Unemployed Observations From The Treadmill

I wish I could get paid to workout and to blog.

That would be awesome.

Now that I'm a regular at Lifetime Fitness during the Twilight Zone hours from 8:30 a.m to 4 p.m., I have the time and space to observe my surroundings. The anorexics are easy to spot on the treadmill or the elliptical machines. They usually wear loose clothing, yet you can still see their shoulder blades jutting through their t-shirts and their thighs are smaller than their kneecaps. Some of them are in their 50's and 60's and I wonder how a person can spend a lifetime so disordered?

They keep me from trying that Master Cleanse again so I can fit into my pre-unemployment pants. I have gone up AN ENTIRE SIZE since December 15. I have not worn this size since before I gave birth to my son, and I was kind of chubbed out right before I got pregnant. So this is serious. I keep squeezing my thighs with my hands while I sit on the couch watching TV.

Which is worrisome.

On the plus size of being a Plus, I've already noticed the effects of lifting weights. My arms and shoulders are looking more defined. More Amazon Warrior Goddess-like. I'm considering changing my image as I approach my fourth decade. Rather than try to be a wanna-be modelesque-waif, why not go for the Xena: Warrior Princess route?

I'm practically six feet tall, I could totally pull it off.

*Flexes*

As I leave my twenties and thirties behind, the idea of reducing myself and making myself "less" is less and less appealing. Being big and strong is suddenly empowering. I'm a whole lotta woman.

I listen to John Legend's "Alright" on my iPod over and over again. When he sings, "Good lord, you've got body for days!" I always run a little faster, swing my hips and shoulders a little looser and and feel like a mile-long Venus.

Sometimes I wish I were a black woman.

Then I could snap my fingers and shake my head back and forth and talk about how men love my curves. Oh wait a minute, I already do the first two. I lived in the actual city of Detroit for over a decade and I mistakenly believe this gives me "street cred."

Hmm Mmmm.

*Wags head back and forth*

The Boyfriend loves it when I get all ghetto fabulous on him. He loves it because I honestly think I sound legit, and he claims I actually sound like, "The whitest person on the planet." Speaking of black-white people, or white-black people, I watch seven television screens at Lifetime but can't hear the sound. So what I get is this strange mish-mash of cultural images ... everything from news programs, to soap operas, to music videos. There's this white rapper, maybe he's the new Vanilla Ice? His name is Daddy Something (I can't remember his second name, and no it's not Puff Daddy). He looks like he's from Downriver, with his backwards baseball hat, oversized white shirt, oversized white pants, giant chain and incestuous weak chin.

My friend Tits McGee has informed me that there is actually a southern term for such a person. He is known as a "Bubba." Albeit an urban bubba in this case. I think the geographical setting doesn't matter so much as the backwards baseball cap and the pick-up truck.

So I look at this guy, a guy no girl would give the time of day when he hands her an order of fries, yet here he is surrounded by half-naked, writhing women. Now mind you, I can't hear a word he's saying/rapping/singing, but I can't help but think to myself: Why would women sell themselves so cheap?

I say that to myself often as I scan Myspace, Facebook and TMZ.

I mean, just because this frycook lucked himself onto TV doesn't mean you have to wait outside his dressing room door to to get a chance with him. Just go to your local Liquor & Check Cashing corner store and you'll have yourself his twin.

Speaking of bad music videos and inexplicable women: What are we to do with Solange Knowles? I was horror-struck to watch her silent video which rips off Dee-Lite's "Groove Is In The Heart" from the early 90's. I didn't need to remove my iPod earbuds (gross word) to know that she was terrible.

Her dance moves: Awkward and strained.

Her political statements: Out of place and forced.

Her charisma: Zero.

I listened to Lady Kier, Ms Knowles, and let me tell you, you girl, are no Lady Kier.

*Wags head*

I had to listen to "Single Ladies" like five times to cleanse my brain from the shame of Solange. The Knowles should just lock that girl up in the basement and only let her out for family gatherings. I don't even want to mention how many times she's wound up on Go Fug Yourself for crimes of fashion.

Another amusing thing about watching the vast sea of television screens is that soap opera actors are terrible actors even with the sound off. It's remarkable. I mean, if I turn the sound on and read a book, I cringe at the terrible acting I can hear. Yet reverse the situation and they are equally bad visually.

I just can't believe how universally bad actors are on soap operas. I mean, it is television. I guess it's probably the same with sports. The pros are just monumentally better than the minors and college athletes. The leap of talent from mediocre to great is a big one, like Grand Canyon big. I wonder if there's much in-between? I mean, you've got sucky, tolerable and great. That's it.

I think it's the same for writers.

The problem is, everyone secretly thinks they're great, when in fact, they're not even tolerable.

I'd say this goes for many creative pursuits: Art, singing, music, acting, writing, dance, etc. Man, did any of you catch Kym on The Real Housewives of Atlanta singing? I mean, this wigged out Southern Belle was in a recording studio caterwauling and planning her next photo shoot. She was completely clueless that she fell into the "epically sucky" division.

Another deluded individual I watched on mute from the treadmill was Deepak Chopra. Now this man is supposed to be some sort of spiritual leader, right? Have you gotten a load of his glasses?

Insane!

Like disco insane! The man wears red and black glitter glasses. Glitter! He must be in his forties or fifties. He doesn't strike me as a Cher fan or an Elton John wanna-be, so what the sparkle-hell is going on? How do you look deeply into the eyes of a man who is promoting a book about the enlightenment of Jesus, whose eyes are framed in pixie dust? What's going on here? Has anyone else noticed this?

I don't know why I'm so fixated. I suppose it's not like the Dalai Lama showed up in glitter.

Perhaps it's an Indian thing? You know how Europeans have somewhat effiminate taste by American standards, and the Russians have effeminate standards by European tastes ... maybe glitter and shimmer are just a normal part of the magic that is India?

But I'm telling you, I didn't see much glitter when I was there.

Speaking of fashion delusions, I've discovered I have reverse body dysmorphic disorder when it comes to workout clothing. I have somehow come to the conclusion that the tighter my exercise garb, the thinner I look.

I know.

It's a recipe for disaster.

I regularly leave my house in black running tights. I look in the mirror in the locker room, shrug and think, "It's stretched out over a 5'10" frame." Then again, the mirror also holds the images of all the senior ladies filing in from the mid-day water aerobics class, so it may be a situational delusion.

When I was younger I would have been mortified to think that I would wind up the big girl in the unfortunate clothing who draws the stares of other women who are thinking, "I can't believe that big girl thinks she's hot stuff."

But now the thought of this makes me laugh.

Which makes me kind of look forward to my forties.

Then again, I was watching a sixty-year-old woman run in those lycra bike shorts we all wore under our jean skirts in the 80's and I was like, "By god woman, no! No! No! No!"

Then again, there was a seventy-year-old man who was leaning on her treadmill, chatting her up like pimply-faced boy. I think they both thought they were hot stuff, and I could feel the (disturbing) electric charge of their chemistry coming from across the row.

So go on Golden Girl, work those bike shorts. Work 'em hard.

*Snaps*