Let me tell you about My Fat Ass ($0.25). It follows me everywhere, I cannot escape it and it’s getting bigger By. The. Day. The other day I had a near-death experience on account of My Fat Ass. By the end I wished it was an actual-death experience.
The worst time to start an exercise regimen is when you’re home with five kids who are home from school for the summer. What is my motivation to get up early to workout when I have absolutely no place to be? It doesn’t help that I spent the summer self-medicating with honey bourbon sweet tea. A few random Wednesday night parties with my husband and My Fat Ass ($0.25) went from Kardashian to full-on Orca.
Now it’s August (finally!) and the kids are back to school (FINALLY!) and I sternly informed My Fat Ass ($0.25) that we’re finished. I’m going back to my ex – Pre-baby Butt — because My Fat Ass ($0.25) sweats profusely in all the wrong places and, frankly, I’m embarrassed to be seen in public with it.
To that end, on Friday I dropped my regular running routine and decided to change things up with a class at the local gym. I got four kids off to school, packed the baby up and headed out. Since I had done zero actual planning, I consulted the class schedule upon arriving to see what was happening. They had a thing called “Turbo Kick” starting in fifteen minutes. Okay. I mean, that sounds like it could be good. I’ve taken cardio classes before, how hard can it be?
After dropping my Sumo baby off for a date with his friends in the child-care room, I confidently waltzed My Fat Ass ($0.25) into the class a couple of minutes late. I was expecting the normal routine — warm-up step-touches, arm circles, stretching, etc. Instead, I walked into some kind of North Korean gulag where tormented middle-aged women were being forced by a scowling, rabid pixie to round-house kick and closed-fist bitch slap ($0.25) the air while some manic dub-step mix pulsed pure fury through the room.
The cruelest torture was the penetrating truth offered by the full-length body mirrors, which made even the thinnest bitch ($0.25) look like Jabba the Hutt in an earthquake. Fat jiggles. Truth.
People, Fat Ass ($0.25) or not, I’m healthy, coordinated, and up to a cardio challenge. My Fat Ass ($0.25) and I jumped right the fuck ($0.25) in to that shit ($0.25) brimming with completely unjustified swagger. I punched. I kicked. I emitted primal howls. I mirrored every nutty damn thing the instructor did with the most serious intensity I could muster. This lasted for about eighty seconds, at which point I started the increasingly frequent shifty-eyeballs towards the clock. Surely this insanity would slow down any second now so we could stretch, tone, check our heart rate, send a few texts, and maybe get a martini.
No, that’s when the ninety pound imp barking orders informed me that IT WAS TURBO TIME, LADIES!
Are you shitting ($0.25) me?
Impossibly, the music got faster and angrier, and the instructor’s body was temporarily inhabited by some kind of vile fitness demon. I swear, her eyes turned red around the edges, probably from oxygen deprivation. Her limbs shot away from her torso at impossible angles and alarming speeds and I wondered for a moment if she was on drugs. And then I kind of wished I was.
Speedbag! TWO THREE FOUR. Cross jab! TWO THREE FOUR. SIDE KNEE! ONE TWO. FRONT KICK! HIYAAAAAH!
Aaaaand there’s My Fat Ass with the unnaturally copious sweat in all the wrong places.
At some point, our pint-sized aerobics ninja left us to UPPERCUT! TWO THREE FOUR! unguided and she walked past us, no evidence of any exertion whatsoever, as the rest of us flailed about. She went to the back of the room to change the music to something even fucking ($0.25) faster and on her way back to her command post one of my frantically gesticulating arms smacked her square in the face.
Would you be horrified? I was. “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” I said quickly. But she just laughed and said, to the entire class through her air-traffic-controller headset microphone, “Oh, that’s ok! But next time, try to knock me unconscious!” I slyly replied, “Only if you return the favor,” as My Fat Ass ($0.25) JAB! PUNCH! SQUAT! BURPEEEEEEEEE’d myself into a dehydrated fog. The class laughed, but I was only half-kidding.
If you’ve ever taken a gym class, you know the rest of the story. My eyes were glued to the clock as I wondered just how much of this torture My Fat Ass ($0.25) could endure. An hour after I walked in, I limped out with blisters on my feet, a ravenous appetite, and eight hours later my back hurt so bad I could barely sit up. But, at the end of the day, there was one thing I left behind, and that’s about 600 calories worth of My Fat Ass ($0.25). And I’m doing it again this Friday.
Total owed to the swear jar for this post: $4.00