Thursday, July 31, 2008

I. Can't. Breathe.

The worst thing about being an out-of-shape asthmatic on a bicycle is exactly that you are an out of shape asthmatic on a bicycle. Imagine me huffing and moaning, sweating profusely, and giving the finger to passing cars because Columbia has no bike lanes. How does anyone expect me to move quickly when my arteries are pumping nothing but strawberry mousse? Can’t you see the 10 square feet of ass I’m hauling here? I’ve got more trunk room than a buick! Get the hell out of my way! (this is the problem with being only part ethnic, you end up with weird mixtures of genetic traits like wicked Native American hips with a French bustline, I’m like a weeble wobble) It doesn’t help too much that I’m pretty well constantly dehydrated, because I love Mr. Jack Daniel more than life itself, or at least more than cake. Which I also love.

Last night I made a recipe out of women’s health magazine. I never do this because it’s bird food and I am not, nor will I ever be, a bird. I’m just not aerodynamically sound. It wasn’t terrible, sort of bland, I had this weird urge to douse the whole thing in crème fraiche and eat it like soup, but I didn’t I sat down in front of Mulder and Scully and ate my dinner with a healthy dose of TV coma.

I have been avoiding exercising the way this project requires mostly if not entirely because I am lazy. I’m a well of excuses. My oatmeal wasn’t the way I like it. The garbage hasn’t been taken out. The sun didn’t rise properly.

Though I do manage to get up at 7am thinking that I’m going to ride my bike to the gym, I usually don’t become active until about noon. I sit on my porch swing and rehydrate while I read for several hours. So then I end up on the bicycle during the most disgusting part of the day leading to the image I opened this entry with.

Vicious cycle, gotta hate it.


Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Here We Go...

I am a big girl.
I am 160 pounds of short angry Cherokee that's been sitting behind her desk for the past four years until my recent family vacation, when I looked back at the photographs and wondered who let Jabba the Hut onto Wrightsville beach and when exactly he stole my bathing suit.
Not okay.
So I've decided to amend my weight/sloth problem by turning this nasty gelatinous heap of whale fat into a nasty gelatinous heap of triathlete.
It's going to suck.