The Chronicles Of Jessica

The embodiment of fitness, but with a healthy dose of irony.

I am in such pain. I started taking a class at my gym called "Tight and Tone", the objectives of which I think should be fairly obvious, and oh, the agony. I have attended faithfully every week since I joined and it never gets any easier. It's not right that one should wince when one has to pee. Having to pick up a dropped paperclip should not produce groans reminscent of an eighty year old man. It hurts to stand up, it hurts to sit, I could barely wash my hair this morning. I really have to wonder when I'll actually get to be in shape, finally ending the vicious process of "getting in shape." This process is like trying to get Paul to clean the bathroom - it's never-ending and the results are generally less than impressive.

If I thought he would go for it, I would convince Paul to become Amish with me, but he'd have to give up his Macbook. Apparently the Amish are the one segment of the American population who get three to five hours of rigorous exercise a day without even trying, just going about their day doing their milking and barn building and whatnot. Which is good because those outfits would not lend themselves to gym-going. Imagine trying not to trip over that long skirt in step class, or keeping that hat on while you do crunches. Very aggravating.

I like exercise up to a point but sometimes it just does not seem worth it. Especially financially! A good sports bra costs around $40. Forty dollars! Just to keep your girls in their place? I have managed to improve on that score though, because the bras I used to have to wear (before the lopping) were upwards of $70. The bra that did the best job in those days was the Enell; actually their slogan was, "The Bounce Stops Here". It was a formidable undergarment. But since it was so expensive I could only afford one and I used to have to rinse it out every night and hang it in the bathroom to dry and if any guests chanced to have to use my bathroom they would always come out asking, "What's with the flak vest on the shower rod?"

Good shoes are outrageous too. Earlier this summer I spent over $100 on a pair of running shoes only to be told last week by my doctor that the arch support in them is crappy and that's why I've been hobbling around with all this heel pain for the past three months, looking like Quasimodo. I went to a specialty store and everything! They examined my pronation or whatever it is, they had me run up and down the sidewalk so they could observe my gait. Then they charged me $100 for a pair of shoes that crippled me, not to mention the $11.95 I shelled out for the wicking socks they talked me into. Wicking socks! I swear I could get talked into a timeshare in the Gaza strip, I am so damn gullible.

It bugs me, these investments of time and money, only to stay pretty much exactly the same. I mean I'm probably doing something good for my heart or something boring like that but who cares? Where's my Misty May Treanor ass? Where are my Linda Hamilton arms? Where are my Pink abs? (Pink the singer; she has kick-ass abs. Though she's a bit manish, it has to be said.) I don't know how much time and effort I would have to invest to get these things. According to the magazines I read (which are of course bastions of journalistic fact) a lot of it comes down to heredity so you might not ever have a killer body no matter how hard you try. So. Um? I don't want to insult my parents on this point, but...well...Hey - what's that over there?! (flees)