I don’t run unless something is chasing me. Ever. I don’t go to the gym. I don’t like to sweat. I work with lots of people who say that they really enjoy working out. I do not enjoy working out. In fact, I don’t believe that they really enjoy it either. I think that’s just what they tell themselves so that they can drag their butts back to the gym day after day. Some of them “need” to work out. Some of them just think they “need” to work out. Either way, I just can’t fathom why they keep doing it over and over again. I mean, one workout isn’t enough? Geez. It looks like pretty hard work. I mean, they are sweating. Did I mention that I don’t like to sweat?
Okay, so yes, I am a skinny girl. I’ve always been a skinny girl. Even after two babies and while freight-training my way to my mid-thirties (Did I really just say mid-thirties? But I’m only twenty-one! Right?) I am still a skinny girl. I gained 60 pounds with the first baby and 70 with the second and I’m still a skinny girl. Some people do not understand the plight of the skinny girl. Especially people who are not skinny. Not-skinny people tend to think that life is a bed of red freaking roses for skinny folks. You know, like because I’m thin, my bank account isn’t causing me the same sort of anxiety that their’s is causing them. Or that, you know, my family members don’t get sick and die, just like their’s do. Or whatever type of problems they have in life, apparently it is widely believed that skinny people do not have problems. Come on, now. Do you know how many times I’ve heard, “I hate you ’cause you’re so skinny.” This is always said with a laugh that is supposed to convince me that the person doesn’t really hate me. Unfortunately, since on some level these people really do hate me, they aren’t generally very good at pulling off that statement in a believable fashion. Maybe if they didn’t have that sneer on their face…
Once, in high school, I reached my breaking point on the skinny issue. I had just heard it too many times. I was embarrassed enough about being nothing but knees, hip-bones and elbows. I was gangly and Damnit! I didn’t need anyone else pointing it out to me. So when I heard that old trusty one liner “I hate you ’cause you’re so skinny,” before I could even think about it, I spit back (full of venom) “I hate you because you’re so FAT!” Thank all that is Holy that as soon as those words escaped my lips, the teacher walked into the room and I didn’t get my skinny little ass beat. And although I can no longer remember who I said that to, I’m fairly certain that she never spoke to me again. Fair enough, I wouldn’t have spoken to me again either.
So, it’s established. I’m skinny. However, I’m still going through those same mid-thirties (shut up) body changes that everyone else is dealing with. Before I had children, I was a B-cup. Hey! That’s big for a skinny girl! But my body didn’t react to pregnancy like most women’s, two kids later, calling me an A-cup is laughable. There’s some bra company out there that makes “half-sizes” and they call them something like “barely B” for those girls that are a little smaller than a B, but really don’t want to have to be an A. Yeah… those don’t fit me. In fact, I quit wearing bras years ago. A shelf tank-top is more than enough to keep me covered. Chew on that for a minute, fat girls. How would you like to be a size 6, but with no boobs!! Being boob-less forces you into being very aware of your accessory choices. If I wear a solid colored shirt, I really need a long necklace to distract from the flat expanse that is my chest. The only time I’ve ever had cleavage in my life, I was either pregnant or nursing. And frankly, those big old boobs were so ungainly and purely functional, that showing them off was the last thing on my mind.
Another “thing” that’s happening is the southerly migration of my butt. I don’t know what it thinks it’s going to find down around my feet, but it certainly is trying to get there fast. The other day, I was getting dressed and Mags came up and patted me on the butt, which I thought was very sweet until she said “Mommy, your butt is mushy.” Like I really need a three-year old to tell me that my butt is mushy. I sit on the damn thing everyday, I know how mushy it is! But in all of her three-year old innocence, she felt the need to point it out to me. So what the hell do I do now? I’m a skinny girl with no boobs and a mushy butt. I should really be winning over some hearts right now. Don’t I sound like the girl of your dreams? Well no. I know I don’t. And I’d tell you that you were delusional if you said that I did.
So, I’m feeling some body issues right now. No, they aren’t as bad as what a lot of women have to deal with, with their bodies. But they are MY issues to deal with, just the same. Am I going to start working out? HAHAHAHAHA…. excuse me while I get over this fit of laughter. No. I’m not going to start working out. Did I mention that I don’t like to sweat? But maybe I’ll think about starting some sun salutations in the mornings. Maybe a few extra lunges while working in the garden. I might even try to go for more walks. But working out? Oh, hell no. I’m sorry, that just ain’t happening. I’d rather be fat and mushy butt-ed than work out. Working out involves lifting weights, walking miles upon miles to nowhere and of course, the ever dreaded sweat.
And besides, I don’t run unless something’s chasing me.