getting un fat and a new kind of humpy

April 21, 2005 - 10:50 p.m.

Update regarding getting in shape in 3 weeks. It can be done. Weight loss is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. HOWEVER. Weight loss is guaranteed if you work hard enough. I don’t think most people believe this, they feel like there is just no end in sight, and our need for instant gratification causes us to give up, because dammit, I wanna be thin NOW. If nothing is happening, then you aren’t being consistent. Be honest with yourself. Are you REALLY working hard? You tell yourself that you worked hard at the gym today, and then you give yourself a brownie as a reward, and then you don’t go to the gym for another week. Clearly, you are not working hard enough.

Here’s what I did: I went to the gym Monday-Friday on my lunch break and got a solid 40 minutes of workout time in. I climbed onto the elliptical, pressed “cardio” and essentially ran as fast as I could for 40 minutes with maybe the last 3 for cool down, then a brisk walk back to work. No shower, no nothing, just sit my stankin’ wet ass down at my desk while still panting. Drink a gallon of water and don’t forget to eat! You must eat, or late that night you will be starving and do something stupid like eat an Extreme Enormous Omelet. Eat good proteins and carbs. I personally drink two 100% Whey protein shakes a day with fruit blended in. There was no time for weight training, and quite frankly, hopping from machine to machine is precious time wasted, you lower your heart rate, and it gives you the opportunity to mosey around, pretending to look for the drinking fountain. Faker! Get your ass on one machine and don’t leave it until 15 minutes past the moment that you think you are about to die. You know your ass ain’t dyin’. See? 15 minutes later and you’re still moving, and now you can pat yourself on the back.

Have you ever gone to the gym five days in a row? Of course you haven’t; no normal person would. But you will if you have any desire to lose weight, and any shred of self-discipline. FIVE DAYS YA HEAR?? And in 2 weeks you will feel like a different person.

Dear Anorexics,

I’M NOT TALKING TO YOU.
Wipe that chicken frown off your face, eat more than 4 peas for dinner, and digest it until it turns to shit. Ok? Because your whole “cause”? It’s getting really old. Like, old as my Hanes period panties in the back of my sock drawer. Honey, you are a pane of glass, and we see right through you. Honestly, I wish you could step outside of yourself and look into the future, like when you are about to turn 29 years old. All of the assholes that you know will be long gone, your parents will only call you once a month, and life will be fucking grand, with cute boyfriends, a nice crib with yellow-painted walls, and trips to motherfucking Egypt. No lie. None of that shit matters anymore, so do like Samara, and climb out of that well full of shit water, hose yourself off and be your own mommy. If I can do it, then you can do it.

Thru thick and thin,

Shawna Mooney

Anyway…I can’t tell you what I lost in pounds or inches because I wasn’t keeping track. That was really dumb because now I can’t make my point.

Before: Couldn’t look in mirror unless fully clothed. Had vivid fantasies of breaking into a butcher shop at night, lying on the electric meat slicer, and taking 3 inches off the sides and front. Frequently disgusted and sad with self.

During: In a delirious fit of impulse buying at 2am, I purchased a Victoria’s Secret string bikini online. Uh…that was fucking stupid. I’ve never worn a string bikini in my life, but my confidence was high after all of that profuse daily sweating, and I thought I would look like Gisele from Brazil by April 24th.

After: Clothes fit better. Love handles greatly diminished. More belts needed. Received VS bikini in mail, and in just the right lighting, at just the right angle, and a bit of contortionism and sucking-in, I can almost kind of maybe pull it off. As long as my boyfriend “accidentally” loses his glasses on the first day of the trip, I’ll be looking good.

To be clear, I am not promoting a need to be thin, but rather a need to be healthy as a horse, to be able to sprint up 4 flights of stairs and carry around boxes of bricks with Popeye arms. And if you can sprint up stairs and carry bricks then you can bet you’ve got reasonably low body fat, because building muscle and cardio activity is no friend to the fat cells. The muscle comes in and says to the fat upper arms, “Hey you pudgy yellow bitch,” (have you seen what fat looks like under the skin? Goldenrod yellow) “There ain’t room for the both of us in here, so git the fuck out.” And that’s when the muscles done burns up the fat and sends it on its merry way to my bladder, and my vagina is the last thing it will see before it heads straight into the toilet for all of its fat, yellow eternity.

That reminds me. Fat last vagina. There’s that fat piece of shit Filipino I work with, who is a sexless masturbator who lives with his mama and helps her douche every Friday night. At least three times a day I am tempted to say to his face, but end up screaming it silently in my mind: “Last time you saw a pussy you were coming out of it.” Or maybe I should say “FIRST AND LAST time you saw a vagina, was when your mama was pushing you out of hers in the rice patty fields.” Damn that’s mean. Fuck ‘em.

So I’m getting ready for this trip that I can’t stop thinking or talking about. The pilot had the genius idea to buy an 8mm (movie) film camera for us to take. This is the camera that produced all of those jumpy, washed out home videos of families in the 1960s. Remember the introduction to that show The Wonder Years? Yeah, that’s it, and it’s silent to boot. How fucking cool is that?? Because we were discussing how everyone looks and sounds like an asshole on video and how embarrassing it is to watch home videos. But not with 8mm! Everyone looks totally cool, the timing and exposure is way off, and you don’t have to hear my snively voice. And no doubt the bright sunshine on desert sand will have an interesting effect. My boyfriend is a fucking babe genius.

I’m having all kinds of camel fantasies, like what I will say to the camels, and I wonder how the camels and I will get along. What a big stinking heap of an animal, but you can bet he’s gonna be my new best friend. It all started with a dream I had a week ago, where there was a photo [I often have dreams that are comprised of nothing but still photos] of me standing next to my new best friend and he was all lips and tongue everywhere and I smile and hold his reins while wearing a rainbow colored plastic sun visor that I had when I was 8 years old. The sun visor says FLORIDA (derr) and I’m wearing a t-shirt, tight and sexy around the boobs, that says, “I’d walk a mile for a Camel.”

Uh. I woke up and said aloud to me and my house full of vermin, “I’m a fucking idiot. Even in my sleep.”

Days passed and I couldn’t stop thinking of that dream photo and next thing I know I’m walking into Old Navy, looking for a plain t-shirt that I can get lettered. It was painful, but I had to buy a size medium because I am going to a Muslim country and they just can’t handle the bosom. Normally I would unjustifiably wear a small, squeeze into it, rip out the armpits and unflatter myself all summer long. My shirts end up in tatters, like the Incredible Hulk. I’m Summer Hulk. Who do I think I am, dressing like this? I don’t know. Somebody lied and told me I looked good once and I’ve been dressing like a two-bit bar skank ever since.

In case you ever needed to know, there is a word to describe the specific lips of a camel. The word is CHILOMA. I learned this during one of those trivia board games I used to play with my family. CHILOMA=CAMEL LIPS. Usage: “That camel had his chiloma all up in my biz, tryn to lick crumbs off my pants” or “Have you ever seen the poor dental hygiene of our humpy friends? Simply peel back his chiloma and you will see teeth that are the size of dominoes and the color of volcanic ash.”

Awesome. We already have something in common, except my teeth more closely resemble corn niblets.

Hopefully one more post before I leave on my 12+ hour flight to the (un)holy land, perhaps never to return. If I lose my head, who will be my successor?

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The Fast, Days 1-6
January 28, 2007