When Vertical Stripes Aren't Enough

Everyone knows as a general rule, vertical stripes are slenderizing, hence the omnipresence of them in my closet. And while always preferable to horizontal stripes, there are times when vertical stripes simply aren't enough.

Case in point, the woman beside me on the subway wearing a brown pant's suit with thin red pinstripes. Now in this case there is the added horror of a brown and red striped suit, but even if you overlook the overall ugliness, this still wasn't gonna work.

Stripes may slenderize, but not when they are stretched across your backside such that your rolls appear through the fabric! I'm tellin' you, the seams on this woman's jacket were hanging on for dear life. As my Daddy would say, she looked like 100 pounds of potatoes in a fifty pound sack.

And sometimes I look at folks who have stuffed themselves into clothes and think that perhaps they've lost a bunch of weight and are just proud to get back into this outfit. And while I do applaud anyone who does lose weight and get themselves on a healthy eating plan, I do have to go back to...just because it buttons don't mean it fits. Or, don't confuse zippin' with fittin'. Or...well I could go on all day, y'all know how I love the catch phrase.

The point is, most of the laws governing fashion fluctuate, often in conjunction with the size of one's ass, so don't rely on a stripe to take off those last 10lbs. Either put down the cookie or buy a bigger suit- the choice is yours.

Aerobics Instructors

You know what I hate most about exercise classes (other than the obvious fact that I'm sweating in public)? The stupid instructors!

This morning I took a spinning class, for which my butt bones refuse to forgive me, which was taught by some perky sadist who weighed all of about 20lbs. There I was beet red, puffing away up some figurative hill, and there she sits, gracefully glistening while encouraging us to increase the resistance. How she can speak and pedal that fast is entirely unclear. I couldn't get out a whole sentence if I tried, yet there she is, just a talkin' away, telling us we're not working hard enough. And do you know at the end of class- which ran 5 minutes long such that I would have run screaming from the room had I been able to gather the breath to make sound- she invited us back for both of her evening classes! Well of course you're a skinny little pretty-sweating thing, you teach 3 freakin classes a day and probably don't even eat in between! If my ass hurts from that bike seat, knowing how well padded my ass must be, how yours isn't broken I do not know. YOU are a freak of nature.

I hate her.

In fact, I hate all the instructors at my gym. They are all entirely too in shape. Now I understand that it seems counter-intuitive to want a fat trainer, but I do not find overly fit folks all that inspiring. Mostly I spend the 50-minute classes imagining them stuffing their faces with cake until they bulge out of their little spandex clothing. I don't want a fatty per se, but perhaps just a regular-shaped person, someone you can tell has great cardiovascular health but perhaps enjoys a good meal now and again.

I don't actually believe that the yoga instructor's lean frame is the result of sun salutations alone. Just like the abs on that pilates instructor require more than thrice-weekly mat routines. No, all these perfectly honed forms demand a level of starvation I simply refuse to explore. I mean, I've got muscles in my arms, but the level of deprivation I would have to achieve in order to see said muscles...well, that just doesn't sound fun to me.

So screw you, skinny instructor people. You can teach our classes but you can't guilt the fat off our asses!!!


PS...I am going to preemptively tell you that in my childhood the Queen Mum was an aerobics instructor, of the bright unitard-wearing variety, who use to hoot and hollar at a large class of stay-at-home mothers a few times a week. Yes, Mum, you too were that skinny and annoyingly perky, though at that time in my life you annoyed me personally for many other reasons. Love ya, mean it.

Another day, another sweaty commute

Sometimes I like being a "part of things" in New York City, like cheering on the marathon runners or marching in the Halloween parade. Sometimes it makes you feel like you're a member of some cool club that struggles together through the trials of city living.

And then sometimes I want to get off this m.f.-ing island so badly I would consider swimming the disgusting waters of the Hudson River.

Today, for example, every subway line was shut down due to flooding from some freak monsoon that hit us about 6am. As you can imagine, with no subway, the streets are packed with suit-clad office workers, all waving wildly in an attempt to hail a cab that's already packed to capacity. Lines for the bus are 75-people long at each stop, but the buses are so full they won't accept passengers.

So, what do you do? You take off those Manolos and hoof it, honey. (Not that I can afford Manolos, but 'take off those Nine Wests' didn't have the same ring to it.) This might not be so bad if it weren't August. I don't know if you've had the misfortune of visiting Manhattan in the summer, but hell has nothin on this island. I've always imagined hell as a dry heat, more Las Vegas in July. New York is hell by the shore.

90% humidity and silk...not so much. By the time I got to my office, I looked like I'd just jumped out of a pool. I had to lay my ass down on the floor for a few minutes to dry off! Today was the kind of day when, if you have the sense God gave a dog, you don't even leave your house. I mean, my dog Winnie the Terrible loves to go outside, but you know this morning when I asked if she was ready for her walk, she languidly opened one and eye and gave me that look that said, "girl, is you cra-ra-zy?" She then readjusted herself in front of the air conditioner and went back to sleep.

Maybe she's smarter than I thought. I, on the other hand, walked a mile and a half through air that felt like soup, with people brushing past, their sweaty limbs bumping mine. I felt like a giant Matzo ball floating in a bowl of broth. At least I didn't have to feel embarrassed by the sweat stains down the back of my tee-shirt; the entire population of Manhattan was in serious need of a wardrobe change.

Oh but we were in it together, this silly metropolitan club of ours. In the South, when it's this hot and humid we stay in front of an air conditioner at all costs, but not up here. Nothing can keep New Yorkers from their office buildings, not snow, not rain, not dripping sweat. I think maybe next year I won't renew my membership!

Schadenfreude

I'm sure you all will be happy to know that my thighs are recovering nicely from the lunges of death. This in no thanks at all from the overwhelming LACK OF SUPPORT from my nearest and dearest.

Speaking of Mummy Dearest, she only called to heckle me about how her old ass can do more lunges than my younger one. First of all, she lives in a one-story home and drives around in her car, while I encounter about 19 flights of stairs just getting to work! Do not think that your superior quadriceps strength means you can go wearin' skirts above the knee, old lady.

My coworkers have actually been poking me in the leg in between giggling fits every time I get out of a chair, and one of my oldest friends just informed me that she laughed out loud at her desk while reading of my plight. In fact, she's still probably laughing trying to imagine my whimpers as I lowered myself onto the toilet seat.

Though I suppose I shouldn't be too upset, I mean I too enjoy a great deal of schadenfreude. Is there really anything better than watching somebody fall down? Of course not if they break their arm or something, but just the old slip-and-fall on a slick floor as they grasp wildly for something hold them upright...that's good stuff. Really it's about that look of panic in their eyes on the way down.

Seeing someone fall down is just about as funny as pants ripping or benches crumbling underneath a group photo-op. It probably seems cruel to say, but then America's Funniest Home Videos ran for like a million years, and all that show was made of were clips of people falling down or getting hit in the balls. Blockbusters have been born of schadenfreude- who doesn't love when the robbers in Home Alone get an iron to the face?

In some twisted way, misery is simply funny- as long as it's not happening to you of course. I don't wish for really bad things to happen to other people, but if they happen to trip in my presence, well funny for me!