“You did really well today,” the blonde fitness instructor’s voice played over and over in my head as I unwillingly threw up the peanut butter toast I had for breakfast.
Fuck, I murmured, as I wiped my mouth with a sweaty, shaky hand and looked around. I was in a (thankfully) deserted parking lot after having just completed my second Pure Barre class to date. I had started feeling dizzy somewhere between the first five minutes of arm workouts and the ending abs exercises where I just laid on the mat like a beached whale and tried not to cry. So after wiping down my equipment, assuring the instructor whom I wanted to hate but couldn’t because she was so fucking nice that I would be back, and gulping down my entire bottle of water, I projectile vomited right outside of the building.
Not a great start, I will admit.
I tried to catch my breath as I replayed the whole situation in my head. Unlike the last time I tried a barre class and walked in cocky, this time I entered tail between my thick legs. I told everyone, from the desk girl, to the instructor, to the mom next to me who looked better than I did in high school the same thing: I am painfully out of shape. But despite my warnings, that didn’t stop me from failing miserably from the very first lift of my embarrassingly light weights.
I swished some water around in my mouth before spitting it out and willing myself to get in the car. My head was still spinning as unwelcome visions of “just a few more pulses, you’re almost there” danced painful in my head. I reached for the door and felt my legs give out from underneath me as I collapsed in the front seat, thankful to be sitting down at last.
This did not seem like I did “really well.” This did not seem like I did really well at all.
It all started a few months ago. My best friend invited me to attend the hell that is a Pure Barre class, and because I’m a pussy (and I didn’t want her to have to pay a cancellation fee), I agreed to go. After 55 minutes of lifting, toning, burning, and in my case, complaining, I walked out of that studio swearing that I would never go to a class again. And the next day when I couldn’t walk up the stairs without feeling the fire in my quads that I hadn’t experienced since high school dance camp, I double swore it.
But then, well, then I started thinking about it.
I thought about how hot my friend got since she started taking the classes a year ago. I thought about how annoyingly healthy and energized and happy she was. I thought about how I probably have pizza a few too many times during the week and I thought about how I liked to shower with the lights off so I wouldn’t have to see my naked self in the mirror (okay this one is a joke. Sort of).
So, this is it. Between the showering with the lights off, the hot best friend, and the fact that I accidentally saw my weight on my blood test lab form last week and almost passed out (I’m not telling you what that number was though, I’m not fucking insane) It’s decided. I’m doing it.
I have decided to become a hot girl.
And this time, I mean it. I haven’t had a carb in two days. Well, like a white carb. Yesterday my office had pizza and I TURNED IT DOWN LIKE A PSYCHOPATH. Pizza. My favorite food. It was just sitting in front of me, begging to be dipped in ranch and rubbed all over my body. But no. I didn’t even look at it. I couldn’t even look at it. I said no. And I’m going to keep saying no. I’m setting my alarm for 5 a.m. (you read that correctly. 5 o’clock in the morning) to go work out tomorrow. I going to see what all the fuss from like 2014 concerning kale was all about.
No matter what it takes, I’m going to become a hot girl. And sure, I could say it’s because I get winded when I walk up the three flights of stairs to my apartment. Or I could say it’s because I want to have more energy and motivation to do hipster, Instagram-y things like hiking and paddle boarding and other physical activities that make me want to dry heave just thinking about them.
But the truth is — I want to do this because I’m sick of *not* being a hot girl. It’s that vain. That pathetic. That simple.
So I’m going to do it all. Every hot girl step. I’m going to learn what clothes are trendy and how to dress for my child-bearing hips. I’m going to get my teeth professionally whitened. I’m going to go blonder — much, much blonder. I’m going to learn how to contour my face so it doesn’t look like I’m just smudging mud around on my non-existent cheekbones, and I’ll reach for my wedges a little more often than I’ll reach for my Keds on a night out (but still not heels unless I have to. I’m going to become a hot girl, not a masochist). I’m going to do hot girl things like take Instagram pictures at the beach and laugh in the wind and wear crop tops that are actually crop tops and not just crop tops that are extra-long so they look like maternity shirts.
I’m going to wear workout clothes and actually work out. I’m going to drink so much water that I’ll blow your GD mind. And I’m going to sit on a fucking yoga ball instead of my desk chair so maybe I’ll stop having the posture of a troll and yes. I’m going to get healthy. Fit. A little more “wow she’s hot” and a little less “if you cut off her hair she’d look exactly like Augustus Gloop from Willy Wonka.”
So here we go. No more avoiding clothes that button and zip. No more sleeping in instead of going to the gym. No more pizza or sandwiches or cookies or queso or chicken nuggets or cupcakes or buffalo chicken mac and cheese with bacon and sauteed onions (I realize at this point I’m just naming food. I’m in mourning okay? Give me a break). Welcome to my new life. The life where I Snapchat myself in athletic gear at 6 a.m. and make you all feel like shit. The life where I throw spinach in my smoothie. My meal replacement smoothie. The life where I don’t *gulp* avoid physical activity at any and all costs. This is it. This is the new me.
Just fucking kill me now..
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