If You Can’t Fit Into Your Pajamas, You Might Need To Lay Off The Butter

I’ve gained somewhere around 10 pounds this year, due to a combination of gluttony and not being able to do any excercise for two months after I had my appendectomy. (I stretched that two months out to six, by the by. I was feeling fragile, plus I just had an oversized baby only eight years ago so give a gal a break, right? That’s what I told anyone that made any mooing sounds as I waddled by.) Christmas didn’t help either. I subscribe to my Dutch ancestors notion that to make anything taste better, add butter. That bacon tastes off? Put some butter in the pan. That rock you’re eating could use a little something? Butter, my friend. Butter makes it better.

By Boxing Day, I couldn’t get into my new fancy pajamas, which I could totally wear out to grocery shop if I had to, they’re that nice. That’s what you do when you’ve just flat-out given up on what other people think of you. You wear your pajamas in public. It’s a blatant statement of not being able to fall any further down the rabbit hole. All that’s needed is a sign that says, “I am wearing my sleep attire out in the middle of the day. In public. I have farted all night long in these and I don’t give a damn.”

So I wrapped an old sheet around my middle like a toga and I got my flabulous self on the computer. I found a Pilates machine and I fell in love. Pilates? Short info: You do the whole workout on. your. back. No shit. You’re laying down for the whole thing! It’s like a nap! That’s just goddamn fantastic.

The machine is a series of pulleys and a movable track (the part you lay on) with a nice little headrest. My brain said “Holy fuck. That’s fucking brilliant.”( My brain swears a lot when it gets excited.) I told Hubby I had to have it and I promised to wrestle with him at least 3 times a week if I felt better about my body. ( You’d think after 10 years he’d have learned that all promises of sexual favors lead to nought but he’s nothing if not hopeful. And a little dumb.)

I wrapped my sheet neatly around my body, added a belt for security (and flair) and went and bought my Pilates machine. I hugged it and dubbed it “The Gunt Begone”.

I got on the Begone today for my first official workout. I put the disc in to follow along with the nice dvd instructor lady. I think she’s somewhere around 137 years old but her body is amazing. That’s the power of laying down while you work out, people. I followed along, kept up, until 20 minutes in when I realized I was pulling my whole body weight in a rowing circular motion, with my feet in the air with pulleys on them, swinging in circles, and that the muscles that seemed to be bearing the brunt of this movement were the ones that attach your crotch to your body and that for no reason ever would I need a bulked up crotch. Oh, and also that I was in horrible pain and hopelessly flailing while trying to untangle myself. Somehow I got a knot in the pulley cables before I managed to fall over whimpering on the floor. I think the Begone snarled and snapped at me as I crawled away.

Now I’m stiff. So, so stiff. The only cure for that will be to do it all again tomorrow. Motherfucker. But I’ll do it. In a few short months, people will compliment me on my toned body and admire my bulky crotch, I just know it.

In the meantime, The Gunt Begone is parked in the corner. I think I can hear it snickering.