ONLINE DATING-THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH

_{My PGD plan was in full effect. I was busy working out, repeating mantras and doing my best to improve my life in almost every regard. *Yeah, me!*}

_{And that includes my dating prospects. If you’ve been reading this blog then you’re totally aware that I have the most random radar for picking super inappropriate men. It’s seriously a gift. Like, if he is an aspiring rodeo clown who works part time as a scrapbooking specialist at Hobby Lobby, has an addiction to fill in the blank (Alcohol/Porn/Captain Crunch with Crunch berries), thinks stopping by my apartment for a quick handy counts as a first date and likes to play shady shell games with his heart…then I’m all in and twice on Sunday!}

_{My radar was in full effect when I finished working out last Thursday and then popped into the library for a quick browse of their new DVD releases (What? It’s only a $1 for a full week’s rental. So you can suck it Netflix!) As I was about to pick up Pitch Perfect, I was approached by a sweet, smiley black man with dirty dreadlocks who winked in my general direction and yelled loudly, “Hello pretty girl”.}

_{Brilliant. He thinks I’m pretty. Made my day. But don’t worry. I didn’t stop to chat. Even I could see that he was not dating material. And I wasn’t even wearing my glasses. #RealTalk}

_{The next night, I stopped by the grocery store after working out and sure enough, was hit on again. This time by a tall, good looking black man wearing headphones that strolled by me and asked, “So, do you work out?” “Uh, yeah. I just came from the gym, how did you know? *Sometimes, I really am just this dumb. I didn’t realize this was a line, I thought he just saw me there or something. Duh!* He slowly looked me over like a judge at a 4-H hog contest “I could tell you work out because you have a good body.” This was followed by the longest pause ever while he awkwardly stared at my ass in yoga pants for, oh…a good two minutes or so. Finally he licked his lips and spoke. “A goooood body” “Well, all righty then” I replied. “Thanks for that. Have a good night”}

_{And that was the moment I decided I was done with crazy. I was going to have to sign up for online dating.}

_{Here’s the deal. Everyone hates online dating. For good reason. Just the act of signing up for the thing forces a person to acknowledge their failure. Failure at being able to meet someone in the real world, in the ‘normal’ way. You know, like on Facebook.}

_{Failure to get and maintain an intimate, committed relationship that leads to awesome togetherness grossing total strangers out by recklessly PDAing around town and spending Sundays lazily eating pancakes while simultaneously having midafternoon sex romps during an American Pickers Marathon.}

_{It’s so public too. It’s like taking out a giant billboard advertising your unmarried status and saying, “Hey world! Guess what? I’m a loser and I have a complete and utter lack of other options. So, here I am, giving you single online realness! Uggh. It seriously begs the question…Am I defective or is the world, for failing to provide me with my heart’s desire? Hard to say, only God knows for sure and apparently he’s mad at me right now.}

_{But I was tired of the ridiculous prospects I was getting.  Clearly I could not be trusted to meet a quality man out in the real world.}

_{So what the hell, here we are. Even ‘pretty girls’ are forced to online date sometimes, so I put on my big girl panties *Not literally. I mean, I was trying to get a man. I went with a thong* and picked a site. I went with one that is free and seemed laid-back. Definitely didn’t go for the religious or niche sites (I’m not Jewish nor a Farmer). And I completely avoided posting a profile on Craig’s list or Plenty of Fish because I don’t enjoy being date-raped by narcissistic psychopaths who believe in aliens and still live at home with their over possesive mothers.}

_{After answering what seemed to be an endless array of annoying personal questions (If you were an ice cream sundae, what flavor would you be? How often do you masturbate? Name a hilarious and embarrassing incident from your past! ) I finally posted a profile, held my breath, drank some more merlot and…this is what came back to me.}

_{I’ve broken it down into a random cross section of responses. *Side note to loving but clueless family members. The next time you ask me, “So, who are you dating now?” and attempt to slide in a catty remark about me being “Way too picky” please refer back to the men listed below. This is what I’m working with. Thanks!*}

_{Just Plain Wrong}

_{Hi, I’m Craig, 34, handsome, smart, fun, work in finance, love dogs and…am married. You seem really beautiful and interesting. I travel to your city quite a bit from Chicago and would love to meet up with you for drinks, dinner and hopefully sex on a semi-regular basis. Hope you’re good with this. Get back to me as soon as you can.}

_{*Umm…sounds so appealing to be the mistress of a Midwestern banker who is riding dirty, but I think I’m gonna have to pass on that Craig!*}

_{Totally inappropriate}

_{“Hello, I’m Cody! So, I came across your profile! You seem really interesting and I’d love to get to know you more. Hope you don’t mind. J”}

_{*Adorable, right? He sounds great until I realize he just turned 18 and I eventually want to have a baby, not date one.*}

_{And Thomas whose first message to me was…}

_{“Hey there, I was wondering if I can interest you in a cooking date over at my place. We could bake a think crust pizza, (If this really existed that would be hilariously awesome! I would totally eat a think crust pizza.) sip on some wine, chat a bit, watch a movie while cuddling up in my couch!”}

_{*Wow Thomas, I know we’ve never met before but just FYI, I will make out like a horny teenager on prom night if I really like a guy but I don’t cuddle on the first date. I save spooning for a serious, committed relationship. But listen, since you’ve basically planned the whole thing anyway without even asking what I wanted to do… Are you even sure you need me? Why not just purchase one of those blow-up dolls? I’m pretty sure she’ll cuddle whatever you want, no questions asked! *}

_{Then there was Jared…}

_{His name was Jared so that should have been my first indicator. Anything and anyone named Jared is suspect. *This means you Jared* The name basically represents a dim-witted brosef who likes muscle cars, Ed Hardy shirts and fart jokes. *No offense to fart jokes.*}

_{We emailed briefly and then went straight to texting. After one brief exchange I could tell he was a solid hell no.}

_{To recap, this is what Jared had to say about Jared.}

_{He was not just good but “amazing in bed” (his exact words) and he “just really liked to please women”. He was also in the middle of a messy divorce as he had just found his wife cheating on him on Valentine’s Day so he was looking to revenge fuck his way out of his depression. *Charming*.}

_{I quickly wrapped up our text chat but he was relentless, texting repeatedly over and over again at two pm, at midnight and constantly the next day.}

_{Wanting to know ‘What’s up?”}

_{“Uh, hey Jared? Nothing’s up. Not for you anyway”}

_{Finally, I texted back as nicely as possible to say that I wasn’t interested but good luck and take care.}

_{He texted back, “That is so fucking gay”.}

_{Which obviously did not even warrant a reply, so I ignored him.}

_{And then he texts, “So, what? You’re not interested now?”}

_{*That is correct Jared.*}

_{He texts again.}

_{“So, what you’re just gonna ignore me now?}

_{*Yup…pretty much.*}

_{I continue to ignore Jared and never texted back.}

_{Three days later he texted me again, “What’s up?”}

_{*Nothing, Jared. Nothing’s up for you. Ever! Jaysus!*}

_{I move on to other greener, more inappropriate pastures. One guy writes…}

_{“Hi Sweety i see your profil i lik it alot because you’re look a sexy and hounset girl. Shortly i like you and whantto be your freind I hope to your accept me like freind.”}

_{*No, no I don’t accept you like freind. Sorry if this seems harsh, I was just being hounset. *}

_{Behold the hipster idiot who messages me only these words…}

_{“Rock hard!!! Hallelejujah!!!! I wanna play your ass like a video game. Lllool!”}

_{*Put the pipe down now. I said put it down cause you are totally gonna regret this tomorrow. I know you are only doing drugs “ironically” but honey, your body doesn’t know that. You should just go back to playing YuGioh and stop messaging everyone on this site. It’s embarrassing*}

_{I also got a lot of “You are gorgeous, you are beautiful, you are a stunning redhead.” Which was all very nice but they were usually from guys with no pictures or information whatsoever on their profiles. It was like being spammed by a crew of complimentary ghosts.}  

_{I also got this message…}

_{“You like sex? Cooooooool! You are built like a machine” #word}

_*Totally*

_{And this one which just might be my personal favorite…}

_{“I like you, I am Chinese.”}

 _{* I think it pretty much says it all don’t you? *}

_{Creepy/Perverted}

_{This dude’s first message to me was…}

_{“You have some awesome pictures, but I’m sure every guy says that. If you’d ever want to pose (hands off) my female colleague would love to be your photographers. I’m always looking for new models willing for “pinup girl” and niche leg shots (in nylons only). If not interested, I completely understand.”}

_{*Do you? Do you understand? Do you understand that all I wanted was a good guy to date and I’m not really looking to pose for soft-core fetish photographs in nylons for a total fucking stranger for free? I’m gonna take a pass on that…but thanks for trying to pimp me out to your friends. Uggh, I feel dirty. I gotta go take a shower now*}

_{No Means No Mister}

_{Meet Gruntor96. He messages me with the following:}

_{“I am looking for right woman for a long trem relationship. Iam open for a relationship. I am hoset and trustworthy caring. I like walks and cuddly looking for a soul mate. I funny open minded.”}

_{*I didn’t reply because I like to date men a little further up on the food chain…you know, guys with opposable thumbs and such.*}

_{So then I get this…}

_{“Hi how are you doing today like to hear from like to talk to you like to get know more and more about me this is Grunt96”}

_{I ignore it so five minutes later I get this…}

_{“Hi I can tel more about me if you want this is Grunt96 I am still working on profile”}

_{*I ignore it again but feel a little bit bad…I mean, he is trying…*}

_{Then I get this…}

_{“I like to hear from more if want I like to get know you are you interested let me know you very fun presson I like to get to know and let more about me like said my profile I am still working on it this Grunt96 let me know”}

_{*I stop feeling bad and start feeling trapped.*}

_{Five minutes after that…}

_{“I liked to really hear from I have go to work today but hear from like talk to you tomarrow if you want this is Grunt96”}

_{*I start wondering if his name is Jared*}

_{The next day I hear from him again}

_{“I want talk I want see you feel you let me know we now this is Grunt96”}

_{This went on for three days.}

_{I never replied to him once.}

_{That did not stop him in the slightest.}

_{I was also messaged by this persistant jackwagon….}

_{He was 22 so I very politely told him he’s too young for me…aaand so of course he then just keeps messaging me every day. Every. Single. Day.}

_{These are his messages….}

_“Ugh.”

_{“Seriously?”}

_“Hey.”

_“What?”

_“No?”

_{And finally he sends me this….}

_{“So say your friends told you they heard a guy you seen around and they told you his…is almost as big as his forearm what would you think?}

_{*I would say you seriously should not believe everything you see on the internet*}

_{The Worst Kind}

_{I totally saved the best for last. Here you go….this is real people! This guy (who btw looks about oh, 75 years old) sends me this classic gem}

_{“Hey Cutie! My name’s George but you can call me PawPaw. What you up to Butterbabe?”}

_{Just for kicks I message back, “How old are you?”}

_{He replys, “I’m 63 years old but age doesn’t matter. Agreed? I guess my genital just got hard. Lol. They say Disneyland is the happiest place on earth obviously they haven’t been on my genital. Lol. I just made my day. J}

_{*Seriously? There are no words*}

_{And Then There Was One}

_{Hmmm….anything is possible with the right person. Out of all the men who messaged me, there is someone who fits the bill.  Handsome, grown-up, smart, sexy, funny and totally a non-serial killer type dude who reeks of possibility.}

_{But no expectations…we will just have to see what happens. Fingers crossed he doesn’t show me a picture of his dick in a parking lot.}

_{*God my standards aren’t very high are they? I seriously gotta do something about that*}

NEVER MIND THE GAP

NEVER MIND THE GAP

4/11/13

 

As my workouts rolled onward, I gradually felt better. Not quite as sluggish. A little cockier. Slightly stronger and a lot more sore. But then a strange thing happened…I started to obsess about the quest for a thigh gap.

Now, a thigh gap is a touchy subject (Ha ha, couldn’t resist) for a fluffy girl. It’s something that occurs naturally for most ‘Pretty Girls’ but honestly, I have never in my life had one. Never. Not even when I was ten and a total tomboy, slim as a whip, running wild through the suburban splendor of The OC . *And yes, I grew up in Orange County…so now you know the true source of my angst. Thank you for caring!*

But what’s a thigh gap you ask? It’s the absence of flesh at the top and between your thighs. According to society standards (And every Barbie doll I’ve ever seen) women are supposed to see daylight in between their legs. Um, all I’ve ever seen is soft, pale flesh smooshed together in one white, round lump. Kinda like a giant spoonful of marshmallow fluff.

And, aside from the esthetics, for those of us without a gap it really is kinda a problem. We suffer from chaffing, rubbing and the horrors of all our pants (Especially sweats) getting worn out between our thighs long before anything else. It’s definitely a #firstworldproblem but I still wish there was a twelve step program or support group hotline or somebody I could call when I had a really frustrating moment dealing with it. Maybe Sting could put together a telethon for all us non-gap girls to bring awareness to the situation? Well, it’s either that or a Tumblr page.

Anyway, now that I was fully immersed in my PG program, I found myself noticing other women at the gym who had this thigh gap and would instantly become insanely jealous. I’d be slogging through twenty minutes on the elliptical when I’d see a skinny girl in Lycra pass by and my inner voice would start shrieking, “Oh my God, look at her gap. That’s amazing. I bet she works out like, three hours a day, only drinks hot water with lemon and can wear junior sizes in everything!”

It was like the more I tried to improve myself, the more I found fault with myself. And the thigh gap was just the tip of the iceberg…so to speak.

But don’t worry. This is no ‘thinspiration’ blog or anything…I’ve made my choice. I’m all about being healthy and fitness not deprivation. I want to be taken seriously as a pretty girl but I’m not willing to starve myself to do it. So, a thigh gap just might be unattainable for someone built like me and I will just have to learn to live with it…sweatpants be dammed!

But building muscles and toning up? That I could definitely do. So the workouts continue…and so does the absurdity I call my dating life.  

Tuesday night was no exception. It started out pretty typically. I had hit the treadmill hard and run a mile (RUN NOT WALKED! AN ENTIRE MILE! WHY AM I TEXT SHOUTING?! Because I’M EXCITED people, this is a big spanking deal!) all by myself for the very first time.

High on brain chemicals and delusions of fitness grandeur I sauntered like I was in a JAY-Z video all the way* to County Market a local grocery store to stock up on more protein bars and veggie shakes (Yes. I have totally become that person now). Annnnd…that’s when a random dude named Mike approached me. *(Confession, it was located right next door)

I seriously have some kind of secret signal that goes off when I enter a grocery store. Usually it’s right after I work out. I must seem extra approachable or extremely lickable (I actually meant to type likeable but what the hell lickable works too) or something.

Let me just break this down for you, shall I? Mike was a good-looking, black man, mid-thirties, seemingly normal from afar until I got closer and noticed he was a hot mess wrapped up in a giant RED FLAG! He was wearing a dirty blue sweater with holes in it and a wooly knit cap that had seen better days. Was that straw stuck on his hair? WTF? He looked me over and shouted out a loud, “Damm, girl” as I cruised through the frozen food aisle.

Confused, I stopped, looked around and gave him my best Robert De Niro impression. “Are you talking to me?” “Yeah, I’m talking to you baby” he smiled across a row of frozen lasagna, “Whatcha doing? Is this your store? You shop here? I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Uh, yeah, I come here sometimes after working out” I offered. “Ok, cool, cool. You’re sexy.” He leered as he checked out my ass. “I’m Mike. I wanna call you…can I get your number?”

And this is where things progressed from strange to really weird. Now, don’t get the wrong idea, I’m totally down with the swirl, what I’m not down with is hobo dating because while I clearly have issues I do have standards so I tried to politely decline his offer as gently as possible. “Um, I can’t give you my phone number…but, I…” (And this is where my relentless people pleasing disease kicked in with a vengeance) “I can give you my email.” What??! My email? Now I’m the weirdo. Who gives out their email to some random dude who wants to hit it from the back before he rambles home to his collection of cardboard and dirty blankets under the freeway underpass? I am totally ridiculous sometimes. Luckily, he was kinda deaf.

“Oh, you’re married?” He looked concerned. Apparently he had standards too.  “No, email.” I clarified. “I can give you my email.” Why didn’t I say I was married? That was an easy out. Idiot!  His face was blank but I kept going like the dork I am. “Um, no, no, my email.” There was no recognition at all. Nothing. Zero. “Email?” I tried again. “ Like…” (Typing type hand movements) “Clickity-clack…you know…like on the computer?”

“Oh, the computer?” He finally got it. “Yeah, no…I don’t know any computer stuff. I don’t have one. I don’t know the email.”

The email. I stared at him, momentarily confused. He did not know how to use a computer. Now, I knew, of course that there must be some people on the planet who did not. But they are usually well over the age of sixty. Or they live in a cave or in the middle of The Amazon Rainforest. I on the other hand, live in a middle class world where even second graders get IPADs for Christmas. I’m not being snotty about this. Obviously I understand not having fundage for a computer. However, the library is free and its chock full of peeps who don’t actually own a computer but even they know how to use one!

The irony of the situation was not lost on me.  I really have no business whatsoever even talking to a dude who can’t use a computer…when I am professional writer for Gods sake! I was momentarily distracted beating myself up for this when I suddenly realized that he had given me yet another brilliant out. “Oh, too bad…well, it was nice meeting you Mike” I started to sneak away towards the safety of the Dairy section.

But he was persistent. I gotta give him points for that. “I’m gonna look for you every time I’m here and Ima gonna call you when I get my phone back.” He declared.

Get your phone back? What? Why don’t you have it? What happened? Was it on layaway? Or worse…at a pawn shop? Oh, hell no! This is not my future husband. "Walk away, walk away right now!” I told myself.

So, I just started smiling and nodding my head as I crept towards the comfort of yogurt and butter. “As soon as I get it back, Ima call you!” “Ok, you do that Mike. Bye now!” I shouted, hoping that my cheery face was covering up the panic in my voice.

I should have just left the store right then but I kept shopping. So, that means that…you got it! I kept running into him. Over & over. Twice more I ran into him and both times he kept reassuring me, “I’m going to call you! As soon as I get my phone back…I am calling you for sure!” Weary and disoriented by the whole interaction I actually found myself giving him a thumbs-up at one point, as if to say, “Good job! That sounds like a plan, mister!”

My swagger was clearly gone. I needed to check out and take my sexy sweatiness home before I did any more permanent damage to my psyche.

Clearly the thigh gap wasn’t the only thing I had to worry about. The actual gap between the type of men I should be dating and the guys I was actually attracting was appalling. It’s as if I was God’s own private little joke. Ha Ha God, sooo funny! Hope you enjoyed that!

In more encouraging news…I am actually racking up some pretty girl discounts! I know…how great is that? Granted, they are just small timey ones but still…I got a 10% discount on a puppy beaded bookmark (for my mom thank you very much, I’m not twelve. But apparently I think she is.)  and a book on juicing at Barnes & Noble. I got an extra espresso shot for free plus some really cute swirly designs on my latte at Pekara Bakery “Just because” and I was bumped to the front of the line at Forever 21 and given a student discount…even though I’m not actually a student! Sweet!

Baby steps people, baby steps. Now I just got to work on upgrading my men…so, yup…I finally bit the bullet, swallowed my pride and signed up for online dating.

And… it’s already hella weird. So stay tuned for my next post...it’s gonna be epic!

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.

TO THINE OWN SELF-BE NEW!

We are well into it my friends. Another new year full of giddy expectations and solemn vows that this year, this one, will be better than the last.  I didn’t torture myself by actually writing out my resolutions because um, hello-that’s what this blog is for. Despite the procrastination, I’m still focused on getting my pretty girl discount and all that it entails.

But I have decided something crucial. My old self is gonna have to go. And I say this with love but she just wasn’t working out and I really feel I can do so much better.

Don’t fear. It’s not going to be a brutal ‘Downton Abbey’ type death. Nobody is giving birth and then dying hours later. Sidenote: Why did Lady Sybil have to go? Why Why Why? I mean screw Lady Mary, Matthew was lovely but he can be replaced. Given time, Mary would have grown bored of his simple, stable self anyway. Just how many more times could he gaze at her lovingly and say, “Do you realize how terribly, terribly happy you’ve made me? But Lady Sybil? After all she went through to get her hot Irish Chauffeur hubby and then she dies? Ugh, it’s so unfair. Julian Fellowes, I am so angry with you right now. You better be bringing something AMA-ZING to Season 4 to make up for all this death.

Um, yeah…I’m just slightly obsessed with this show.

Anyhow…back to me in 2013.  I’m simply killing my old self off and then giving birth at the same time. Because what I realized is that it’s not enough to just ACT like I want a pretty girl discount, I have to act like I already have it. Like I’m already a pretty girl. Once I do that, then people will start treating me the way I treat myself. I can’t just change my body, my clothes and my hair (although that’s all clearly important as well) I have to change the way I think, my true self. How’s that for some Oprahmetaphysical mind melt stuff?

Because I’ve come to the shocking conclusion that it’s the way I think that’s the real problem. Example: During my college years I had a wild, exciting life. Or at least I imagined it was. I was a drama student so exaggerating the truth was like breathing oxygen…it was vital to my survival. It’s safe to safe you should just go with me on this one and pretend I was utterly fabulous in my black beret and Doc Martens chain smoking Marlboro Lights while I contemplated the true meaning of life and quoted Oscar Wilde out on the quad in between classes.

Anyway, there I was fabulously hanging out at a theatre festival in Scotland one summer with a boyfriend/fellow actor whom I adored, when we came across one of those cut out photo ops. You know the kind, with different types of people’s bodies you stick your own head in. Super fun, right?

So, boyfriend and I saunter over and stick our heads in. He picks a muscleman. Classic. Charming. Funny. Kinda like him. I had my pick of everything else. And what do you think my beautiful 2o year old self picked? That’s right. An old, obese fish woman. Her body looked about 300 lbs. and her age? About 60. WTF??? Why would I do that when I could have been anybody else? Like the sexy blonde bombshell or the glamorous starlet? Why did I think that the hideous heifer was me? I was fabulous right? Wrong!

I thought I was old and ugly. Worthless. Totally un-fab. Because my head is sick. Because I’ve been carefully taught to not think too much of myself lest I get a big head. (Thank you hard working Scots-Irish Protestant background) So instead, I think less of myself and get…nothing. Or maybe not nothing but definitely less than I deserved.

Its like, have you ever seen an ugly rich girl? No, no you haven’t because they don’t exist. It doesn’t matter if her teeth are jacked, her skin is pitted, her hair is limp and she’s extra chunky. She’s rich. She’s been treated special her whole life. She’s been told she’s pretty even when she so clearly is not. Favorite example of this? Lena Dunham. Not to take away from her talent or what she’s accomplished but seriously? You are not a pretty girl Lena and nobody wants to see you naked. All. The. Time. But this is a girl who was told she was special, was told she was pretty and so she acts like she’s great. And guess what? It worked! Now the world is reflecting that reality back to her and so I guess, in a way it has become real. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, it’s real.

So, yeah, I had a little ceremony, killed my old self off and have stolen a new identity. The pretty girl version of me. The one that really is fabulous. Not just in my imaginings but for real. I'm treating myself like I am Lady Mary Crawley and the world is a glittering jewel that lies at my feet created solely for my own pleasure and comfort.


Hello!

My name is Lady Lydia O’Neil and I’m a pretty girl.

This is the real me.

It’s nice to meet you.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, BABY!

I got a lot of great stuff this year. I asked for a lot of pretty girl items and luckily I was gifted with everything on my list; new gym shoes, yoga clothes and classes (do you sense a theme here?), makeup, perfume, bath stuff and oh, yeah, an (almost!) clean bill of health.

What? Yeah, Santa hooked me up big time! Remember my little negative friend? No, not Coco the Cluster, the nurse with the nurturing, bedside manner.* The one who told me that I had a tumor in my head. Well, guess what? She was wrong. Ish. She was wrong-ish. Here’s the deal. They had me go back in for an MRI as the CAT scan was a little hard to read. Then I got sent to a specialist in Springfield who basically said that he didn’t think it was a tumor. (If it was a tumor it was definitely benign) That’s the good news.

 The bad news is that he thought it was a cluster (for real! See I was right!) of blood vessels that were wrapped around my optic nerve. The course of treatment? Wait for me to go blind in that eye and then they would have to operate but he couldn’t really guarantee they would be able to do much. Or save my eye. Hmm, sounds promising and super fun. Very Medieval Times. Very “Would you care for the giant turkey leg/back alley surgery combo Mi’lady? We have a special today!” Anyway, for right now he wanted another MRI in six months and then if there was no further progression, it’s just a waiting game. But it’s not life-threatening…so I really might become a pirate, but I’m definitely gonna live.

Now that still sounds super not great, right? Except for this little bit of awesomeness...shortly after my appointment I happened to go thru a box of old photos while cleaning and noticed that…”Oh my God, my eye was already slightly larger two years ago. Five years ago. Ten. “No way!” I couldn’t believe it. I ended up going thru all my photos in a mad hunt and from what I could tell this, this thing, happened when I was like 16 years old. Yup! I’ve been this way for a really long time and never even knew it! So, that just proves that this is just how I am and it’s not going to progress. Once I realized that, the fear just drained out of me and I slept like a baby for the first time in six months.

But how bizarre that I just noticed now. And even weirder is that nobody and I mean nobody in my life, not my friends, my boyfriend’s, my sister or even my mother noticed the difference. “What did you just call me? Drama Queen?” Wow, harsh. But before you think I’m making a big deal out of nothing just know that every single medical professional I’ve seen in the past few months noticed the difference. Immediately. So, my point is that I think God, my soul, the Universe, Robert Downey Jr…whoever is watching over me…chose this moment for me to notice it so that I would have a spiritual wakeup call, get off my ass and change my life! It’s very 2013 up in here all of a sudden. Even Oprah approves.

Which…brings me back to my pretty girl discount plan. Oh, it’s on people, like mega Donkey Kong. So, thanks Santa. Big ups to the man upstairs and especially to The Carle Clinic who gave me massively discounted medical attention.

I guess in my own way, I just got the ultimate pretty girl discount. Hmm, would you look at that?**

 *Read this sentence with the most sarcasm you can possibly muster. And then double it. I’m still pissed at her. Big time.

** I can. Because my eyes are fine. So thanks again Baby Jesus. I owe you one. For reals.