#EatThisTruthSkinnyBitches

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When you look in the mirror, do you look at yourself and say “You deserve a pie!” Do you suck in and tilt your hips back so that your eyes can make believe that this particular stance is only natural, as is the newly tucked fat-back that ripples beneath your shirt? Are you constantly contorting your limbs, the ever so popular Iphone camera pointing its #nofilter lens back at you?

Sometimes I really wonder what I look like, both wide-screen and zoomed in on. What if I stood straight didn’t pucker my lips and tilt my head? Would I still look good if I didn’t take the glare off my forehead, or add a few extra shades of glow to my skin? Forget the red-eye converter, the sepia tone, and the black and white alterations. Don’t judge me just because you noticed every image I own is cropped mid-level. I don’t question what your face looks like even though half of it is sliced out in every photo you have online.

I look at the mannequins in the mall, fucking skinny jeans everywhere. And yes, I own a few pairs- and I’m sure they are pulling just a little to tight in the crotch area, but I got to get in the system. Sure, I’m ten pounds from where I want to be, but hell if that will stop me from attempting to try on a maxi-dress in size 2. I don’t care if my breasts are going to look smashed, isn’t that trendy now?

It’s kind of funny though, counting calories and exercising. When I was younger my waist didn’t bake muffins and my thighs didn’t roll-in-the-deep. It’s weird to look at a reflection and wonder exactly how all those pieces ended up that way. Even during the moments I’m pining away for some sort of miracle-suction-technique, I ask myself…how exactly did you let this happen? I mean it’s weird right? Your metabolism is one crazy ass bitch!

When it comes down to the body, it has its own set of rules and regulations. For instance: Eating Healthy does not necessarily equal Weight Loss/ Avoiding sweets—that’s going to suck regardless and so far doesn’t launch success/ Working your ass off in the gym (swimming, running, crunching) still means you’re fat/ If you buy any new clothes, the dryer will rip us off/ You are going to be bloated if you eat ANYTHING: the end.

So yea, what’s a good strategy for a fatty cell infested body? One word would be motivation- even better though- a skinny partner. Nothing will make you feel even guiltier for eating a cookie when your husbands two legs equal one of your own. I may be on the point of exaggeration for some elements of this monologue, but shit gets real when the weather gets warm and a beach vacation seems eminent.

At this point, its time to stop living half a life, get my junk out of the trunk and into the trashcan. Cliché or touché, either way exercise is a bit of a douche!

-Peace from the East

Michelle

UK MANNEQUIN

Anonymous Wants to Know:

Dear World,

Today I found myself in the same bed as the night before, the same sheets pulled up to my chin, and the same man lying beside me. The room is a pale beige color, struck with accents of black furniture and brushed steel. To my left my phone rests beside a blue owl candlelight. In a few minutes the alarm will sound. The sheets are cream- which match the headboard- and the comforter is the duvet style. There is a masculine appearance to the bed cover, being that it is plain and white, but a hint of feminism shines through the lightly embroidered seams- which can been seen with intensified concentration.

I wake up with the same contemplations as I had fallen to sleep with beneath the fluff of down. Work. Play. Future parties. Past promises. Goals un-kept and goals just made. I’m careful not to move to abruptly. The light seeping in is bothering me. I can see blonde tufts of hair using my side-eye vision. Today is Thursday and I don’t feel like getting up.  I turn onto my side, the side that faces the wall without windows. This side of the room faces the closet, some doors closed and some open. I thrust my knee into the side of this man whom I sleep and wake with everyday. He responds and moves over exuding a faint grunt, which is barely audible. I rest my head between his armpit and chest; the faint scent of sweat and deodorant is still there. This spot is comforting to me.  He has the softest skin, much like a fresh born baby, and it feels pleasant against my cheek.

I am afraid of these moments, these comforts that have become a rhythmic piece of my life. I am afraid that one day I may not wake up to this familiar routine, this familiar touch. Each moment that transpires through time is another minute closer to an infinite number of unknown outcomes. Should we hide in these moments that give us satisfaction? Should we eliminate the possibility of loosing the rhythmic pieces of our heart? What would you do if you knew that when you died- you would never see him again? How close can you roll the dice, when the ending is already known?

-Anonymous

How to Begin a Proper Killing Story

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Many stories begin this way- you know, with an announcement of how most stories begin. So how about we start with something else, for instance, this stapler. I would first like to describe it to you, being that you may not have come in contact with one until now- and because it is polite- that is, it is polite to describe things one cannot see.

This stapler is black. The kind of black you imagine at the bottom of a frozen lake lost in the middle of nowhere. It is the color of night without stars, the black of a voided space- it is the black of charred flesh just before a dusty grey ash settles upon it. Yes, this stapler is black…and because it is polite, I have described it to you- because you cannot see. I may have, however, left out a few important points. For one cannot simply recognize an object by its color, unless you believe the only object suited for red is an apple, which I can truly assure you- is not the case.  One example is its shape. See, if I had described this to you, you would’ve known that it is not your typical desk stapler. It does not sit perfectly proportioned to your stacks of paper in the corner of your cubicle. It does not await endless amounts of recycled parchment; click, clicking away at their corners. It does not jam when you press repetitively for its’ release of staples. It does not limit my creativity. It will not limit your appearance. So now you have it, as I stated earlier- my stapler has been described to you.

I might agree with you at this point that my description, being quite rudimentary, was both strangely placed and inefficiently described. But this too was my point about a story’s beginning. If I simply began with your death, would you have continued to read on? If I stated that you have moments left to live, would you have continued to read about my stapler? I think not. I believe you would have walked away, turned your nose up in amusement. Though at this point I find you to be rather a bore, you simply aren’t as talkative as I would have imagined. Even if I have turned you inside out…aren’t you happy I selected with care such a versatile tool to piece you back together? And you thought red was only suited for apples.

The Short Life of X & Y

Sometimes, you just think to yourself. You can’t help it; I mean come on- you didn’t wake up one day and program your brain to function this way or that. It does what it does, it is what it is; but suddenly you can’t remember what the ‘it’ you’re referring to has done to stimulate your life.

X rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. She could feel her mind racing, thinking about the next day, and the day after that, and the things to follow the days to come. It was hard to focus, but there was an aching feeling tucked somewhere within the confounds of the squish best defined as a brain. The light tapping she felt on each of her temples was enough to begin the worry itch.

You know that feeling, when the worry itch starts to creep in. There’s a light pressure behind your eyes and a pounding in your frontal lobe. It is this exact location that contributes to working memory tasks and an influx of Dopamine. It is also this locality that presents dysfunctional motives and altered egos. Some choose to refer to this as an exploration, some choose to submit the conclusion of schizophrenia, but you…for you, we will call it Y.

Y rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. She could feel. She could think. Days passed by, and things remained. Clarity was the focus. She had developed a hypersensitivity tucked somewhere within the confines of the grey wrinkled matter best defined as intellect. There was a muffled hum resonating in her ears, a subdued shrill of the beast within.

In this moment you have a choice. You can lie back and wait, pondering the significance of the things to come, or you can react by suppressing the aggressor. As you peer into each of these options, you must realize that the effected part of your brain is growing in both power and command. Action is key at this point. There is no time to contemplate, though if you choose to do so- you may wake up in a sticky solution of plasma and platelets, the ingredients of which may or may not include both human and animal material. 

X rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. She could feel the heat rising behind her eyelids. It was hard to concentrate, the familiar taste of bittersweet pills tingling her tongue, a distinction that can be noted as overdosing.  She watched the grinning shadows form above her, their soft silken grey melting into the walls.

It would appear that you no longer need advice, and have consequently provided a noose for your own neck. But in the case that your noose was tied with a slipknot, don’t lose hope- many victims of the frontal lobe have lived to tell their story. Though this story is sometimes repeated within the confines of a prison wall, have faith that you might begin your repetitious rant inside the borders of an insane asylum- no doubt you would fit in well.

Y rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. Tonight she had been awake, re-energized, and empowered to work her crimson magic, but she too could see the silken grey silhouettes that rose into the ceiling. There was a faint cry that had escaped from her mouth, a distinction that can be noted as defeat. She reached out into the dimming gloom of failed escape, no slipknot could be found.

Perhaps during this attempt to suppress your alter ego you have forgotten the key to success. Victory can only be achieved in the realization that you are now alone, that this choice was both pre-meditated and solely your own. However, dear friend, you have failed to realize that in your attempt to squash Y, you failed to question your resources for advice. The advisee, being myself- and therefore the ‘I’ in this equation have defeated you both. So yes, my X, I have slipped your knot and will remain on the working end.

A Heart of Grapes

 

Do we die alone, or in being alone do we die?

She reaches for the last sip of wine, placing her mouth on the leftover lipstick stain. There’s a faint aroma wafting into her nose as it sinks further into the glass. For a moment there is no movement. This elixir, this sustenance of pleasure, awaits her lapping tongue. She breathes in, tilting her head back as the warm drizzle fills her mouth. And for a second her cheeks feel rosy and firm. But when the tingle weakens and the color fades, she remembers.

She remembers how many paychecks the bottle took away. She remembers how many bottles demanded a broken glass. She remembers how many broken glasses resulted in unresolved arguments. She remembers how many arguments led to a broken heart. And she remembers how many broken hearts it took to mistrust love.

 Tonight another bottle will be poured, a glass will break, and hands will run crimson. Tonight… a heart will die one more time.

Weight Challenge 101

Have you ever had one of those days where every thought is an epiphany? Where every idea is a monumental realization? When every second that ticks bye is from some vantage point of inception?

Well aren't you a special little shit!

My day was not quite so successful. I got up feeling queasy, ate too many slices of toast for breakfast...got into work dealing with a past London drama, did way too much data entry my eyes went numb...ate some junk lunch, went ape nuts on the hubby who hadn't filled out his portion of our Google Doc....had a meeting-it ran late- had to catch a later commuter rail...felt unaccomplished, made up for it with extra serving of spaghetti...decided I needed a desert anyway, and oh yea-----had a special little shit epiphany!

M:  "Oh my gosh guys, I have a great idea," stuffing ice-cream down throat. "We should make a wager."

K: "Wager? What kind of wager?"

M: "We should all weigh ourselves, like right now, write it down..and then, in a month- whoever has lost the most weight wins something."

I catch my father-in-law's attention.

F: "What is it we win for this?"

M: "Whatever we want...whatever we can get, something we can get but that we really want."

F: "Ok, this is plane ticket"

K: "Sure, sure...plane ticket."

M: "Yea, ok, whatever you can get- you can get and you win." (My logic is retarded)

We all proceed to weigh ourselves...

F: 217lbs
K:155lbs
M: 139lbs
B:179lbs

F: "Ok, this is easy."

K: "Yea, sure easy....you will see..."

Here we watch him grab a few candies to hide around the room.

Basically, I had an epiphany that the only way I would successively get on this weigh loss train was to get some motivation. So this wager, whether I win or not, is going to give me that little oomph I need from my surroundings. I have also, luckily had my mother-in-law confirm she will be doing a workout schedule with me. This has worked very well in the past, and I'm hoping to replicate it once again.

In honor of motivation- here is a picture of myself from October 2012, when I had just come back from London....and because of my lack of funds while living there, had remained fit!

So are you with me???

~M

Yoga Does the Body What??

I have one word for you…Yoga.

What comes to mind when you think of yoga? Deep breathing? Meditation? Easy workout day? Ok, how about no. I completed the 1 ½ hours worth of yoga-tastic-fun and it was not what I was expecting. I’ve done a few yoga classes before, none of which lasted more than an hour, and I didn’t really get much from it. I realize that it relies on flexibility and breath, yadda yadda, but it never really felt like it was working me. Well hello awesome! Tony Horton brought it for me and my mildly flexible body. I actually got to a point where beads of sweat were coming down my face.

And of course there were some extremely hilarious parts during this time of body twisting and stretching. First and foremost, the brother-in-law.  This is a guy who has never done yoga before, totally fine by the way; but he had no idea what was coming. We set the computer up on the bed this time to get a lower vantage point (since the workout consists mostly of floor exercises). I proceeded to lay down my yoga mat and got ready for deep breaths.

Reactions:

BRO: $@&*, What?! This one’s an hour and a half-

Me: I see that.

(we start breathing)

BRO: This is easy.

Me: Agreed.

(15 minutes pass)

BRO: Wtf is this movement. Wait, pause. (We pause) I don’t… wait…ok- Like this?

Me: Yea, but put your butt up.

BRO: Ok cool. (Hits play) Like this?

Me: Yes (I’m giggling)

BRO: Wait, ah &*^%. I missed it… (Still has butt in the air). He’s too quick.

Me: (laughing louder)

BRO: Hold on Michelle, he’s going too fast for me. (Takes a seat back to watch)

(35 minutes go by)

Me: Come on, you have to actually do it with me!

BRO: I will, I will. I’m getting the hang of the language.

(Finally comes back and joins- he pulls a muscle in his back- I’m ROFL)

Me: You have to pop it out the other way, come back and try (still laughing)

BRO: I really pulled a muscle. Oh my god it hurts!

Me: (laughing) Ok, try the next position to pop it out…don’t push so hard.

BRO: (Curls into the next position, rounded up) I think I’m gunna fart…

Me: …….(laughing, cramping, laughing)

BRO: Seriously, all this pushing is gunna make me fart.

(Just so you know- he didn’t, although I did advise opening a window in the case he needed to follow through)

All right, so aside from the awesome workout I had- personally- it was fun. I’m seriously having a great time with this program, and not entirely at the hand of my brother-in-law, but yea…he’s a good contributor.

Have any quirky yoga stories to pass this way? Let me know!