Jul
7
It ain’t nothin next to baby’s treat
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I decided to reward myself for continuing to stick with this whole exercise-and-diet thing — even while on vacation! People, I got a pass to the local gym and I took two Turbo Kick classes last week, for which I felt I deserved some sort of high honor, perhaps a knighthood or honorary Harvard degree or at the very least a large portion of magical calorie-free creme brulée, shot directly into my open maw with a robust Burnt Cream Expulsion Device (OH YEAH FILL MY MOUTH WITH CREAM) (What?) — and so I visited our local fancypants retail mothership on Sunday in order to try on approximately eleventy billion pairs of “premium denim” jeans.
(My beloved pair of Joe’s, the ones I’ve used as a weight loss goal all along, have actually gotten a little too loose, which is craaaaaaazy and also, wait, oh yeah, fucking crazy, and listen, I am sure you are tired of hearing me yap about fitness stuff but DUDE MY SKINNY JEANS GOT TOO BIG, and holy shit, WOOT. Thank you Turbo Jam and fat free Cool Whip and Hip Hop Abs and Inhale yoga and GoLean breakfast cereal and sugar-free Red Bull and 24 Hour Fitness and Fuji apples and my beat-up old Nikes and my silly new Pumas and shelled edamame and Lululemon pants and South Beach peanut butter bars and the blessed ability to stave off the utter exhaustion brought on by two small children by RUNNING AWAY FROM IT ALL [literally]).
I tried on all sorts of crazy styles and eventually found a glorious pair of 7 For All Mankinds (the A-pocket Flip Flops, if you’re curious, which is a ‘petite’ style, meaning the legs are thankfully not designed for human giraffes), which the salesperson convinced me to buy in a size TWO sizes smaller than my Joe’s, a size I would describe as really quite snug if not downright sausagey. True to her word, after several hours of wear the 7s somehow relaxed a bit and expanded to allow my belly to do something other than explode over the waistband in giant terrifying rolls of unfurling fleshy muffin-topedness, but for a while there I was fairly convinced she had played a mean, mean joke on me.
“Oh, I know,” she kept saying while I turned this way and that in front of the mirror making hurt-puppy whimpering sounds. “They feel like ‘OH MY GOD’, right?” And I was like, “YES! YES THEY DO. DEAR LORD YOU CAN SEE MY SPLEEN,” and she talked me through it like a labor coach until I was doing Lamaze breathing and saying little affirmation prayers and handing over my debit card in order to buy a pair of insanely expensive too-small jeans on purpose.
Anyway: fierce new jeans, you guys. Fierce. Although I have learned that it’s a very bad idea to drink carbonated beverages while wearing them, unless I want to experience something like a Diet Coke-and-Mentos effect inside my midsection (a disturbing sensation that brought this video to mind all too clearly).
Lastly, I give you the 5 Stages of Rolling Over, as performed by Dylan:
Stage One: Flirty Preparation
Stage Two: Grunty Full-Body Effort
Stage Three: Shocked Holy-Fuck-Will-You-Check-This-Shit-OUT-ism
Stage Four: Groovy Self Accolades
Stage Five: ABORT MISSION! ABORT MISSION! SYSTEM FAILURE RESET RESET! FAIL.
** Edited to add photos of the JEANS, since some of you asked, and I am nothing if not . . . well, apparently someone who’s a little too trigger-happy with the camera, jesus.
Warning: do not consume fizzy drinks while wearing.
Jul
6
Jiggety jog
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We’re back home again and holy crap, we sure have a lot of laundry to do. See also: grocery shopping, housecleaning, business-trip-to-Asia-prepping (wah, JB is leaving me for a week! ALONE WITH THE CHILDREN MY GOD), and blog-reading. What have YOU been up to all week? Tell me!
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