First things first: I’d wear a hoodie to support the cause, but I’m fat and it’s already in the mid-80s. If I wore a hoodie, I’d be just another casualty.
Now that that business is out of the way and I’m on the subject of fat, I’m back at the gym. I’m not going to the gym because I want six-pack abs. I’m going to the gym because I love large pizzas.
I’m in my mid-30s. I’m not trying to impress anybody; I just want to be able to eat my large meat-lover’s pizza in peace. I’m not in this to be skinny, or be all roided out; I just don’t want to be judged. You can’t win when being judged.
If someone sees a skinny person eating a piece of cheesecake, the skinny person is hated because she is thin and can eat cheesecake and stay thin. Meanwhile, if we see a fatty eating a piece of cheesecake, we hate him because we are fat so, of course, we are eating cheesecake.
I know I’m not going to be Channing Tatum, but I don’t want to be Jabba the Hutt, either. Maybe just Channing Tatum with a small gut “¦ and a bad hairline, and poor “¦ less charisma, not-as-pretty teeth, no dimples “¦ and a weaker jaw line. WHERE THE HELL DID I LEAVE MY CHEESECAKE!?!?!?!
I’m not going to the gym because I want six-pack abs. I’m going to the gym because I love large pizzas.
One of my favorite pieces of comedy ever is Lewis Black’s “The Dumbest Thing I Ever Heard.” I won’t go into detail “” buy his CD on iTunes or something and enjoy it yourself “” but the gist of it is he hears a snippet of conversation, just one part of a sentence, and it drives him insane because he doesn’t know what it meant, or where it led to “¦
I always thought that it had to be just a joke, because how could anything like that get into your brain and get stuck? Then I had my moment. It was just over four weeks ago, and it still pops into my head at least once a day.
I was sitting at the bar of one of my favorite restaurants, waiting to pick up my dinner. Next to me were two 30-something women, having wine and appetizers and chitchatting. The bartender gave me my food, I signed the ticket, and as I stood up to walk out, I heard one of the women say: “”¦ and the second time I did it, I thought my ovaries were going to fall out.” The other woman laughed and nodded.
My knees buckled as I wanted to turn and say, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, but WTF did you just say!?!?!” But common sense and lack of desire to taste pepper spray again righted my stance, and I walked out.
I just want to know what could be so horrific that the second time you did it you would think your ovaries were trying to escape your body, and why in the world you would try something like that a second time? Lady, if you are out there: Please, please, please, please email me and let me know.