I’d like to move it, move it

ikeastark

The third thing on my list of resolutions for 2017 is getting up off my ass, and moving my ass, basically so I can have a smaller ass. I don’t expect to ever be runway-model skinny, but I would like to be healthier–free of diabetes, wearing cuter clothes, possessing knees that don’t creak and complain with every stair I climb, etc. Eating better is part of it, but exercise is another. Sadly, I am not a fan of vigorous physical activity, a preference formed in childhood because of three different factors:

  1. Running as punishment. In gym class back in the day, if you screwed up or acted out, you were assigned laps around the field or gymnasium as penance. From an early age, public school kids are taught that RUNNING=BAD. It is very, very hard to shake that preconception, overcome the loathing, and get to the point where you actually don’t curse every step of a jog. I’ve since done a half marathon, but I still am not a fan.
  2. Longtime slowest-kid status. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t the slowest child in gym class–except in Mrs. Wilhelmi’s second-grade class, when a kid named Peter and I were tied for last. If you’re always the person the rest of the kids are waiting on before they stop leaning on the dirty gym wall, or standing in the grass of the field, you can feel the resentment from your classmates, and the teacher, and that stays with you, too.
  3. Complete lack of athletic ability. I suck at every single sport. Softball, basketball, tennis, soccer, you name it–I’m not only slow, I have little to no hand-eye coordination, which makes it hard for me to make contact with the ball, or properly throw the ball, or get the ball through the hoop, or kick the ball and make it go where I want it to. WHY IS IT ALWAYS BALLS?

I do love swimming, though. Not competitive swimming, though (see No. 2)–just solo laps in the pool. This week, I’m going to go back to that. Just me and the water, wearing big yellow fins to make me go faster so I don’t feel like a slow-ass water slug, donning my fat-lady swimsuit and obnoxious bacon-and-eggs swimcap, giving zero shits that the people in the lanes around me are way faster and judging my swim attire, for I am a graceful, carefree sea nymph.

Today, however, I’m staying on dry land. I’d planned to whittle down and organize all the random crap littering our second bedroom/storage unit/my office, with all the lifting and dragging and toting serving as my workout. However, the god-damned IKEA minions have ruined my plans, because the shelves I’d intended to stock with the boxes and Rubbermaid tubs currently laying on the floor are impossible to put together (the holes in the shelves and arms don’t line up, so I can’t get the screws in), so I can’t put anything away. Take it from me, friends: no matter how tempted you might be at the simplicity and low price of the HYLLIS shelving units, do not purchase.

If anger burns calories, I should be a Size 6 by the end of the day. DAMN YOU SWEDES.

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Author:

Writer, drinker, arbiter of sarcasm.

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