Our columnist wages a reluctant battle to get back in shape
Living in Miami does not come cheap. If you have female parts, go ahead and double that price. That’s because I’m not referring to the cost of rent or, say, sandwich meat.
As a woman with an address in the 331-whatever ZIP code, it seems as if you have an obligation — an unspoken duty — to not merely exist and pay taxes. You must look good, too.
For most women, looking good is expensive and tedious. Unless you are naturally blessed with peachy (minus the “fuzz”), humidity-agreeable skin, frizz-resistant hair, and a six-pack you don’t buy at the corner store, you’d better be ready to part with half your paycheck before you’ve even cashed it.
That’s because to be a Miamian is to be a person exposed. We can’t hide our bodies behind clothing. It’s too hot. We can’t hide bad hair days under hats. It’s too hot. And we can’t hide unpolished toenails in clunky shoes. Those are too ugly.
A Miami woman juggles a hell of a lot of maintenance. I’m not sure where to start in terms of which aspect — hair, nails, body, skin — is the most important. Doesn’t matter. You will be judged on everything. There also is the niggling idea of maintaining a brain — keeping up with current events, reading, and giving yourself a shot of culture with your espresso.
But let’s not tax ourselves. Leave that to the snowbirding and retired New Yorkers. They can do all the thinking. We’ll be over there, frying under the hair dryer, spinning on the stationary bike, or stretching out the skin above our eyebrows to be “threaded.”
Even if you won’t agree with me publicly, you know I’m right. Attractive people garner better treatment. It’s a fact applicable to both sexes. And nowhere is that more true than in Miami. Well, maybe it’s just as true in Southern California, but there you have to be famous, too.
Ever since permanently reestablishing myself in my vain and shallow homeland, I started working out at a local gym.
Getting in shape also struck me as especially prudent after the Birth Control Pill Fiasco of 2011, whereby I mistook active pills for placebos and, after 17 years on the pill, just stopped mid-cycle. Here’s a tip: Don’t ever do that.
For lack of a better summation, this is what happened next: I went crazy. I moved my queen-size bed, mattress frame and all, into my walk-in closet. I thought that would help drown the noise outside the window of my then-Brickell Avenue apartment. I had ridiculous, junk-food cravings that made my usual PMS cravings look like playtime at the salad bar.
At one point the only items in my freezer were cartons of ice cream. Oh, and some frozen yogurt vats. You know, for good measure. I went to the Keys and laughed at the idea of a slice of Key lime pie. I bought an entire pie to bring home and eat. Solo.
I’ve always been thin with a fast metabolism. I’m one of those people everyone loves to hate. I can eat whatever I want and stay slim. Well, every chunky person who ever cursed me can now sit back and gloat.
My little jaunt into the whirlwind world of hormonal imbalance caused me to gain 20 pounds. This whole incident occurred in late February and early March, and I’m still paying for it.
Yeah, my cystic acne cleared up — thanks, Pill, for taking me back to the good old days, on a nostalgic tour of middle-school misery, where I wouldn’t even look people in the eye, for fear of seeing the pity and disgust reflected there — but the weight I gained wouldn’t budge. Won’t budge.
I’m starting to think I ruined my metabolism. Women often say, “Once you have a kid, your body changes forever.” I don’t like unhappy surprises, especially when it comes to my figure. Yet it seems I experienced one of “the new mommy changes,” minus a kid.
I gained a bunch of weight once before. It was not pleasant. See, I am a sugar addict. That means I become very cranky when my friends — cookies, cake, ice cream, ice cream with cookies, ice cream with cake, and chocolate — are taken away. The last time I had to lose weight it took me a month to drop ten pounds, and I was miserable. All that exercise and only a single, mini Tofutti ice cream sandwich as a reward. Bleak, dark days, indeed.
I might add here that I am not opposed to exercise. However, I am vehemently opposed to sweating. I don’t get the people who embrace sweating. Who even love sweating. I suppose these are the same people who like puking their guts out until they dry heave and who also like the ten-day grapefruit cleanse because it is “cathartic.”
Me? Sweat trapped in my sports bra is not a feeling I relish. My scalp itching from sweat? Oh, so fun! And, I might add, so good for my million-dollar haircut and color I refresh every three weeks.
About six weeks into this hell, just when I thought I might be seeing a teeny bit of improvement, my pedicurist looked me over and said, “Damn! You look thick!”
Um. Excuse me? (See? I told you that you will be judged on everything superficial! That’s Miami. That’s how we roll.) Shocked, I even gave her an out.
Me: Do you mean I look more muscular?
My pedicurist is Haitian, and “thick” is not necessarily as much a slap coming from her as from someone else. (There is an argument to be made here for cultural differences and vernacular.) Either way, the comment smarted. I managed to not kick the pedicurist, but I did thrust myself into high gear. My body, though, wouldn’t cooperate. I was building muscle, but the layer of fat over the muscle remained. This effect, what I coined “The Hulk,” was not my goal.
Let me interrupt myself before I forget and say that I have newfound respect for anyone who is seriously overweight, or even moderately overweight, and works hard to drop the poundage. I wouldn’t. It’s just not worth it. All that sweat, germ-infested gym equipment, and denial of fun food? No thanks.
When your body wages war against you, it is one uphill (treadmill) battle. And it is one I am yet to win. Yet I refuse to give up. I just need to finish this brownie before lacing up my running shoes.
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