Marshmellow Fluff

The thing driving me to start working out again, 3 months before my orthopedic surgeon advises me to, is the fact that I now not only have a muffin top….I also have a muffin bottom.  I have replaced all physical activity with eating foods that can only be found at 7-11.  It’s like I’ve decided if I can’t work out and be healthy I will do anything to sabotage any healthy choices I should make.  CASE AND POINT, the other night I made a salad and then proceeded to drown it in bleu cheese dressing.  Mind you I hate bleu cheese dressing but apparently I hate being thin more than I hate aged cheese.

As I continue to expand – my self-esteem plummets and I hate myself more and more each day.  While I have only gained 5 pounds, it feels like much more because all my muscle has turned to fat.

To make it that much harder, Paul lost 20 pounds while he was sick these past 2 weeks.  Yesterday morning I was standing in front of my full length mirror cursing my expanding thighs and pregnant looking belly with Paul standing behind me in his underwear in a superhero stance saying, “Wow, look how skinny I am now babe!”  If I only had known that his terrible sickness would lead to weight loss of such tremendous proportions, I would have licked everything he touched and drank out of the same cup as him.

But now I am stuck with what I have done to my body these past few months and I need to work it off. Which is how I found myself in a pilates class at Yogaworks.

So far this week I have been to two classes.  Here is how they went:

Class One:

I entered the pilates room first, which was a mistake.  I had no idea of matt etiquette or which direction was the front of the room.  I figured placing my matt against the wall (thinking the last thing I want is my spandex ass hoisted in the air during downward dog with someone standing behind me) was the most Zen decision.

A few minutes later a man came into the room, stretched for a few minutes and then informed me my matt was wrong.  I repositioned it and then watched all the skinny women wearing tight black yoga pants filter in.

The pilates instructor came into class and asked if there were any injuries among the class.  I raised my hand and told her about my ACL reconstruction and contemplated going into a detailed account for why I was so out of shape.  I decided against it.

10 minutes into class my arms were burning, my stomach convulsing and from my best estimation my body was physically rejecting pilates.  It was shutting down and I was losing control over every muscle which were all now spasm-ing.  My only thought was that if this class didn’t end in the next 10 seconds I was pretty sure the next logical thing to happen would be for me to pee myself.

Thankfully I couldn’t physically do the last 5 minutes of exercises because of my knee, so I was spared from the torture.

I hobbled to my car and cursed my body for betraying me.

Class Two:

I got to class early now knowing proper mat placement realizing prime real estate was the back of the class towards the wall where no one could judge me or see me convulsing.

Met the new teacher and contemplated apologizing in advance for the terrible job I would do in her class.

5 minutes into class my muscles again revolted against every movement.  This time it felt like I was tazed and my arms literally gave out and I fell forehead first onto my mat.

I did a quick glance around to see who saw me eat it and decided that everyone was too wrapped up in their own pain to be concerned about me.

I cursed myself for being so egocentric.

Class ended.  Contemplated thanking the teacher for not kicking me out of her class for being such an embarrassment.  Decided against it.

Went back to work. Tried to type. Decided against it because my arms were too sore to lift.

The only thing not stopping me from giving in and committing to a lifetime of eating Cheetos in the dark and spending all my money on processed foods is that, I want these women’s bodies.  All the women in my class are toned and sleek-they’re like rich Orange County gazelles.  I want to be like them.  To be able to throw myself into downward dog without looking at how my thigh fat fell to the front and gathered like pools of dough when I did so.  I want to be in shape again and to feel good about myself.  I want to do something productive with stress.  But most of all I want to look good in black spandex.