May 28, 2010
I’m sweating my ass off. Figuratively speaking anyway. I wish I was literally sweating my ass off. And my hips. And my inner thighs. And my belly. If there was a way to make that happen, I wouldn’t mind the stinky sweat. You’d think that some nerdy scientist would have come up with a way to do that by now. Just pop a pill, go out in the heat, and sweat off the pounds just by standing there. No need for that screechy Richard Simmons playing Oldies on his boom box and bouncing around all ADHD like a psychotic 3-year-old with a spray tan and a fro. But I guess all the scientists are too busy trying to cure diseases like cancer and lupus and stuff to bother themselves with a fat-sweating pill. But aren’t sciency people usually chubby and nerdy? That’s what I always thought anyway. In high school and college I always zeroed in on the chubby nerd to be my lab partner because I just assumed they’d carry me through the semester. Unfortunately the chubby nerds are usually born with a very low tolerance for horseplay and general goofing off. They also often enjoy tattling on people who use their dissection frogs as puppets and make them reenact scenes from Laverne and Shirley. Stupid science nerds. Anyway, I would assume that those types of brainiacs would want to help themselves get thinner and sexier and maybe at least in their free-time work on a fat-sweat pill. You can’t tell me they don’t have loads of free time in between all the disease curing, dungeons and dragons playing, 4-square-meal eating and adult-onset acne treating.
There’s nothing like Houston heat to make you feel even fatter. When things get sweaty they rub on each other and it just feels gross. When I first moved here, a few years before I traded my awesome abs and tight butt for a little person who farts alot and won’t let me dance in public, I weighed WAY less than I do now. And even though it was the same heat I didn’t really suffer. Now whenever some skinny little person tells me she’s hot, I’m like, “Oh yeah? Strap an Easter ham to your belly and some chicken cutlets to your inner thighs and tell me how you feel then!” Seriously. When you have the same body mass as a flea, the heat just cruises on past you. When you’re that small, it’s like you have built-in air conditioning. When you have no insulation, your bones are always cold. Fat is like crisco, which boils in the heat and in turn makes you hot. This is just science.
And for those of you who don’t live in Houston, you really have no idea. None. I thought I knew what hot was. I thought I knew what humid was. But until I moved here I had no idea. It is a deadly combination. One that sucks all energy from your body while simultaneously making your hair frizz like Carrot Top’s and making you smell like a homeless persons crack. Nothing good can come from it. Those of us who are lucky enough to have a swimming pool at least have a nice place to cool off. At least until July when the water is so hot that you could have a crawfish boil in there. Last August I’m pretty sure I boiled my appendix to medium well. It definitely feels a bit firmer than it did before. If you don’t have your own pool you have to go to the neighborhood pools, which means that you have to wear a swimsuit in public, which is near the top of my list of things to avoid between getting accidentally decapitated on Space Mountain and getting felt up by Glen Beck.
One thing that makes me happy this time of year, is that all the tabloids run the photos of the famous people and their cellulite. I know that it should upset me, seeing their privacy invaded like that, but I have to admit that it fills me with immense joy. I justify my feelings this way: If someone wants to give me my own sitcom or movie franchise, millions of dollars, movie star boyfriends, 5 houses and a private island, then they can take pictures of my ass fat whenever they want. Seems fair to me. Although I have to say, if I had as much money as Oprah, and private cooks and trainers, I would not have her waggly coin purse arm pits. If those employees couldn’t whip me into shape, you bet your cellulite ass I would hire my own team of science geeks to invent me a fat sweating pill. And if they couldn’t, I would pay the magazines to decide that thunder thighs and waggle pits are the new sexy. Because in my experience, if a magazine says it, the public believes it. In 1977 Tiger Beat told me that Leif Garrett was not only sexy but made for dancing, and I believed them. Think about it people.
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