Hi Ho, Hi Ho, its not to work I go...

I actually really like this whole not go to work and still get paid thing, I'm currently searching the want ads for similar positions...no luck yet but there must be someone who wants to pay me for sitting on my ass and eating bon bons I’m sure of it. I realized there is truth to the statement you are a product of your environment. This became abundantly clear when I watched my Buddha bellied little roommate leave his position within arms reach of the television to search for the remote to turn up the volume. No wonder why I can’t get skinny, I have an “other” who eats ice cream for breakfast and a roommate whose greatest exercise is a frantic search for the remote. So I was supposed to go to spring break at South Padre Island this weekend right?(hence the personal trainer, whatnot)… Well one of my supposed best friends ditched the plans we have had for over 2 months to go to Germany to visit her boyfriend and oh by the way forgot to tell me until I found out accidentally like 2 days before we were supposed to go. Sucks to be me right? This year was supposed to be our last year, I mean at some point you become too old to do this sort of stuff right? One such indication of this point is when the personal maintenance to make yourself presentable for this trip exceeds 200$. It becomes like that mastercard commercial:

Personal trainer 150$,
Mystic tan 25$
Cute flippy haircut and college girl highlights 50$
Supposedly less painful sugar waxing 70$
Yawning at 11pm because its 2 hours past your, Sex in the City watchin, gotta go to work Monday, 20 year old, Dirk Diggler frat boy wanna be pimp is hitting on me, middle-aged ass betime….Priceless.

It was a battle of wills between me and my bikini line this weekend. Since I was still clinging to making the whole trip work (Dirk was awaiting), I was in the race against time to find that small waxing window of opportunity that would ensure I still had enough recovery time prior to donning the 2 oz of swimsuit material that laughed at me from my half packed suit case. Naturally a suitable Waxist was nowhere to be found on short notice so I found myself wandering the hair removal wastelands at Wal-Mart. I had previously attempted a home job about 5 years ago, and vowed imbetween very bad words never to resort to such stupidity ever again, yet here I was face to face with a vast array of choices before me. Some boasted less pain, others slower regrowth, while still others boasted an all-natural edible waxing substance. Edible…? At what point in this process does it become a viable option to consume any part of a product you have just ripped off your crotch? Personally, picking a particular product seemed on par with going to an underground fetish chamber and choosing which instrument you want to become intimate with; nothing good could come of it. And of course nothing did….Hours, a big fat waxy mess and a few bald patches later I stood in front of the mirror like john Wayne in a wild west movie standoff (well except for the being naked part) fingering the trigger of an electric hair clipping device. There just isn’t any dignity in being 25. I’m convinced it’s like the worst age ever. You already finished with school so you have to find a real job, waxing your bikini line becomes a significant emotional event instead of just routine maintenance. All your friends are having kids and without any you have nothing to blame for why your ass is now eating your pants. Calgon, take me away….

I'm a Carbie Girl in a Carbie World...

Ok so I’ve officially stopped going to work now, I am “Clearing Post” which means I wake up at noon get a latte and watch Days of Our Lives. Not really, but yet not so far off either…today it was Blue’s Clues: quality entertainment. So I discovered when I got home that an anorexic midget leprechaun had stolen all my jeans and left me her Brittany Spears wardrobe. I got one leg halfway up my thigh and it stopped there sort of confused as to what was supposed to happen next. Still not convinced that my ass had really expanded to the size of a small third world country I crammed the other leg in and commenced to shimmy and shake myself the rest of the way in. As I lay on my bed like a beached whale flopping about trying to button them up I decided perhaps I had eaten one too many of…well EVERYTHING. The next day I hit the gym and a month later my ass was still celebrating Fat Tuesday. With a spring break trip planned for South Padre Island and Hawaii the following month I decided to hire a personal trainer to assist me down my yellow brick road to skinny. So I make the appointment and I open the door to find a cute happy little woman who scampered in with a milk crate full of what I would later come to know as the devices o’ torture. 30 seconds into our first workout I knew that I had been bamboozled and hoodwinked. Beneath the bouncy happy exterior lay a masochistic slave driving torturous fiend with a beady eyed glint and a smile that would make the Predator look cuddly. When Sunday’s came around I’d find myself curled in the corner in a little ball trying to go to a happy place to forget about what had just taken place. She was not above public humiliation either in the form of sprints up and down my street. As I lumbered up and down the block the beady little eyes of 15 dirty old men, 20 overweight glaring housewives and 500 neighborhood children watched in fascination. I am THE slowest sprinter on the face of the earth. Tricycles and small rodents were lapping me. After about the third sprint my appendages started to do their own thing independent of any type of directions from my brain. I imagine I looked somewhat the Tasmanian devil with arms and legs flying about in angles and directions that defy the laws of physics and most certainly do not resemble any type of physical training. To add insult to torture this week she decided I was still too fat and cut my carbs to one meal a day prior to lunch. She warned me that this could cause me to become irritable. Irritable? I had hallucinations as I hunched over my baked potato snarling and scaring small children in Wendy’s. I mean holy hell I went to Red Lobster the other night and I started to sweat when the put the cheddar biscuits down in front of me. I watch my “Other” eat potato chips and pizza and feel downright homicidal. I am pretty sure that this food rage is a genetic thing. Once when I was seven I tried to take a tater tot off my moms plate and she speared me with her fork….I get it now Mom, I understand….