Sunday, January 16, 2005

A Sunday Night Musing

Important lesson learned over the weekend:

In an effort to become hott sexy trophy wife and to lost the few pounds that I put on over the let me drink away my post-holiday blues/forget the inventory that I took of my empty life, I made a promise to myself that I would go to the gym on Saturady since I drank dark beer like a wahoo (Wes Anyone?!?) and smoked a half of pack of ciggs on Fri night.

Not a good idea to go to a spinning class.

Now let me explain my history with excersise classes. I joined a pontsy gym; everyone is fit, beautiful and coordinated. I tried taking a karate class a few weeks ago, it was an intermediate class and everyone was like the Karate kid, and I am not talking part I. So I was the geek in the corner, who the instructor decides to try to encourage me by telling me how great I am doing, while I am getting all the moves wrong and doing everything backwards (like using my left foot instead of the right). So I think to myself, spinning...a stationary bike, I'll sit in the back of the class and pedal...not too hard, right?

First lets begin with what I am wearing, everyone in the class is wearing spandex bike shorts, carrying bike water bottles, and are incredibly fit. Then there is me...old Hampden-Sydney T-shirt with big old addidas warm up pants. The instructor begins, and during the warm up I am weezing from the ciggs and begin sweating profously...emitting the stench of alcohol as I am sweating off my hangover. Nobody else is breaking a sweat, and here it is we begin to in we havent even gotten to the actual excersise yet. The instructor has us peddling hands free while we are stretching our upper body. I begin to slide off the seat...oh no, I mean "saddle". Did you know that there is Spinning Lingo? I hold onto the handle bars for dear life since I can't balence my fat ass on the seat. And I am sweating even more profously, emitting more of the alcohol stench into the air...As we get into the actual work-out, I notice my massive boobs giggling (also was severly PMSing) here it is, me holding onto the handle bars for dear life, trying to balence my fat ass on the saddle, wheezing, sweating profously, reeking of alcohol, with my boobs swinging like a pendulum. Don't think I am going to meet my future ex-husband in the spinning class.

I am going back for the 7am class tomorrow. All this to catch the marriage boat so I can marry well and not have to go to my inner-circle of hell job. And by well I dont mean upper middle class finance asshole making $100,000. I want a fucking trustafarian who never has to work again, and I get to wear Chanel suits and big hats and do lunch and get excited about Opera and Society Ball season.

In all seriousness, as intelligent and charismatic as I have the potential to be, I can't play politics. If I dont like you or if you are an asshole to me, I sneer and give you a blank stare back. I try really hard to find the bright side of things and try to communicate that but...I can't pretend that I am happy with the bullshit that I am fed. And that, as I have come to learn, is my demise.
Hence, my new goal is to become a trophy wife. And considering how 50-60% of mariages in this country end in divorce, if I do find "true love"...chances are it isnt.

And it is a Sunday night, and I have a huge pit in my stomach. I dont want to go to work tomorrow.


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