The universe is against me
Swimsuit season is almost upon us.
I would rather snack on shards of glass dusted with cyanide than swimsuit shop.
Regardless. I know it’s fast approaching because people selling powder-mix detox drinks and body-shaping organic seaweed wraps are coming out of the woodwork.
I have never personally been a consumer of these products, as I firmly believe in good ol’ fashioned exercise and hard work — ahem, yes, I’m referring to that one spring a few years ago when I exercised regularly for one week straight before I quit abruptly, much to my own relief.
I’ll wear a swimsuit-moo-moo before I face that Jillian Michaels workout DVD ever again.
Swimsuit ready in 30 days?
Piece of cake ... 4.3 minutes into the workout, I just wanted to kick that skinny, toned showoff in the face.
It would, of course, require me to raise my noodle-y, rubbery leg up, and I just didn’t have that much fight in me.
My body felt like jello. I could barely choke out obscenities at her big, smiling face on the screen, so I let her bark commands at me, did what she told me to the best of my uncoordinated ability and prayed for the DVD player to spontaneously combust.
It didn’t, because the universe is obviously against me.
The sweat stung my eyes as I lay facedown in the exact spot that some kid had undoubtedly spilled something and then gave little or no effort towards scrubbing up.
It was sticky and wet and I had rolled around in it like a dog rolling in something dead.
A part of me did die on that carpet.
My hair had been violently shaken loose from the workout ponytail I had fashioned beforehand. It was now matted to my face along with tiny carpet fuzzies.
Carpet burn hurts, in case you were wondering.
As you can imagine, I was not the picture of agility and grace that week.
The moans of pain that escaped my mouth were reminiscent of a beached whale.
During an especially painful trip to Wal-Mart that week, I ventured into the bathroom, where I lucked out and got my usual stall with no purse hook.
While assuming the position with my purse hanging ’round my neck, I realized my thighs were entirely too sore to hold the hover-stance as is customary in a public potty.
My legs began to shake.
I let out a wail of tortured pain and plopped all the way down on the seat.
Then I sighed in relief.
It echoed loudly throughout the bathroom and into the entry way where my buggy with the one wobbly wheel was parked.
Special thanks to the amazing Wal-Mart bathroom acoustics for quickly turning my moment of satisfaction into horrifying shame and embarrassment.
After spending quality time in an antiseptic bath of some sort over the next several days, I vowed to never give a hoot about swimsuit season again.
Life’s too short.
Stefanie Freeman is a Jefferson resident currently serving 18 to life as a mother of four.