What Do You Call A Dinasour With A Stressed Rump? Mega Sore Ass.
First off, if you call me a dinasour you gonna get word-whipped. Second, even though it’s not technically a middle-age birthday for me on May 24th (I hope, and, thank you), some days I do feel old. And, third, yes, I am going to talk about my ass again.
(This was written a few weeks ago, but then my mom’s butt took centre stage. Let’s pretend this occurred just the other day …)
How sore is my ass?
My ass is sooo sore …
Speaking of butt, we interrupt this blog to bring you … Farting Fellow aka Gassy Guy aka Dude’s Gotta Poo aka The Man Sitting Next To Me Rippin’ Em.
I thought for a second that I might’ve become a little too comfy here at Deus Ex Machinas motorcycle-coffee shop and let one slip, but you know as well as I do that we all recognize our own brand.
And there’s no one else within twelve feet of us, so he knows that I know that it’s him quietly releasing this Hiroshima of SBD1 rectal rancidity. Then again, maybe he is retaliating. I may have let a teeny tiny delicately floral-scented flatulence escape my cheeks a moment ago. But my gassy ass—like all the fine ladies reading this—smells like a field of vanilla-hyacinth flowers. Wait, it’s mostly men reading this.
In that case, my ass smells like lager, dry ribs and the playoffs!
Oh, see, now he’s packing up his laptop into his man bag aka gay sac0. Before this overt odiferous episode, we were comfortably and peacefully working side by side. Now it’s like we’re alone in an elevator, and he’s pretending to wait for the correct floor on which to disembark. Both knowing, both anxious for the doors to open and relieve us of his excretive expunging.
And … breathe.
Where were we? Oh, yes, my butt.
Now listen, I know we’re all tired of reading about my rump, but it’s my thing. (Along with my hair.) I’ve worked long and hard for the little bitty butt I’ve got. It’s much improved from the hamster-butt I started out with, so bear with me.
I have a close girl friend who has forever had an obsession with long hair. She’s spent thousands of dollars on products, wig bits and hair pieces because—try as she might—her fine blonde locks don’t want to grow. She’s gorgeous no matter what; however, she does look way better in the shorter, sexy Marilyn bob—but wanting long hair is her thing!
We all have our thing.
As I mentioned in one of my other posts, I have been a stair master! Yesterday, I did 2,430 steps. True story.
Fortunately, I only calculated the steps while writing this or my OCD would have forced me to do another 70 steps for an even 2,500—which would have left me stranded part way down. Then I’d have to call on Flex to come collect me and piggy-back me to the finish.
Flex is a personal trainer. Celebrity trainer it says on his business card. Flex is not an AJ-made-up name. It’s on his card. I don’t know if Flex was born Flex (it is L.A. after all) or if Flex became Flex because he is made of much muscle (with some très sparkly bling and sneakers to match and un peu de charisma to add to the celebrity credibility.)
After I finish the stairs, he makes me put on a 20-pound weighted vest and hold a bag of mixing cement (or similar), which also weighs around 25 pounds, and then do squats. Did I mention that I squeak when I squat? (This is cute in the bedroom, but on a pedestrian busy roadway, it’s just embarrassing.)
Flex isn’t even my trainer!
I know he’s good though—at training, to be clear—because his whole posse of pumped up trainees have totally awesome caboosies.
I point to one of the pretty young thing’s asses and ask him, So, can you get my glutes to do that?
She With Great Ass tells me, He made my friend puke the first time she trained with him.
I comment: That’s not exactly a selling feature.
They reminisce for a moment on the vomiting episode and recall others who have barfed for booty. Apparently, Flex worked these die-hards who were so fervently dying to get glutes that they blew chunks from the exertion.
(We’re not talking bulimia. That’s a whole other thing that I’ll only consider if I can throw up through my nose and not ruin my chiclets, which I spent a fortune in braces on—three times.)
Then he turns to me: I can get you ripped. He means ripped as in shredded as in lean and mean and toned and devoid of my lovely handles. Not ripped as in high. (Or the aforementioned ripping one, as in farting.)
He’ll even provide a nutrition plan.
I bristle: Will you take away my hamburgers?2
He laughs and confirms he would.
I continue: With bacon and cheese? Mmm, cheese.
Yep.
My grilled cheese sammiches? 3
Yep.
Key lime pie at Cafe Gratitude? I quickly add, It’s raw Vegan.
No key lime pie.
(Frown.)
What about my four cups of coffee in the morning? With cream. I refrain from telling him I chow down four slices of super-sour sourdough toast with coconut oil and peanut butter to boot.
He thinks I’m funny.
Whole Foods four cheese mac & cheese? I already know the answer, but I have to throw in something I might be willing to give up. I don’t even mention the four (cough, five) chocolate bars I eat every week.
It’s a wonder I’m not 300 pounds like my tractor-hauling dad was. But I can haul logs, folks! Almost. (See Bionic Vagina blog.)
And! Lest we forget—and so the ladies hate on me less—I do ride that clam-crushing-lips-sideslipping 70s bicycle, like, every day, like everywhere, folks.
In the end, I understand that if I want my rear end to be yummilicious—firm and round but not ripple-dimpled—all I need to do is monitor my own dang diet. Then again, I’m not so sure I want to get ripped. There’s a lot of sacrifice involved. Plus the extra padding does give some volume.
And asside from that, my backyard is coming along nicely, TYVM. Though I do fully admit it is sore. In a good way. As in I can hardly walk. From exercise. Anyway … I’m not sure if it was the 2430 steps or the squeak-squat finish, but my butt needs a break.
If I had the extra bucks to spare, I’d cough up the cash and hire Flex, who’d risk being around my cheese-withdrawal bitchiness for a few weeks just to get ripped by my birthday. But, as mentioned, I’m leaving the country early because I’m blowing cash out my ass with this awful Canadian/U.S. exchange rate, and I’d really rather invest any surplus on cheese and key lime pie—even if it does give me a spare tire.
In fact, I could make a whole new schtick out of being fat (or getting there). Um, hello! Amy Schumer,4 Melissa McCarthy, Jen Lancaster, and what’s-her-other-blonde-name? These ladies are taking their (money)rolls to the bank, folks. And they get to eat! And three out of four of them are shacked up! (Brilliant chicks, right? Exactly.)
(Pondering …)
However, if you’re in L.A. and you do want to get ripped, get your Flex on.
What have I (re)learned?
Sometimes we’re so thought-centred on the distance between where we started and the finish line that we fail to see the progress we have made.
And sometimes we’re so focused on our self-perceived “flaws”—physical or otherwise—that we miss the whole appealing quirkiness in those so-called imperfections.
Homework:
Stop watching Jen Selter‘s ass videos. (That’s a link for the horny men—you’re welcome—and for the self-defeatist women—dooon’t do it!)
Embrace my flaws. I’ll start with vanity! Ha! You thought I was going to embrace this extra fifteen (cough, twenty) pounds? Come on, people, you know me better than that! However, I may refrain from trying to squeeze myself into my camel-toe shorts. (See Firemen chapter in my memoir).
Fiiine, I’ll eat a liiitle healthier. But I’m not giving up my chocolate. Or coffee! It does one thing for my ass that even 2,500 steps and a barrel of salad won’t do—it keeps me regular: Girl’s Gotta Go!
Update: I only did 2430 steps that one time (now last month). And though I have cleaned up my diet—meaning: I eat only half a chocolate bar per day and I don’t buy bacon—I also haven’t exercised quite as much. Bottom line: The camel-toe shorts still don’t fit this cheeky chick. (Eh, shrug.)
p.s. I just knowww some of you are going to say Stop trying to lose weight! You’re fine … Here’s my reply: Look, I’ve been in this body over forty years … you’ve never been in it (some exceptions apply), so I’ll decide what’s right for me, thank you so much. (Kiss kiss.)
(Also, feel free to read Why I’d Rather Be A Skinny Bitch for further detail. That is all.)
Update two!:
I’ve decided to cut my hair. IIII know! (Subject to change without notice!!!)
I sent an email to my long-hair obsessed gal pal about #1 and she told me that she’s embracing her shorter luscious locks. We rock!
0Being gay is totally fine but if you’re not your accessories are totally confusing to this ignorant straight chick.
1Silent But Deadly
2I balance out my anti-Eco-animal eating by only buying organic, field range (as in: grass fed), and local dead beast. It totally counts.
3I’m writing this one-handed at Deus with a greasy grilled cheese sammich in the other. Oh yeah! I finished this post at–you guessed it–Cafe Gratitude eating a piece of key lime pie, baby!
4Interestingly enough, though Amy is the youngest and barely makes the grade in the chubby department, she’s also the only single one. Things that make you go Hmm.
