Someone, please kill her. It’s just not fair… or HUMAN.
Are you fucking kidding me? I’ll bet she doesn’t have a single stretch mark, either. Disgusting. I hate her.
I hope her vagina is the size of the Grand Canyon.
*Side note: Isn’t he just the sweetest little thing or WHAT?*
Will Ferrell is my personal trainer. For real.
Okay, not for real. His doppelgänger is trying to kill me at the gym, though.
Today was mainly a goal-setting-and-measurement-taking sort of day plus a little hard-core strengthening exercises while I got acquainted with Will Ferrell. I specifically requested a female trainer, but I was glad I got him instead. He’s married with three daughters, and he got my sense of humor and put up with my You want me to WHAT? Are you freaking kidding me? comments without a hitch. I think we’ll get along just fine as long as he realizes MY BODY WASN’T MEANT TO DO THAT KIND OF SHIT WITH A YOGA BALL!
After being assaulted with a measuring tape and a freaking scale – yes, I stepped on a scale for the first time since, oh hell, I don’t know when AND THE ENTIRE GYM CLEARED WHEN I SCREAMED ON THE TOP OF MY LUNGS- I got to do a run-up-and-down-a-step-for-three-minutes endurance test, then a let’s-see-how-flexible-you-really-are test.
I don’t know about you, but when I hear the word “test”, my adrenaline kicks in and pee dribbles down my leg into a massive puddle while everyone within a 100-foot diameter points and laughs in unison.
Apparently, my endurance test wasn’t bad at all (thank goodness for the million and a half step-aerobic classes I did after April was born). And my flexibility test?
“Um, yeahhhh, you definitely fall into the “freaky dancer” category.” Oh yes, he went there.
Did I ever tell you I’m like a real-life contortionist? My nickname back in my obsessive Jujitsu days was “Gumby”. The joint locks just didn’t work the way they were supposed to. And before you start getting weird images of me in the bedroom, I’ll stop there.
Oops. Sorry. I know, that was just cruel and unusual. Like, Tamra, for the love of gawd, I REALLY didn’t need an image of you and your scarred-up va-jay-jay and ass flab IN THE BEDROOM going through my head! Oh, admit it, you’d be disappointed if I didn’t summon your gag reflex at least once a week.
ANYHOO. Holy crap, am I having a serious attention-deficit writing day or what? AS I WAS SAYING…
So, after doing the “tests” wherein I shat myself for the world to see, Will Ferrell started right in on the whole “now this is what you’re paying me to do to you” part. *cough* whore *cough*. It could of been worse, I suppose. I mean, he could have been one of those trainers that yell in your face while you drip sweat and sob like a schoolgirl. At least he let my pansy ass give up when my muscles shook hard enough to shatter the second story’s support beams. Doode. Who knew 2-pound weights could do so much damage to one’s ego?
Once my half-hour of medieval torture was complete, my body moaned in pure ecstasy as I- get this- SAT DOWN AT A TABLE for a few minutes and he wrote out my homework. Yes, I have freaking homework. And while he was writing it down in my little “Personal Training Guide” notebook, I stupidly had the nerve to grab ahold of those lovehandles that seem to be working their way up my ribcage an extra inch every month and say, “Oh! I forgot, I have GOT to get rid of these suckers. I’m going for the “curvy” appearance, and they’re starting to give me the “balloon appeal”, which is just NOT conducive to the hourglass shape”.
I’m so stupid. I SHOULD HAVE KEPT MY BIG, SMART-ASS MOUTH SHUT.
He looked in my belly fat’s direction and smiled briefly- yes, SMILED- then wrote “Stair Monster- 20 min, 6x/week” at the bottom of my homework.
“The Stair Monster’s great for working that area, plus it’ll help tone the tush and thighs like you want.”
“You’re joking,” was all I could squeak out, “Six times a week?”. He just smiled innocently while he handed me my notebook.
Fucking stair master. Now every time I have to walk up the stairs in my house, the screaming exhaustion throughout my lower extremities is a consistent reminder that TOMORROW I’m gonna be running up the stair master AGAIN. And the day after that and the day after that…
…all because I had the NERVE to complain about my love-handles. Me and my big, fat mouth.
Current Mood:
Alarmed & 
Cool