What to REALLY Expect When You’re Expecting

One of my beautiful friends is pregnant. I’m beyond happy for her, and for the world at large, because she has great genes that were meant to be passed on for generations. That said, I’m OHSOGLAD it’s her and not me because – I don’t care what you Earth-Mother bitches say – being pregnant (and giving birth) sucksssss!!

I was going to pick up a copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting as a little ‘Happy Pregnancy!’ gift since the gift she’s really going to need (vodka) is out of the question, but I decided the best gift I can give her is honesty, so here goes….

What To Really Expect When You’re Expecting

First Trimester
Your hormones will be completely out of whack. You’ll burst into tears at Flo’s kindness whenever you see a Progressive Insurance commercial, then throw a fit of rage over her lipstick choice.

You’ll experience crippling nausea that will make you look back at the worst, most-violently vomitous hangover you ever had as ‘that one time I felt a little queasy’. If you’re lucky, it’ll end the minute you enter your second trimester. If you’ve cursed the pregnancy gods (as I obviously did), it won’t end until you birth the demon bundle of joy.

But I’m not bitter.

You’ll be forced to take pre-natal vitamins the size of your big toe. The good news is your nails will be strong and beautiful!

Your boobs will swell. Your boyfriend will think it’s cool. You’ll tell him (repeatedly) that they hurt and he’ll still want to manhandle them. Try not to use your new nails to scratch his eyes out when he does.

Second Trimester
Your belly will be just big enough to make your regular clothes impossibly uncomfortable, but not quite big enough to wear maternity clothes without looking like an idiot.

Your new body will make sleeping a challenge. Also? You’ll have to pee every 23 minutes.

The baby will start moving! At first it feels like a little flutter across your belly. It’s so exciting! Almost exciting enough to make you forget about how constipated you are.

You’ll be in bed no later than 7:30 every night.

Third Trimester (first month)
Your belly will be noticeably round. If you’re lucky, it’ll look like you’ve tucked half of a volleyball under your shirt. If you’re like me, it’ll look like you’ve decided to become a Sumo wrestler.

But I’m not bitter.

You will have gotten used to sleeping on your side and you will have figured out that the baby wakes up just as you start to fall asleep. Aww…so cute. Sometimes you can even fall asleep with her gently kicking you.

You will have to pee every 12 minutes, but you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, so IT’S OKAY!

Third Trimester (second month)
You will have to pee every six minutes because the baby has her damn foot on your bladder. Bitch.

You’ll be sick of being pregnant. You’ll have to go to your ‘happy place’ to keep from slapping the shit out of the next person who touches your stomach.

All you’ll want to do is sleep, but the baby will have taken up kickboxing classes that start the minute you go to bed and last throughout the night.

You’ll scoff at your makeup bag and feel like a medal ceremony should take place every time you brush your hair or take a shower (bonus points if you do both in the same day!).

You’ll start to stare at your boyfriend with contempt. Why the fuck is he so happy??

Third Trimester (third month)
You will be OVER IT. GET HER OUT. NOW.


It’s not funny anymore. You’ll be sick of being pregnant. You’ll be sick of people telling you you’re ‘cute’. ‘Cute’ is one step above ugly.


And that shit HURTS.

You’ll periodically check your groin because it’ll feel like her head is literally hanging out of you. You’ll feel like there’s no sense in even getting off the toilet because you’re just going to be back in three minutes.

Your tits will be sloppy big, your ass will be twice its usual size, you won’t even remember what it feels like to wear rings and you’ll actually start leaving the house in bedroom slippers because THAT’S THE ONLY THING YOU CAN GET AROUND YOUR HOOVES.

People will say ‘good morning!’ and you will spit at them.

Labor and Delivery
You’ll feel the first pang of a contraction and feel a mix of overwhelming relief and sheer terror because you’ve JUST REALIZED how small an opening the monster has to make her way through.

As the contractions progress – and get stronger and STRONGER and STRONGER – any dignity that remained after being poked, prodded and examined both vaginally and rectally (yyyep) throughout your pregnancy will immediately dissipate as you beg anyone and everyone to GET HER OUT!!! Any ‘breathing exercises’ you learned in birthing class will be erased from your memory, leaving you with no choice but to repeatedly scream the rudest, most obscene profanities you have ever uttered (at the top of your lungs). You’ll probably even make up a few new ones along the way. Your boyfriend will gently tell you to try to relax and maybe lower your voice a little and try not yell at the nurses so much. You’ll shoot actual lasers out of your eyes at him and tell him to shut the fuck up before you reach over and rip his throat out with your claw-like nails.

Finally, the baby will come. You’ll cry because it’s over. It’s finally over!

Foolish girl. It’s not over. That was the easy part.

But I’m not bitter.

Or…you might be one of those wicked animals who gains a total of 19lbs, skips though her pregnancy with a basketball belly and a goddamned smile on her face, feels a slight twang of pain, takes a few deep breaths, and pops out a beautiful baby with a perfectly round head who never once makes you pause and wonder how much easier (better?) your life would have been if you had just adopted a dog instead.

In which case, our friendship will be over.

No, seriously.



It takes me a minute to become cognizant of my surroundings when I wake up in the morning. I generally stumble down the stairs with one eye still glued shut and feel my way into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee (grumbling the whole way about the horrible injustice of not having been served said cup of coffee in bed). Once the Keurig has mercifully filled my mug, I wander into the family room, sit on the sofa, and start to slowly sip the magic elixir until the miracle of caffeine graces me and makes me whole. It usually takes about four sips before the fog starts to clear.

About three sips into this morning’s cup, I was treated to a commercial for AndroGel.

Have you seen it?? Oh. My. GOD!! I had to rewind it three times just to make sure I was actually awake and not having some kind of bizarre SNL-skit dream!

I’ve seen commercials for Viagra and Cialis over the years and gotten a little chuckle out of their subtle messaging about ‘taking control’ and ‘being ready when the timing is right’. I will admit to having giggled like a 12-year old boy at the list of side effects that includes ‘blurred vision’ and ‘having an erection that lasts more than four hours’. I’m not proud.

But this a whole new ball game. This is not your father’s Erectile Dysfunction ad, people!

It appears that the people at AndroGel (most assuredly men) have decided to take it to a completely different level and go with an approach that’s about as subtle as a brick to the head. Their website features images of an outdoorsy man crouching down and holding a big walking stick, and a man with a mustache staring off into space with his mouth hanging open in a way that immediately made me wonder where the hand that’s not pictured might be resting.

Their commercial opens with a man telling ‘the millions of men who have used AndroGel 1%’ that ‘there’s BIG news’. He’s standing next to a bottle of AndroGel Pump that’s about twice his size, with the word ‘pump’ featured right in the middle of the screen. He goes on to talk about the wonders of the product while the camera pans up the giant pump bottle and workers move oversized words back and forth on the screen.

The best part – and by ‘best’, I mean ‘most horrifying’ – is when the side effects guy lists the warnings…ahem:

‘Women and children should avoid contact with application sites.’

Wait…what?? Women and children can’t touch it, but men are supposed to slather it all over themselves??

‘Discontinue AndroGel and call your doctor if you see unexpected signs of puberty in a child or signs in a woman, which may include changes in body hair…’

Ummm….seriously??? Oh, hey! Your toddler’s voice is changing and your wife is growing a f*%king beard, but how’s your dick? Is it bigger? Did it work??

‘Serious side effects include increased risk of prostate cancer, lower sperm count, swelling of ankles, feet or body, enlarged or painful breasts, problems breathing during sleep, and blood clots in the legs.’

Because the aforementioned damage to your toddler and wife are more ‘inconvenient’ than ‘serious’.

The commercial ends with the guy saying, ‘What are you waiting for? This is BIG news!’ as he raises his arms up over his head to demonstrate how big ‘the news’ is.

You wish, buddy.

I’m disgusted. Maybe I’m just cranky. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m staring down the barrel at 50 and on the cusp of menopause, a condition that boasts a myriad of uncomfortable symptoms that pharmaceutical companies seem completely uninterested in tackling. Or maybe it’s because I can’t help but think about the millions of older women around the world who have spent a lifetime plucking, shaving, waxing, grooming, powdering, spraying, slicing, dicing, dancing, dressing up, dressing down, undressing, keeping their heels on, keeping their boots on, and contorting themselves as though they were auditioning for Cirque de Soleil in an effort to please their men. I mean, how PISSED must they have been when these products hit the market?? Here they were thinking they were finally going to get a well-deserved break; the dues they had paid over the years were going to pay off and they would be left in peace to read a book, sip a cup of tea, maybe watch a few Matlock reruns before bed. When, out of nowhere, these miracle pills are made available and their otherwise unindustrious husbands are now chasing them around the bedroom, wagging their new toy at them.


They’d probably wage jihad against the pharmaceutical companies…if they had the energy.

Dear Crabby

I just became aware of this (real!) Dear Abby letter:

Dear Abby:

I found out my husband has been corresponding with prostitutes he picked up when we went on vacation. He emailed them twice, but the second one hurt me the most. He sent her money. I confronted him and was ready to end the marriage, but we have a son. He denied having sexual contact with the women and said he was just flirting, so I forgave him. But I told him I won’t tolerate it a third time. He agreed to have marriage counseling and do his part to convince me he will change.

Is it worth it to try again for the sake of our son? I don’t trust him anymore, but I still love him.

— Ready To Let Go

Dear Ready:

When a man gives money to a hooker, it’s usually for a reason. The reason isn’t charity; it’s for services he wants rendered. (And they don’t take money in arrears.)

No one can decide for you whether to stay in the marriage, but before making any decisions, make it your first priority to contact your doctor and be checked for STDs. Who knows what your husband might have picked up while “flirting.” If you do decide to remain in the marriage, you’d be wise to schedule regular appointments for STD checkups. Your husband has shown himself to be not only a philanderer but also a liar.

Frankly, I think Abby was waaaaayyyyyy too gentle with this idiot. My response would most assuredly have started with “Are you fucking stupid?!?!”.

I mean, honestly? What’s wrong with these women who stay with their horrid husbands because they have kids?? Don’t they think of what they’re teaching their kids about marriage, relationships and commitment?

It’s official. I’m starting my own advice column. I’m not exceptionally smart, but I am remarkably wise. This may or may not be the result of making a number of really bad decisions along the way and actually learning from them. Being short of patience and utterly unable to sugarcoat, my responses will be more…ahem, direct…than traditional advice columns. In a sticky situation? Need straightforward advice on how to handle your kids/husband/neighbors/co-workers/boss? Email Dear Crabby at stunninglysuperficial@facebook.com. Spread the word.


A little over a month ago, I decided to try to get in shape. Well, ‘in shape’ may be too lofty a goal. I really just wanted to be able to get dressed without having to do lunges to get my pants on. Is that too much to ask?  Because I am a bear of very little patience, I wanted to see results as quickly as possible. That could only mean one thing: I would have to incorporate exercise into my routine. Gag.

Anyone who knows me (or has read this blog…or has seen me, if we’re being honest) can tell you that I would rather eat glass than exercise. Also? I love food more than I love…well, anything.

No, seriously. I would take a perfect baked potato over a romp with George Clooney any day of the week.

It’s taken every ounce of will power I have, but I’ve limited myself to 1,200 calories/day and dragged myself out the door to walk 3-5 miles almost every morning for the past month or so. You may recall that I was using the C25K app that prompts users to jog for 30-second intervals until they’re tricked into running a 5K without even realizing it. Yeah. That lasted about a week. I couldn’t even enjoy the walking parts because I knew that witch was going to tell me to ‘begin jogging’ any second. Also? Jogging makes me feel like I’m going to die. Actually, jogging makes me feel like I want to die. Those weren’t even the worst things about it. The worst thing was the way my shameless bitch of a bladder would betray me virtually every time my foot hit the pavement.

Quick question: Do the indignities of aging ever max out? I mean, honestly. I can’t even sneeze unexpectedly anymore. When I sneeze it sounds like this: ‘AchooFUCK!’


So, the good news is I’ve lost about eight pounds. The bad news is I’ve lost about eight pounds. I’m hungry and miserable, and I’ve only lost eight stinking pounds in five weeks.

Is it too much to ask to lose a pound a day? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know…it’s not healthy to lose weight quickly. WHATever. Did I mention my patience deficit??

Oh, and the worst part? My pants that used to require me to be a contortionist to put on? They’re now loose. Not loose enough to go down a size. Oh, hell no. That would be too easy. Just loose enough to look unflattering.

Ugh. I really hate my body type. Why can’t they design clothes for those of us who carry our weight from our ass to our knees? I know I’m not the only one. I see my fellow food and sofa victims everywhere wearing ill-fitting clothes.

Side note: I have a huge head. It almost offsets my ass. Also? I have about three heads of hair. This has nothing to do with my quest for clothes that fit, but it occurred to me that I don’t carry all of my weight below my waist. I’m pretty sure my head weighs about 47 pounds. My neck is exhausted.

OK, so I was running errands today, and I caught a glimpse of myself in a store window. Holy hell! I looked like the image that pops into your head when you hear the word ‘frump’. After my initial panic, I had a mild stroke of genius and decided that, until I manage to whittle my legs to half their current size, I’ll replace my capris with skirts! I would just find some cute, summery just-below-the-knee skirts that would hide my problem area(s)! Brilliant!

So, off to Marshall’s I went.

Pfft. Huge disappointment. When did Holly Hobbie skirts come back in? More importantly, why??? I’m 5’5” and weigh a hundred and a lot. Long skirts don’t work for me. Not only do they make me look even stubbier than I am, they turn me into a human Swiffer.

I left Marshall’s feeling pretty demoralized and briefly considered consoling myself with a McDonald’s milkshake, but decided to go to Mandee’s instead. Turns out Mandee’s has two styles – Hippie and Whore – neither of which works for me. Not until I drop another eight pounds. Times four. Then you can bet your ass I’ll be sporting one of those cute, white trash, crazy-print maxi-dresses. You know, until it falls apart the first time I wash it.

Fitting Room Svengali

I have done LOST MY MIND.

My adorable niece got engaged last Christmas. She and her brother are two of my favorite people on the planet. They’re my husband’s redneck brother’s kids. His ex got us in the divorce, and we couldn’t be happier. I could write an entire book about him and his second wife, but I won’t for fear of him one day being able to afford a computer and her learning how to read.

Suffice it to say that he wore a tangerine Hawaiian shirt with cut-off sleeves and khakis to his son’s wedding (it was not a barbeque wedding; it was an elegant affair in Duke University’s beautiful chapel), and she once shaved her head because she lost a bet. She also showed up at my mother-in-law’s funeral with red, white and blue hair. Very patriotic.

Because I love my niece so very much, I was honored when she asked us to attend a swanky engagement party her college roommate’s parents are throwing for her in DC in a couple of weeks.

Did you ever get really excited about being invited to something then end up in a full blown panic ten days before the event because you have NOTHING TO WEAR??

Side Note: Kudos to my husband for chewing his tongue out of his mouth instead of pointing out the fact that I have slowly assumed four of the seven available closets in our home (including the entire walk-in closet in the master bedroom) with clothes for every conceivable event. It takes years of marital conditioning to achieve the self-control necessary to swallow those words. YEARS.

Wellll, it rained today. So, like any self-respecting woman on a rainy vacation day would do, I pulled my greasy hair into a ponytail, grabbed my wallet and headed out the door to partake in some retail humiliation.

After stopping into a few of the boutiques on Rehoboth Avenue and finding nothing that would cover both my chubby knees and my flabby upper arms, I headed over to the White House/Black Market. They have such a lovely selection. You know, if you’re 5’10” and built like a 12-year old Cambodian boy.

As soon as I walked into the store, a black and white horizontal striped tank dress caught my eye.

You know what I like about horizontal stripes? Nothing. They’re awful. Criminal, really. Their only purpose is to give everyone the impression that the person wearing them is nothing more than a reflection in a circus mirror.

And yet, the design seemed so flattering with its slight (slimming) ruching, its small cut-out in the upper back and that adorable little black patent leather belt designed to sit at the bottom of the rib cage.  Did I mention that the fabric had a lot of give? OMG, it was so soft and stretchy! And you know we chubby girls love us some stretch!

Pfft. No way.


And then came Megan. Fresh-faced, happy, wrinkle-free, pert-titted Megan. I hated her the moment I laid eyes on her. I knew she was up to no good, but, before I knew it, she had me under her spell.

Megan: Did you want to try that on? Isn’t it gorgeous??? Did you notice the cute little cut-out in the back? OMG, it’s so flattering! You should totally try it on!
Me (rubbing the supple fabric as if it were George Clooney himself): Oh. I don’t know. I’m just kind of looking around.
Megan: C’mon back, let’s see how it looks on you! I think it’s going to look great on your curves!!
Me: I think you underestimate the enormity of my curves.

And yet I followed her back to the fitting room.

Megan: I love your capris! We have some just like them! You would LOVE them! You should totally try on a pair!!

My capris. My Kohl’s Levis stretch denim capris with the high waistline. My mom capris. The ones that I had paired with my lime-green Old Navy ‘Sprite…It’s Clearly The Best’ throwback t-shirt.

I was the picture of frumpiness and she wanted to duplicate it with a $78 pair of White House/Black Market capris.

Naturally, I ignored that suggestion.

She scurried me into the fitting room with nothing but a curtain.

I don’t know about you, ladies, but I like me a fitting room with a real door. And a lock. Never more than today.

Megan: I’m going to go get you a pair of black heels to try on with the dress!! What size shoe do you wear?
Size 8.
Great! I’ll grab a pair of those capris, too, while I’m out there!
I won’t fit into your capris, Megan. I wear a 14.
No worries! I’ll be right back!!

She returned in about seven seconds with the cutest pair of black patent leather wedge sandals I’ve ever seen.

Wicked animal. I wasn’t even in the market for shoes today!

I put the dress on and it fit like a glove. A surgical glove. It clung to every curve and felt so nice on. And, you know what? A tummy tuck comes in pretty handy with a form-fitting horizontal-striped dress. I mean, my huge thighs bulged out a bit and my ass was practically screaming to get out, but it kind of worked! And the sandals? OMG, they were perfect. I looked great! You know, except for my head. And my enormous arms.

Just as I was thinking about whether I could bear to have my arms displayed in a roomful of beautiful people, Megan reappeared.

Me: I don’t know. What do you think?
Megan: We have the perfect little black shrug in case you get cold!

‘In case you get cold’ is retail speak for ‘Yikes! Cover that shit up, STAT!’

Megan: I’m wearing one right now! Do you know how long I’ve had it? I’ve had it four years! I wash it all the time! It’s the greatest little shrug ever!
Me: OK. Sure. I guess so.

She was back six seconds later with the shrug and a pair of denim capris. How did she do that??

Megan: Here! I found the capris! Try them on!
Me: Oh. I don’t know…I –
Megan: OMG! I have the prettiest top to go with them! I’ll be right back! You’re going to look so cute!!!

She returned with two dressy tank tops: a black one with a white design on the tank straps and neckline, and a silky royal blue one with ruffles.

Ruffles are the natural enemy of 46-year old curvy women. They make us look like fat toddlers.

Megan: OMG! That shrug would look so great with the blue one! Try them on!
Me: Oh…uh…OK.

As soon as she left, I started to squeeze myself into the capris. I was twisting and turning and pulling and wiggling and grunting as I crammed the last of my ass into them, when I turned around and there she was. Standing with the curtain pulled to the side. No knock or anything. Like we were besties or something.

Megan: Look! I found you these earrings!! They’re black studs! They’ll look so cute with the dress! And they’ll even work with the tanks! Day or night! (stopping to slowly look down at my lower half) OMG! You know what? Our capris are always a little tight! They have a lot of give, though! You just have to stretch them out! How did you like the tanks?

I stood there staring at her, unable to bend my knees or move anything but my upper body because the capris were stuck on me like scuba pants.

Me: I think I’m going to pass on the capris and the tanks. I’ll meet you at the register.

One dress, a pair of sandals, a shrug, a pair of black stud earrings and a car payment later, I left the store.

If this retail thing doesn’t work out, Megan could have a very illustrious career selling crack.

I Can Do This!

My friends all seemed to have the same question after I got my tummy tuck:

How many sizes did you go down?!?

I mean, you’d have to lose at least two sizes when you have your stomach SURGICALLY REMOVED along with three liters of fat (yeah…you read that right,) wouldn’t you??

Not so much.

You see, my ass and thighs were the same size post-surgery, so there was no ‘down a size or two’ option for me. Instead, I ended up with the ‘pants are still too tight on my ass and thighs, and now I look like I have a dick because my muffin top’s gone’ option.


I’ve actually gained weight. Not in my stomach, mind you. My stomach is flat and pretty and I can now see my feet for the first since puberty. The problem is my ever-growing ass and thighs.

I didn’t realize how much of a problem they were until a few weeks ago when I went to a tanning bed (don’t judge me; I hardly ever do it, and I was preparing for my trip to Florida) and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I was getting dressed. I gasped audibly and felt the blood drain from my face. When did my ass and thighs get so…lumpy???

I bet those little tan chippies at the front desk don’t generally see people walk out white as ghosts.

As you may be aware, I hate exercise almost as much as I love food. So, it’s no secret where the extra pounds are coming from. Unfortunately, there comes a time in everyone’s life when they finally suck it up and start eating less and…ugh…moving more.

Is there an emoticon for crippling, agonizing devastation?

Because I have no fewer than 473 exercise-freak Facebook friends jamming up my news feed every day with their fucking exercise, weight-loss and marathon-training updates, I have become aware of apps like My Fitness Pal and C25K.

Side Note: I’m not bitter about your newfound love of exercise and your incredible weight loss. I’m really not. I swear to God I’m not. Please know that, just because I teach Sarcasm as a Second Language, I am not always being sarcastic. I am actually quite sincere about this: I am very proud of you!  It’s just that I go to Facebook to have a little giggle, catch up with old friends, look at a few pictures and maybe get into an occasional political debate. I don’t go there to feel bad about myself. I know you don’t mean to make me feel bad about myself when you post how many miles you ran in 12 seconds, but you do. And I don’t think I’m alone. I think there are probably thousands of other fatties out there who also get winded just walking to the mailbox and would appreciate it if you would just post something about your new wart or how you stubbed your toe or that you’re bored. Yeah. We’d even rather read that.

But I digress.

For those of you who don’t know, MFP is a great little app (and website) that allows you to track your food and caloric intake (along with your calories burned through exercise) and C25K is a training app that prompts you to jog for increasing intervals of time until you are allegedly running a 5K in no time! Or five weeks. Or something like that.

I downloaded MFP last year and C25K about a month ago, but I haven’t really been ready to use either of them. Until today.

I don’t know why, but I woke up this morning knowing that I needed to start making changes. Unfortunately, we’re at the beach and I failed to pack a sports bra. Rather than make yet another excuse to ‘start tomorrow’, I brushed my teeth, put on a bra, and headed to Walmart in my pajamas (yoga pants and a t-shirt). Without washing my face or putting on make up. Because who am I going to run into at Walmart in Rehoboth Beach at 8:00 on a Saturday morning??

I grabbed my cart and was headed down the main aisle, desperately seeking the lingerie department, when I heard it.

Donna? Donna!


I actually said that.

It was my fitness-obsessed, borderline manorexic broker and his adorably sporty JCrew wife. I’m pretty sure I weigh more than the two of them combined.

Did I mention that my hair was all kinds of curly and pulled up in a sloppy ponytail so as to highlight the HUGE SWATCH OF GRAY that has decided to grace my hairline in recent weeks? Or that my eyelashes are blond (read: INVISIBLE), rendering me with bulging frog eyes when I’m not wearing mascara???


Thank GOD they were in line and he was panicking because he didn’t know how to pay without her by his side (never mind that her purse was in the cart…men), so I was able to make a break for the sports bra section after just a few minutes of assaulting her with my appearance. Poor dear.

On my way home, I stopped at the grocery store and spent 20 minutes studying various low-fat cheeses (gag) so I could have some healthy snacks (ON VACATION), then headed home to start my workout regimen.

I was actually kind of excited. I can do this!, I thought to myself.

I turned on my music, clicked on the C25K app, and started walking. After about three seconds, C25K greeted me with a friendly Welcome!

I can do this!

I tucked my phone into my bra and, with a spring in my step, I started to walk. And walk. And walk.

Huh. That’s weird, thought I. I kind of thought I would be prompted to jog by now. Must be a warm-up period.

After about 15 minutes of no prompts, I became concerned about the moisture accumulating around my phone, so I decided to hold it in my hand. A few seconds later, it vibrated.

WTF?? I looked down, and saw that C25K had been prompting me all along, but only via text (I didn’t get any of the audio prompts). I don’t know what happened. Maybe it was because my phone was set to vibrate.

Do you think it was C25K telling me to just go home and have some pie??

Neither do I.

I don’t know why it happened, but I held it in my hand the rest of the way and jogged when it told me to.

And I wanted to die.

No, seriously. I am not built for that kind of movement.

But I did it. And because I had missed the first 15 minutes of prompts, I walked for an extra half hour after the program was finished.

When I got home, I jumped in the shower and stood there under the cool water, moaning as if I had just run a marathon.


It was definitely time to reward myself with some relaxation. I had only had one (fried) egg for breakfast, so I was hungry. I made myself a lunch of two slices of turkey and a bit of mustard rolled into a piece of provolone cheese. When I logged my food and exercise into the MFP tracker, it gave me an ‘encouraging’ message that, if I keep up the good work!, in only five weeks, I’ll STILL BE A FAT ASS.

I almost cried at the number displayed on the screen.

It was time to head to the beach, so I put on my bathing suit (sans t-shirt) and my trusty yoga pants (you know, so I don’t sustain a chub rub injury on the way there) and off I went.

I walked from my car to the sand to the shoreline, set up my chair, and sat there for a good 10 minutes before I realized that my right areola was exposed.

I need a drink. I wonder how many calories there are in an Orange Crush. Or three.

Hello. My Name Is Donna.

A friend recently referred to me as ‘technology-addicted’. My first thought, as I stared at my laptop screen and quickly glanced directly to my left at my cell phone for any Facebook, email and/or text notifications, was that he had no idea what he was talking about. It’s obvious that I’m not addicted to technology.

I’m addicted to inertia. Duh.

Where’s the 12-step program for MY disease?? When will someone (other than me, of course) finally get off their lazy ass and take the initiative to set one up??? Oh, and can you please develop an online version of it so I don’t actually have to leave the house?

I spend quite a bit of time lamenting about the size of my ass, which, incidentally, has increased exponentially since I purchased my first laptop. I know as well as the rest of you that if I took a nice walk on a beautiful Sunday morning rather than sit on the sofa with my laptop and cell phone, I might actually get in shape.  And yet here I sit, spewing my shame to you from the comfort of my embarrassingly well-worn sofa. And, yes, in case you were wondering, there’s an actual divet where I sit on it.

Oh, the humanity!

A few weeks ago, I took the first step towards getting into shape and downloaded the C25K app on my phone. For those of you who aren’t aware of it, C25K (Couch to 5K) is a clever little app that overrides your iPod and prompts you to jog for increasing intervals of time over several weeks until you are jogging/running the entire time.

Or so I’m told.

I haven’t actually used it yet. But I know its there. Judging me. I’m definitely going to use it, though. Soon. Probably after I check Facebook, Twitter and my email for anything new.