Like seemingly everyone else in America, I got a Fitbit for Christmas to help get rid of my FatButt. I haven’t put it on yet because I don’t want to know how many steps it takes to get from my couch to the container of fudge on the kitchen counter. And I don’t want it to judge me just yet.
I get a few more days of luxurious laziness and glorious gluttony. I’m debating on whether to dust off the ol’ running shoes on Jan. 2 or 4, but since the 2nd is on a Saturday, I’m thinking the 4th will win out.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who only gets motivated to start exercising in January and gives up by the first Mardi Gras parade. No, no, no. I actually get motivated and then un-motivated many times throughout the year. I start a diet and work out intensely for a few weeks, then get discouraged, give up, gain back anything I have lost and then wait a month or two, get disgusted with myself and start all over again. It’s a vicious cycle.
So I guess I’m what you would call a perpetual workout and dieting starter/quitter/failure. I think — no, I know — it’s because since I have hit my late 30s, the flab just doesn’t fly off like it did when I was in my 20s. If I did the same workout as I do now back then, I would be a skinny Minnie in like three weeks — tops. But not anymore. My fat cells are comfortable in their homes and don’t want to leave me. I guess I should be flattered by their dedication. Awww.
Though I always do feel better when I am working out, I get easily frustrated when I don’t see the results I want as quickly as I would like, which seems to always be the case now, so it starts to feel pointless.
There is one area on my body I have literally thought about taking a steak knife (or perhaps a paring knife) and my shop vacuum to. I mean how hard could it be to suck that fat out? If they can make home hair removal, teeth whitening and dry cleaning kits, why not DIY liposuction? I mean if we can put a man on the moon for a year, why can’t I Hoover my hips away at home?
Sigh. I guess I will just have to wait for technology to catch up and rely on my FitBit until “Living Room Lipo” is available for purchase on the Home Shopping Network in just three easy payments of $49.95.
So alas, I will soon be back out on the broken-up sidewalks of Mobile showcasing my spectacularly slow 13-minute mile, which will mean I will get to bust out my “workout playlist,” which was really quite challenging to compile. Almost as hard as the workout itself.
You see, I almost exclusively listen to whiney singer/songwriter dudes who are really depressed about something. I tried to listen to my heartbroken crooners for a while when I first started running, but it made my mile more like a 20 minute one, as I had to stop and cry from time to time.
A friend of mine said I just needed to get some “booty music,” but if one does not listen to said booty music, one does not even know where to start. I mean, I just learned what the “whip and nae nae” thing was a couple of months ago.
But with persistence and the help of the Interwebs, I was able to put together a workout playlist that is vastly different from the rest of my music but I find interesting, if not, result producing.
Of course it contains works by The Black Eyed Peas. If you Google best workout songs, their tunes always make the list. I like “I Gotta Feeling” the best and I’ll admit I may breathlessly scream out “Fill up my cup. Drank. Mazel tov” on occasion while I’m doing jumping jacks, ‘cause I’m cool like that.
The Peas are always good but eventually I needed to mix it up some more.
I saw a commercial for something on TV where football players on their way to big games were listening to Eminem on their expensive headphones (maybe it was an ad for those, as that would make sense), anyway so I figured if he can pump up those elite athletes, then certainly Marshall Mathers could help this pathetic excuse of an “athlete” out.
But I found while he may work wonders for those in the NFL, he really doesn’t do it for me. His songs always start off kind of slow and then on one he talks about throwing up his mom’s spaghetti on his sweater and all his baby mama drama and how he can’t buy diapers with food stamps, and then I just get depressed for him. He’s such a little head case.
On another song, he talks about how he ranks up against all these other rappers in the industry. Apparently in his mind, “it goes Reggie, Jay-Z, Tupac and Biggie, Andre from Outkast, Jada, Kurupt, Nas” and then him. So then I start wondering how is he ranking this — album sales, endorsement deals, movie appearances, talent in his own opinion? What is it and why he is so hard on himself? And I have no idea who Reggie, Jada, Kurupt and Nas are and I feel lame. And then he says something about how he raps like he is addicted to smack like he’s Kim Mathers and I can’t remember if that’s his mom or his baby mama and then I feel like I’m going to need to watch “Eight Mile” again and I don’t want to, so I just hit skip and go to the next song.
And I’m always hoping it’s the one tune that really powers me through like no other, but also the one I am the most embarrassed by and ashamed to admit I purchased, as it may have landed me on some sort of FBI watch list. It is called “Killing in the Name of” by Rage Against the Machine.
They are such an angry little band, bless their little cold hearts, but there is just something about shouting “F*ck, you I won’t do what you tell me to do” over and over that really gets me over the workout hump. I think I hit an 11:56 mile one time thanks to their, well, rage. And gosh what a bad a** I feel like for saying it in my head. I must look like the toughest b*tch on the block in my purple and pink Asics and Nike shorts. That’s right! Boom! Somebody get me a pair of Doc Martens and a mohawk, stat!
BUT, I think they are talking about saying that little phrase to police officers in some sort of resistance to being arrested situation, and even though these officers in the song apparently are also perhaps in the KKK (or some other organization that burns crosses), I still feel kind of guilty about screaming this in my head to our fine men in blue because I love the police and feel like it is such a thankless job.
So I just pretend like I am screaming those words to this character in my head who I call “Fat Couch Ashley,” who is just ugly me sitting on my sofa, with pajamas on, eating a ham and mayonnaise sandwich on white bread with no make-up on and ‘80s hair, saying, “Don’t work out, Ashley.” Obviously I feel good about telling her to F off and that I will not do what she tells me to do.
Though I think it’s starting to give her a complex. But it may be a non-issue soon, as I may be able to retire her, ‘casue “I Gotta Feeling” once I put the Fitbit on, I can just direct my Rage toward that little judgmental machine. I just can’t get that many steps in every day! Get off my back! I mean, my wrist!! I will not do what you tell me to do! Grrrr!!!!
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