web-goddess

• I think sometimes guys go overboard in their quest to look “hardcore”. This one guy caught my eye tonight as I was doing my quad exercises. He was doing chin-ups in the corner, but apparently lifting his own body weight was too easy for this He-Man. So he was clenching, like, a fifty pound free weight between his thighs. I’m serious; it almost looked like he was holding it in his ass. It was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.
• The rowing machine is incredibly deceptive. The first minute was easy, and my little virtual boat was soon ahead by three boat lengths. Deluded but inspired, I continued to row for seventeen more minutes. I can barely type right now. By morning, I won’t be able to lift my arms. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
• I finally got chatted up by a chick. I was on the inner thigh adductor machine (of course) and this middle-aged goth lady asked if she could workout with me. She even gave me the “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new here?” line. Fortunately I was done with my lifting, which gave me a polite excuse to head for the treadmill. Snookums was much amused.
• I am a self-loathing big girl. Let me explain. Tonight on my way out, the girl at the counter struck up a conversation with me. She was way heavier than me, but she said she’d lost two stone (28 pounds) in the past four months. I asked how she did it, and she said it was all cardio. I explained that my trainer has me doing weight lifting too. She pooh-poohed that idea, and then said, “That just adds bulk, and we big girls are strong enough anyway, don’t you think?” I mumbled an agreement and hit the door before she could continue. Why does it bother me that she put us in the same group? I am big. I’m tall and I’ve got boobs and a bum, but I wouldn’t say I was obese. Yet somehow the “big girl” label bothers me. Whenever someone sympathizes that I’ll “never be a size eight”, it upsets me. Part of that, I think, has to do with the messages we females get from the media and advertising. Jenny Craig says that anybody can lose forty pounds. Weight Watchers doesn’t say, “Oh, but you’ll never be a size eight; you’re just a big girl.” They say, “Give us your money and it’ll happen.” And that’s seductive. I feel like accepting the big girl label is a cop-out. But maybe I’m deluding myself. I dunno. I guess the reason I rejected being grouped with the counter chick tonight was that in some psycho part of my brain, I want to believe I can be a size eight. And by grouping myself in with her, I’d be admitting that that’s never going to be true.

Ugh. Who knew that the rowing machine would make me so damn introspective?

What was I thinking? Christmas my ass. This is just like moving all over again. It’s gonna take all day to unpack this stuff…

Walking through the Broadway Shopping Centre today, my bad fashion spidey-sense started tingling. I quickly looked around for the source of the irritation. No, it wasn’t any of my fellow shoppers, and it certainly wasn’t me. That’s when I realized that every mannequin in every single shop window was wearing… a ra-ra skirt. *shudder* It’s back, ladies. In a big way.

Good: Our stuff is finally arriving from London tomorrow! Yes, it’s taken three months, but they’re here. Ten boxes! I don’t even remember what we had in there! It’s gonna be like Christmas.

Bad: The jackhammers started at 8 a.m. this morning. I woke up clenching my jaw. I can’t wait for this damn café to be finished.

So I go to check out this Stripper FAQ that anon linked, thinking it would be good for a laugh. (Warning, link not exactly work safe.) Instead I found myself choking on my orange juice once I realized the chick made more – working just three nights a week – than I did at my cushy IT job in London. Damn.