This could be it you guys. This could really be rock bottom for me, or at least a new low.
Every time I think I have this whole health, fitness, and body image issue under control, I read things like the Alaska Dispatch News' coverage of the Mount Marathon race, which I mentioned yesterday makes me want to just give up and suffocate myself in a vat of raw cookie dough.
But even envy over the tiny titties and muscular arms that ran up and down an Alaskan mountain in record time is more justifiable than this.
I have now descended into the Mariana Trench of body-related self-hateration as I prepare to attend a wedding in a hot climate in tiny dresses, weighing more than I want to (and yet still starving!) and covered in a thick layer of coarse black hair that I am scheduled to have yanked off my body with hot wax later tonight.
I didn't think I could sink any lower, until my 5 year-old son randomly tightened his core to reveal a six pack for which he has done ZERO WORK. (Fig. 1). I can't tell you how much I want to NOT be jealous of a five and a half year-old boy's sick abs.
Did Isaac eat spaghetti that's actually zucchini shaped like spaghetti or ice cream that's actually a frozen banana put into a Vitamix blender to achieve this look? Did he do Hot Yoga or Insanity or P-90X or whatever the fuck people do who manage to break a sweat six days a week instead of three days a year? Did he do it by eating a Cripps Pink (Gangsta?) apple and Googling "calories in a Cripps Pink apple" instead of three fun-sized Snickers for breakfast as I am doing in Fig. 2?
NO, of COURSE HE DID NOT.
He did it simply by breathing, eating hot dogs and ketchup at every other meal, and Googling NOTHING. I'm not even sure he has a firm concept of what the Internet is, much less the deep well of self-hatred it offers. Granted, Isaac runs everywhere he goes and literally never stops moving, but if I did that as a grown-ass woman it would be weird and socially unacceptable. Which of course is like, the ONLY reason I don't do that.
Neil Armstrong walked on the moon at 38, and I will be 39 in less than six months. And yet even that is less depressing to me than the fact that I want to sit Isaac down and magically and by osmosis unlock and absorb the secret of his siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick core.
Low key Stanning my five year old's son's core strength and thinking "#GoalsAF" while I look at his rock-hard abs with profound envy over how dope his midriff would be in a bikini (even one with horizontal stripes) is ROCK BOTTOM y'all.
You're lookin' at it. Fuckin' rock ass bottom right here.