My trainer Son of Sam is out of town on a much-needed vacation. I knew it was much-needed because last week he made me do 1-minute sets of 180-degree squat jumps followed by double suicide sprints across the gym. I only threw up a little bit. “Take your time,” he said. But not on the sprints.
So he’s gone this week, and next week I’m ON A CARIBBEAN CRUISE in case you forgot, which means two weeks without the man dedicated to de-drooping my body. I’m certain my muscles began to atrophy as soon as he crossed the county line. Bastard. Just when I need him most. Because no one makes me feel safer, more loved, and more paranoid about my body than my family.
I could probably dead-lift one of my sisters, and do squats with another one on my shoulders. But that golden achievement – slipping into a size 8 – eludes me. I got booty, people. This complex goes back to my childhood, and having to eat cottage cheese as a snack after school while my sisters ate HoHos.
Since I am an actual personal trainer myself, I know exactly what to do to maintain my fitness level. A little Nike swoosh right now is hovering in my ear like a gnat, screaming, JUST DO IT JUST DO IT JUST DO IT. But, you know, I have a grave responsibility to report my inner most thoughts and concerns to you, so I’m sitting at my keyboard instead. In related news, I bought a new bikini that is only semi-appropriate for my age and body type. It’s my own unique form of self-flagellation.
Anyway, since my muscles seriously are going to take a little break while I’m ON A CARIBBEAN CRUISE, I decided to kickstart the atrophying process myself, beginning at the top.
Do you get what I’m saying?
That’s right. I’ve been poisoned by botulism, a serious paralytic illness caused by a nerve toxin that is produced by the bacterium Clostridium botulinum. I contracted it when my friend Dr. G injected it into my forehead.
Now, don’t go all crazycakes if you see me and start staring, especially since I’m partially paralyzed and can’t furrow my brow at you. Just try to take in my visage in its entirety without noticing that the top half looks formed out of fine silk and the bottom half looks like a Shar Pei puppy.
Some people are not going to be happy about this, namely BFF, who is part-hippie except that she shaves her legs. But she is much younger than me and she doesn’t have daughters who sing Nicki Minaj songs. (Fuck who you want, and fuck who you like, dance our life there’s no end in sight. GAW! I HATE grammatically incorrect lyrics.)
Well. It’s done. In four days, I’ll be wearing my new inappropriate bikini, hoping my smooth forehead distracts from my booty, holding a cold drink in my hand and idly wondering where my 5-year-old could be as we sail the Caribbean on the largest cruise ship in the world. In the unlikely event that I’m worried, no one will be able to tell. GAW!