The One Where I Just Straight Up Whine About Shit

Hey. I’m not even going to begin to sugarcoat this post by trying to cover up the fact I’m really going to have myself a little pity party, so if reading this kind of drivel isn’t your cup of tea, I advise you to skip this post and go look at cat videos on YouTube instead. Here’s one for your viewing pleasure:

*Of note, this particular video has 1,951,159 views and I think I’m responsible for at least 51,000 of those.

So, here’s why I’m all waa baby today: I wanted nothing more than to go to the gym tonight after work. It was closed yesterday due to the holiday. I went Saturday and put in a solid two hours. I couldn’t go Friday because I was out of town with Dad and I went to visit my mom, too. I haven’t eaten well since Thursday, which I have designated at my “cheat day” due to the fact that being with Dad while he’s chemo-ing it up makes it really easy for me to seek solace in comfort foods, so I do. Then with the holiday…I overindulged greatly the last few days, but I’m trying desperately to not let this bother me. That’s the ol’ wretched hold food has on me, trying to make me feel bad for enjoying “forbidden” foods. That’s usually the downfall of people who struggle with their weight (myself included)–they deem foods off limits and then in a moment of weakness, or a.k.a. being a goddamn human, they consume said foods, then go “oh, fucking great. Well, diet’s ruined. May as well eat my body weight in Doritos and Mountain Dew.”

I’m really trying very hard to not label foods as “off limits.” If I want to have some freaking gummy bears, eat the goddamn things and don’t spend the rest of the day lamenting it. I will eat these delicious gummy bears–not nearly as many as I would have prior to my adventure in weight loss. Like, actually eat the suggested serving size and not three times that. Or, I even eat half the suggested serving size, just enough to satisfy my sweet craving when the old bullshit trick of “hey, frozen grapes are like, indistinguishable from candy!” That. Is. Such. Bull. Shit. I hate frozen grapes. Grapes are not candy. You cannot bite the heads off grapes, or mash two grapes together in some weird, perverted gummy bear sex act and then eat them and cackle to yourself because while immature, it delighted you, so eff the haters!

I digress. Don’t make food bad. Eat what you want, just use some goddamn control. What I find difficult at times is still thinking I need to clean my plate. I read an article on Cracked once about things it’s hard to let go of as an adult when you were raised without a lot of money, and one of the points was just that: clean your plate because it’s a goddamn privilege to have this food and don’t you dare waste any of it. I most definitely still do that, mainly because ever since I got divorced 5 years ago (!!!), I’ve never fully recovered from the loss of half an income. Plus decisions I’ve made (here I go regretting the past again!), and unforeseeable events in my life over the last year or so (hi there, hysterectomy!) have made my ability to work steadily rather impossible. When you can’t work consistently, your paycheck reflects that. I know, right?! Crazy!

So anyway, as I was saying, I wanted nothing more than to go to the gym tonight. I craved it. I kept checking the clock and saying to myself, “only four/three/two more hours until I’m off and can go!” That in and of itself is bonkers to me because had you sat me down for a forced conversation three months ago and told me, Erin E. Hoffmeyer, that I’d actually WANT to go to a gym and get really pissy if I didn’t go, I’d have Jabba the Hutt laughed in your face. Ha ha ha ha, barra mel basska dunta yah chona bantha poodoo, Solo! Ha ha ha ha!

Why can’t I go, you ask? Well, friends, because I am a bad adult. I can’t go because when I went t0 the gym Saturday, as I was scanning my key tag to utilize my privileges, my account flashed the foreboding red of “oh girl, your account is past due!” If you’re current on your membership, you flash green. The only reason I know what the red means is because it happened last month, too, and a staff member happened to look at the computer screen just as I scanned my card and politely informed me about my membership fee being due, but I was able to pay my bill and work out happily.

Now, I must confess this time when I saw the red tattle on my delinquency, I stood frozen for a moment, waiting for the two staff behind the desk to fuckin’ crawl over the counter and wrestle me to the ground until I was able to cough up the $65, but fate was smiling on me that day because neither of them noticed and as I stood there bracing myself for the embarrassing and awkward moment with a small, feeble smile on my face as if to say, “oopsies! Sowwy!” they didn’t say anything to me. In fact, one of the gals was looking at me like, “why the shit isn’t she walking away?” She gave a forced smile and said “okay, thank you!” and I had that moment of getting away with something you were just sure you were going to get caught doing and I hightailed it away from the desk. I did ponder briefly confessing my profile had been red and explain I just don’t have the funds right now to pay, but could I please use the facility for today and I swear the next time I come in, I’ll have your cash and please don’t break my kneecaps, okay? But I didn’t. I worked out for free that day, my friends. I felt bad about it. I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting to be escorted off the property by a slew of angry employees, but nothin’.

I also admit I wondered if I could get away with such a petty crime again today, as the 5 o’clock time is usually really busy there with all the people getting off work and heading to the gym to work off job frustrations, so I was hoping if I went, I could blend in with the slew of folks streaming in, scan my card, but my profile would disappear as the next member scanned their card and they’d be none the wiser. But I have a goddamn goody-two-shoes heart and I would totally feel bad about it.

If you’re reading this and thinking, “well, okay Erin, so it’s unfortunate you don’t have the money to pay for your membership right now, but why didn’t you just go for a walk or something when you got home from work? You don’t need a gym membership to be active, silly rabbit!” Well…that’s a very valid point and I get what you’re saying. I could have went walking. That’s what I did before I joined the gym. And honestly? I don’t know why I didn’t. I feel kind of stupid for not doing that now. Like, really stupid, actually. It was okay outside, and not raining or cold or anything. I guess I just wanted to complain about it, but you all know that because I warned you from the beginning this is what I intended to do. Waa waa waa I don’t have enough money to pay for a luxury expense and feel sorry for me waa waa waa! 

Oh ho ho ho, this is when I bring up this for consideration: in a nutshell, my finances can best be described as a mime trapped in a box. The only limits to my situation are self-inflicted. You stupid mime! There isn’t really a giant box, you’re just faking it! Okay, perhaps that’s a bit unfair of me; being in the situation I am in over the last four months have been due to helping out my father, and no, I’m not putting any single bit of blame on him. I’m an asshole, but I’m not that big of an asshole. I’m not all, “fuck, Dad! Way to get fucking cancer and to fuck up my schedule, you fuck!” No, no, no, no. Not even remotely close. I’m simply stating a fact. Knowing my work hours haven’t been much lately, I have given getting a part-time job serious thought, but that’d be silly of me to do, too. It wouldn’t be worth their time to hire me, and I’d have extremely limited availability anyway, so strike that idea down.

Gosh, I’m verbose tonight. Super sorry. I’ll try to keep on track. Basically, what I’m trying to get at is it’s kind of dumb for me to complain about not having enough money to pay for the gym because a membership can be seen as a frivolous expenditure and I shouldn’t even be given the opportunity to go to the gym. I don’t deserve to go.

But…do I? This is where I get into a fight with myself. Yes, a gym membership is not a vital expense like gas for my car or food. But to me, it is. I can’t comprehend how amazingly great being able to go to this place and to let all my frustration, anxiety, fears, anger, sadness, and depression literally literally drip off me as I sweat has been. When I first joined and that first session I did left my grouchy ass feeling at least 50% better than when I trudged in, I was so mad at myself for letting me do that to myself, meaning how I went so long without being active. It’s goddamn scientific fact that exercising and endorphins help with depression. It’s a goddamn fact, Jack. Oh man, I was so ticked off at myself when I walked out and I honestly couldn’t remember what I was being such a sad sack about when I walked in. Whatever it was didn’t matter anymore. Now, I’m not trying to use the gym as an excuse to bury down emotions I should be confronting, because I’m certainly not doing that, but it is helping me handle the stress of things far, far better than before. You guys, exercise is effective stress relief, too. What the fuuuuuuck? 

Yes, a gym membership is expensive to someone like me. However, so is the potential partial knee replacement surgery I may end up having because of my crap knee, but if I can go to the gym and make a serious effort to lose some of the weight that is crushing my knee to avoid this surgery, I consider that money well spent. At $65 a month, I’ll have you know I use every single dime of that amount. I do not mess around at the gym. I go 5 to 6 times a week for up to two hours at a time. So that’s a solid five days a week, with four weeks in a month…the math eludes me, but I earn that goddamn membership. I make that bitch mine. So, excuse the cuntiness, but if anyone is going to judge me for having this thing, y’all better make sure you wipe  your greasy French fry fingers off before you point them at me, m’kay? M’kay.

Alright, I think I’m done now. I was going to bring up something else, but I look at the word counter at the bottom right corner of this page and see I’m approaching 2k territory, so I think I’ll wrap it up for the night.

Thank you for letting me whine. I really appreciate it.

And, as always, thanks for reading.


Cuatro de Abril, Dos Mil Quince

¡Oh! ¡Buenos días! Esté post es en español! ¡Ole!

Es una broma, mí español es muy mal.

By golly, two years of Spanish in high school hasn’t left me yet! ¡Fantastico!

Today, I’d like to address my breasts. Tits. Tatas. Fun bags. Chesticles. Big N’ Bouncies. Knockers. Boobies. Thing 1 and Thing 2. Statler and Waldorf. Bazooms. Mammaries.

I have a love/hate relationship with my boobs, namely when it comes to gaining and losing weight. When I’m heavy, obviously, my tits get bigger, usually in the 40DD range, if you can believe what I was told the last time I was measured. When I lose weight, I seem to do so from the head down, with the weight disappearing from my face, upper arms, and sadly, my chest. It seems to skip my abdomen and then starts again at my booty and thighs. Even my damn feet get smaller, which I’m not making up. Depending upon the style and brand of shoe, I can wear a size 11. Recently, I bought a pair in size 9 because my body is bizarre like that.

I do not like losing boob mass. I thought maybe I was avoiding this phenomenon this time around, which hooray! I’ve been doing chest presses at the gym as part of my weight-lifting régime, and I do so love juicing my pecs. I was hopeful that by building the structure underneath that I would still give the appearance of a nice, lovely chest.

Wrong-0, E. 

I have had to bid farewell to 2 bras so far, which stinks because A) bras are fucking expensive despite the fact their primary function is to just hold two pouches of fat on your chest, and B) they were really sexy bras. G.d. it! Eff! Ess!

But, I was in denial about it, telling myself The Girls haven’t shrunk at all and that I’m being sillykins, but my mother brought a dose of reality to me yesterday when she mentioned to me that my boobs were smaller. How much smaller? I don’t know. Based on the fact the bra I had on yesterday was a 40D and there were gaps in the cups at the top, I’m guessing I’m down to a solid C now, but I can neither confirm nor deny that. Not to be gross, but based on the hand test (yes, women grab their own tits. If you are a lady and say you don’t do this, you are a goddamnedable liar), and I have large hands–not man hands, just really long fingers–but I still had substantial boob left over, so take that as you will.

I’m kind of weird about my boobs anyway. I’d be lying if I didn’t say the thought has crossed my mind to get a boob job. I’m getting older and the perk is leaving. I can still go braless and be okay and not look like I have two socks with an orange in them hanging from my chest, and I hope to capitalize upon this fact for a while yet, but I do want a bit more…oomph, I guess. And the stretch marks. Oh god, the stretch marks. I freely admit whenever I see a pair of mamms that are full, round, smooth, and free of stretch marks, I lament my own. Why, god? Why have you forsaken me?

But then, as much as I curse the fun bags sometimes, I also love them. We’ve had some good times, me and my tits. And really, E. Let’s not be so goddamned shallow and vain, shall we? You’re complaining about losing a little mass in your chest? Um, how about you think about this is because you’re exercising and losing weight and getting healthier? Stay heavy and unhealthy and have fat tits, or you know, drop the excess pounds and have cute, smaller ones? I vote the latter. Shush it, woman. Gosh.

So, here’s to my shrinking breasts: may you go down a size or two, and I will still love you and flaunt you whenever I want, stretch marks and all.

As always, thank you for reading.