This Beach Body Runs on Taco’s….

“Here at Globo Gym we’re better than you.  And we know it.”
~
White Goodman, Dodgeball

After my lay-off, my first order of unemployed business, was to cryptically post my change of employment status across my social media accounts.

This, so that all of the people I don’t actually keep in touch with, could shower me with attention in the form of, “What happened!?” and “Are you going to be OK?”….because I didn’t get enough attention as a child, that’s why.

I’ll admit, I was genuinely touched by the number of people who offered to put me in touch with someone they knew who was hiring.

And, I was flattered when I began receiving regular phone calls and messages from hiring managers who said, “I see that you’re now available and I’d love to talk to you about an exciting opportunity at my company.”  As though they had just been waiting for me, which was crap, but still, I ate that shit up.  It’s nice to be wanted.

Of course, I then had to come clean and explain that I wasn’t actually looking for work.  That I had other plans.  To which they responded with, “Ok, deadbeat.”

Actually, no one said that, but it’s what I would have said.

After about a month or so, most of the calls and condolences dried up and I was busy moving on with my life.

Then, I got a message from an old high school acquaintance, via FB Messenger.  It started out with, Hey girly!

Important side-note here.  The only person who should address me with a “Hey girly” is a shirtless Ryan Gosling.  He should be holding a skinny vanilla late and asking if I’d like to watch The Notebook.  End, side-note.

Anyway, here’s the message:

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By “page,” I can only assume she meant my Facebook page.  So, I immediately went there to scrub out whatever might have led her to believe that I would be interested in being an online health and fitness coach.

Here’s the thing, I love to work out.  A few years ago, I joined a women’s only fitness studio after spending years joining traditional gyms where I spent my time trying to look like I knew how to use the equipment, while trying to dodge the hardcore sales tactics of gym employees, while also trying not to lose a finger in all the gym equipment I didn’t know how to use.

I would go faithfully for approximately one month.  Then, I would stop going, but continue to pay for my membership for at least a year before working up the guts to face the fifth layer of hell.  Also known as….trying to cancel your gym membership.

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Then, I got cancer and I had a baby….all at the same time….and I decided that my fitness goals were all wrong.  For years, I had been studying the body parts of other women and wishing I could make them mine.

Come on fitness equipment machine!  Give me JLo’s ass and abs….Jennifer Anniston’s arms….legs like Carrie Underwood! 

And of course, it never worked.

So, after life smacked me in the face, I decided I should be grateful I still had a living body and perhaps I should just learn to work with it.  I found my current gym and I love it.  It’s small, with a variety of classes and a body positive message and I’ve seen great results.

I’ll never have a six-pack, because I refuse to make the dietary sacrifices it would require, but I’m fit and in far better shape at 38, than I ever was in my 20’s.  Of course, in my 20’s, I lived off Ramen Noodles and the occasional, post closing time trip to Taco Bell, so….

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My point….I love to work out, but a scroll through my Facebook page would lead most to believe I hate it….when I even mention it all.  In the beginning, I checked-in for my daily 5:30am workout’s.  I mean, I’m working out at 5:30am!  Praise me!

But for the most part, my posts were snarky and complaint-like, because obviously, I was being forced into working out.  And eventually, it got old, for all involved.  (Read: I no longer needed the praise and validation of Facebook).

So, I couldn’t figure out exactly what she was seeing that would lead her to believe I would make a good fitness coach.  I decided to just ignore the message and hope she’d go away.

Two days later:

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Argh!  So, I responded with what I thought was a polite no.

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The irony of my misspelling “jam-packed” as “ham-packed,” is not lost on me.

And I wasn’t lying about the work thing.  For years, my husband and I had been talking about starting a small business.  When I learned my job was going to be eliminated, it seemed as good a time as any to give it a go.  So yeah, I’m busy.  But apparently, that wasn’t the right answer.

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Seriously?  Is it me, or are there a lot of assumptions being made here?

Like:

1.  We feel exactly the same way.

Nope, Sarah.  I don’t think we do.  I feel like YOU are sort of a self-righteous asshole, if you want to know the truth.


2.  That when I’m sitting on the couch watching my favorite show, I’m wasting my time.

I am fairly certain that the good doctors of Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital have earned my undivided attention.  It’s thanks to them that I am so confident at making self-diagnoses.

And, I’ll have you know that sometimes, my computer is present.  How else am I supposed to further research the historical figures portrayed in Victoria, or collect screen grabs from various segments of This Old House?

I’m exercising my mind, Sarah!


3.  That I have debt to pay off and cannot take care of my children.

I was raised to believe two things:  That I wouldn’t amount to anything and that it was rude to discuss politics, religion and money, uninvited.


4.  That I have any desire to understand your business.

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah….I think YOU are selling people a load of crap.

Here, drink this shake!  Work out to the same series of video’s that’ll only cost you $19.99 a month for infinity months.  And be sure you buy the $400 worth of cheap, shitty fitness equipment you could pick up for $20 at Target.  The pounds will melt away and you’ll get a daily inspirational message from me to keep you going!

In a word.  No.

I’m not a healthcare professional and I’m certainly not an authority on diet or exercise.

Earlier this week, I ate a great breakfast consisting of an egg white, on some kind of fancy-pants Whole Foods bread, topped with Avocado and a small dish of strawberries.

Yesterday, I ate an entire bag of dill pickle potato chips and a roll of fruit Mento’s.  What about that says, “This person is totally qualified to give diet advice.”

And sure, I can be all Rah, Rah!  You can do it!

But, I don’t actually know if some stranger I’ve never met, CAN do it.  Maybe there’s a health or mental issue that needs to be addressed, so that I don’t rah, rah some poor woman into cardiac arrest, or a nervous breakdown.

Isn’t that sort of why actual trainers become certified?

I know someone who has PH.D in exercise!  It’s called something else, I just don’t know how to spell it, but she’s legit.  I am not.  I’m in no way qualified to determine whether this crap is the right program for anyone.

And really?  How is it possible that you are properly supervising 515 other so called “Health and Fitness Coaches?”  It sounds to me like you are just sitting on-top of some kind of Ponzi-Scheme.

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5.  That I did not notice that the only thing you talked about was YOURSELF.

I spend a lot of time at the gym.  The various fitness instructors I work out with, all talk about how much they love helping people.  None of them, talk about how much money they are making off of them.

In fact, most come directly from their full time day jobs and they just teach classes on the side.  While we work out, they correct my form, they know what exercises to modify in order to accommodate physical limitations.  They know the names of the muscles I’m working and they know if my aches and pains are just a product of being sore, or a possible sign of injury.

I’m sure the extra money is nice, but I know what an instructor makes per class at my gym and it’s not enough to retire at 40 and then continue to work their day job just for shits and giggles.

So again, thanks but no thanks, Sarah.

And yes, I know exactly where to find you.  On social media:

Posing in a sports bra and yoga pants for before and after photo’s that always look suspiciously staged.

Snapping a selfie with your logo’d plastic bottle full of whatever that shake is.

And in the video’s with the hashtag, what’s your excuse that showcase your workout routine while your kids crawl all over the place in the background.

But trust me, I won’t be looking anytime soon.

Last Night, I Ate an Old Cadbury Cream Egg For Dinner & Nope….I Don’t Feel Guilty….I Don’t Feel Guilty At All

“People who love to eat are always the best people.” ~Julia Child

About a month ago, I got an email from Meetup.com letting me know about a new book club for women that was forming in my area.

If you’ve never heard of it, Meetup.com is a networking site that allows users to create and join interest groups in their local communities.  There are thousands of groups to choose from.  Everything from outdoor sports groups, to book clubs, parenting groups, exercise, volunteering, artists, dating, business related groups and so on.

I created an account about ten years ago when I moved to the Boston area from a small town in the mid-west.  It seemed like a good resource for making a few friends in my new home state.

Only….I’m a complicated person.  I think my personality falls somewhere between hermit-like and introverted.  I am also very socially awkward.  I don’t know if I have some form of social anxiety, or, chronic verbal diarrhea, or what.  All I know is that I’m more of a wall-flower than a social butterfly.

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I’m the kind of friend who will almost always return your call with a text message without having:

1. listened to your voicemail; they give me anxiety and so I delete them immediately

2. sent the text before you’ve even finished leaving your voicemail

I will decline every invitation to a Pampered Chef, or Scentsy party.  Because I will always have plans to do something like, make my own laundry detergent, or de-pill my sweaters while listening to NPR or Relaxation Radio on Pandora. But, I will absolutely buy something if I can do so via a link that doesn’t require any human interaction.

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I will call you 47 times in a row, not because it’s an emergency, or because I’m trying to be a creep.  But because I can’t leave a proper voicemail message and so I will hang-up and try again, many, many, many times….before eventually giving up and sending a text instead.

So yeah, it’s not easy being my friend.  Which is probably why I have so few of them.  But, for all my faults, I’m a ride or die chick.  The women I count among my besties, I love so much, that I would 100% help them hide a body and my only question would be, “How deep do you think we need to dig this grave?”

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Anyway, back to the topic at hand.

Way back when I first signed up for Meet-up, I joined a book club for women.  They were a lovely group of ladies, but it just didn’t work out.  It wasn’t them, it was me, so I did what I always do and just stopped attending.

They were concerned for a while.  Was I sick?  Was I dead?  Eventually they realized I was just an asshole and they unfriended me on Facebook and we all went our separate ways.

But, it’s been 10 years now, so when I got the notice of a new book club Meet-up, I thought….maybe I might suddenly be the type of gal who enjoys socializing with a large group of women I don’t know….this, by the way, after declining an invitation to a family members Sprinkle.  Actually, I haven’t officially declined yet.  I’m just going to wait until the last minute and then say I’m sick.

I know, I suck.

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The details for the Meet-up said the inaugural gathering would be held at a local Mexican restaurant.  I’ve eaten there on a number of occasions and they have some seriously good street taco’s….and I’ll pretty much do anything for a street taco.  And I mean, anything.  So, you could probably argue that a taco was the reason I signed up and confirmed my attendance.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I found the groups organizer, introduced myself, made some comment about the weather, because that’s my go to small talk tactic and then I found a seat where I awkwardly smiled and said, to all I met, “Can you believe this weather?” even though there was nothing remarkable about the weather.

When it came time to order, I picked one of the street taco selections, obviously, while the rest of the ladies ordered some kind of salad with a “hold all the good shit and can you put everything but the lettuce on the side?”

When our food arrived, I wasted no time digging in.  As I was hoisting one of the taco’s to my mouth, one of the women said, “I wish I could eat like that.  You’re so brave.”

 

Um….brave?  I’m taking down a taco, not a terrorist.

I took an enormous bite, using the side of my hand to shovel in the parts that were trying to escape and looked up.  My eyes clearly said, “Bitch, please,” as I slowly chewed, before swallowing and then saying, “Street taco.”

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Which, to anyone with an ounce of sense, would have been a reasonable explanation, correct?

But she kept going….“I do, I envy you.  I would feel so guilty.”

Me:  I guess I just prefer to eat my calories, rather than drink them.  (I’d seen how many margaritas she’d taken down and I can be a passive aggressive douche canoe too).

Her eyes said, “Bitch, I will have you black-balled from this book club.” 

But I wasn’t scared.  One of the benefits of having been raised in a largely dysfunctional and abusive household, is that I don’t really have any feelings.

And because I love nothing more than a super awkward silence, I decided not to say anything else and instead, I just sat there and exaggeratedly ate the shit out of every last taco.

No way was I going to be shamed out of the pleasure of perfectly seasoned steak, tucked into a double layer of soft, warm, corn taco shells, because Karen wanted to do that whole “Oh, I ate 150 calories today, I’m going to have to work extra hard at Globo Gym tomorrow morning,” dance that some women seem to enjoy.

Because, I feel guilty about a lot of things….

The time I filled my 6th grade math teacher’s water cup in the toilet.  In my defense, she was really mean to me though and I was basically raised by wolves.

The time in elementary school when a friend dared me to call the number on a poster about a lost dog to tell the family I’d found him.  And when the woman answered and I told her I had her dog at the public pool, she immediately began screaming and crying with joy and then I hung-up.   Side note:  I feel like maybe this was the reason God gave me cancer and I can’t say I blame him.

All the times I said my grandma died, because I wanted to take advantage of my employers bereavement leave policy.

That time in high school when I hit my friend Patrick with my mom’s minivan….and while he clung to the hood, I accelerated and then quickly hit the break, sending him flying through the air and into a concussion.

All the times I use the handicap stall in a public restroom, because I like the extra space.

All those times in my twenties I left a first date, in the middle of the first date, without saying goodbye.

But food?  Eating?  No.

I love food.  All the food.  I’m just as happy tucking into a boiled hot dog at a baseball game….with a soft pretzel covered in so much salt that I instantly swell up and don’t pee for a week….as I am a gourmet meal, at a fancy restaurant, with fancy drinks with my BFF Marie, while we catch up on life.

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I grew-up believing there were only three food groups:  Chef Boyardee, Betty Crocker Meal-in-a-Box and Hamburger Helper, so when I discovered the world was a literal oyster, I made it my mission to enjoy every bite.  For me, food is fun.  It’s a simple pleasure that is meant to be enjoyed.

Never will I ever buy into that line of thinking that a woman should only eat a thimble full of food in public.

If you want to eat lettuce and air, that’s your business, but I’m ordering something I can’t buy in a bag from the grocery store….and my own desert (I don’t like to share)….also, I’ll totally take your leftovers if you don’t want them.

Needless to say, I’m dropping out of book club.  I don’t think I can mesh with the type of women who lure you into a club with the prospect of street taco’s, only to make you wonder why they didn’t just hold the meeting around the salad bar at Whole Foods.

Oh well, there’s always next decade.