IF THE BODY'S A TEMPLE-MINE'S A SHRINE TO SLOTH

So, what I’m beginning to discover is that being a pretty girl is hard work. I mean, I am actually having to sweat a little here, people. I have also come to the harsh realization that going from fluffy to fit involves a great deal of knee lifting, backbends and learning that lactic acid is not my friend.

I’m really trying my best to blend in and do what all ‘Pretty Girls’ do. Which is being equal parts disguisted and obsessed with my body and how thin I am.  Or not. In the PG World everything revolves around how I look and what I’m doing to improve my looks. It’s boring and fascinating at the same time.

I mean, I always cared about how I looked before (I’m not a careless hobo or anything) but I didn’t obsess about it. I had made a kind of peace treaty with myself and accepted what I did and didn’t have in the beauty department. But the truth is I didn’t think I could actually compete on that playing field so I never even tried to play. Not really.  I never committed to seriously trying my very hardest to make sure I looked the best I could every single day of my life. And for once, I am truly committed 100%. I even threw away my super comfy, elastic waisted ‘eating pants’ that doubled as pajamas. So, I’m definitely all in!

The most important thing I’ve discovered is that it’s exhausting. Between exercising and preparing healthy food (and performing bizarre beauty rituals), I barely have enough hours in the day to catch up with RHOBH. For the record, I am #TeamVanderpump-Brandi all the way!  My family thinks I’ve gone off the grid, my friends are annoyed and my DVR’s pissed because we don’t spend enough time together anymore.  “I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry. I love you…don’t ever leave me!”

What’s my total body transformation secret you ask? Well, I know there’s a lot of losing weight programs out there but I’m just doing the common sense stuff. Like eating healthy and working out. All the duh! things I never bothered to actually do consistently before.

So, I’ve been eating a lot of chicken. And broccoli. And kale. I didn’t even know what the hell kale was until last week. I thought it was another slang word for cool…like, “That’s sick dude, it’s so kale I can’t deal.” “Word, bro! Watch this, I’m gonna go totally kale on his ass!”  I even tried a three day “goopy”-type detox cleanse where all I ate was veggies and fasting tea. I know, I’m shocked myself that I made it through.

But I did. It wasn’t so bad actually. It just involved a lot of green stuff going in and…coming out. The upside though is that I totally caught up on my reading. Too much? Sorry…but *spoiler alert* that’s pretty much all a cleanse involves. Moving on.

 Now that I had the food situation sorted, I checked out a bunch of exercise classes. I’m not gonna lie, it was intense. I’m still standing…but just barely. Last night I went to Walgreens to get some Tiger balm and spent twenty minutes quietly eyeballing a walker as if it was a prospective lover. I eventually decided that it was too soon for us so I left without one. For now. But I’ll be back, I’m sure of it.

I began my exercise adventure as a PG, by going straight to the belly of the beast and taking a FlirtyGirl Fitness class.

 Flirty Girl Fitness

Ninth circle of hell or innocent pastime? I wasn’t really sure but I was determined to find out.  This class was advertised as “sexy cardio fun”. I’m thinking they’re gonna teach me how to be a stripper or at least twerk better than Hannah Montana. I dressed accordingly. Head to toe in stretchy black and hot pink spandex. Yup! I was legit, y’all. Once inside I was relieved to find out there wasn’t a pole in sight. So it wasn’t a serious stripper class just more of a sexy hip-hop dance class.

The instructor was extremely energetic, and insanely perky but friendly so I suddenly got really cocky thinking, “I got this” even though I have almost no formal dance experience.  The only two other girls in class were college students wearing next to nothing (Like if they could have worn just a g string and leg warmers they would have been ecstatic) and they couldn’t care less about me, I didn’t exist. Probably because they spent the entire class texting their boyfriends in between dance moves. Annoying doesn’t begin to describe it. Especially since there was only the three of us. Four counting the teacher.

The class consisted of various sexy dance moves like, “The Ashley” “The Britney” “The Cheerleader” and “The Cowgirl” Seriously. I’m not making this stuff up.

Basically all the moves I learned that night were either based on pop stars or sexual positions.  There was a lot of “Yeah!” “Whoo-hoo” and staring at ourselves provocatively in the mirror while we flipped our hair around.

Nobody was dancing like the rent was due but it was actually sweaty, slightly sexy fun. And I didn’t totally suck. Sadly, I didn’t earn any tips either but I did learn how to perform “The Fallen Angel”. Which could come in handy once I start internet dating*. *Which will be…*gulp* next week. Start praying for me now, please!

Yoga

I signed up for yoga because I thought it would calm and soothe my mind in addition to helping me learn to be more flexible.

What I encountered was a non-stop menu of poses and positions that I didn’t understand. The class started with our teacher directing us to,

“Gently pull the flesh away from your sitting bones.” Wait, what? I didn’t even know I had “sitting bones.” But sure enough, once I pulled away my super fleshy neither regions…Shabam! There they were. Hiding this whole time. Hmmm, who knew?

Next she shouted out a completely foreign selection of moves that I tried desperately to learn before we moved on to the next one. I was frantic and stressed out…so not the soothing experience I had hoped for.

“Ok, ladies let’s go. First we go into a plank and then tabletop, then lunge to the front into full warrior pose then tree into downward dog into kneeling grasshopper into Wal-Mart clearance section into espresso tears into boxed wine, variation twelve.” What?

Eventually, I gave up and just laid on my back with my eyes closed breathing heavily. I can’t tell you how excited I was to learn that this was actually the final position of the night! Well look at that. I guess I’m a natural!

YMCA

There’s a brand new mega million dollar YMCA that just opened up in town. It’s like a glowing, three story, chrome & glass shrine to good health. I’m not actually a member but my friend Heather snuck me in and I checked out a few of the classes.

Spinning

I know how to ride a bike so I figured how hard could this be? Yeah, right! Newsflash! Spinning has very little in common with riding a bike. It’s basically boot camp to techno house music with a drill sergeant screaming in your face and with the added bonus of wheels. I don’t have a lot to say about this class because I think I blocked it out. However I do remember at one point mouthing the words, “Help me” to Heather halfway through. She just smiled and said, “You can do it!” Smug bitch. How did she know? I was just barely hanging on. After class, she wanted to spin again later in the week but I value my life so I politely declined. Instead I suggested we try something else. Hopefully something easier. Little did I know that I had just made the foolhardy decision to jump from the pot all the way into the fire…

BodyPump

I was nervous once I noticed the people lining up outside the door for this class. They were focused. Lean. Like long distance runners but with lots of humongous muscles. All artfully displayed in very tight bicycle shorty shorts and miniscule brightly colored sports bras. And that was just the men. I panicked as the teacher strode purposefully to the front of the class and yelled at us to “Get it together” because, “We body pump in five people!” Everyone else whooped it up in excitement. I froze. Frightened by what I could only assume was going to be more exercise than I had previously done in my entire life combined into one intense class…I wasn’t wrong.

Take your worst fitness nightmare and multiply that by ten. Then understand that it doesn’t even come close to the hardcore ass kicking I received in this class. The Gung-ho instructor, Alejandro, had us deadlifting, rowing and bicep curling with a weight rack while we also did squats. SQUATS! With no breaks. FOR AN ENTIRE HOUR!!!! The weird part? I didn’t die and I actually kinda liked it. It was like being a submissive or participating on a forced march. You just put your head down and do what you’re told because at some point you know this madness has to end. Of course for the next three days my body hated me as every muscle group was seized up like I spent my entire weekend dancing The Harlem Shuffle for my office’s version on YouTube. But whatevs. I survived.

Planet Fitness

But by the end of the week my body was screaming for me to stop. Or maybe that was me screaming. Hard to tell because it was so loud inside my head. My neck won’t turn to the right, my calf muscles feel as hard as volcano rocks and I’ve lost all feeling in my toes.

So I’ve temporarily retreated to the comfort and convenience of Planet Fitness where I will slowly walk on a treadmill until I can recover.

This super cheap but clean & friendly gym is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and only cost 10 bucks a month so really, what’s not to love?

The best part? They have massage chairs! And massage beds. I love it here. Does massage count as working out? God, I hope so. I’m so tired…so very, very tired!

 

I GUESS RIGHT NOW I'M PRETTY...FAT!

So, I’m stalking pretty girl behavior like I’m on a safari in Africa and random stuck up bitches are my prey. Or, to mix my metaphors, I’m a mad scientist. Studying them like they’re some strange species I’ve just discovered lounging around under my microscope in barely there short shorts and stripper nails. The point is, to me PG's (pretty girls) are completely foreign and I really don’t understand why they do most of the things they do.

Clearly, I’m female too so I share some of the most important characteristics like my DNA, my genetic lust for fashion and my awesome baby making abilities. But I don’t act the same as those other girls. I never have. I started to notice the difference as early as junior high when PG’s would form packs of four to six deep and endlessly roam the playground at lunchtime looking for other weaker, weirder girls to bully. For entertainment. Just to make themselves feel better. 

 

 I could never understand that. Guys didn’t waste as much of their time putting other people down. Instead they used their skills. They competed. They accomplished. They did something. All girls seemed to do was compete as to who was the prettiest and who the boys liked better. To me it was like being a remora, a sucker fish for a larger more important species. I mean, who would choose to be Nemo when you can be the shark?

My friends and I didn’t worry so much about what we looked like. We were more concerned about being talented. Being smart. Being artistic and getting recognized for our achievements. We didn’t use gossip and beauty as social currency. We paid cash with our wit and determination. Then again, we also spent an awful lot of hours dancing around in front of our bedroom mirrors singing show tunes and practicing our Oscar acceptance speeches so maybe we didn’t utilize our time to the best of our abilities either.

Regardless, the space between the PG’s and me widened…  Eventually by high school becoming an endless, gaping chasm. And I didn’t care. Cause I was a drama geek, an outsider, a weirdo, but I still had boyfriends and dances and after school activities. Just not like they did. I was made fun of a little bit but nobody shoved me into a locker or pushed me down a flight of stairs. The worst it got was like bully lite with an extra helping of bitchery.

But now, post high school, post college I barely recognize PG’s as the same species we’re so different. I see these thirty-something women attending their Junior League meetings, their 50 Shades of Grey book club reading bullshit all dressed alike in their matching Tory Burch white jeans, loafers, gauzy embellished ‘I just came back from Morocco and it was to die for’ blouses (even though the farthest away from home they've ever been is St. Louis) and I want to vomit.

Everyone looks the same. Everyone thinks they’re special and different but seriously? Tory Burch is Garanimals for grown-ups. These days even college girls buy into it. Urban Outfitters is Corporate America’s idea of being a rebel. I get the irony but do they?

But this is how PG’s dress. They feel safe if everyone adheres to the same rules. This is how we look. This is who we date. This is who we love. This is how we live. Even the hair all looks similar. Blown out. Highlighted. Straightened. I have masses of thick, unruly red hair. One thing is not like the others. Can you tell which?

I’m trying to understand them but it’s like learning a foreign language. Why do they do what they do? These strange creatures with their awesome magical powers. I don’t compete with my friends for men or who can get the most attention when we walk into a room. Or who is the thinnest. The prettiest. The Best.

I don’t speak ‘girl talk” That annoying baby voice whisper that women use to feign passivity, appear non-threatening and get out of traffic tickets. Nobody is born talking like this. Trust! It’s a trick that women use to get what they want from men but when they have the gall to attempt to use it on other women its beyond infuriating. Have you ever had to hold a conversation with someone who insists on talking like this?  It’s like they chose a cross between a helium balloon and a Keebler Elf as their spirit animal and they insist on paying homage.

I also don’t feel the need to criticize myself in order to gain compliments and power. Ever notice how certain women don’t allow themselves to be happy? This is a straight up power play, don’t fall for it! If you’re a woman, let me ask you…have you ever tried to compliment a PG woman? It’s impossible, right?

If you tell her you like her shirt she will tell you that its last season, or she got it on sale or that she’s gained five pounds so it doesn’t fit right. Even though she secretly thinks she looks better than you she will keep putting herself down until you finally bust out with a heartfelt, “Oh my God, you look amazing! What are you talking about? I’m the fat/horrible/old/unattractive one!” Then, fully satisfied she will relent and agree with you. She might even add in a ‘helpful comment’ about how you should see her Pilates teacher/dermatologist/spiritual healer to get you “back on track.” Hmmph! Didn’t realize I had derailed.

Anyhoo, in my attempt at understanding what the hell motivates these women I went straight for the belly of the beast and mailed off subscriptions to Elle, Marie Claire and Harper’s Bazaar. I didn’t subscribe to Cosmo because I’m no longer 23 and I’m already really, really good at giving blowjobs.

So, my first magazine arrived yesterday, all thick and glossy. Full of perfume strips, massive fashion layouts for $5,000 bags and ‘inspirational’ headlines like, “Sexy Cool New You”, “Flawless Skin” and “Killer Style”.

I excitedly flip thru the mag like a kid on Christmas morning thrilled to be gleaning insider info until I come upon an article called “Skinny & Crazy VS Fat & Happy”. The article went in depth about a LA woman who was suffering from “An onslaught of depression and suicidal thoughts so intense that she took a leave of absence from her job for treatment.” So she goes on Lithium but discovers that it made her hungry. So she ate. Instead of her normal handfuls of almonds she ate *gasp* sandwiches. With actual bread and everything.

Suffice to say this chick was totally freaked out by her appetite. So she “hit the gym for hours at a time” but still she gained weight until finally, she went to the doctor and was horrified to discover that she had gained…wait for it…twenty pounds! Twenty pounds! According to this LA woman, she had gained more than what she had assumed her maximum weight could be.

Let’s just take that in for a minute, shall we? This is a grown-ass woman who really thought that there was no way in hell she (as a PG, natch!) could possibly, under any conditions, gain more than ten pounds. She thought that her body couldn’t physically weigh that much. Shocking I know. But that’s not even the kicker. It’s this. This woman, this Elizabeth and James jeans wearing, non-processed, gluten-free food eating woman, would rather be depressed and suicidal than be twenty pounds overweight, so she went off her pills.

That means she would rather potentially die than go up a size in her clothes.

She literally would rather die than be fat.

That is complete and utter madness. Is this how these women think? As someone who is more than twenty pounds overweight, I’ve never thought that my life was completely worthless just because I was a little bit fluffy.  Twenty pounds is nothing. It’s a blip, a non-event, an unfortunate result of a messy break-up maybe but totally not worth possibly killing yourself over. WTF?

But then I realized that this was the kind of bizarro world, super-secret, thought process info I’d been searching for. They actually believed this stuff. They believed that even being a little bit overweight could throw you out of the club. That being chubby was a life or death situation and that once you’ve achieved PGD status, maintaining it requires this kind of ruthless vigilance.  In the PG world you can be pretty or you can be fat but you can’t be both. And that’s where I went wrong. I was trying to check both the boxes and let’s be honest, failing.

I just didn’t realize the extent of the unacceptability of being overweight. The standards here are rigid and the expectations high. You either get with the program and get the discount or you don’t.

Damm! Allrighty then, I guess it’s time to start taking working out seriously. Although I will never be insane enough to choose to end my life for something as minor as a few extra pounds, if I want my pretty girl discount (and that's what this little experiment is about after all) the truth is, I will have to lose weight.  

So, I renewed my gym membership to Planet Fitness, signed up for ballet and yoga classes and in general will do my best to get in the most awesome kick-ass shape of my life.  Totally not looking forward to endless dinners of spinach and unseasoned chicken breasts but I have conceded that the Halcion days of Hot Pockets, Tex-Mex Mondays and chocolate covered Krispy Kremes are over.

Because I’ve finally realized that being pretty and fat in the PG world, just means, you’re pretty fat.