Sarah Jessica Parker Has Alien Arms

During my audition for the laziest, most hungover, repugnant human being on the face of the earth this weekend, I suffered through 145 minutes of Sex and the City 2.

That's right. I watched a Sex and the City movie instead of exercising. Instead of showering. In fact, I watched Sex in the City instead of doing anything.

Just give me the blue ribbon right now.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a fan of the franchise. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that given the intolerable writing and the obvious impracticality of nearly every single facet of its production. I am however, entitled to this one of many one vice, given that I also enjoy other widely acceptable programs such as that one about the coked-out former baseball player and the popular drama featuring a family man who also moonlights as a serial killer.

              

Fiction aside, one simply cannot ignore the fact that Sarah Jessica Parker has alien arms. Especially when you are forced to stare at them for 145 minutes on a rainy Sunday afternoon while ingesting what is surely an unhealthy dose of Advil.

C'mon with those things!

At what point did she say to herself, "Sarah J, you flabby ghoul, your arms aren't nearly as veiny and chiseled as they should be, let's get you on that weight machine for the next four hours"?

Seeing photographs like this make exercise amateurs such as myself confused and frustrated. Fact: I have avoided doing free weights for two days after seeing this movie.

Is this the pinnacle of health? Is this what women should strive to look like? Is this healthy?

In the same vein (Get it? Vein?) of this unprovoked SJP attack, I'd like to answer the above questions by avoiding them entirely and distracting me you with the following video:

How Do You Like Me Now?

Normal, bitch.

PS - My Mii is smokin' hot, no?

Even My Nintendo Thinks I'm Fat

My Wii has sworn at me before:

But yesterday, our relationship sunk to a new low. Yesterday, my Wii told me I was ...

...overweight.

You couldn't have said I'm at the 'high end of normal', could you? You bastard. For what it's worth, anyone can clearly see it's on the line. But whatever.

The truth hurts. The truth is also good motivation. Today, I went super-hard on the elliptical to the point where I nearly passed out. But I pushed through the vertigo. I conquered lethargy. I made exhaustion my bitch!

And it felt great. Not at the time, don't get me wrong. I felt disgusting, and probably looked about as hopeless as old Gil as I stumbled around afterward, trying desperately to regain my breath.

But after my heart rate slowed, the sweat had absorbed, and my work clothes were back on, I felt like a new woman.

Hear that, Wii? 

I'm coming for you first.

Already an Epic Failure

Well Becca, you tried and failed. The lesson is, never try.

I suppose a five-day a week workout routine is far too lofty a goal for this broad. Although in my defense, it's not entirely my fault that I missed my workout today. Work kept piling up, and I'm going to level with you: I'd rather be a bulging fat ass with a good job than some skinny thing who gets her ass grabbed at The Oak during the lunch time rush because that's all you can really get with a Bachelor of Arts degree in this town.

Work comes before workout. I get it. Growing up sucks because you have to set priorities. Growing up also sucks because one day you wake up and find your metabolism is giving you the finger.

To make up for my workout loss, I could have gone for a run walk after work today. I could have pumped out a ton of few sit-ups in my basement before dinner. I could have been starting up some Wii Fit at this very moment instead of sitting here writing in my diary griping to my laptop about how much of an abject failure I am.

Frankly, I could have done a lot of things. And if I've learned anything from going to church, and I haven't, it's that girls should stick to girl sports, like hot oil wrestling, and foxy boxing, and such and such.

If anyone needs me, I'll be filling up the pool.

Nacho Nightmare

Have you ever eaten that slice of pizza really late at night, and immediately regretted it? Like, I-know-I'm-gonna-have-a-pizza-nightmare-now regretted it?



That was me last night, except replace 'pizza' with 'Doritos'.

They didn't even taste good. I didn't even enjoy them. Maybe it's because I was quasi force-feeding them to myself, so I could finally be rid of them. Or maybe I've just reached that point where eating like a total crap bag is so totally, utterly unfulfilling.

My nacho nightmare jolted me awake in a cold sweat around 3 a.m. Maybe it was the dream itself, or maybe it was the powdered cheese slowly escaping from my body that awoke me from a restless slumber that involved me trying to evade (note: trying) slow-moving lizard creatures meandering around my room. Give me a break on that one, I had just finished watching Land of the Lost.

Anyhow, this is officially day one of attempting not to be a lazy, disgusting sloth. I've got my smaller-portioned lunch, my banana breakfast, and my first workout booked for 3 p.m. I also plan on doing some *ANOTHER NERD ALERT* Wii Fit this evening. As a former (see: current) video game nerd, I've decided to embrace it.

Wish me luck.

The Diet Begins Tomorrow

Actually, it begins Monday.

What does this mean? Well Internet, it means that I have a whole hell of a lot of eating to do this weekend.

It means I have the arduous task of ridding my pantry of all traces of salty, sweet and trans-fatty fare. And yes, I'm talking to you too, giant bag of Doritos I bought at WalMart because you were on sale for $2.

At this point, at least half of the readers of this blog (all three of you) are probably asking yourselves, "Why doesn't that unsightly swine just throw out the junk food instead of ingesting it all?"

If you are in fact one of these people, you are not my friend, and this blog should not have been sent to you.

Monday isn't just the day to start eating better. Monday is also the day I begin my vigorous five-day-a-week exercise routine. I am fortunate enough to work for an organization that has its very own gym. Sure, it's no GoodLife, but frankly, if I wanted to feel like a frumpy fat-ass while panting away on the elliptical next to a 5'11 tanned blonde model yacking away on her cell phone and effortlessly sprinting on the treadmill, I'd sign back up tonight.

I used to belong to GoodLife when I lived in Toronto. Ladies, if you ever feel like having your ego taken down a few pegs, I highly recommend you join the club on Bloor. Every time I went to this place I felt like cramming a dozen jelly donuts into my mouth and curling up in the fetal position under the weight machines. The women there made me feel like Kelly Clarkson at Thanksgiving. I was unworthy.

The way I see it, working out at the office has four significant advantages:

1) I won't have to drag my ass to the gym before or after work.

2) Middle of the day workouts will give me the energy I need to fend off the deadly after-lunch lethargy I so often succomb to.

3) No gym fees. Look, I just bought my first house. Give me a break.

4) I can look like a haggard mess without feeling overly self-conscious. I work with these people five days a week, and I'm actually quite fond of them. Besides, they have seen me at 5:00 a.m. Enough said.

I'm ending this post on a lame serious note. My petty, privileged first-world problems are laughable, folks. I mean, c'mon -- my pants are too tight? Boys won't find me pretty anymore!

Travesty.

This man dug himself out of depression and lost 120 pounds. If he can do that, I can stop buying Doritos.

I Blame Seventeen Magazine

…for my deluded self image.

And what’s the deal with Cosmo? Why is a magazine that is supposed to be about  me comprised of articles that are all about how to make HIM happy?

 I digress.

You should know, as a rule, I don’t even read magazines:

As an additional rule, I also don’t watch The Jersey Shore, but that pervasive pig is everywhere.

Speaking of pigs (this my friends, is what we call a segue), I will crush a bag of Doritos in one sitting. I’ll mow down on ice cream right out of the container. I have a particular affection for Big Macs and I’m unapologetic about pouring myself a tall class of Coke at 11 p.m. I’m drawn to food that is terrible, and I’m not just talking about the occasional soft drink. I’m talking about pasta, pizza and burgers. I’m talking three-cheese dip, homemade chocolate chip cookies and rice crispy squares. Cake, bread and cheese, of all kinds.

I was ‘diagnosed’ with high cholesterol at age 14. This is fairly alarming, but when you’re 14, your heart isn't exactly your top priority. I was just trying to get through one day without tripping over myself, let alone watching what I ate. Besides, I have never been overweight and was an extremely picky child. Even at age 25 when I was once again warned about my cholesterol being “a little too high”, I shrugged it off and probably went and grabbed a funnel cake.

That’s not entirely true. I’ve made several sincere attempts to change my eating habits and habitually sloth-like lifestyle, but it’s always short-lived. And as always, when things get difficult, I give up. Besides, show me someone who would rather climb on a treadmill than into a pair of comfortable sweatpants after work, and I’ll eat my hat.

That being said, my abject inertia has lead me to a point where I am unhappy and uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, but not completely delusional. I don’t look in the mirror and see that woman who is aiming to be the world’s fattest mom staring back at me.

Donna Simpson, the world's fattest mom: http://bit.ly/9xZWnr

I guess what I’m trying to say is this is sincere attempt #287 to live, feel and hopefully write, better.  That’s right—I’m *NERD ALERT* blogging about it. I’ve never blogged before and have long maintained that they are not only a waste of time, but an exercise in desperate self-indulgence.

My blatant hypocrisy aside, maybe writing will be the motivation I’ve been missing. Maybe words will get my ass off the couch and onto the treadmill. Or maybe apathy will once again reign supreme and I’ll find solace in the glorious trans-fatty glow of a delicious KFC Double Down.

That’s…that’s still coming to Canada, right?