funny lady, Amanda AKA Duchess McMilkshakes. She doesn’t have a blog yet, but I’m slowly chipping away at her apprehension to put her funny out into the world. For the time being, we are going to collab on a Weight Watchers weight loss adventure.

We each signed up for Weight Watchers (again) and took our ‘before’ photos (that, for the time being, will live in the privacy of our phones and in the minds of our lucky men). We are so ready to take this bitch DOWN.

Well, at least we are ready to not eat cake for breakfast *everyday*.

Because all of you lucky people already know so too much about me (and it’s about to get even more TMI) I’m just going to share Amanda’s bio. But, here’s my selfie in case you forgot what I looked like:

My two chins and my sassy cousin.

Throwback to when my daughter stayed in one spot for more than 10 seconds, and I could get my hair and makeup done. It’s one or the other now and I almost never pick makeup. I’m grateful every single morning for eyelash extensions.

My name is Amanda, and I’m a 36 year old mom to the sweetest angel on the planet, who inadvertently destroyed my bladder and waistline. I’m currently on a mission (with the help of my friend, Katie) to get fit, which hasn’t been easy because I love food and hate exercise. Let’s be honest, I didn’t get this round by eating apples and walking everywhere. Oh, and did I mention that my dude is a chef? Like an actual, classically trained chef who makes delicious food and couldn’t care less how fat I am as long as he gets to see me naked once in a while? It feels insurmountable some days, but I’ve mustered up the courage to give it another shot. This journey isn’t going to be easy, but I’m excited to share it with everyone- the good, the bad, and the funny. Let the hilarity ensue.

I don’t care that there is a mystery period in the middle of the sentence, this meme is our brains on bacon, ya’ll.

Random fun facts:

K: *I’m obnoxiously long-winded. Oh wait, we all knew that already.

*When I was a toddler, I used to get into the splits to stand up. I went on to do gymnastics for several years. You’d never know any of this after seeing me get off the couch or out of bed in the morning, though.

A: *I am 8 months postpartum and I still weigh over two bills. ‘How far over’ you ask? Far enough that I’d need to be seven feet tall for me to have a healthy BMI.
*I have contemplated teaching my baby and or dogs how to tie shoes so that I don’t have to pass out every time I bend over because I can’t fucking breathe.

Why are you losing weight?

A: I want to Beverly Goldberg the shit out of my daughter, and I can’t do that if my heart explodes because I can’t stop putting half and half on my Apple Jacks. Seriously though, you gotta try it.

K: I’m pretty sick of my bingo wings swinging like huge bull balls when I write things on the board at work. I’m really worried one or both might get carried away and knock a kid out one day.

What makes this time different?

A: Honestly, I don’t know if this time will be the magic time I get my shit together and stick to a diet, but I do know that I’m not comfortable settling for elastic waistbands and angled selfies so that only 1.5 chins show. Unfortunately, Snapchat hasn’t made a flower wreath to flatter my waddle, so I need a new plan of action.

K: I’m just gonna be real TMI here. Last weekend, I was getting into the shower. It wasn’t a hair-washing day, so I had my super sexy shower cap on. I look completely and utterly ridiculous in the thing, but it does the job, so I guess I’ll have to accept looking like a beached whale at the salon.

I was leaned down, completely naked, getting the water temperature right. All of a sudden, I hear a noise that sounded exactly like Tina Belcher saying, “Butt”, so, naturally, I figured it was a serial killer who somehow managed to break in in broad daylight while the dude and I were at home. A split second later, I realized it was my boyfriend imitating Tina Belcher and I screamed, “Don’t, you asshole!” and slammed the door in his face.

From the other side of the door comes his voice, “What the hell? I just said ‘butt’. I saw your butt, so I said ‘butt’.”

Yeah, he saw my totally-in-need-of-a-serious-waxing-job butt in the bright light of morning. He probably also noticed my second ass (more on that later) and the fact that my back rolls have back rolls. Thankfully, since my rear end was facing him, he didn’t see my stomach eating my entire lower half.

That’s what I thought in my head. He probably just saw the ass he (for some strange reason) loves, but in my head what he saw was something so frightful, so grotesque, it pissed me off that he snuck up on me when I wasn’t prepared or almost fully clothed and in the dark.

That mental narrative needs to stop.

What was the breaking point? The cherry on top? The straw that broke the camel’s back?

A: Some of the kids in my Pre-K class asked when I’m having my baby. Granted, they’re 4 and 5 years old, but the fact they think I’m 72 weeks pregnant is a real problem.

K: Probably when I saw my second ass for the first time. What is a second ass you ask? Well, it’s a secondary butt within one’s primary butt. Usually, at least in my case, your second ass looks like two chicken cutlets with a bad case of cellulite that have been glued smack dab in the bottom middle part of the dominant ass. I noticed it while I was leaning on the counter brushing my teeth (because that task is really tiring, obvi) and because the full-length mirror was lined up perfectly with the vanity mirror, the stars aligned and- bam- I saw it, clear as day. I always thought I only had one butt.

Biggest irrational diet fear?

A: I believe, wholeheartedly, that being fat is God’s way of keeping me humble. If I were thin, I’d run around in two tassels and a leaf in the middle of winter with zero fucks given. I’m afraid that if I ever get in shape I’m going to have to have my ho phase at 36, with a new baby. It’s not gonna be a good look.

K: My most irrational fear is that I’m going to like this diet thing and turn into someone who prefers bullshit like kale brownies over fried Devil’s food cake donuts. Like, what if I become that annoying person someone made the meme “Just shut up and eat your salad, you whore” about? (I added that last part. I think that meme needed an extra touch of sass.) I can’t become that person. Fatty McSpaghetti Squash just doesn’t have the right ring.

What do you think you’ll miss most when you change your lifestyle?

A: I think I’ll miss the comfort that comes with old habits. Sometimes, the need to feel better outweighs the need to fit into skinny jeans.

K: I’m gonna miss just being a total fool about food. There’s something really freeing about not knowing or caring about how many calories or points something is. As awesome as it is to wake up and know your food plans for the day are limitless, it becomes a problem by the end of the day when you’re eating as much as a running back that does zero running and gets out of breath doing the brownie dishes.


We have some exciting weight loss topics to explore and some insane ideas for fitness in store. Let us know what you want to know more about. What would you like to see us do in the name of getting fit (because we are pretty much down to do anything ridiculous if we can write about it)? How can we embarrass ourselves to help you? Let us know in the comments.

*Amanda found this website where you can find your weight loss name to um…inspire you. If being named Greasy McBacon Thighs doesn’t get someone to eat a salad, I don’t know what will.

WTF Wednesday: When Do I Ever Get a Cupcake?

I’ve been deciding it’s high time to get my act together, diet-wise (Want to guess how many times I’ve said that exact statement? Hint- a fuck load). I haven’t quite come down from my vacation eat-everything-I-possibly-can mode. I’ve totally been living the vacation food life sans the walking miles everyday aspect of that life, so the pounds really have the ability to pack on.

Literally me every time food was in front of my fat face on my trip.

I’ve probably gained at least five pounds since I’ve been home. I have no idea, though. My scale is propped behind my bathroom door with two inches of dust on it, because The Boyfriend doesn’t sweep behind the door, if we’re pointing fingers here, AND because I’m Anti-Scale. When my jeans fit again, I’ll know I’ve lost weight.

My blog buddy and sister from another mister, Cinzia, suggested we be diet accountability partners on MyFitnessPal.

Because I love the ever-loving-shit out of Cinzia and because I finally deleted my Weight Watchers app that I’ve been paying $20 a month for for the better part of a year, yet wasn’t even using, I was happy to agree.

We arranged to share each other’s food diary by way of a passcode. Essentially, she was able to see all of the ridiculous shit I put in my mouth and I could see how many pieces of lettuces she ate and miles she ran in a day.

It was great fun. Here is a rundown of some of the things I might have said to her about her diet:

“Wow. No dessert again. You’re doing that everyday now? Is that a thing?”

“You ran five miles? Are those the same kind of miles we have over here in the states?”

“AREN’T YOU EVEN HUNGRY?”

Now, here are some things she probably said (I can’t be certain. People say a lot of things to me everyday. So…):

“Girl, did you really eat a donut for breakfast on the first day of tracking?”

“You did so good all day. Well, except somewhere around ‘Taco Bell Nachos and Large DQ Cookie Dough Blizzard’.

And…

“What exactly does ‘small bite of entire Cheesecake Factory Chocolate Hazelnut Crunch cheesecake’ mean?”

Basically, I’m utterly failing.

Here’s the deal, and I’m just gonna be real forthright and candid with ya’ll.

When do I ever get a cupcake, though?

With MyFitnessPal, you get the calories you get and you don’t throw a fit (Except, I did throw a fit. I threw a full blown fatty fit, complete with legit crying over not getting to eat a chocolate cream pie * ever again).

This is why these kinds of diets and eating plans don’t work with me. I need to know that eventually I can have a cheat fry or two. Or, that the cupcake I inhaled on one of my students’ birthdays doesn’t mean my entire diet for the day/week/month is derailed.

I need some wiggle room, ya’ll.

I’ve mentioned quite a few times the success I had on Weight Watchers (like, 50 pound-weight-loss-success).

This is why:

You get extra weekly points.

This may sound like an excuse to eat what you shouldn’t on a “diet”, but hear me out…

If you strictly follow your daily allotted points, your weekly points don’t hurt your progress.

They don’t make hurt your progress, ya’ll.

As long as you track and don’t go balls to the wall insane, you can lose weight while enjoying the occasional french fry or 20 or the odd cupcake or three.

So, what I’m really saying is restrictive af diets aren’t my jam and life is way too sucky to not eat cupcakes.

I mean, right?

So, if you’re reading this, and I kinda think you are, I have a question for you, Cinzia…

Will you be my Weight Watchers Girl Friend?

I totally will only be a little sad if you want to stay with MyFitnessPal since he’s done a body good. I just don’t think he’s that into me and I miss my cupcake points.

Now, I just need to find the willpower to sign back up with Weight Watchers and count my points without cheating, and I’ll be on the right track to losing this is-she-preggers-or-just-fat belly.

The struggle is real, folks.

What diets or food plans have worked for you and if you say paleo or keto totally works without cheating ever, I want your proof! For realz, show me it’s doable and I’ll maybe consider it…

*whispers* No, I won’t.

The Fatty in Denial Diet Shtick

In case you haven’t caught the 872 times I’ve mentioned my trip coming up, I’m heading across the pond in just a little more than a week!
Way back in January, after making our first of many house stay reservations and the like, I remember thinking, “Well, shit, I can’t go on this trip with these fat rolls and bingo wings!”
Thus began what I call The Fatty in Denial Diet Shtick.
It’s a cyclical shit show of epic proportions. It’s something I do every time I have a reason to “finally” lose the weight. It’s a really fun game, amusement, joke.
Step 1: Realization
OMG! Amsterdam can’t know I’m fat!
It’s not like my thighs conducting heat when they are rubbed together as I walk or the fact that my jeans (when I wear the fuckers) have cut a permanent line into my fat don’t remind me of my overly bodacious bod, but the realization that I’ll be fat in another time zone and completely out of my comfort zone usually snaps me right back to cold, hard reality.
Step 2: The Game Plan
It’s time to finally get serious and open the Weight Watchers app I’m paying $20 a month for.
No more soda. No more white bread. No more sugar. No more happiness. Quit crying.
Join a damn gym or at least go to a yoga class once a week, shit.
Walk every day. Literally, rain or fucking shine.
Do leg lifts and squats while my students are testing. They won’t think I’m weird. I mean, they pick their noses literally while staring me down, so we’ll be even.
Buy diet pills on Amazon. All of the legit diet pills come from Mexico.
Take B-12 drops. They give me horrific gas, but too.freaking.bad.
All of the diet and fitness ideas and quick fixes found on Pinterest are explored. No obese stone can be left unturned.
Step 3: Actually Acting on the Plan
After making really big plans and promises that totally aren’t unrealistic at all, I settle on just counting Weight Watchers points and walking. It’s what worked ten years ago, when I was young. It’ll totally work now.
I usually set off with gusto, buying pounds of $60 coconut flour, enough carrot sticks for a horse show, a pallet of eggs, and 18 spaghetti squash (squashes?).

I was taking-a-fitness-picture-for-Instagram-serious about getting my fitness on.
Step 4: Going Hard and Heavy
…for a week.
Right as it starts getting really shitty and downright depressing that my days start with farty eggs and boring coffee, I start to relax the rules a little bit give up completely.
That totally looks like a cup. Well, maybe just a little more and it’ll be a cup (it’s usually three cups)
Granola is better than a glazed cake donut, so…
One bite is like no points at all. Yes, even when I take 15 bites. 15 zero point bites is still zero. I know math.
Step 5: Counting the Amount of Days Remaining Before the Event
If I have several months before I need to lose the weight, I can relax on the diet, because losing 20 pounds in a month is totally doable.
Why the hell am I already making myself miserable? I don’t need to start really getting serious for at least another month or two.
Step 6: An Upper Cut to the Double Chin AKA Sabotage
After months of telling myself I have “x amount of months” until I need to really get serious, it’s now D-Day. Inevitably, the following will occur to derail any semblance of the perfect diet plan I made so many moons ago, when I was still young and full of hope:
Birthdays
Holidays
Teacher Appreciation Week
Movies
Donuts in the staff lounge
National Pizza Day
The kick off to Food Truck Friday
92 I-had-a-bad-day-Costco-sized-popcorn-and-Reese’s-Pieces pig outs
Sunday Brunch
Friday
Monday
A new donut shop within walking distance

I can’t go to the movies and not get popcorn. Like, it’s against the natural order of things. The popcorn is not in the picture, because I ate it before the movie even started.
Step 7: Defeat and Denial
Once the day that I-can-still-maybe-lose-a-few-pounds-if-I-really-try-hard comes and goes with a cloud of Cheetos dust, the defeat and denial sets in.
I mean, it’s pointless now, so I might as well eat those cupcakes I saw in the staff lounge.
Half of a watermelon in one sitting is healthy.
I gave it the old college try.
Step 8: Fuck Yo Couch
So what if I didn’t lose any weight? I didn’t gain any either. So, I basically met my goal. Europe is gonna get whatever body I give it, dammit.
Step 9: There’s Always Next Time
This one doesn’t even need a description.


In order to not disrupt the fragile space-time continuum, these steps are on an infinite loop until the end of time.
Do you follow the same steps? Did I miss one? Share your tips for not losing weight or getting in shape for an important event or milestone in your life. I can’t wait to hear how else I can fail miserably!

Zumba, Zumba

You know, I really ought to finally give up on my dream to be a surprise breakout dancer.
I never learn from past fails, because time goes by and I forget all about when I was drunk dancing and thought I was the sexiest, smoothest dancer on the dance floor, but then I see the video one of my asshole friends took and I just look like a meth head really enjoying some fresh meth*.
THEN, I see a movie, like The Greatest Showman, and BAM! I’m determined to be the next America’s Got Talent breakout star.
I’d totally be a viable contender on Dancing With the Stars, too, except:
I’m not a star.
I have as much rhythm as a flag pole.
My body is entirely incapable of quick movements.
Well, since I have dance-shame amnesia, I took a Zumba class with a friend on Sunday. The only saving grace this time was that said friend is just as coordinated as I am.
Not surprisingly, we claimed a spot in the back corner, behind some old mats and a mop bucket. Absolutely not in front of the mirror and definitely not where anyone else could see us.
The class started out promisingly well, because they turned the lights off and added some strobe effects. Even better to disguise ourselves.
As soon as the music came on, the instructor busted out moves straight from a Shakira/Rihanna/J. Lo/Zendaya collaboration music video, choreographed by the dance gods.
Uhhhhh.
Back when I first did Zumba in Elko, the instructor would teach us the steps. I think she figured we were all inept, or maybe Zumba used to be more about actually learning a few moves versus trying to mimic a professional dancer with our strange, not-even-close movements.
Honestly, I think Zumba is now all about the instructors really feeling themselves and not caring that the fat chick in the back is 20 steps behind and looks exactly like Tina Belcher from Bob’s Burgers.

My friend and I just looked at each other and laughed, like, “NOPE!”
We tried (for awhile). We really did, but my hips do lie and they are never going to be mistaken for the hips of a gay Latin Zumba instructor.

During one of the songs, the group shifted so that half of the room faced the other half. Pretty quickly, I realized that we were taking part in a dance off.
Oh, hell no. Nope. NERP.
Not only did we have to engage in a dance off, the instructor started pointing at people, which meant, “OK, now let’s ALL look at this ONE person while they do a made up move they they come up with RIGHT ON THE FUCKING SPOT.”
I almost hyperventilated and fainted from fright right there.
For self-preservation purposes, I stood right behind a woman who looked like she knew what she was doing. I was literally on her heels and mimicking her every move so as not to be seen. I’m fairly certain a bead of her sweat flew straight into my eye, but it was worth it to not be called out.
Eventually, the asshole instructor was done giving the inept people cardiac arrest and the *dancers* moved back to their original spots.
That’s when I noticed him.
Now, I must preface what I’m about to say with the urging that I’m not making fun of this person. I’m really not. He just looked like the opposite of someone who would be at Zumba on a Sunday. This just goes to show that even when you look like you’d be the absolute worst twerker, you can really surprise people with your expert booty popping.
So, this awesome guy…he had curly, but thin-on-top hair and coke bottle glasses (on purpose). He was chubby, but it looked really good on him. He had on one of those “Straight Outta…” shirts.
I really wanted it to say “Straight Outta Nachos”, but when I finally got a good look, it said “Straight Outta Rehearsal”. That’s not even half as awesome.
He also could move his body in the most amazing way. I was jealous and felt instantly self-conscious. He was truly glorious and I was just a sack of potatoes rolling down a steep staircase.
I think what this all boils down to is that when you’ve got it, you’ve got it. When you don’t, it’s time to quit embarrassing yourself at Zumba.
*I have no clue what being on meth is called. Is it a trip? A high? Help me out, people.
The following are some really blurry stills from a video taken during the wine walk. We were dancing in a cage, if that’s not immediately obvious. It was the direct opposite of talented or sexy. In fact, we’re only allowed back if we promise not to drunk dance ever again.


Poop Happens

What is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?
Maybe it was that time you didn’t notice your skirt was caught in your underwear after using the restroom, so everyone in the office saw that you were wearing your faded, hole-y Tuesday underwear on a Wednesday.
Maybe it was when you thought your crush was waving to you from across the hall at school, so you thought you’d be daring and give a seductive, yet girly pouty wave, but he was waving to Marci. The bitch.
Maybe it’s a series of moments, like every time the box office assistant says, “Enjoy your movie!” and you respond with, “You too.”
My most embarrassing moment, up until a few days ago, was the time I got my lady business in 6th grade and didn’t know what to do. I had to wear my huge puffy jacket around my middle all while playing it off like I meant to wear a hot pink polar bear around my waist, as I moved around the classroom accidentally brushing people’s papers and pencils off their desks.
A few days ago, I went to the chiropractor for the first time. A local chiropractor was offering a $20 spine assessment, so I thought, “Why the hell not?”
Surprisingly, my most Embarrassing Moment of 2017 did not occur in the chiropractor’s office (which is a real shocker, because I was sure I’d choose the exact moment he was pulling on my feet to really embarrass myself. I was sure that’d happen to me).
No. The moment that will be forever etched on my mind and played in a loop in my subconscious, occurred precisely five minutes after leaving the chiropractor’s office.
I don’t know if the manipulation he did on my lower back set something in motion, or loosened things up too much, or what, but as I was driving down a quiet, gas station-lacking street, it hit me.
I’m sure you all know the feeling.
You know.
The feeling when your bowels suddenly have a seizure or a rave or whatever, and the need to get to a bathroom is sweaty and urgent.
I’ve had this happen to me before while driving.
I’ve always been able to simultaneously find my inner zen while driving like an Indy 500 driver on crack.
I’ve always made it home to the comfort and judgement-free environment of my own bathroom.
This time was different.
I don’t know if it’s age. Or karma. Or just luck. But I was left frantically scanning the street for a private-looking tree.
It was that bad.
Can I really resort to pooping behind a tree in a neighborhood? What if someone sees me and calls the police? Is there such a thing as a public defecation law? What if I get arrested? WHAT IF I GET ARRESTED FOR POOPING BEHIND A TREE IN A NICE NEIGHBORHOOD?
Then, I wondered how bad it’d be if I didn’t make it to an actual bathroom and it happened in my car.
Jeezus.
Bad. Real bad.
I’d have to throw the whole car away.
As my sweaty hands were sliding off my steering wheel, and my hair was matting to my head, and my bowels were imitating a whale’s mating call, I came upon a luxury apartment complex.
I’d been there once before when looking for an apartment with a friend. They were laughably beyond our price range.
They’d have to do.
I veered off the road and into a “future tenant” parking spot on two tires. I don’t think I even put my car in park.
Shit.was.dire.
It was far past regular business hours, so I figured I’d just have to find a big rock or a large bush. Or, maybe I’d just black out.
Somehow, beyond all understanding, the door to the lobby was open.
In my peripheral, I saw a woman in an office to the right. She was talking on the phone.
I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t look. I just prayed that if I didn’t see her, she wouldn’t see me.
As I was practically flying across the room, I had a very profound realization that it was entirely likely that, despite how close I was to salvation, I was probably going to poop my pants.
I was going to poop my pants.
I tried not to think about how I looked literally holding my bottom (like that’d make any difference) as I was racing across the lobby of a ritzy luxury apartment complex.
Somehow, my survival instincts (or just good memory) helped direct me to where I needed to go.
Glory be to God, I made it to the restroom.
I.didn’t.even.use.a.seat.cover.
It was that close.
Guys, since we’ve come this far, and I’ve been so candid up till now, I might as well tell you that I was 100% sure that I had crapped my pants. Literally sure of it.
Well, all of those times I took my cart back to the cart corral, all of the recycling I’ve done, and all of the times I didn’t yell at incompetent drivers really racked up my karma.
My pants were safe.
Just as the realization and relief that I was still someone who could honestly say they’d never pooped in their pants sunk in, the reality of my situation smacked me right in the face.
What’s that sound? Oh.my.god. It sounds like an alarm. The woman in the office thinks I’m a crazy street person and she’s set off the alarm. The police are going to come.
I was shaking and sweating buckets as I sat on the toilet, terrified, waiting for security to bust in.
They’ll be sickened. Disgusted. Maybe they’ll just feel sorry for me and leave me to my shame?
As I sat and waited for my fate, I realized nobody was coming, at least not immediately. I heard no voices. No doors opening. Nothing.
So, maybe that’s not the alarm? Maybe I’ve lucked out? But, how am I going to explain myself when I need to make my eventual walk of shame?
I needed a good excuse for why I practically busted down their door and then ran, pinched cheeks, for the bathroom.
I’ll act like I’m interested in an apartment. Yeah. That’s it.
I figured it was the only viable excuse. I imagined myself leaning against the doorway, hair still matted to my forehead, as I said, mid-burp, “Uh. Yeah. I was wondering if you had any one bedrooms available?”
Totally buyable.
I realized that whoever was in the office was likely waiting for me, so I begrudgingly readied myself to be seen.
After I scrubbed up like a surgeon (it was the only way I’d feel half clean), I apprehensively cracked the door and peered out.
No angry office woman in a Liz Claiborne pant suit. No Super Burrito security guard. No one.
In fact, the lobby area looked rather dark, and it was at this point I realized the door to the bathroom was through another set of doors that led into said lobby. In my frenzied poop panic, I must not have noticed that I opened an additional door before entering the bathroom.
I bet she’s gone. Thank you, Baby Jesus. I’ll never think a bad thing about the bums who pee in our alley ever again. I promise.
I was in pretty high hopes as I made to open the door that would release me out of my poop nightmare.
It was locked.
THE DOOR WAS FUCKING LOCKED.
That woman locked me in.
Either she never saw a half-crazed woman fly by doing the poop dance or she did and she purposely locked the door.
You have to be freaking kidding me. I’m locked in here. OMG. I’m going to panic. I’m not even a resident and I’m locked in their lobby bathroom.
HALP!
As it turns out, there was a door further down the hall that lead me outside. I was sure an alarm would go off when I opened the door, but so far, I haven’t made it on the news.
(I keep thinking I’ll be scrolling through Facebook and I’ll see a local news story titled “Police Still Looking For Woman Who Broke Into Luxury Apartment Complex To Completely Defile Custom Bathroom”.)
As for the “alarm” I heard? It was the air freshener alerting anyone who cared to the fact it was out of freshness. I lost several minutes of my life believing cops would be coming for me, when actually the Odor Blaster 1000 was out of Hawaiian Breeze.
To completely exit the complex, I had to wait for a car to come in through the gated entrance, and then I ran like the wind to my car and burned rubber out of there.
When I got home and had to confess to my boyfriend that why I didn’t have the buns I was supposed to pick up for our chili cheese dogs was because I got momentarily locked in a random apartment lobby bathroom, he asked if he should add Depends (to keep in my car) to the grocery list.
I’m highly considering it.
I thought I’d start the new year out with a bang, ya’ll.

I really needed to know why I almost pooped my pants. I’m kind of scared that spontaneous poop attacks will be my life now. I’m also planning a trip to the Bay Area, so I’m engaging in my usual OCD research.

Aerial Antics

“What’s the weight limit?”
This is the first, most important question when you’re a curvier-than-most kinda gal, and you’re about to suspend your glorious bod on a silk hammock hanging from the ceiling.
I mean, right? That was the very first question that popped into my head when my friend first mentioned aerial yoga. 
Aerial yoga. 
I can’t even type that without chuckling.
Yes, I did aerial yoga. Not once. Not even twice. Three times. I’ve done aerial yoga three times, and for the hesitant, I have yet to yank the silks from the ceiling. That’s winning.
When I asked the instructor (who looked like she was freaking twelve and 100% for sure didn’t have a trace of cellulite any where on her body) what the weight limit was, this was how the exchange went:
Me (whispering): “Oh, um, hey. Uh, what’s, like, the, uh,(voice even lower) weight limit?”
Her: “Oh”
Freaking, “oh”? This chick is trying to give me heart palpitations before we even start doing hard stuff. Bitch.
Me: Just staring, sweating profusely.
If there is a weight limit and I’m over it, I’m just going to go drive my car into a vat of Rocky Road, because, fuck it. 
Her (finally): There’s a weight limit, but it’s like 600 pounds. You’re good.
Could you have maybe led with that, so that I didn’t have to spend 20 excruciating seconds thinking I’d have to leave because I’m too fucking large for hammock yoga?! 
Some people’s kids…
So, I thought I’d, for ease of reading, write three sections, each devoted to my three attempts at aerial yoga. Not only would it be easier to just skip to the part that has the most swear words, thus the more humorous of tries, but each event has been so incredibly different. Each time I was spastic in such varying, unusually interesting (in a I-want-to-study-your-ineptness-because-I’ve-never-seen-someone-not-know-how-to-work-their-adult-body-so-profoundly) ways, it’s almost sad. Except it’s fucking hilarious because it wasn’t you. It was me.
Attempt 1:
A friend from work first asked me to join her and her sister-in-law in aerial (every time I attempt to type “aerial”, my phone autocorrects it to “areola”. What the heck, phone?) three weeks ago. I was totally down, because, at the very least, I’d have great blog material.
Good Lord Almighty. 
I thought my friend would be more like me. As in, ridiculously inept and inflexible. In fact, I’m fairly certain she said she wasn’t very good at being limber on a yoga hammock. Liar! 
For the umpteenth time, I was the fattest, most incapable person in the room. It was OK, though, because I just laughed through the whole thing, so I wasn’t seriously trying to be an agile acrobat. It was all just for the laughs.
I laughed when the instructor modeled some impossible pose that involved wrapping yourself up like a 7 Layer burrito and then flipping yourself over like no big deal.
Ha. Yeah, that’s not happening. 
I laughed when everyone was doing aerial planks, and I face planted.
Ha. I meant to do that. 
I laughed (with relief) when it was finally time to lay in the hammock like an obese caterpillar in its too tight cocoon.
Ha. I made it to the best part of class; the lay down part.
It was a fun class that was spent trying not to look like I was seriously trying to be a real aerial yoga-ist.
Attempt 2:
The second time, I went with another friend from work. This friend has the body of a gymnast and the ass of a Kardashian. She’s uber fit and moves her body like a ballerina. The bitch. I don’t know why I continually put myself in situations where I’m suffocating myself with my stomach fat while she’s glistening gold sweat from her abs. Oh, I know. Because she’s hilarious, and no matter what we do, I get a good ab workout from laughing.
One of the first moves in this particular class involves falling gracefully sideways (while suspended with the silk, obviously), on your tippy toes, as you circle back around.
UH. YEAH RIGHT. 
Little Miss-I-Can-Do-Anything-With-My-Body-and-Look-Fabulous and I both were circling around like drunks trying to look sexy on a stripper pole. It was ridiculous. 
We could not.stop.laughing. I’m fairly certain that I tinkled a tiny bit at one point. Oops.
The rest of the class was actually more success than failure. It was amazing. Some of the poses that I didn’t even attempt the first time, I could almost do. I attempted hanging from my fat this time because I realized halfway through that I was actually a tad bit better than the first go-round. It was at this point I realized that I’d continue, and that this was more than just a stunt to get some good writing material.
My friend, of course, rocked the class like an expert. The bitch.
Attempt 3:
This time, my friends and I made up the majority of the class. I went with the friend who originally invited me, Khloe Kardashian, and another teacher friend (another lithe, surprise yoga star).
This was the class where all sorts of hell broke loose.
First, it was a different instructor. Right off the bat, that made me nervous. I had just begun moving past elephant-on-a-tightrope-graceful, into beginner stage.
This new chick is gonna eff it all up. 
And she did.
The new instructor was way harder. So.much.harder.
Who does she think we are, Cirque du Soleil performers? Come on! 
Not only were the moves she had us do harder, they required way more ab and arm strength than I have in my entire fucking body.
Ridiculousness.
At one point, she had us bent over the silks, hanging from the spot right below the hips. For future reference, this is a tender area. It hurts to hang with all of your body from this area. Maybe I’ll build up some calluses, or something. That’ll be sexy.
Well, it was at this point, I lost all control of my center, my body, my pride.
I don’t know how it happened. Maybe it was because my giant head weighs so much, or what, but somehow I ended up feet over head, and I just started flipping over the silk, like you see young children do on the monkey bars.
One flip that resulted in really no one noticing did not suffice. Two flips that I could have played off as on purpose was not enough. No, I flipped…I don’t even know how many times.
There was a point at which I genuinely thought I would die. Or, at the very least end up seriously injuring myself.
I kept picturing myself finally coming to rest flat on my face, breaking my nose and glasses into my stupid face.
Eventually, I ended up flat on my fat ass, with a large thump. Or was it more a messy schlop? I don’t know.
What I do know is my asshole friends were peeing their pants laughing. Everyone was. Even the instructor felt compelled to laugh before asking if I was OK.
Assholes.
I was totally fine, so I started laughing too. If you can’t beat em, join em (while deviously planning your revenge).
I bumbled through the rest of the class fairly competently until it came time to do assisted handstands.
The last time I could actually do a handstand I was in the 4th grade.
The last time I attempted a handstand was about a year ago when a friend and I accidentally attended an expert level yoga class. We laughed our way through the crane pose, the eight-angle pose, and all the other impossible yoga poses, not being able to do any of them. When it came time to do a handstand, we just flat-out refused and sat on our fat asses, watching the others stand on their hands with ease. The instructor took it as a personal affront and actually dragged our mats to the wall and pointed at them, like a pouty child. We half-heartedly made for the floor with our hands in position, chickened out, and just sat on our spreading asses again. That was my only adult handstand attempt. Until this class.
Somehow I found myself suspended by the silks, my legs high in the air, and my forearms resting on the floor. This was a feat in itself. Then, the insane instructor told us to take it to a handstand.
By pure miracle, I pushed myself up with my weak jelly arms, and I was in an assisted handstand.
Blood was rushing to my head. My arms were shaking impossibly, but I was doing it.
Then.
We were told the way to get out of the pose was to let go of the ground and pull yourself up the silk. 
At this point I’m pouring buckets of sweat onto the floor. Even if I wanted to let go and pull myself up, my hands were far too sweaty and I simply did not have the core strength.
Shaking like a leaf in the wind, I looked around and most of the asshole people in the room had pulled themselves up and they were out of their silks, standing.
Me: “Um. Help?”
Instructor (still laughing at me): “Hun, you’ll just have to kind of fall out of it.”
Wow. Really? How does she fucking figure that? 
Me: “Uh. OK…”
So, with everyone’s eyes on me again, I somehow untangled my sausage legs from the silks, and my behemoth body just schlopped onto the floor for the second time that night.
Ta-da!
And, there you have it, folks! Fatty McCupcakes does aerial yoga!
Despite my utter ineptness, I’m going again. It’s fun. When you’re tired you get to make the silk into a hammock and lay in it. AND my arms and abs are getting stronger.
#win

Straight outta any yoga

Source

Apple Hill Shenanigans 

This is a rant and a dedication. So, buckle your seat belts, people. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.
After yet another carb-filled and merrymaking trip to Apple Hill, I’ve learned more than just how far I can push the load-bearing limit of my clothing or exactly how many fruit-filled pastries I can eat before my stomach implodes. I learned this year that:
1. People are assholes, even when they are surrounded by apple pastries, alcohol, and an endless assortment of exciting crap to buy.
2. Surrounded by said assholes, if you’re among non-assholes, you are far richer than the dick in the Tesla who thought it was cool to park in the pick-your-own apple orchard.
This Apple Hill year, I brought along my childhood best friend. We’ve legit been friends since we were two. Some years we’ve hated each other, but, somehow, we always find each other again.

This is the absolute epitome of our friendship over the years. Me, being a complete and utter tool and her, 1000% over my B.S.
This is us totally rocking the thirteen-and-awkward-af stage.
Thank GOD we discovered flat irons and tweezers!

The first time this friend attended our Apple Hill shenanigans, my mom almost lit the motel bathroom on fire trying to light a Hostess Sno Ball turned into a birthday cake fireball from hell. My aunt almost didn’t see her 45th year.
Since, my friend has admitted that her trips to Apple Hill without us are just not the same. 
We left for The Hill in the morning on a sunny, way-too-warm-for-fall Friday. Despite the fact that the weather report said it’d be almost 80, I wore a scarf and ankle boots, because, HELLO, it’s practically a basic bitch law that if you go to a pumpkin patch, you wear a scarf and boots.  Bonus points if the pattern on your scarf is chevron.
Our first lunch was spent at a popular spot, so it took almost an hour to stand in line and get our food. Because it was still early, the wait and the endless people didn’t affect my mood too much. 
I totally had my selfie stick and I wasn’t even ashamed, except I still can’t take a decent selfie. HALP!
 
Right after devouring a cheeseburger and garlic fries, it was sprinkled caramel apple time! It’s tradition!
SPERNKLES
 
#sprinklesporn

After I got my sprinkle fix, I was pretty much over walking around in the heat, looking at the same stuff, different farm.
While my mom and aunt looked at every single item, at every single booth, making friends with every single crafter as they went, my friend and I parked ourselves in the shade with an apple cider slushy.
We are sweating our balls off in this picture. Can you tell?
Note to self: apple cider floats > apple cider slushy 😑👎🏻
 
After way too much time in the sun and heat, we decided it was beer o’clock, so we headed to the Jack Russell Brewery. It’s the only brewery in the area, so it is a must-do every time we go to Apple Hill.
Without a doubt, every visit to Jack Russell is memorable, and this time was no different. 
This year, though, we decided that we very much dislike the people who own/run this establishment. They are rude with a capital bitch-eat-a-Snickers. 
Due to the unseasonably warm weather, the umbrellas were a hot commodity. After a table full of college-age girls near us had left, we tried to position their umbrella so we could get some shade. As we were trying (and failing) to make the umbrella grace us with sweet shade, one of the Cave Bitches (their meadery is in a cave-like room and they are serious bitches, thus their apropos nicknames) started going around closing the umbrellas.
Um, are you blind
This incredibly unfriendly lady wouldn’t know customer service or kindness if they each, in turn, smacked her upside her RBF. 
So, after being so kindly assisted with the umbrellas, we decided to just move one over to our table. In the process of doing this, we struggled a bit as the umbrella was awkward and there were quite a few trees. 
From the meadery cave, about 20 yards away, the Cave Bitch started screaming at us. 
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU’RE HURTING THE TREES!” 
This terrible person couldn’t even crawl out of her rotting crypt to speak in a regular voice level or to, gee, offer to HELP US?!
I hope we ruined your tree, Cave Wench. 
I had had just enough alcohol to feel brave, so in order to not make a scene, we moved to the other side of the outdoor seating area and drank an ungodly amount of beer. 
Apple Ale- similar to cider, but not as sweet 😋
 
The next morning, it was Apple Cider Donut Time. Along with Beer o’ Clock and Cupcake Thirty, it’s one of my favorite times of the day! 
A friggin masterpiece
 
I was pretty much in heaven as I devoured my fried cake and coffee. But, then, some asshole’s dog wouldn’t stop barking. 
If you know me personally, you know I’m obsessed with dogs. I love the shit out of their drooly, adorable faces, but sometimes dogs can be left at home. 
I know that’s a novel concept for some people.
This particular dog, the one who majorly interrupted my enjoyment of the sound of my gluttony, simply could not handle the sight of other dogs. 
So, one must ask…
WHY THE FUCK DID YOU BRING YOUR OTHER-DOG-HATING DOG TO THE MOST CROWDED RANCH, WHERE OTHER DOGS ARE SURE TO BE FOUND? 
Because I’m an asshole (that’s Asshole speaking). That’s why. 
After this, I had a mediocre apple treat that contained, precisely, one slice of apple, bought a metric ton of fudge, and drank even more cider.
I mean, I love me some pastry, but just pastry is too much pastry.

When we were attempting to leave the 80th farm of the day, a woman, unearthing her child from underneath all of the crap she bought and was storing in her stroller, decided a fine place to do this was smack dab in the middle of the narrow roadway.
At this point, I was still hungover, sweating profusely, and had killer acid reflux from all of the apple I had eaten. 
I couldn’t even. 
After six hours, she was finally done unloading the stroller and we were able to leave. 
I may or may not have rolled down my window to thank her for making us late for more eating.
Don’t keep this fatty from her eighth apple brownie. Don’t even.
Despite the rude and pretentious people we encountered, the bullshit heat, and the unbearable indigestion, being with people who made my food baby bump jiggle from infectious laughter made it all worthwhile.
My favorite part of the trip was leaving the brewery, drunk and laughing obnoxiously at the spaceships we found by the Porta Potties (they were bee catchers). We piled into the car (don’t worry, my aunt was driving and totally sober and capable), excited for impending Chinese dinner (as if we had not had enough). My mom kept yelling, “Look out, Dana, there’s a car!” every time we passed every reflective sign on the road. I was laughing so hard, I could barely breathe, as I sang along (horribly) to Eric Church’s Springsteen, head back, staring at the endless stars in the sky through the moonroof. 
So, take that Idiot Dog Owner, Stroller Simpleton, and Cave Bitch, you were no match for 10,000 calories all from carbs, fabulous, but unnecessary junk, and 100% necessary-for-my-sanity ladies who know how to party. 
Apple Hill 2017 is one for the books. 

I won Apple Hill!

When I think about 17, I think about my best friend. 

Apple Hill: Where Diets Go to Die

I’m about to embark, yet again, on the yearly event that single-handedly is the reason I’m fat. I’m hoping that while ya’ll are reading this, I’ll be on my third apple cider donut or nose deep in a sprinkle-covered caramel apple. Mmmm. Yes. 
Check out how I went ape shit last year at Apple Hill. 
I blogged last year about my time in Glutton’s Paradise AKA Apple Hill. This post basically outed me as a food whore. It’s not like we didn’t already know that with the type of posts I write, but this was my first post involving any type of visual proof. 
Since, I’ve been pretty IDGAF about what my pictures I post here and on social media portray.
I’m fat and I’m addicted to rainbow sprinkles. 
Get over it. 
So, without further ado, here are this year’s pictures of the annual Eat-Until-You-Are-Comatose-And-Then-Eat-Some-More trip. 

Aside from my “Oh Poop” sign, this is my favorite thing ever purchased at the Hill.
The first meal 🙌
If this were the only thing I got to eat the whole weekend, I’d have been good.
Attempting a sexy “Getting Down on My Caramel Apple” look.
This was how much I predicted I’d weigh after the Weekend o’ Gluttony.
Why are these so entertaining? We had to do all of them!
What a quaint, little creek.
 
We got to enjoy a beautiful view as we got stupid drunk at the brewery.
#cloudporn
The best Vanilla Stout EVA!
The offerings that we got to partake in, quite happily!
We tried to take a picture showing how sad we were that some of our girls weren’t with us this trip. Are we convincing?
The best sight in all creation. Apple cider crumb donut. I couldn’t even.
SPERNKLES!!
Would you think less of me if you knew I ate all of these in one morning?
When this llama realized I had nothing to give it, it had no time for me, and, I SWEAR I heard it say, “Bitch, please!”

#yolo
How you doin’?
Just sippin on my diabeetus juice.
In hindsight, an apple cider float AND a blackberry treat was overkill…
THIS is an Arkansas Black, and the only healthy thing I ate the entire weekend.
Purty
Chillin with my homies.
Wine tasting and hard apple cider-where it all went downhill.
So.much.quaint
Had my “sunglasses” been centered, this would have been THE PERFECT I’m-so-deep-but-adorable Instagram snap. Shucks.
Cute AF
I felt holding my baked treats up in the sky for a picture evoked an almost spiritual experience. It didn’t look lame at all.
Adorbs
We are HAWT!
All weekend I kept seeing a “pig hole” (what are these called?) and we never seemed to be able to do it. FINALLY, I got to be the pig. It was everything I had hoped it would be.
The last goody we ate before leaving Apple Hill. I was able to squeeze it in, because I had my fat pants on #prepared
And, because I wasn’t done being ridiculous, I decided I’d be an actual cupcake for Halloween. Here’s my attempt at being a cupcake for my students:

In ending, here is my promo photo for LuLaRoe leggings.  If you haven’t gotten sucked in yet, RUN…to the nearest pop up. They are the best leggings I’ve ever sucked my fat into. The.best.
Notice how stretchy they are. Notice how they delicately caress my bottom butt. Notice how busy they are so you can’t see my bumps and lady lumps. 

So, even after a weekend of eating my weight in food, I can still rock a semi-decent look. 
#winning

Zombie Apocalypse Fail

In preparation for the new season coming up, I am crack-addict binging on The Walking Dead, and all I’ve been thinking about is how I’d be dead on the very first day of a zombie apocalypse. 
When the boyfriend and I got to the episode where the group makes it to Alexandria, I said, “OMG. How has Darryl not taken a shower yet? That’d be the first thing I’d do. And brush my teeth!” 
(Now the running joke during every episode is: “Has Darryl taken a shower yet?”) 
My super sweet boyfriend responded with, “Babe, you would have been dead months ago.” 
Indignantly, I protested, but when it came time to detail the myriad reasons he was wrong, I had nothing. Nada. 
Holy shit. If there was ever a zombie apocalypse, I’d last precisely an hour, if that. I’d be that inept idiot in the first episode no one even remembers.
Since my asshole boyfriend was right (don’t tell him I said that, he’ll take it and run with it), I thought I’d share the reasons why I’d never last in a zombie apocalypse:
1. My asthma 
I get out of breath walking around my classroom and talking at the same time. Really, I could just stop here. Asthma is reason enough for why I’d be one of the first people to be eaten alive by zombies. 
It took me two months to get to the point where I could jog (and by jog, I mean move at a slightly quicker pace than walking) nonstop for two blocks. So, if the time ever came for me to run like my life depended on it for more than a minute, I’d be done just like that. 
2. My sciatica 
I first had a flare up with my sciatica when I was in middle school. The pain from my big ass all the way down my leg was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I recall barely making it out of the fast-paced school halls alive. Once home, I milked it for all it was worth-Advil around the clock, Mom’s special Home Sick Sherbet and Ginger Ale, and hand delivered meals. 
It was simultaneously one of the best and worst times of my life. 
Occasionally, my sciatica flares up and quick movements just ain’t happening.  I tried to show off my sweet Tae Bo skills to my boyfriend the other night and I pulled a muscle and pissed off my sciatic nerve. And, just like that, I was infirm. 
So, if my sciatica were ever to act up during the apocalypse, I wouldn’t be able to run or karate chop a zombie in the head. Anyone I’d be with would quickly realize what a dud I was and they’d leave me for dead as soon as they had a proper excuse. I mean, I wouldn’t blame them.  
3. My acid reflux and digestion issues
I’m an absolute mess in the guts. If I ever run out of Tums, probiotics, Imodium, or acid reflux medicine, you might as well just leave me for dead. 
Not only am I not exactly fit for zombie battle when my stomach acid coming up my esophagus feels like hellfire, my bowel movements when stressed could potentially attract a horde of zombies from miles away. 
4. My germaphobe rituals
When you’re running for your life from zombies and terrible, evil people, warm running water and soap aren’t exactly a priority. Hand sanitizer would never be on the grocery list between water and food. 
As such, I’d probably never make it to my first meal of road kill surprise. Not only would I have the hardest time not gagging while eating hastily cooked raccoon, I simply would not be able to eat with zombie brains under my finger nails.
Nope. Just leave me for dead. I couldn’t.
5. My beauty essentials/routine 
And, let’s not forget the benefit to being appealing-looking and how that might aid in the continuation of one’s life. I would not be a looker after just a week without my electric razor, dry shampoo, and foundation.
I know that beauty is not exactly essential for survival, but when the broad with a beard and noxious gas needs your help again, you just might be tempted to leave her in the woods.
Honestly, I’m really disappointed in myself and quite terrified that I’ll never be a Carol or a Maggie, but an Idiot Girl-Episode 1. 
So, do y’all have any tips for me to beef up my zombie survival skills? Or, am I a lost cause, so I should just keep doing what I do best-avoiding any and all physical exertion and marathon eating Skinny Cow desserts?
 That’s what I thought, too…
*unwraps a Skinny Cow Simply Amazing Salted Caramel Pretzel bar*