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Turkey bacon… like a scab only saltier

February 8, 2010

Smumzie is dieting and it’s quite dreadful, really. Eating not much more than egg whites that have been colored to resemble something edible instead of the gray schmegma that clings to the claw meat of a lobster, and turkey bacon – which Husband recently noted has the texture of a scab and tastes somewhat similar, if slightly saltier  – is less than satisfying.

It’s just that everyone around me insists on “getting healthy,” taking yoga (yuppie scum) or, you know, laying off the booze and honestly, I find it a bit vulgar. I’ve been feeling like a social pariah lately until finally, against my better judgment, I hired a Trainer, (which is in many ways worse than taking yoga, I suppose) and have commenced thrashing around in my basement for an hour every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

Now darlings, Smumzie would love to be able to say that after a full month of such nonsense it is so worth it. . . Why, I can see a difference already! I’m so much stronger, firmer blahblahblah. But alas, I cannot.

I suppose it was a bit off-putting to see a wave like the one created when the Titanic broke apart and half of it splashed into the ocean every time I crawl into the bathtub. It rather ruined my day in fact. And Husband has been a good sport about it, telling me my calves are looking quite taught these days. Yes, he said those words. You would think that most husbands of delicate little flowers like Smumzie considers herself to be would know better.

You’d be wrong.

“Have you lost weight?” I imagine those dulcet darlings saying in adoration.  “Those pants are positively falling off you, ducks. Here, take my credit card and go shopping.” Indeed, a wily husband would have said, “Sweetness and Light, you’ve been working sooo hard. Let’s go get you some posh new pieces that showcase your beautiful new figure.”

But no. “Your Aunt Betties certainly look less … flabby,” Husband said, just the other day whilst slapping the flops of skin dangling mercilessly from the back of my arms, grinning for all the world like he was center stage at a hoe-down in Omaha and strumming a banjo. If it weren’t for the steely strength of reserve Smumzie wears like a crown in even the most distasteful of situations, Husband just might have found himself sporting a few gaps in his smile to match that banjo.

In any case, I’ve pulled myself from the tender embrace of slumber thrice weekly and slogged through a routine of lifting increasingly heavy objects and heaving my delicate form up countless stairs for … firmer calves?

It’s so – undignified.

And unpleasant, really. I suppose if Trainer more closely resembled George Clooney (my generation’s Robert Pattinson, for you tweeners out there) than he does a Pekinese puppy whose hair was cut using nothing more sophisticated than a bowl and a dull butter knife, Smumzie could rally a bit more enthusiasm.  But I can report with reserved delight that I’m now able to climb the 14 stairs from the basement with a spring in my step, round the corner and mount the first four steps of the next group without groaning any more. I suppose it is a plus that I don’t have to then crawl up the remaining 20 or so steps and slither on my belly in order to reach the sweet succor of hot water and Epsom salts bath Husband has lovingly prepared for me after each flogging session. Though I’ve learned the hard way that perhaps cold water is better for quenching thirst than, say, a gin and tonic. [Don’t try this at home kids. I’m a trained professional.]

Nevertheless I realized that, if I intended to continue such diligent punishment of my tender limbs, it might be a good idea to find something more suitable to wear than Husband’s old T-shirts and pajama bottoms. As Husband suggested, the hole in the front that started out as a such a promising source of amusement quickly became an embarrassment after all.

In any case, last week I was feeling quite chuffed after Husband’s generous compliments on my, erm, figure and I took myself off to a sporting goods store that goes by the sublime name of ‘Dick’s’ to purchase a suitable ensemble for future thrashings. While in the past I would have headed immediately to the XL rack, this time I purposely strode to the JUST DO IT rounder.   With a firm, “No thanks, I got it,” to the perky, tanorexic teenage salesgirl with “Slut” tattooed in Chinese symbols above the crack of her ass, I confidently piled my arms high with Ls and even a few Ms {wink} you know, just in case. In fact, there were so many wonderful choices that I was just positive would look dazzling on my new firmer appendages that I found myself thankful for upper arms that had suddenly become strong enough to carry such a haul.

I entered the dressing room, shrugged the mantle of my old body into a puddle at my feet along with the fattie clothes I’d worn in, wrestled the first prize piece – a sports bra! over my heaving bosom and faced the mirror with a confident smile…only to discover that I looked like a sausage that had been over stuffed. Pasty, glutinous goop oozed from around every edge of the offensive garment dissolving my confidence and crushing my spirit.

I stood there for so long, sweating and panting from the effort it took just to get the odious thing on that the perky sales girl thought it prudent to knock on the door and ask if I was OK. Suffice it to say that I think she realizes now that her purpose in life henceforth should be confined to stumbling in and out of Manhattan clubs in pursuit of her lofty ambition to become arm candy to a rapper. Or, when that ultimately fails, serving Smumzie perfectly-simmered, eight hour Osso Bucco and risotto at my favorite restaurant on Friday nights. I opened the door, tossed the loot at her, mumbling something like, “My goodness wouldja look at the time,” and raced out the door.

The lighting in the dressing room was more suitable for an alien abduction type of probing, I have since decided, than for perfectly framing the work of art that is the Smumzie. Even the Mona Lisa prefers the flattering, sympathetic lighting of a thirty watt bulb to the harsh glare of industrial-strength fluorescent lighting we were faced with.

Nevertheless – Smumzie perseveres, even in the face of such adversity. Like all things in life, such dedication will surely be rewarded…won’t it?


From → Fattie McFattie

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