I’m heading to the beach this Saturday.
NO, I won’t be wearing a bikini.
My quest to finish sixty days of Insanity and have a bikini-worthy bod has failed. Partly because I was benched after my unfortunate coccyx injury. The other part? I could give you a multitude of excuses as to why I didn’t get back on that bitch of a horse—I caught a horrible summer cold, my air conditioning sucks, I’m consumed with a new piece for a publication that’s rejected me half a dozen times, etc.
Are you rolling your eyes yet?
The truth? I just didn’t feel like doing it.
I know (for those who’ve finished the challenge), it’s life changing. I saw my body begin to transform and liked it. I simply hated that I never, ever, ever quit being sore. I’m a fairly healthy person and rarely get sick so feeling like crap day after day was depressing. There has to be some form of exercise that won’t kill me and I’m ready (gasp) to accept:
“She has a decent body, for her age.”
I might’ve cut out the offending tongue before.
I vividly remember a conversation I had in my late twenties with a cousin close to my age. We were both trying to lose the baby weight we’d gained during our pregnancies. We talked about the joy of letting it all go once we reached fifty. We decided that we’d buy lots of polyester pants with elastic waistbands and big billowy tops. Our free time would be spent skulking around garage sales. We’d eat anything we wanted—biscuits and gravy for breakfast, See’s Candies for lunch.
“Who cares when we’re old biddies!” we said, and laughed until our stomachs hurt.
What a couple of assholes.
First of all, I hate garage sales and why the hell did we think our sense of style would end once we turned fifty years old? I’m telling you now if you EVER see me wearing polyester pants walk up with a pair of scissors and cut them from my body. Leave me standing in my Hanky Panky because as embarrassing as my naked thong-wearing ass might be in public, I will not wear the fabric of my grandmother.
It doesn’t help that I’m experiencing the summertime blues. I’m usually happy but lately I’ve become so hangdoggie I can hardly stand myself. As I wrote last summer, lots of people feel sad around the holidays if they’re unattached but for me it’s warm weather and the lack of a plus one that brings me down. It’s not like I’m doing anything about it, though. I have the fantastic cards from Cheek’d with me at all times and just last week at Trader Joe’s I saw a handsome, age appropriate man nearby as I was checking out. I discretely maneuvered myself into a position to make sure the body matched the face and yep, it did. He was in good shape and his basket was filled with all kinds of interesting stuff.
Then I glanced down.
He was wearing sensible shoes.
A pair so tragically functional it was as if he worked in a machete factory and had butterfingers. I got so caught up in his dreadful footwear that I failed to swipe my card and the clerk had to ask my preferred method of payment–twice.
What would motivate someone to buy those beasts? Who’s his stylist, Herman Munster?
Big talk for someone whose recent muffin top expansion can’t be tamed with shape wear.
I really need a vacation.
A vacation with lots of sex would be ideal…
All right, so I’m dreaming, but certainly one day.
I’ll know him immediately by his loafers.
“A naked woman in heels is a beautiful thing. A naked man in shoes looks like a fool.” Christian Louboutin