Faux gym bunny
I had made a deal with myself. A serious faustian deal: I sold my soul to be able to go home and take that nap yesterday, and today I HAD to go to the gym, no matter what. So, I dragged myself over there by my own bootstraps, in the wind, up the hill both ways. I get there, and, as is custom, start rummaging through my bag for gym clothes, cursing and spitting.
One sneaker, plunk. Two sneaker, plunk. Pants... Supportive foundation garment... Socks....
No shirt. No shirt?!
Perfect excuse to go home! Can't work out without a shirt! In just a foundation garment! I start packing my shit back in the bag, while humming the Marsellaise. In go the socks, the foundation garment.... Then, at the first sneaker, a pang of conscience suddenly stops me. Apparently, the devil has come to collect on my nap from yesterday. We said no matter what. Mwahahaha! Gosh darn it.
SO I became one of those girls who works out in just a bra. In the winter, too.
This may have gone over ok in the morning when hot people with time on their hands enjoy fitness. Pumping iron (albeit, girly handweight iron) while balancing on one foot atop a rubber ball, and checking out their rippling biceps in the mirror is standard. If you're wearing a bra and nothing else, you're just secure about your body and it's acceptable, encouraged even, a sign of female empowerment.
But at night, when it's the haggard female working force, post-work day with high heel toe syndrome, end of the day hair, and generally hungry and angry, stepping on their ex's face for motivation, all the way to 400 calories... Then, a chick who thinks she's hot enough to work out in just a bra is nothing but a snooty ass biatch. I know, cause being a hungry high heel toe sufferer myself, I hate them biatches too, on most regular days.
Today, that was me, though, folks. Snooty ass biatch in a bra. Guilty. Thank you. Sorry.
One sneaker, plunk. Two sneaker, plunk. Pants... Supportive foundation garment... Socks....
No shirt. No shirt?!
Perfect excuse to go home! Can't work out without a shirt! In just a foundation garment! I start packing my shit back in the bag, while humming the Marsellaise. In go the socks, the foundation garment.... Then, at the first sneaker, a pang of conscience suddenly stops me. Apparently, the devil has come to collect on my nap from yesterday. We said no matter what. Mwahahaha! Gosh darn it.
SO I became one of those girls who works out in just a bra. In the winter, too.
This may have gone over ok in the morning when hot people with time on their hands enjoy fitness. Pumping iron (albeit, girly handweight iron) while balancing on one foot atop a rubber ball, and checking out their rippling biceps in the mirror is standard. If you're wearing a bra and nothing else, you're just secure about your body and it's acceptable, encouraged even, a sign of female empowerment.
But at night, when it's the haggard female working force, post-work day with high heel toe syndrome, end of the day hair, and generally hungry and angry, stepping on their ex's face for motivation, all the way to 400 calories... Then, a chick who thinks she's hot enough to work out in just a bra is nothing but a snooty ass biatch. I know, cause being a hungry high heel toe sufferer myself, I hate them biatches too, on most regular days.
Today, that was me, though, folks. Snooty ass biatch in a bra. Guilty. Thank you. Sorry.
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