(My) Life is one giant ironic mess, complete with black fly in my, well, pinot noir. Not chardonnay, but still...
I decided to get back into the swing of my workouts, sans trainer, and look where it got me: looking like a medieval Disney character as I hobble down the hallway to my bed, doing lamaze the whole way there because I've thrown my back out. Apparently I had the audacity to bend over to pick up a pair of shoes and my back didn't care for that activity. Shame on me, really. Just one more reason why I should make the princess clean! Get me the Ben Gay, dammit!
But this turn of lifestyle has a purpose. Not only will I get my big muscles back (yeah, I kiss the biceps and sell tickets to the gun show...BOOM BOOM fire power!) but I'll inadvertantly drop some of this excess gelatinous goo surrounding my vacationing muscles. I know that the goal should never be to lose weight, but in my case it kind of is. My arms have become so fat that I actually take flight when I wave. Not pretty. And who wants a stomach that makes a good kneeding pad for the cat? On the upside, I'm no longer tucking my boobs into my belt and playing banjo.
Beyond the weight and the healthy part, I'm starting to work out again to feel better about myself. And once I start feeling better about myself, I'm going to get back out there and start dating the socially rejected truck drivers and virgins of the world that I seem to attract. Yeah, I know we should accept ourselves as we are and learn to love our bodies, no matter what shape or size, blah blah blah freakin' blah. But I at least want to feel the self-worth that I should have before I start trying to show it off to someone of the opposite sex. I mean, really? Fat naked parts aren't exactly enticing.
You see, I've been avoiding dating for awhile. I've been happy having my own life. No one's stealing the remote. No snoring heating pad of testosterone and hairy legs hogging the bed. No differences of opinions or hurt feelings or mothers that I can't stand.
Speaking of which, I'm giving myself 6 months to get back to...well, myself.
The dating world can be very scary, and very fun at the same time. I met a guy last fall who was terrific, just not necessarily for me. He's now engaged and blissfully happy. I've heard lots of success stories about people who've met, dated, fallen in luuuuuuv and gotten married. I'm supposed to have the right outlook. I'm supposed to be happy in who I am and who cares if it doesn't work out and isn't it wonderful that I got to get out and have dinner bought for me and if I meet someone great then great, but just keep an open mind, yadda yadda yadda, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
But here's the thing. My back is so out of whack right now that who knows when I'll get to work out. And if I can't work out, then I can't get back to my goal weight. And if I don't look my best, I won't be subscribing to anything but "fat girls anonymous." And ain't no one taking out fat mamma for some tawdry sex. Which leaves me here, bedridden, putting Mamma Bestie on naked bathtub rescue notice. (Yes, it happened a long time ago when we were roommates. She came home from work and found me in the tub, calling for help. It was not the most glamorous of my days. Vicodin was involved.) Well, there's no vicodin involved this time. Just me and good old irony.