Tag Archives: exercise

I use the term “run” loosely.

21 Nov

Benefit of talking to hot muscle man: he’s hot. And muscles. And calls me “babe.” And sends pictures of him in Army clothes.

Downside of talking to hot muscle man: I’m not hot muscle woman. I like cheese and wine and gin. I’ve tried to teach my cat how to fetch things by tying strings to lightweight necessities and pointing a laser pointer at it so he’ll attack the string and pull the item to me. It fails every time because the loud noises of wine boxes falling off counters startles him and he takes off without my Franzia.

The majority of my “exercise” comes in the form of lunges from the living room to the kitchen and back to retrieve my failed endeavor of a feline delivery system.

So when he said he’s just getting back from the gym and asked what my plans for the day are, I lied and said “Oh, you know, finishing grading this stack of papers and then going for a run. There’s a park nearby and I like to run there. With my legs and tennis shoes, running.” Amused, he said if he lived closer, he’d go running with me. Fuck. I hate it when I get myself into these situations.

When I run, I’m like a mentally challenged labradoodle. I look like I’m having a seizure and I stop every seventeen seconds to “chase squirrels” but really I’m counting how many calories I just consumed in liquor, wondering if I just threw up every time I drank, I’d absorb less. Bulemaholic.

Over the summer, I would run every day with my neighbor, T&A. She has gigantic gazongas and an ass that just won’t quit — in a very different way than mine. She’s ridiculously attractive, and her boyfriend is equally dreamy, and I keep waiting for her to get in that comfortable zone in the relationship where she quits taking care of herself so she’ll get fat and I’ll feel better about myself.

When we’d go running, I’d push myself to keep up so that people watching would see us going the same pace and not realize that she’s the hot one. They’d get us confused, and be like “Hey Ava, nice gazongas. Whoa wait, who is who again?! You look like the same person because you’re running so close together at the same speed! Physics!”

I wish I was cute when I ran. I tend to go early in the morning so my only companions are the shriveled worms on the pavement, old people going for their walks, or drug addicted homeless people dragging themselves to a better corner of the park. The worms will soon be eaten, so their opinion doesn’t matter. The old people can barely see me, so if I run between trees, they’ll confuse me for a gazelle. And the drug addicted homeless people have no room to judge. Except for the fact that I’d kill for some of their figures, so homeless addicts: 1. Ava: 0.

There may be potential for Muscle Man, though. Because on my profile, I described myself as an avid cooker and eater, emphasizing the eating. There’s really no point in lying about looks online because eventually, my charming personality and perfectly angled pictures won’t matter and he’ll see the junk I’ve packed in my trunk as if I’m going away for war in the middle of Siberian winter. He seems to dig it and laughs and calls me cute whenever I say things like “You know Phoebe from ‘Friends’? I make that bitch look good.”


Sexy like a cotton ball.

25 Oct

I recently purchased the Pussycat Dolls Workout DVD. I’m a slave to marketing, and fell victim to the commercial’s upbeat advertising tactics and the promise to have the body of Nicole Scherzinger (because I definitely don’t).

I popped it in the DVD player, wearing my black sweatpants and Tegan and Sara t-shirt with my hair in a messy ponytail, ready to dance myself to killer curves.

“Bring it, dolls,” I said to the TV. Then I saw this:

So I tried to loosen up my buttons, baby, like the very best baby giraffe wrapped in leather. What happened next can only be described through this:

I’m pretty fucking talented if I do say so myself, but I just wasn’t feeling, you know, sexy enough to slutty dance like Nicole Scherzinger and her dolls which is extremely frustrating because when I go out with my girlfriends and dance, I’m a beast. Like, watch out ladies and gentlemen, you’re in the splash zone of awesome.

Then it hit me: the thing I was missing was booze.

So I moseyed on into my kitchen, took a bottle of vodka out of my freezer, and took a shot. Nothing. Took another shot. I tapped my foot anxiously on the linoleum floor, and decided a mix drink might help. I poured vodka into a tall glass and topped it off with a splash of pomegranate juice (I’m also an extremely talented mixologist).

I’m not entirely sure what happened next, but I can only assume it went something like this:

What I do know is that when I woke up the next morning in my bed, I was wearing my fuzzy pink bath robe, a single black stiletto, and the contents of my underwear drawer and every piece of lingerie I own was either on the floor or draped across houseplants. “Buttons” was playing on repeat from my iPad, and I discovered I bought every single song made by the Pussycat Dolls.

Leaving my bedroom, I discovered a trail of dried soap suds, leading me to my bathroom where the bathmat was still wet, the bottle of bubble bath was uncapped and on its side, the candelabra was in the sink, and an empty bottle of wine was in the tub. The trail also led to the kitchen, where every single pot and pan I own was on the floor, cabinet doors were open, the bottle of vodka (now empty) sat on top of the stove, and a box of noodles was spilled over the floor.

I still don’t have Nicole Scherzinger’s body.


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