Tag Archives: exercise

Weird Ass Crap I Found on Pinterest

Pinterest. I love and hate it all at the same time. The good: recipes I’ll probably never make, but REALLY want to, clothes that I could actually wear and look amazing in, and endless pictures of Benedict Cumberbatch and David Tennant.

Mmmmm… Cumberbatch…. Tennant…. I’m sorry. Where were we?

Yes, Pinterest.

And then there’s the bad. Anything crafty. I am crap at crafts. I have tried. Dear God, I have tried. And each time I am defeated in a humiliating fashion. It’s pathetic, really.

But then there’s a whole other side to Pinterest. There is a dark little rabbit hole of weird. And I don’t mean ironically weird. I mean weird weird.

Behold! The odd, creepy side of Pinterest.

weird-gnomes

Dude. What the hell? This is not normal.

The pinner said he wanted them for his birthday. You know what I want for my birthday? A purse, a massage, Not freaky-ass, nightmare-inducing gnomes. They are not gnomes. Where are the red hats? The cherubic smiles? NOT HERE.

skates

Work it, sell it, own it.

So, this guy has fans. Over 200 of them. Fans who repin his photos and shower compliments on him. Really. The dude in daisy dukes and roller skates has more fans than I do. Let that simmer a moment. Maybe I should wear skates and daisy dukes…. Maybe not.

oils

Yes, oils will stop snoring. And those weird foot pads really suck out toxins.

My husband snores like a freight train. I kick, pinch, pluck, and nothing works. He keeps on sawing those logs. So, you expect me to believe that oil on his feet will stop that buzzsaw? Really? I’d sooner believe my dogs are ninjas on the weekend. Just on the weekend though. They have naps to take care of during the week.

veggies

Veggies into pasta. Yes, that will happen.

Could you imagine turning vegetables into pasta? That’s dumb and weird. Not just weird. Seriously. It would never work. It would make a gooshy, stinky mess. And there is no way a child would ever eat that. Green pasta? Have the inventors ever met a child? Obviously not. Dumbasses.

dog

Poor dog. Poor, poor dog.

It wasn’t enough to shave the dog to help him cool down. No. They had to shave a pair of overalls into his back. I should call PETA.

barbie

Barbie, the Dia de Los Muertos edition.

Barbie has many fine qualities. She’s an astronaut, a horsewoman, she takes care of her many sisters, and cleans up her dog’s poop. I am good with that. I don’t need to know what goes on behind the plastic skin. Especially not with the girly parts. Although, I wouldn’t mind knowing how her feet are naturally angled for heels. I would love that. My hooves would sport awesome kicks all day long and never be uncomfortable because that’s just their shape.

exercise

Nope. Can’t say that happens.

Yeah, I have a hard time dragging my ass out of bed. Period. If someone offered my chocolate covered chocolate in the morning, I don’t know if I would be able get up and eat it. I’m that exhausted. Work out? I laugh in your general direction. Workout out in the middle of the night. Please. I might rupture my spleen with how hard I laugh at that thought.

So, you see, Pinterest friends, the world is a scary place. Weird, scary, and wonderful. Because, Benedict.

Advertisements

15 Comments

Filed under Martini Madness

Dear Zumba, I Hate You

In our house, the kids tend to say hate when they are upset with someone/something/anything. I am trying to discourage it because, aside from the fact that it pierces my heart to hear how they hate me… No. Wait. That’s the only reason why I am discouraging it. But, I am making an exception to the “hate” rule for one thing; Zumba.

For those who don’t know, Zumba is a fitness craze where white girls dance around to Latin hip hop music, pretending to get in shape but, in truth, are just trying to look sexy.

Zumba

Preach.

I am sure you’re asking yourself, “Whoa. Why so fierce, Pony?” Here’s why. On a misguided whim, I thought I would sign up for a session of Zumba classes at my work’s fitness center. Typically, I register for one of the many yoga classes. One time, I signed up for boot camp, and it surprisingly wasn’t bad, except for the fact that I wanted to die at the end of every class. A good death, but death nonetheless. This time, I got a bug up my butt and thought, Zumba. Let’s try Zumba.

I went into the first class thinking positive thoughts, like, “It won’t be so bad. It will be nothing like cheer class where you you couldn’t chant Be Aggressive if your hair were on fire and a proper cheer was the only way to put it out.” And, “Just stay in the back for the first class. You’ll pick up the moves and own the place. Or, at the very least you won’t draw attention to yourself and you can sweat in peace.”

I sure know how to build myself up.

When I entered the classroom, I was heartened by the sight of my fellow classmates. It was a nice grouping of women who looked like grandmothers, cubicle surfers, and nary a one of them had 6 packs. There was even a guy. He was probably there for the sexy, but, still. A geeky white guy was in the room. I couldn’t possibly be worse than he was.

“Okay, I can do this,” I told myself. I mean, I’ve done Insanity. You know, the workout with Shaun T, who will smile as he rips your whole body apart and reshapes it with his bare hands. If I can survive Shaun “Keep Your Core Tight” T, I can take Zumba.

One of the girls even turns to me and says, “The teacher is so nice; you’re going to love this class.” I feel confidence rising.

After a brief overview of Zumba, the teacher gives us her only instruction, which was to, “look at her and keep up.” That’s not a lot to go on, but I can do that. I mean, I have eyes and all.

Then the music starts. It’s “DJ Got Us Fallin’ In Love Again” by Usher. I’ve always liked this song, so it’s a good omen, right? The teacher moves slowly, and I’m keeping up. Still no instruction other than an errant hand flinging to the left or right depending on where she wants us to move, but that’s OK. In fact, it kind of reminds me of Insanity because we’re starting out with a lot of squats and kicks.

Then the teacher goes off the rails. There are kicks, turns, squats, cha chas and hand flailing. I look around, and you can tell who the regulars are; they are they ones in the “Zumba” branded pants shimmying like they are in the club.

The teacher is singing along with the music and flipping her hair around like she’s the frontman for an 80s hairband. Does Whitesnake need a new lead singer? I found one for them if they do.

I look at the clock. Only 15 minutes have passed since the start of the class. Holy Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I have 30 MORE MINUTES. I’ll never make it. I am tripping all over myself, trying my best to keep up, but all I can do is throw myself in the general direction the rest of the class cha chas.

Even the nerdy white guy is doing alright. On rhythm and everything. I start to think it’s just me, but then I catch the eye of  an older woman who is looking at the instructor like she has lost her damn mind. In my mind, I say to the woman, “You are wise. You know what’s up. Can we leave? Go get some tea? I could use some tea.”

But no, I Zumba along. I even start to hear Shaun T telling me to keep my core tight. Trying to look on the bright side, I think, “Well, if I keep my core tight, that will get a workout, so it’s not a total waste.”

Channing Tatum

Only way I’d do Zumba again is if I had Channing massaging my feet & pride afterwards.

At one point, I actually feel myself start to tear up. I cannot Zumba. No matter how hard I try, I cannot Zumba. I cannot keep up with the mincing footsteps, arm flailing, or ball chains. I will my tears to remain in their ducts, and start to plot my escape. The door is about 5 feet from where I stand; I just need to sneak past the token guy and the chick who swore I would love the class (LIAR!).

Then the twists turn everyone to the back of the room, where I have been trying to hide myself. They are all staring at me as they thrust their hips so I turn and thrust too. It’s a horrifying sight. Sweaty office workers pretending to be zesty dancers. I feel their eyes on the back of my head and I know they are laughing at me on the inside. Searing humiliation consumes me.

Finally, the torture ends and we are all dismissed to go back into the real world.

I am pretty sure the teacher knew how upset I was; I have the worst poker face. Honestly though, I don’t care. I will never Zumba again. I don’t care how much I paid for the rest of the classes; it is not worth the humiliation. I would rather do Insanity while standing on hot coals than return to Zumba. I’ll leave the sexy hip thrusts to my co-workers.

20 Comments

Filed under Martini Madness