When I’m not busy blushing and begging people to stop praising me over my upcoming New York Times bestselling novel, due to hit shelves on November 23, 2062, I’m a regular person just like you.
(Okay, maybe a slightly better person than you. But I would never say that to your face.)
I’m not perfect (no really, stop protesting, I’m not), I don’t know everything (just most things), and I, too, am learning new facts about myself and the world I live in on a daily basis (like the fact that even if you’re a future famous author, people will still feel free to cut you off in traffic).
For instance, one situation being a future famous author doesn’t protect you from is accidentally overdoing it at the gym your first day back after a three week hiatus.
Apparently skipping your usual upper body workout because your preferred resistance machines are all currently taken and deciding to go to town on your legs instead will have the result of making your legs very, very angry with you.
Especially when you remember you haven’t done calf raises in approximately two eons and decide in the adrenaline of the moment to do a few extra sets to make up for the lapse so you’ll look extra good in your new 4 inch heels at your husband’s work’s Christmas party on Saturday, because logic.
Make sure you do this on Monday, so your calves will still be nice and pissed at you for your weekly Wednesday skating night.
EMBRACE THE BURN.
Also, if possible, schedule this lapse in common sense so that it coincides with the draining and maintenance of your gym’s whirlpool so you’ll have absolutely no chance to relax in its hot bubbling bliss and let your riled-up leg muscles unwind a bit before they have to power walk back home in the freezing rain.
This is also a good week to be reminded of the fact that when the disposable coffee cups in the main lobby say “biodegradable” on them, they mean IMMEDIATELY.
Most days I remember to tote my industrial-sized travel mug with me when I have cause to visit the building wing with the “good coffee” at work, but on occasion I forget, and it’s then that I have to call on my speed drinking skills unless I want to witness composting in action at my own desk.
These ultra-biodegradable menaces of a paper cup display the requisite illustration of a large green leaf as proof of their environmental friendliness, and are covered in text extolling their own virtuous status as a fully renewable and compostable member of the temporary tableware industry whose contents could be extremely hot.
They do not, however, mention the fact that if you dare to take a break between sips, chances are your much-needed dose of scalding liquid alertness will just go ahead and start eating right through the bottom of the fucking cup.
As someone who enjoys drinking their coffee in a leisurely fashion from the lip of the cup as God intended instead of sucking it out frantically through a crater in the bottom as one does with a melting scoop of ice cream in a broken cone, I don’t think I’ll be forgetting my mug again anytime soon.
Speaking of things bursting loose from their containers, on Tuesday I took myself on a little mini-shopping trip to make sure I was fully stocked with the appropriate undergarments to ward off any potential fancy blowfish moments in my pretty new navy lace dress.
As I wandered through the lingerie department of the Hudson’s Bay Company, marveling at the sheer volume of shapewear and other self-loathing quick fixes available for purchase, I came upon a rack full of Spanx.
At this point I’m sure you’d have to have been living under a rock never to have heard of Spanx, but this was somehow the first time I’d ever been in the actual physical presence of the legend.
Spanx were all the rage on the wedding forums when I was a bride to be. I had never heard a bad word said about them, apart from the obvious cursing during the struggle to get into the damn things. “Magic!” everyone said. “I’ve never had such a perfect figure in my life!”
And now there the sainted garments were, dangling right in front of my nose. Of course I had to try them.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first: I failed at Spanx. I am the first person I am aware of (possibly the first person in recorded history, for all I know) on whom Spanx did not perform a miraculous demonstration of slimming and smoothing. Quite the opposite, in fact.
My Spanx CREATED fat rolls where there were none.
Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no size double zero Victoria’s Secret model with .5% bodyfat and a cellulite-repelling genetic heritage, but I do all right. All I was looking for was a little something to help keep the holiday food babies at bay.
Instead my midsection looked like someone’s failed attempt at making sausages.
Tearing myself away from the horrifying image in the dressing room mirror, I pulled out my phone and Googled Spanx’ sizing charts, wondering if I needed to go a size up.
My measurements were spot-on. Apparently Spanx just hate me. I am incompatible with Spanx.
But I’ll say this, I had a whole new appreciation for my body in its natural state when I rolled that overpriced sausage casing back off. And you know what they say – the best things in life are free.
I look forward to many more enjoyable years of not purchasing Spanx.