I have had a weird week.
As you know, I have been dragging my fat ass to the gym with the darling best friend and gay husband, Mr. T. We have been engaging in dance classes as with music blaring I am much more easily distracted and crowds are far less likely to hear me shouting about sweat not being worth it without at least the potential of an orgasm.
On Thursday we had a sub teacher at one such dance class, a delightful little pixie we'll call Rick. He bounced around the room to excellent music and yelled at us the perfect bitchy amount.
Needless to say we immediately decided we were going to adopt him, I would carry him around in a papoose and our family would pose for NoH8 ads. We befriended him after class with our step dancing and general awesomeness. Mr. T dragged me into a WalMart (where I saw a man and his very large dog in matching top hats) to get matching florescent workout ensembles (we're ironing letters on to t-shirts that say F_G and H_G). Then Rick invited us to meet him at a super snazzy workout class that evening in Beverly Hills.
With Richard Simmons.
As my 80s time machine is still in it's most preliminary of phases, I was not anticipating my day ending in exhaustion and a lovely conversation with one Mr. Richard Simmons, however, it did.
On the way there, as we were belting out our version of Man in the Mirror in my car to which we know exactly four words, we imagined that Mr. RS would be as he seems on TV... Emotional, sensitive. A nice slow work out where mayhaps he would tearfully ask me for my fatgirl story.
Not so, my friends.
It was fantastical, and amazing, and completely fucking exhausting.
He stands on a soapbox in front of the class. He yells at you. He turns down the music to occasionally say fuck. There is a dance off (during which, never fear, I dirty danced with Mr. Simmons in front of 40 people) he makes men take their shirts off and dance around. Some highlights:
"It may seem more attractive to go home and shove pizza up your ass but that is not what we're doing tonight!"
"If you don't get your shit together I'm shutting all the doors and we're playing Anne Frank!"
In short, (and oh I assure you the shortiest of bedazzled shorts) it was like working out under the tyrannical thumb of the most charming pixiesque glitternazi the world has ever known.
You know you want to visit me just so I can take you with me.
Unrelated: I have seen maybe 2 commercials in the past week that have pissed me inexplicably off.
Best example, a toothpaste commercial that to paraphrase says 'he could be your soulmate, your husband, father of your children... but first you must get him to say hello to you'.
Maybe this is a roid/PMS/glitter rage talking, but lately there seems to be a plethora of 'bag that man' commercials which me no likey.
Ladies, if you're looking to snag a man and are wondering what product to purchase, look no further. Do as I did and simply buy a giant butterfly net and lurk in the trees until someone you like walks under them. I believe Mr. Simmons would agree.
Forgive the sweat and total negligence in regards to my fat girl angles.
So, today is March 4th.
In some parallel universe wherein my IVF did not result in an early miscarriage, today would've been my due date.
I have been mostly numb about this with the exception of about 5 tearful moments yesterday wherein my asshole ipod shuffled onto Kate Bush's "this woman's work".
Because I'm not living in that parallel universe, am I? I'm not. Today's the day Bub's working late, my Mom came up and we had a lovely lunch, and I'm throwing some shit in a crockpot and watching a bunch of ridiculous women in cocktail dresses yell at each other on a bachelor special. That's March 4th, 2013.
Don't take my flippant attitude for lack of being rightly pissed off and/or sad about it, I have been. Plenty. I had my moment yesterday and teared up about it, I've had my days of being torn up about it and wondering why. In the last nine months I have had days where I did not want to get out of bed, where the highest hope I had for myself was becoming a particularly emotion-pinching episode of Hoarders. But there are a lot of realities that I wish were true that just aren't, this one was just uber important and just got a little closer to being so... though not much.
Maybe it's because I've been doing things to my body to hopefully better prep me, maybe it's just because I'm bored with being depressed (finally), maybe it's because I'm continually trying to remind myself even when I don't like it that days that start out feeling like balls can end with me laughing about Mr. T trying to keep his balls in neon shorts. You never know how the story is going to end, do you? So I'm choosing to march forth from March fourth.
Hopefully in plenty of florescents and glitter.