God Hates a Buried Loomie

Last week, I decided that I was going to have to start running.  I haven’t run for exercise since maybe my senior year of high school, you know, back when I was playing soccer year-round and didn’t feel like barfing midway through sprints.  Because I was young then.  And now I’m old.

I made my decision sort of lightly, which is not surprising considering my past history with exercise.  Blessedly, I have a high metabolism triggered by even the smallest amount of exercise.  Ignorantly, I am lazy and choose not to partake most of the time.  So I sit on my ass all day at work, come home, and sit on my ass some more.   I just keep getting fatter and repeating the word “FUPA” in my head isn’t helping my state of mind.

When I announced to Facebook that I was going to start running, it was, like, the most hilarious thing to happen to my friends.  I had no idea why.  Dudes, I used to be an athlete!  And there are people we went to high school on my friends list who are way fatter than me now!  What’s the big deal?

Dave explained it to me.  “It’s not that we don’t think you can do it, you just seem more interested in the lavisher* things in life, like drinking, partying, eating food, and laying around.”

*itals. mine.



“You just made me sound like a huge slob!  I WAS AN ATHLETE!  You don’t say that to a woman!”

“HAHAHAHAHAHA you’re not a woman!”

Then we talked about working out and diets, which I refuse to touch but Dave occasionally does.  Except his idea of a diet is salads piles of iceberg lettuce covered in ranch dressing.  I’ve tried telling him there’s no nutrition in there, but does he listen?

I suppose I should be thrilled that one of my friends likened me to Bacchus, but HEY.  Bacchus was fat.  Even with the vomitorium.  This is why I accepted an invitation to the Super Fun Run Club (which I have been assured is more like the Super Fun Run For Five Minutes and Then Walk For Ten Club).  It’s been a bust so far thanks to ice and snow.

Speaking of ice and snow, fuuuuuuuck.  I suppose it’s kind of my overlords to postpone opening until 9am, but that still means I have to pilot the Loomie in this godawful mess.  And yes, I am the only one.  It’s confirmed — I have the shittiest car in the parking lot at work.  Every day I park my bucket o’ garbage alongside BMW SUVs and brand new Expeditions.  Every day I jockey for lot space with these yahoos, who are all oblivious to the fact that a 1997 Chevrolet sedan does not have superb winter handling capability.  I’m doing my best, people, try to keep your Canyoneros out of my way.

All the people in my group have nicer cars than me (which I don’t mind because it makes me feel like a socialist), so why can’t they ever make it to fucking work?  It’s always the same excuse.  I live too far away.  My subdivision hasn’t been plowed.  The highways are dangerous.

Goddammit.  Look, motherfuckers, I’m not the one who chose to live deep into the boonies.  You wanted that 45-minute commute, you got it.  This is the Midwest in February, assholes, what did you think it was going to do?  And I don’t want to hear about how no one plowed your fucking subdivision.  I live in SOUTH CITY.  Nobody plows anything here!  That’d be like doing nice things for poor people!  I dig my car out, hope it doesn’t run out of gas as I’m warming it up, and I amble along the streets hoping I don’t get sideswiped by some crackhead bus driver.  Don’t complain to me about not getting out of your driveway.

It’s the coffee talking.  I had about ½ a pot before I realized I had an extra hour to dick around on the Internet, so there’s a very slim possibility that I’ll get back to sleep.  I’ll just sit here and wait to head out into the snow.  Go to work.  I’m sure I’ll be the only one.

About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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