Weekend regurgitation: Why my incentive just might stab me in my sleep

Yesterday, it was a frigid 20°, snowy and slightly windy. Perfect running weather if you’re a die hard athlete! Or, in the case of someone who had to beg, cajole and finally drag her incentive out from under a fleece blanket and up from the depths of its butt imprint on the couch, a sadist.

I shook my incentive awake, strapped an industrial strength bra on it, whipped some Reebok cold weather gear all over it, tied some running shoes onto its feet, made it stretch until it whimpered, pulled a hat over its head, slapped an iPod into its hand, stuck earphones into its ears and threw it out the front door with a cheery RUN YOUR ASS, MAGGOT, OR DIE TRYING.

Ten seconds later I also flung my ten year old daughter out the front door to keep it company. Bet she’ll think twice before whining I’M BORED every ten minutes ever again.

My incentive ran two miles and talked smack about me the entire way. And my ten year old daughter wound up kicking my incentive’s butt by two minutes.

I leave you with a post I wrote a year ago, prior to making my goal weight, before I started running outside, back when I was still breaking my incentive in on the treadmill.

By the way … I now know exactly where all the skin goes. Ignorance truly is bliss.

Happy Sunday, everyone!



I feel like the Biggest Loser on my treadmill and not in a good way

(originally published January, 2010)


Exercising to lose weight is like someone strapping a two ton smelly gorilla onto your back and six inch stilettos onto your feet, right before using a cattle prod to force you to climb a fifty story rock wall during a monster hail storm while singing Dontcha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me?

Losing those last ten pounds feels exactly the same way except someone greased the goddamn wall with Crisco when you weren’t looking.

I’m about seven pounds away from my goal weight and in an effort to shed those seven miserable leeching little shits, I’ve ramped it up on the treadmill and now do a straight thirty minutes at a 6.5° incline, ten of which are spent walking briskly and the remaining twenty spent cramping, crying, cursing and conjuring up hideously gruesome ways to decapitate an expensive piece of exercise equipment in its sleep, all while drowning in gallons of boob sweat. This twenty minute ride into the depths of Hell is known as jogging.

My body wasn’t meant to jog on a treadmill. It wasn’t meant to jog on anything, period. I know this because if God had meant for me to move faster than a sloth, He would have birthed me with actual, real live legs instead of short, stubby wannabes perched atop ridiculously weak ankles attached to feet with arches so low, they’re half way to China as I type. Let’s not even mention the triple D’s that tower mere inches above the entire mess. There’s not a bra alive that’s got the cajones to tackle this particular job.

He also would have given me a little better coordination so that I could keeping jogging and not strangle myself with my own earphones while attempting to change the song on my iPod because as much as I adore Van Morrison, and I really do, I simply cannot psyche myself up to WORK THROUGH THE PAIN! PAIN IS BUT A MOLE ON THE ASS OF HEALTHY while listening to Have I Told You Lately That I Love You.

I just started watching The Biggest Loser this season and I’ve decided that I need Jillian or Bob or someone absurdly good looking with zero body fat and great hair to help me exercise. Someone to ignore the tears streaming out of my eyes and the vomit streaming out of my mouth, someone to scream IF THAT’S JUNK IN YOUR TRUNK, THEN YOU ARE A BUICK in my face to motivate me and that someone had better be someone other than Nate and not just because he hides his body fat under a layer of denial or his hair is receding whether he admits it or not, but because if Nate ever screamed anything in my face, he’d better do so while wearing a cup and having a few extra testicles waiting on standby. Unless whatever he screamed sounded exactly like YOU ARE SO TOTALLY HOT AND I’M BUYING YOU A NIKON D90 TODAY.

I get that the main premise of The Biggest Loser is to help obese contestants lose weight. Well, that and to make gobs of money and push Jillian Michaels onto the general public to the extent that she is now the Rachael Ray of fitness, except that Jillian wouldn’t be caught dead saying Let’s make it really YUM-O by adding a little bit of MYFA which is short for MOVE YOUR F*CKING ASS. But I don’t get the whole mentality behind the elimination aspect.

The contestants who lose the least amount of weight each week are up for elimination yet, aren’t they the very ones who need the show’s help the most simply because they didn’t lose the most weight? And apparently, it’s OK to slack off on a week you have immunity so that you can save up your weight loss for the following week because that’s just “playing the game” so long as you cop to it when you’re standing on the scale as Bob and Jillian are staring at you, horrified, as if you’ve just shoved an entire pizza down your throat with a puppy attached to it without screaming MOTHER MAY I first.

But you better not play the game two weeks in a row because then you’ll be accused of *gasp* playing the game instead of trying to lose weight.

But isn’t the whole point of being on the show to win the game?

And you win the game by losing the most amount of weight.

But you can’t actually win the game unless you play the game strategically.

And if you play the game strategically, there will be some weeks when you won’t lose as much weight.

Blink. Blink. Stare.

Ethical dilemmas aside, I love the show, even though it makes my head hurt. When I watch it, I think I can do that! If she can do it, I can do it! Holy shit, do I look like that in a tank top?

Above all else, what I really want to know is … where the hell is all that skin going?



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