FitnessFixation.com

The feast-y day is coming up fast and all, which for me just means I get home-cooked food and nice company and I only have to bring the salad. Not really trying to denigrate this fine holiday, I know lots of people like it, and after all, it is centered around eating, so it can’t be all bad. But I’m not so into gratitude as a general practice, or giving and thanking, and I like to binge till I hurt regularly, so I’m not misty about it or anything. Oh, I did remember that last year I was doing that whole “can’t eat sugar for a long-ass time” challenge that girl scientist threw down, so this year maybe I’m just grateful I had four almond cookies and a caramelita bar today and didn’t think twice about it.

I did have this nice conversation with my sister:

Me: (Inspired by what Kim is having this year for her T-day dinner—ribs, which I LOVE) Dinner is gonna be awesome this year, I know—pretend girlfriend can cook. But hey, I was thinking, maybe next year? Fuck the turkey.

Sister: Um, ewww.

Me: No, I hear it makes it taste really good. Better than brining.

Sister: (Looking at her lap) Uh, I don’t even have anything to fuck a turkey with.

Me: Oh really? Well… (CENSORED TO AVOID SIBLING WRATH.) But anyway, I was thinking we could have ribs.

Sister: I like turkey. But fine, you are gonna bring ribs?

Me: Aw hell no. But maybe someone will cook them for me…

And this attitude of sharing the bounty is what makes me such a great holiday guest. That and my declaration that mistletoe really means you have to dry-hump someone’s leg.

But speaking of bounty (not mistletoe), I wanted to share a little collection of crap I’ve had sitting on my desktop until I got around to writing it. A basket-y horn overflowing with internet goodness. Stuff this shit in your turkey, yo.

1. The what-happened-to-me sling. This is very cute, I like the little scared apostrophes around the head of the injured party. It made me think I really want something like this, only for ice packs. See, I get sore all the damn time from various workout shit, and I think it would be nice to have a collection of packs with little hazard-sign person pictures depicting what went down. (Typical conversation in our house: “Oh my god, my whatever body part is so sore.” “What did you do?” “Oh god, I don’t even fuckin know.”) Right now, for example, I’d like a big old ice pack for my ass with a picture of a person on the rowing machine with scared apostrophes. Or perhaps one for my shin that shows a person kicking lamely, and having that kick effectively blocked. Maybe that one could have a little conversation bubble coming out of its mouth, one that reads “Yelp!” Perhaps a pack with someone fatiguing on overhead presses that I could strap to my shoulders. C’mon entrepreneurial types, get your asses on it!

2. Did you know Viagra is a performance-enhancing drug? Of course you did. No, but I mean for sports, people. I guess it works because it enhances blood flow and increases oxygenation—yes, to the business, the what-what, the strong medicine flesh totempole (quoting Peter there)—but also works the same for the rest of you. (By the way, if you read the article, can you tell me what a grade 3 or 4 erection is? Are we supposed to hand out grades now? I’m so lost.) Anyhow, I guess they tested the sports effects of Viagra on cyclists, because of course of all the athletes, cyclists would be most likely to inject crystallized cockroach snot if they thought it would give them a performance edge. Oh fine, that’s not why, but anyway, Viagra did offer gains in performance, but only high altitudes. You can read about whether that’s fair or not in the article, but I feel a very obvious question was not addressed. To wit: How the hell did they manage to cycle with giant hard-ons? Bike seats are uncomfortable enough as is. And it’s not like those chamois shorts hide any secrets, you can practically count the… oh never mind.

3. Jezebel listed three ways women’s fitness magazines destroy the soul. I’d also like to add a few more.
-The exercise demo models don’t sweat at all. Who’s a sweaty girl supposed to look up to, huh? And this is without even mentioning the grimly perky expressions they have, not a grimace of pain in sight, no conversation bubble (I’m big on those tonight) over the head saying “mother fuck me, just one more rep, errrghhhh…” I just don’t see me in those pages, you know? I know I’m retreading ground on this critique, but hey, could it ever get old? Don’t answer that.
-The exercises are sometimes an injury waiting to happen. Not enough about proper form. So then you get taken out doing lateral lunges with your tiny dumbbells and can’t work out for a month. That’ll destroy your soul.
-Two words. Anti. Oxidants. No more, I declare a moratorium! Fuckin’ not another word on what shit has antioxidants or I’m coming in swinging.
-Finally, they are usually so bland and white-bread in look, I just can’t take it. Reading em is like moving your bed into a dentist’s waiting room, with the pastels and the dull faux art. I think they ought to use gritty lighting and occasional black and white shots and make the whole thing more porno, at a minimum. Oh wait, that’s what the men’s fitness mags do.

4. This is probably a fake headline, but you know what the punishment for shoplifting cupcakes ought to be? A very stern cuddle. I mean, I can relate. Who among us hasn’t been there, though of course I’ve not done weight watchers, I just get hungry…

Talk to me now.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 26th, 2008 at 1:06 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.