That’s the last time I wrote anything here? Seriously?
Oh, I know why.
Because I’ve been eating vegetables. And fruits. And took a yoga class for a month. And when I wasn’t doing yoga, I was working out at the gym.
30 minutes on the treadmill and no less than 30 minutes on weights.
No less than 4 times a week.
I hurt. I constantly hurt somewhere. Most of the time…everywhere.
My thighs hurt. My batwings hurt. My ears hurt.
If I sat too long on the toilet, I couldn’t get up without squealing or having to hold the wall to balance. If I sat too long at my desk, my co-workers thought I was having a seizure from all the cursing and, “OH MY GOD SOMEBODY HELP ME!” they were hearing. If I sat in the car too long, I had to lift one leg at a time with both hands and physically shift it out of the door.
Then remember to breathe.
No fast food. None. Not one stupid French fry. Not one damn tater tot.
No Coke, Dr. Pepper. No Ginger ale. Nothing carbonated.
No coffee, which means no Grande Vanilla Mocha. No Starbucks.
My guilty pleasure is now a glass of cranberry juice. Once a day. I could take it through the vein.
Lots of water.
My only splurge is a meal on the weekend. A meal of pasta. Or maybe a steak.
This crap has been going on for 2 months.
2 friggin’ months.
Somewhere in the midst off all that ridiculousness, I turned 45.
I called my momma the last afternoon of being 44.
Asking her if this is all there is? Is this it? Commuting in traffic 10 hours a week just to do it again the next week? Sitting in a cube farm under fake lighting for 40 plus hours a week just to constantly be behind on work then see some who do absolutely nothing forge ahead? Constantly folding clothes just to have more to fold? Shaving my legs just to have to shave again? Dragging the aisle of Walgreens and trying to decide if I should go with the box marked “Dark Auburn” or “Medium Auburn”? Having no more than one hour of every 24 hours to have some kind of conversation with my husband? Now walking on a treadmill for one solid hour sweating my stupid face off just to STILL NOT be able to fit in my favorite skirt?
I ain’t asking for a trip around the world. I ain’t asking for a small country to rule.
(Though, let’s face it. THAT’D BE KINDA COOL.)
But is this IT?
I mean, 40 was fabulous. I felt young. I felt hot. I felt sexy.
She promised me it got better. She promised me at 50, I’d feel like I did at 40. And at 60…the real party started.
I’m now 45.
I bitch about everything. EV-VER-REE-THING.
Not every day. But there’s something every week.
(This morning I was barking because Keith hasn’t taken me on a cruise or on a week long vacation.)
(I know. Pathetic.)
(Me. Not him.)
(His reply? “Uh, baby…we’ve been married just shy of a year. We’ve got a lifetime to do so much….and you’re questioning me on why we haven’t taken a cruise yet?”)
(I’ve taken only ONE in my lifetime, but yet I feel he should have already taken me on one in a year.)
(I’m the biggest asshat I know.)
It’s now been 2 solid months of eating so freaking healthy, people question my sanity.
It’s now been 2 solids months of sweating my balls off. Bumped up doing the treadmill for an hour. Doing weights for 30 minutes. Doing housework for 96 hours straight. Sweating so hard and so much, I really want to cry.
Not. One. Pound. Loss.
(Oh, but there IS a nice little pimple that has popped up. Such a cute little thing.)
(Bastard. I’m too damn old for this.)
We won’t discuss the fact that Keith has been right there along side of me on the treadmill cheering me on. We won’t discuss the fact that he tells me every day I’m beautiful when my face and head is dripping with 98 pounds of animal sweat. We won’t discuss the fact that he eats crap every day. We won’t discuss the fact that he’s loss 10 pounds. 4 pounds by simply farting.
(Apparently, I should fart more.)
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m grateful for everything I have. A devoted husband. A precious teenager I want to strangle only 2 days a week now. Parents who love me. A job that’s rewarding. Friends who tolerate me. I know. I know I’ve got it good.
But I’m 45.
I’m not 30 anymore. I’m not hip anymore. I’m not…well, young.
Right now, I suck. And I know it. And I’m cool with you knowing it. Because I do. I am sucking the life out of me and I’ve about had it with me.
(No, I’m not going through “the change”.)
(I’m going through the big-fat-dumb-ass-baby-unappreciative-spoilt-bitch blues.)
I promise I’ll act better. I promise I’ll be nicer. I promise I’ll look at life different.
(Or is it ‘differently’?)
(And don’t be giving me diet advice or suggestions or anything like that. I know it all. I know it’s gonna take time. I know it took me a year to gain it so it’s gonna take just as long to lose it.)
(I know all that. It’s the price I’m having to pay for falling in love.)
(I fell in love and found more ass.)
(Yes. It was worth it.)
(I mean, really? More ass or Keith?? More ass or Keith?)
(Keith. Definitely Keith.)
(And to keep it fair, you can bitch to me about crap in your life that ain’t quite like you’d like it.)
(Let it out. Just let it the hell out.)
(I’ll feel better to know I’m not alone. And we all know it’s all about me.)
But just give me this one last tirade. It’ll be the last one.
For today anyway.
For the very first time in 2 whole jackass-y, suckass-y months:
SCREW YOU, TREADMILL.