Moobies With A Side Of Bra

You need a Man bra. No, not you! Silly goose. I am watching the Biggest Loser, which fits quite perfectly with my classy “taste” in TV shows. Like, if my taste was a fine wine, you could box my shit up and call me Franzia. So, anyway, this man’s moobies (man boobs) are just flopping up and down and it makes me sad because I know how much that hurts. STOP YELLING AT HIM, JILLIAN MICHAELS! That she-man is terrorizing the gym. I mean, do you really think it is a good idea to yell, “you’re going to die” at morbidly obese people? What the shit, Jillian?


I know, I am rambling, but let me get to my point. So, some chick was on her bike and then we get a shot of Jillian, talking behind the scenes, “she tries to use her asthma as an excuse, she says she can’t breathe, but I know that’s not her problem.” You’re right, Jillian. Having a 280-pound woman peddle on a bike for an hour couldn’t possibly trigger her asthma. You asshole.

Bike Lady w/ Asthma: I…can’t…breathe…my…lungs…burn

Jillian: I know that’s not the problem. Tell me. What’s the problem?

Bike Lady w/ Asthma: My…lungs…burn…

Jillian: You’re sad your dad died, aren’t you?

Sooooo, she’s using her asthma as a defense mechanism? Trainer and psychologist…YOU GETTEM JILLIAN.

Lance Armstrong Tried to Kill Me

Remember when I had that really genius idea to take a Pilate's class at the gym and I almost died. Well, yesterday, I was sitting on my couch eating a bag of rice cakes with a cube of butter and...no, I am not being sarcastic. I literally had half a stick of butter on a napkin that I was slicing onto my rice cakes. What? Shape magazine said rice cakes are healthy. Stop judging me, Judy.

So, there I was, buttering my intestinal tract, when I thought "hmmm, maybe I should go to a cycling class today." I wish I had a time machine so I could go back to that very moment to throw a lawn chair at my head. But no. Time travel is for whores and I am obviously the Virgin Mary in this story.

I got to the gym early so I could pick out a good bike and get it adjusted properly. Look at me. Such a go getter. Like Hillary Duff chasing her dream of being a REAL singer. Now, onto my first issue: my over sized Kardashian a.k.a my butt. If you have ever felt like your butt was jiggly or big, go sit on a bike and tell me how you feel. My butt fat was building a fort around that damn seat. A FREAKING FORT. I had every corner of that seat covered with at least an inch of my fat. Like white on rice. Motivation to work even harder in the class? You would think so. I would hope so. Ha.

Ethan, the instructor, comes prancing into the room. Yep. His skipping could give Dorothy a run for her money. "Okay, guys! (wide smile) Who's ready to meet those New Year's resolutions and work that booty?!" Lance Armstrong with one more testicle say what? His high-pitched excitement really should have been a warning to my fat soul. But nooooooooooooooooo. Fat soul wanted to play. Fat soul wanted to barf butter and rice cakes and kidneys. Why can't I just have a normal fat soul who wants to chill with Paula Deen and Rosie O'Donnell and eat butter wrapped in bacon?

We started with a nice slow pace. Ethan was punching the air it was so easy. I, on the other hand, was sweating and heaving and had the sudden urge to push Mr. Prancy-pants off his stupid stationary bike and watch him cry. Sorry, Ethan, but you brought this upon yourself.

Worst part. I had the brilliant idea to position my bike directly in front of that butthole. He was watching me like I was the piece of chocolate he doesn't allow himself to eat. Can you say awkward? He kept telling me to speed up, turn up the incline, stop crying, etc.. Well, EXCUSE ME!!! Not all of us can look like Mary friggin Poppins while riding a bicycle through hell. Go eat a twinky and be average you butt.

So. There was blood. There was a lot of sweat. And, I may have cried a little. BUT. I survived. Poor man's Lance + 1 testicle can suck it.

I Think I'll Try Pilates...Pilates Thinks It Will Murder Me

There I was, sitting on my couch with my bag (yes, bag) of bagels and my jar (yes, jar) of peanut butter making PB & Bagel sandwiches to my hearts content. Four bagels and 3/4 of a PB jar later my heart wasn't too content and my stomach was doing its fantastical version of kicking my ass. A little like this:


Me: Ugh, why did I do that?
Stomach: I hate you and now you will be my bitch...(insert intense mortal combat punches)



I had to get up and move. Absolutely had to. I couldn't do my typical run because I was pretty sure I would barf. Oh, sorry treadmill for getting my insides on you. Hmmm, so what was I to do??? Dun dun da dun! Pilates say what?! Audra, my bestie/lover/inspiration for all things holy told me that she just started doing pilates and that she looooooooooves it (emphasis on the love). So, I'm thinking "okay, I think I will do this Pilates thing...it'll be like yoga...with a little more movement...EASY PEASY!" It went downhill from there.



There I was with my totally rad eighties ponytail, yoga pants, and pink floormat, still bloated and barfy from my little food mishap. All excited. Throw in some Rocky airpunches and eye of the tiger and you pretty much have a picture of me. I start looking around the room...hmmm...um...well, no one was over 100lbs. Whatevs. I don't mind being the fat chick. Then the instructor walked in. Let's see, how do I describe her? MUSCLE. Notice how I capitalized that? Yes. That woman's name will be Muscle because she could probably punch a hole through my skull. Again, whatevs. I gots this on lock biatch. I should have shut my fat ass up right then and there. Zoom 5 minutes into the future in Bill and Ted's time machine...


"WHY ME?! WHY ME?!" Yep, 5 minutes through and I was ready to kill myself. Muscle expected me to lift my body with my arms...MULTIPLE TIMES. Pilates freakazoid say what? Is she crazy? I don't think she realized that I have fat. Yes. FAT. That stuff is heavy yo. So, instead of only my stomach wanting to bitch slap me, now I have every muscle in my body creating a hit list. I'm Italian, that's what Italian muscles do...my Jewish muscles would be giving me a guilt trip. At one point, we were in a squat for 5 minutes!!! Okay. It was 1 minute. SAME THING. The only time I am in a squat for that long is when I am on the toilet, and at least I have something to sit on.

By the end of the class, when I was passed out on my mat, dry heaving and wishing I had enough strength to tell Muscle I would never forgive her for what she did to me, the Richard Simmons Gods were pointing and laughing at me. That's right. A bunch of little Simmons heads were dancing around my brain pointing and laughing. Now, this could have been a hallucination but probably not.

I am still in pain. 3 days later and it hurts to sit...I am so doing this again.

BRING IT ON MUSCLE! Kirsten Dunst style.