So I exercised the other day; with an 18-year-old perfectly in shape long blonde haired life-sized Barbie doll. Perhaps that’s where I went wrong and why I am now convinced I should only exercise in the middle of the night. Or while wearing a burka. My daughter, The Girl, is super gorgeous and quite possibly the most exquisite girl specimen. She’s also sporty and can run fast. And she’s a bit of an exercise Nazi.
We set off into our new neighborhood for a quick walk around the block. Starting small and working our way up. And also to avoid me having a full on heart or panic attack. Off we go up the block, beautiful trees, barely sweating, my hair and makeup are still in place and then this, ” let’s go up that hill”. Ummm, ok…one little hill won’t kill me. Right? Walk, walk, walk. Up we go. Yeah look at me go up a hill! I can almost taste that Jack & Coke I’m going to have when we get home and it’s right around the corner. So I turn to do my victory lap to my back porch and Miss. I Can Run 5 Miles And Look Perfect goes the other way. She decides we should go further. Faster.
Now let’s just talk a little about going faster when you are 215 lbs. and have been blessed by the Titty Goddesses. Faster means jiggle. Lot’s of jiggle. The Universe has not yet made a sports bra that can keep my girls in their cups or in my shirt while moving faster than a leisurely shopping stroll. What people driving by must have seen probably looked something akin to two ultimate cage fighters wrestling for a championship belt in my shirt. With my hand over them. I think I saw a mother shield her small children’s eyes. Now i’m sweating. Not only that, I am certain my ass will fall off at any moment. Which would be ok if it would fall off, but with my luck it will fall down to around my ankles. And stay there. Holy shit, I could literally feel my heart trying to break out of my chest so it can sit on a shady curb and rest a bit. With every car that I saw approaching I was hoping (out loud) that it was Mr. Man coming to make sure the The Girl hadn’t killed me. It was never him, dammit! Where is he? Doesn’t he know I am about to die? Probably watching t.v. Damn men. There I am walking fast and holding my boobs with both hands while my ass tries to drop to my ankles and thinking , “Damn, I can’t punish her..she’s 18 now!”. Dammit why did I not think to write emergency contact numbers and a short will on my chest with a Sharpie marker just in case! I guess it wouldn’t have mattered. After all of that shaking and jiggling, the EMS guy would have wondered why I scribbled a word jumble onto my chest and then he would probably post a picture of it and my battered boobies to this Face Book page.
|“Face it Cat, those boobs weren’t meant for jogging!”
We walked 5 miles that night. Five. I think we went up four hills. No, it was all up hill. Both ways. My legs feel like Jell-O, I can’t wear heels because my legs and feet hurt, my chest hurts and I have the start of a farmer’s tan. We’re going to do it again tonight, because that damn scale keeps lying and saying I’m still 215. Maybe I should start drinking water instead of a Jack & Coke when I get home. Nah, baby steps. First I conquer the hills, the hill hills…not the boob hills, then we’ll work on the icy adult beverages.
Have a GREAT weekend, Kittens! Check in with me on Face Book at: