Marshmellow Fluff

I went to middle school with a guy who earned the nickname “butt sweat” because whenever he played basketball a thick dark line of sweat would appear in the middle of the back of his shorts. I watched True Life this weekend on MTV and it featured a handful of teens with a sweat disorder, but they had it in regular places like their hands or their armpits, none of them complained about sweat dripping from their butt crack, at least not on MTV.

Last night at the gym, I felt like “butt sweat” must have felt being surrounded by regular middle school kids who could work out and have their bodies respond in normal person work out reactions.  It all started when I first walked through the doors.  I tried to ignore the fact that my black stretch pants weren’t touching the ground but floating a tad bit above my ankles.  I struggled to remember if they ever touched the ground or if I had just gotten fatter making them shorter.  It’s not like I am fat, fat.  But I am, well let’s say, a puffier version than the normal, “me”.  So my “puffy” thighs held my workout pants hostage from the floor and instead they now hover over my shoes like two cow bells jingling, “it’s feeding time!”  Anyhow, I tried to ignore my high waters, which was difficult because I was surrounded by boobs, boobs, tight leggings, workout bras AND BOOBS.  I too was wearing a workout bra, but it was modestly covered by a stained grey t-shirt.  I too had boobs, but I wasn’t about to take them on a world tour. As I approached the front desk I tried to swallow the feeling that I was the new girl at school who didn’t get the memo that you were always supposed to look cute and skinny.  I was the russian masseuse among the lilies of boobs.

To commemorate my embarrassment, they took my picture.  So now, every time I go to the gym and swipe my card, staring back at the seventeen year old working the front desk, will be a frazzled picture of yours truly, in my stained grey t-shirt, with a look intent on saying, ” Just wait until you are thirty, Junior!” I can only hope this will be my “before” picture and will be unmatchable to the hotness that will be the “after” staring back at them in a few weeks, or months, and with any hope, I will be wearing my sports bra sans t-shirt.

As I finished running my third mile I was drenched in sweat and thought that maybe the half-dressed spandex laden hooches are onto something.  They were there just as long as me and managed to stay perfectly coiffed.  Meanwhile, I was drenched and my eyesred and irritated from the sweat that dripped into my eyes, made more attractive by my eyeliner that had made pretty whirly black streak marks that stretched from the corners of my eyes to my temples.  I tried to blend in and look inconspicuous, I didn’t want to call any attention to myself.  Head down and straight line walking from machine to machine, I figured if I could get a workout in without anyone ever noticing I was here, it would be a success.  I looked at my reflection in the mirror in time to notice that I had a wad of gum stuck to my left earphone.

I am a shadow of my former self.  The one who would go to the gym 6 days a week for an hour in a half each day.  I use to count calories religiously and could calculate the calorie content of a meal with the precision of Rain Man.  I worked out when I was sick, I went to the gym at 10:00 at night if I had to.  I was a machine and yes, I once (and only once) worked out in a public gym in stretchy pants and a sports bra.  But that was only once, because shortly after I remembered who I was.  I have been out of the public gym rotation for a year in a half and I feel like the gym is as foreign as trying to walk on the moon.  Nonetheless, I will go back tonight and will wear a cuter outfit, and with any luck, make it through an entire workout without stepping in any gum this time.

After 12 months of having Jillian Michaels taunt me in my living room, and after 3 training sessions of P90x, turns out I am more of a P3X, I decided to rejoin the gym.  There is something more compelling about going out of my house to workout.  Turns out I thrive off judgement by others to get through the last mile of six on the treadmill.  With no one watching, I’m easily swayed to return to my couch after a stressful .5 miles to eat a bag of Popchips while watching Celebrity Apprentice.   I’m motivated by an audience that doesn’t consist of 2 dogs judging my form as they lazily stare at me from their doggy beds.  This however, means I have to brush my teeth before I workout, a practice I haven’t done since I haven’t been in breathing vicinity of anyone.  I need to brush my hair before leaving the house rather than roll out of bed and mash it into a ponytail, and it means I can no longer wear the black spandex pants with a hole in the crotch because, contrary to popular belief, I think some things should be left to the imagination.  I am rejoining the public workout force and I plan on doing so with vigor.  I ended my gym membership after the fateful ACL tear of 2009 (yes, it is an official moment in history).  After that I had 6 months of no working out, doctor’s orders- although those weren’t his exact words, he more so told me to take it easy- which I took as carte blanche to not move a muscle or else my leg would snap off.  After that 6 months, I half assed my workouts to try to get into “decent” shape for my wedding – what I lacked in upper arm strength I made up for in the Photoshopped pictures.  But now, I can no longer deny that I need to get my ass back into the game because, speaking of my ass, it is getting to large to fit into my jeans.  That doesn’t keep my from stuffing it into said pair of jeans, but the seams are screaming for mercy and my vanity is too. So, mark my words, tonight I am going back to the gym, the public one with sweaty people, germy equipment and buff guys who stare at their reflection incessantly…and I cannot wait!

I need to meditate, which was actually more of a direct order than it was any sort of self-admission.  If you think the need or urge for meditation has something to do with spiritual realization, or happens during a moment of tranquil introspection, it does not. The epiphany that meditation is needed in your life looks more like a commercial for Tylenol (picture a mom rubbing her temple as 3 children scream in the back seat of the car while throwing their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at each other) than it does a commercial for Valtrex (picture a young couple having a picnic in a field of poppies while eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, completely oblivious to the fact that they have Herpes.)  Apparently, no one needs meditation more than when their life is in utter chaos, making the whole concept of meditation that much more effing unattainable.

I was told that I should, at least 4 times a week, listen to a tape of Mindful Meditation and work on relaxing.  As it turns out, there is a space between reaction and stimulus, and meditation helps make that gap wider.  This is new information as I’ve always felt, in the spirit of efficiency, the quicker you react to a stimulus the better.  I want cake-I eat the cake.  You piss me off-I yell.  I want to go to bed-I’m sleeping.  You see, I respond to stimulus with reaction like species have done for hundreds of millions of years.  I’m told the healthy reaction to a stimulus is to respond, however the quickness of your response is the area in which meditation tries to improve upon.  In other words, my gap is too small (I will pause for a moment so you can react to the stimulus of that statement with an appropriate, “that’s what she said”) The man who said I need to meditate is unaware of the difficulty I have with clearing a mind. First, I have things to say, and only 12 waking hours to say them in.  Second, I have things to do, which requires me to think about these things in my brain over and over until I decide how best to do everything in the most efficient way. I suck at sitting still and I suck even more at being “mind still”.  As many times I have tried to meditate are as many times I have failed at meditating.

So then he tells me I need Yoga.  Granted Yoga sounds appealing when put into the context that Jennifer Aniston does Yoga.  Which makes me think about how she looks in a bikini, which makes me think, “I totally want to do Yoga.”  But that cycle is always broken when I find myself doing Yoga and thinking, “How much longer do I have to stay in this pose before my ass looks like Jennifer Aniston’s.” And so continues my inability to have a clear mind.  I’ve done Yoga, and I’ve gotten somewhat good at Yoga poses (minus the Eagle pose which left me with a hard to explain rug burn on my forehead.)  Turns out, Yoga is hazardous to my health, and even more so to my self-esteem.  I’ve even entrusted myself to a trained professional when I tried Bikram Yoga, which is actually an Indian term for throwing up your insides all while sweating like a pig and feeling like a whale.  I was told my nausea was a good thing; that it was toxins leaving my body but I prefer exercise that makes me feel relaxed and less like I am morphing into raw sewage.  My inability for grace and dexterity made me give up Yoga or any idea of ever doing Yoga, and out with that also went meditation.  And now this recent turn of events brings me back to the instruction to try meditation.  I am resigned to give it another chance.  Even though I’m firm in my beliefs that meditation, for me, is impossible.  I know that without fail, on the inhale my mind will be still yet on the exhale my mind will be thinking about how I bought the wrong toothpaste again, the kind that is orange, which is the exact opposite of the color I feel toothpaste has any business being.  I’ll be thinking about how the photo Paul took of me the other day showed a concerning frowny wrinkle on my cheek, which I find horrifying.  I’ll be thinking about how I have no business buying Nutella anymore because I cannot be responsible in its presence.  About my waistline and how I am losing my curves to a general round shape that I am concerned about but not concerned enough to stop buying Nutella.  And it is at just around that moment that I’ll start thinking about how I am not supposed to be thinking, which makes me start thinking about how I will never be centered enough or still enough to ever have a Jennifer Aniston ass, and then I’ll start thinking about Nutella again.