Blasting My Calves, NBD

It's easy to be fat.  Just pimp out your Rascal with Tip Assist, and you're set.  Being in shape is fucking difficult.  You have to actually think about what you're cramming into your mouth.  Do you know how many calories are in one donut?  One slice of pizza?  One large Double Fudge Cookie Dough Blizzard?

Mitt Romney wants this poor, blue beast to starve on the cold streets, cookieless and destitute.
Remember that on election day, folks.

Then on top of that bull, you have to work out your weak, puny muscles.

I get it.  You're proud of yourself for getting out there and exercising.  I'm proud of you too, bud.  But no one wants to hear about it.

There aren't too many things more annoying that being forced to listen to someone talk about their workouts.  First of all, it's fucking boring.  Secondly, they're always trying at least a little bit to make you feel guilty for being a fat piece of shit.  It's like they know exactly how many Double Chocolate Milanos* you ate last night during America's Next Top Model.  (What is it about those skinny bitches that makes you want to eat?)

One of the worst parts about listening to other people talk about working out is they expect you to somehow comment on it.  I nodded along when you went on about how many reps you did on Monday when you were feeling it versus Wednesday when you had the sniffles versus Saturday when you tried that new pre-workout drink that gave you the runs.  Then you look at me like a puppy, waiting for my response.

Huh? Don't you have anything to say about my quads? Don't cha?

"I can tell, good for you!"

"What the hell else am I supposed to say?"

"You should keep an exercise journal.  No, an exercise diary.  Then you can write down everything, and it will be totally personal.  For your eyes only!  FYEO, you know?  Remember the music store F.Y.E.?  It's sad that stores like that have pretty much died out.  Technology, man.  Gotta take the good with the bad.  I still have a Blockbuster card in my wallet, for some reason."

Given everything I've just said, I am one week into P90X and I had to share my number one complaint.  Not that I'm so sore it hurts to sit quietly or the illegal Chinese videos I stream buffer really, really slowly.

It's my hair.

Do you really expect me to wash my hair every day for 90 days?  That is insane.  Seriously, my hair looks better on days two and three than it does the day I wash it.  I'm going to have to start buying shampoo from Costco.  I colored my hair last week,** and I've already had to redo it once because it faded so much.  Who has the time for that?  And don't even get me started on blowdrying every goddamned day.  I guess this is going to also be an exercise in embracing my natural texture.

Screw you, Tony.  I hate you, but I love you.
Bring it.

*If you buy plain ol' single chocolate Milanos, you're an idiot.
**I have sneakily attempted to photograph my hair at least 7 times at this Panera.  It's not happening.  Photos to come, it looks hella cool.

Disclaimer: I just started taking classes with a rad guy named Dan who swears like a sailor.  Like a small, impressionable child, I found myself really letting my potty mouth loose in this post.  In honor of my old roommate, Alyssia, who was terrible at cursing yet incredibly enthusiastic: deal with it, you bitch fuckstick ass.