Tuesday, July 21, 2015

O.H.M. Special Fitness Guide: Six Weeks to An Alaska Body

Week One: Buy two pairs of Dansko clogs (one black, one brown) and one pair of insulated Xtra Tuff boots. Shove all the other shoes you own all the way to the back of your closet, because you won't be needing those anymore. No, no, not there. Like, WAY further back, where the dust bunnies fuck each other's brains out and make more baby dust bunnies until there's a whole, complex 12-generation colony of dust bunnies of all shapes and sizes in and around the shoes you will never put your feet into ever again.

Week Two: Give up shaving because fuck it. Start growing thick, black hair all over your body until you look indistinguishable from a sturdy female mountain gorilla cross-bred with a Yeti. Take a selfie on your iPhone using that grainy black-and-white filter ("noir," I believe it's called?), and sell it to a Big Foot conspiracy theorist for cash.

Week Three: Get one of those bikes with fat studded tires. Ride it everywhere you go, but especially to work, where everyone will know you just rode a bike with fat studded tires to work. Get some of those cozy hand-warmer thingies. Get a giant helmet that fits over the hood of your water resistant Arcteryx jacket made of a high-tech fabric that also ends with the letter "X." Affix 800 blinking lights and reflective tape all over the bike and your body because cars. Repeat until you look like a mobile Christmas tree. All of this will only cost you slightly more than a used Subaru. Do this for two weeks until you decide that it’s easier to drive your used Subaru three miles to work, even if your driveway is the only glacier in the state that is officially advancing.

Week Four: Sign up for weekly yoga emails to remind you of that one time you went to yoga and felt even worse about yourself than usual afterwards. Each time you receive such an email, hover over "unsubscribe" without clicking because you might need this important information again very soon. Think about how your yoga mat was used once for a prenatal yoga video and was thereafter appropriated by your children as a pretend camping prop. Recall that you don't own yoga pants that aren’t pajamas, and that when you wear yoga pants and a sports bra you look like an anthropomorphized tube of Pillsbury crescent rolls. Eat cake and a caramel soy Frappuccino (TM) with an extra shot for lunch.

Week Five: Resolve to knit a sweater. While thinking about what a great hobby knitting is, recall that you don't know how to knit and are too lazy to learn, because who the fuck learns to knit anymore this isn't Little House on the Prairie. Feel inept anyway--like really SIT with your ineptitude and FEEL it. Imagine your incompetence as breath in yoga, and your lack of knitting supplies as a chakra realigning with your third eye. Then picture a knitting needle poking violently into that third eye that you don't need anyway because you already have two working real eyes and you're not a cyclops. Softly and mindlessly touch the hundreds of sweaters you already own while simultaneously thinking about which ones you can dump at a clothing swap or a consignment store. Put on the bulkiest sweater you can find. Promptly swallow three non-drowsy antihistamines without water before that sweater's fabric triggers an asthma attack.


Week Six: Remember that dust bunny nest from Week One? Reach in there and get your running sneakers. Stand on the bathroom scale and cry. Consider signing up for a road relay in Canada where they give out "bibs," because the only bib you've worn recently is made out of plastic and has a cartoon picture of a crab and butter stains on it. Tell yourself that your expired passport is the only reason you can't run a road race in Canada. Return running sneakers to the dust bunny nest in that corner just to the left of your red gladiator sandals, for they are a totem of all your failures as a human being, and God knows you don't need any more of those in your daily line of sight.

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