I have a complicated and oddly distant relationship with my body. I'm not referring to the fun parts of my body--the parts that get sucked, fucked, gummed and plumbed regularly, the ones that I used to display in exchange for paper money, and occasionally, loose change. No, I'm talking about the utility players: my arms, my legs, my low-capacity lungs, these knobby, sinewy size-9 feet that prefer being cuddled in Frye boots to suffering the whims of Jimmy Choo.
I used to be skinny. Very skinny. So skinny that when my mother bought me a much-coveted pair of size-XS aqua bike shorts in middle school, they didn't fit, prompting a witty peer to shout "Nice shorts that don't fit!" in my direction. You don't even want to know what I looked like in a bra. (Picture a Live Aid poster kid draped in a loose cotton harness.) When I turned 18 and went off to college, with all its attendant carbohydrate-rich troughs of Iowa farm food, I gained 25 pounds so fast I'm surprised my organs didn't fail. I actually remember feeling sick every day. My body was accustomed to small portions of exquisite food--thanks to my gourmand mother--not huge, lipidous platefuls of gravy-soaked mush. Nine years later, I'm still carrying around those 25, plus change. I also have a case of desk-butt brought on by years of sedentary geekiness.
My entire life, I've been staggeringly unathletic. In gym class, I got picked after the kid who got picked last. I was the prototypical "absentminded professor," the second grader who could tell you the goddess Athena's origin story but could never remember the rules to a game called "Spud." I suck at sports and organized games to this day. Ask me to serve a volleyball, and it'll inevitably fly backwards over my head. Having a bowling party? I'll meet you in the restaurant area with a pitcher of Bud and a basket of cheese curds, because there's no way in hell I'm going to waste another 45 minutes of my life throwing gutter balls. And bowling, admittedly, is a fat guy sport--don't get me started on activities that require me to exert myself. I honestly hate to work out at the gym. People who say it feels good are lying to you. Observe:
Things That Feel Good
1. Eating a giant omelette stuffed with gyro meat
2. Falling asleep while masturbating
3. Psylocibin mushrooms
Things That Don't Feel Good
1. Vomiting clear bile
2. Not knowing what to do with your dog's ashes
3. Sweating and panting on a treadmill while watching close-captioned CNN
Alas, I have no choice. I now have a gym membership, a hypothetical trainer named Miranda who seems to enjoy not showing up, and one of those sports bras that flattens my titties into awesome big bulldyke pecs. I have to lose weight and I love Chipotle too much to go on a diet. I'll keep y'all posted on my progress, or any amusing backslides.