I'm sorry that my small brush with fame had me dreaming about retirement and I didn't bother to write for nearly a week. I actually didn't really move much during this entire weekend.
Then it was brought to my attention that I am fatter than a whale.
There's really nothing I can do about it but complain repeatedly. I tried to diet one time and it lasted for about three days. I'm not even sure if it counts because by the end of Day Three, I ended up eating a Costco-sized box of chocolate bars which, although I'm not a scientist, strikes me as counterintuitive. Also, I'm allergic to chocolate, so not only do I end up with a good "Look mum, I'm four months pregnant!" gag, I also make a good Freddy Kruegar double, and I don't think the point of dieting is to collect Halloween costumes.
So obviously dieting is out.
The next best option would be to "exercise", but exercising is the bane of my existence. It wasn't always this way, comrades. It wasn't always this way...
In my late teens, I made the foolhardy decision to become one of those terrible people that "eats well" and "generally takes good care of themselves".
I did everything right: I bought new kicks, new clothes, the prerequisite headband, and one of those stupid Nalgene bottles that you can boil water in. Exactly WHAT am I going to be boiling water for in a plastic water container I have no idea ("Guys? Guys? Can we take a break here? I just want to cook some spaghetti in this water bottle. Can one of you build a fire?"), but it cost me $20, so you know it works. Oh, and a gym pass, I guess. I looked like the poster child for Lululemon, only more whale-like.
Basically, my experience with the gym cost me about $500 before ever setting foot in one. This is a lot of money for someone who sells coats for a living. Actually, I should say I was supposed to sell coats. In reality, what Maxime and I did as managers at work was lock up, put a "sorry" sign on the front door, put on as many down coats and vests that we could possibly squeeze on until we ran out out sizes, and sumo wrestle. Good times.
So I'm walking into the gym for the first time, whistling Dixie (I have no idea what this means??), and imagining my post whale body. I've chosen 6 o'clock on a weekday, A.K.A Gym Rush Hour, to debut the New Me. Aaahhh The Treadmill. Well, I certainly know how to run, and this machine looks much less intimidating than those wierd ones with all the limb-looking things sticking out of it!
I climb aboard and set foot on a leisurely and relaxed pace. Why, this is downright easy! Then I see that everyone else is working up a sweat at a run. Not to be outdone, I increase my pace to a brisk run, and continue at this rate for approximately 40 minutes. 40 minutes!!
Now, since this was my very first time on a treadmill, I didn't know that you weren't supposed to just stop the machine when you are done with your run, and that you are supposed to ease your way by slowing down and walking first. What happens next is unbelievable.
I stop the machine and immediately trip over my own feet. "WHAAAAAA!!!!" I scream, with my arms flailing about in cartoonish fashion, trying to grab onto something, anything, to break my fall.
You know what breaks my fall? You know what breaks my fall?!! Not my arms, which I could probably do without anyways, but my right shin, which smashes onto the pedal of a nearby rowing machine. I've circled it in red for your perusal.
Laugh it up, Chuckles. Laugh it right the fuck up. The imagery does not even begin to convey the pain I felt, which I'm permanently scarred from (physically and emotionally) after 10 years. This Google image doesn't show the metal spikes that grow from the rowing machine's pedals at all.
I collapse to the floor and writhe in such a manner that I could probably sue Seth MacFarlane for this and win.
Everyone is crowded around me and my blood-gushing shin within seconds. It's not the way I want to become famous. "Is she okay?" I see them whispering to each other.
I try to laugh it off. "Oh no no I'm fine. Look! haha! I'm fiiiine! This is so embarassing!" I smile and make my way over to the side of the room, out of the spectators' views. I proceed to lay out a mat and pretend to do sit ups, but really I'm crying and thinking of how to sue the gym.
So watch out because I'll sue you, Seth MacFarlane! I'll sue YOU, The Gym!! I'll sue you all!!! I'LL SUE YOU ALL!!!