Tag Archives: working out

It’s a constant battle

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I literally spent half of my gym time today trying to find a happy medium between my pants falling off my hips and my ass eating my underwear. I’d pull my pants up, my unders would start flossing my butt cheeks. I’d dig the wedge out, my pants would start falling down. Add in that we were doing a lower body workout today and I was doomed to either look like I had crapped my pants or be continuously sticking my hand in my crack to fish out fabric. There was no happy place.

After I left the gym, I started chatting with friends to get their opinions (because that’s what women do). The suggestions I got made me realize I have some really fucking weird friends.

  • Workout commando style.

What!? Let’s forget the fact that if I’m doing squats, the leggings I wear might be stretched beyond what is appropriate for my particular body type and end up showing my lady bits to the entire gym. (I mean, that’s assuming anyone is looking, but let’s face it, it’s like eating a banana…NO EYE CONTACT! Unfortunately, my eyes are not on my butt.) When people exercise, they get sweaty. In all places. And, when things are hot and wet, that’s a perfect breeding ground for yeast. But, here’s the really great thing about most underwear that is made of cotton : it’s somewhat absorbent. I can only imagine that without that absorbency I would end up with something clinically referred to as “swamp crotch”.

  • Wear a thong.

This suggestion actually had more momentum for me than the previous. At least I’m still wearing underwear in this one. It doesn’t really do anything for showing my butt to the masses if the leggings stretch, but it does provide for less swampiness. Unfortunately, the entire reason I had an issue with the underwear in the first place is because it was trying to migrate up. This, I suppose, would just put it there to start with but that would mean I have to get used to the feeling. And I don’t like that feeling.

  • Don’t do squats. Or bend. Or move at all. Ever.

Not an option. Next.

  • Wear boyshorts style underwear.

Ding ding ding!! I think we may have a winner. Luckily, since I’m addicted to buying underwear (shut up, at least they’re useful unlike plates or collectible spoons) I have a few pairs of these in a drawer at home. These will definitely be gracing my hiney tomorrow for my next workout. I may even do a couple of squats to make sure they’re going to stay where I tell them to or if they’ll be as bad as a toddler when following directions.

“Does it hurt anywhere it shouldn’t…”

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Picture this : a dude sits on a weight bench with a 10 pound dumbbell doing bicep curls. A chick walks up to the bench next to him with a 20 pound dumbbell. The following conversation ensues :

Dude : Hey, you want a spotter for that?

Chick : For 20 pounds?

Dude : Well, I don’t want you to hurt yourself. You don’t look like you lift and that’s a lot of weight for someone who is weaker.

Chick : Are you being serious?

Dude : Well, yeah, I’m just looking out for you. (Dude proceeds to walk over and try to grab said weight and replace it with his 10 pounds.) Try this one instead.

Chick : No, I’m good. My penis must be bigger than yours because I can curl more than 10 pounds. Thanks, though. (Chick proceeds to curl the shit out of that dumbbell.)

THAT. That hurts where it shouldn’t. Of course, the look I received after that conversation was so fulfilling but why are people so judgmental? I realize that I’m a fat ass, but that doesn’t mean that I’m a weak fat ass.

“….and does it burn where it should?”

I love my trainer, but are you shitting me right now? We are taught from a very young age that burning is bad. When something had the potential to burn us our parents generally yelled and scared the crap out of us in an effort to make us terrified of putting our hands where they didn’t belong. When it was summer and we were stupid idiots who didn’t use sunscreen, the burn obtained was miserable and we would spend days trying to make it go away. When we use the word burn as a metaphor it’s never in a good way. Hot, smoking, on fire…yes. Burn…no.

But, I totally get what she means. And I love her for it. I never thought I’d be the type of person to say “oh, yeah, my personal trainer said…” in conversation. It’s pretentious. Now I would recommend a trainer to anyone who wants a good kick in the ass when they’re starting their work outs. My trainer, who I’ll call L, is supportive and pushes me to work harder. She makes sure I “burn where it should”…and doesn’t care when I curl more than her.

Just one pull-up…

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I’m not a girly-girl. Sure, I can do my makeup and straighten my hair. I even get my eyebrows done every once in a while. But I also cuss like a sailor, ask guys out, have tattoos, and will choose a dark beer over wine every time. If I were a size 6, none of these things would matter but I’m not so they do. I’ve come to a point in life where I really want to be healthier.

But here’s the problem : I fucking hate working out. There is absolutely nothing fun about running on a modified hamster wheel while your boobs fly at your own face threatening bodily harm and your lungs feel like they’ve shrunk three sizes.

My entire fitness regime points toward one goal : a single pull-up. I’ve never been able to do a pull-up. Push-ups, planks, bicep curls, tricep presses – all of these are attainable, sometimes even at heavier weights than one would deem “feminine”. But pull-ups might as well be the Sasquatch of my workout routine.

I have a gym membership and a workout tank that says “If squats were easy they’d be called your mom” – now begins the “Search for Sasquatch”.