I have a job.
I have a job, and I’ve joined a gym.
I have a job, and I’ve joined a gym, I’ve started working out, and now I can never go back.
I can’t go back because I’m scared that I’m going to run into the lady that I bumped into butt-naked.
She wasn’t butt-naked— that might have made it okay.
She was fully clothed, wearing a prim little turtleneck and a classy pair of pants and expensive-looking heels that probably cost more than I make in a week.
*I*, however, was not wearing a stitch, and I think the sight of my flabby bits swinging wildly about in the gym bathroom breeze has traumatized us both.
For those of you who don’t know, there is a place in California known as Newport Beach. Newport Beach is the one place that I know of that is JUST as bad as they show it in the movies. The men and women stroll around in disgustingly expensive clothes, complimenting each other on their recently botoxed faces and daydreaming about buying another new little BMW. After all, their BMW sedan is for the weekdays. They need a sexy little BMW roadster for the weekends… something that matches their eyes… Oooh! Is that a wrinkle? OMG. It is. Quick! Call up the dermatologist for an emergency facial!
The other day, while turning into the parking lot of my work, I made a mental note of the line of cars in front of and behind me (including mine.) It went like this:
Oh, you think I’m overexaggerating, don’t you? Well, how about this: I went to a bridal show in Newport Beach last weekend. They were giving away door prizes.
Do you know what one of the criteria for winning a door prize was?
You had to be carrying a Louis Vuitton purse (Not one of those cheesy knockoffs, sneered the man with the microphone) and within this Louis Vuitton purse you had to have your pink cell phone.
The reason they asked for a pink cell phone was because when they called out for someone in the audience who was carrying a Louis Vuitton purse, five heavily makeup-ed women all squealed in excitement and lifted their well-manicured hands. They all had makeup bags, and they all had cell phones.
Thankfully for my sanity, only one of them had a pink cell phone. I was getting ready to hock a loogie in the aisle, just to help balance things out. After all, Louis Vuitton purses + Big shiny glob of spit = Normalcy. I’m sure I read that somewhere.
Where was I?
Oh, yes. The gym.
So, anyways, I have a new job. I’m actually pretty happy with my new job, as far as jobs go. I’ll tell everyone all about it at a later date, because I want to talk about me and my naked, jiggly bits.
Less than a mile from this job is a 24 Hour Fitness. Now that we are no longer living hand-to-mouth, I immediately went over there and signed up for a trial membership.
Unfortunately, this gym is located in an area called Fashion Island.
It kind of sucks that the gym that’s closest to me is located there. When the gym guy took me on a tour there was not one single chubby person in the entire facilities. The people wh0 work out there are so in shape they do exercises to modify their exercises in order to make them burn more. I walked right by a skinny little blonde doing squats and lunges WHILE ON THE STAIRMASTER. YOU HEARD ME. SHE WAS ON THE STAIRMASTER, AND IT WASN’T HARD ENOUGH FOR HER, SO SHE WAS DOING SQUATS, LUNGES, AND KNEE BENDS WHILE CLIMBING THE STAIRS.
Once I got over my frustration and embarrassment at being the fattest person in a 10 mile radius, I realized I could wake up early and do the 6am workout class and still have time to get to work. It sounded fantastic.
So I did it. Day One was great. I hadn’t worked out in ages, and it felt fantastic to feel my muscles stretch.
Day Two was a physically harder because of all my sore muscles, but I felt like I was getting a rhythm down. I showered and went to work, feeling all smug. I worked out. TWO DAYS IN A ROW. I should be on the front of a fitness magazine!
Day Three, thankfully, was an easy class— yoga.
Now, yoga isn’t easy for most people, because they can actually do some of the poses. I, otherwise known as The-Least-Flexible-Woman-on-Earth, can’t even come close. So I don’t even really try. I mean, if I can’t touch my toes under normal circumstances, why should I bother struggling to wrap my leg twice around my head while feeling my inner chakra sink down to the ground, or whatever nonsense it is that they talk about?
I just go along with the motions, and do my best to try and touch my toes now and again, and otherwise ruin the whole idea of Yoga. But it’s fun, and I figured that if I finished the class I could feel REALLY smug about myself for having worked out 3 days in a row.
Then, somewhere in the middle of “Downward Dog” (also known as “My Big Fat Butt is Pointing in the Air and I Am Staring Through My Bent Knees”) I felt it happen.
You know. It.
Taking Carrie to the Prom.
Rebooting the Old Ovarian System.
Sometimes Aunt Flo comes quietly and surprises you.
Sometimes she doesn’t.
Sometimes she bursts out of her little Uterus closet like she’s trying to impress you.
TA-DA!!!!! I’M HEEERE! HI! HIHIHIHI! LOOK WHAT I CAN DO! I CAN MAKE YOU LOOK LIKE YOU JUST SLAUGHTERED A RABBIT IN THE TOILET BOWL!
This was not one of Aunt Flo’s more bashful entrances.
Mortified, I did the best I could to get through the end of class, then dashed off to the locker room.
That’s when I realized I had forgotten my towel.
Oh, yes, Wonder Woman. I did.
Frustrated beyond belief, but unable to face the thought of an eight hour day without showering, I did what everyone self-respecting woman does.
I decided to figure it out when I got out of the shower. (This should prove, beyond all doubt, that I am the world’s best/worst procrastinator.)
Unfortunately, showers don’t last forever. I finally decided that what I could do was wait for the locker room to be somewhat empty, grab my clothes and dash into an empty bathroom stall and dry off with my sweatshirt. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was better than none.
And it would have worked, too, if I hadn’t rounded the corner too fast and slammed straight into Mrs. Classy Newport Woman.
I swear, if I deliberately threw everything that I had been carrying in my arms it couldn’t have gone any further. I didn’t just drop everything I was carrying. Nope. When I slammed into Mrs. Classy and almost knocked her off her feet, everything exploded out of my arms like it was mimicking an atomic reaction.
“Oh, I’m so sorr– OH!” Good breeding failed Mrs. Classy as she took stock of my very, very naked state. After all, naked people are supposed to stay in the Naked People section of the locker room. They’re not supposed to be crashing into people in the Fully Clothed section of the bathroom.
Naturally, in order to try to cover up the fact that I was completely naked, and on my period, and about 412 pounds fatter than this woman had ever been in her entire life, and also naked (did I mention I was naked?) I began to talk. I couldn’t seem to make myself shut up.
“Oh, hi! Hi, there. Oops! Sorry about that! Haha. And here, I am naked. Not wearing anything. Figures. Haha! I wouldn’t have bumped into you, except that I’m not wearing any clothes. Ha. Haha.” As I was rambling, I was desperately trying to gather up the 857 items that had exploded out of my arms. To her credit, Mrs. Classy was also helping me collect shoes, and bras, and tampons, and other embarassing items (probably in an attempt to avoid looking at my flapping boobies.)
“It’s Murphy’s law, you know. Haha. If you’re nude you have to bump into someone. Ha. I mean, I’m not wearing anything except for my birthday suit. Haha.”
I swear, in the course of that longest 15 seconds of my life, I said every single synonym for NAKED I possibly could. I mean, COME ON. Did I really have to say it that many times? I’m pretty sure she noticed that I was COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY NAKED.
The worst part was trying to figure out how to pick up the things on the floor. Do I bend forward and employ the Downward Dog technique? Do I squat? Which would be considered less vulgar? It kind of sucks that they don’t write Dear Abby columns to help out people like me. I mean, who cares which fork goes where? I have REAL ISSUES!
At any rate, I finally made it into the bathroom. I sat there for almost ten minutes, crouched on a toilet, miserably drying off and waiting for my blush to fade.
So you can see why I can’t go back, right?