Like Oblio, I have a point now. Monday Blog Take 2

If Harry Nilsson and The Beatles got really high and wrote a childrens story it would be this story. Because this is the story Harry Nilsson and The Beatles wrote when they were really high..

Thanks to some thoughtful feedback from my family and friends i.e. “This really sucks.” “Why do you write this crap.” “I did not understand a word of that.” “You’re a talented writer, I don’t get it the blog thing.” etc etc. I have decided (been outright bullied by these m%$#@# F&%$#@’s) to make sure every blog has a point. (Just stab me in the face) (No. Not the face. The pinky) (No. No stabbing. Just poke me in an unfriendly manner.) (Actually just go away)

So my last blog was a treatise on becoming middle aged. Except it wasn’t a treatise. It was more of an essay. But not an essay. It was a thought. It was mostly mindless incoherent rambling that never approached a point and was void of any intelligent articulation with nothing that resembles a developed idea. But I woke up fat that day. That’s a solid defense for rambling.

I woke up fat. I was fat when I went to bed so it’s really not that surprising that I woke up fat in the morning. What I really mean is I became woke to the fact that I’m fat. So in a way I’m enlightened. I am now fully aware of what a pile of shit I’ve become. And that my friend is the glistening golden gate at the entrance to the land of the middle aged.

I became woke a few times before I stayed woke. Is that the right use of that vernacular? Is that what it means to be woke? I honestly don’t know.

I just googled it. I am definitely not using that term correctly. Turns out realizing you’re fat and being woke are about as similar as a petting a puppy and being stabbed repeatedly by a furious gazelle. They don’t even belong in the same brochure. Completely different file. Different filing cabinet. Not even the same records room. I miss libraries and the Dewey decimal system. The 900’s category. Damn it Sharon FOCUS!! Who gave the gazelle a knife though?

Is this even a Gazelle?

So I’m not woke but I am fat and I am aware that I am fat and I woke up that way. After going to bed that way. My first clue was when I put on my fat pants because I was going to spend the whole day going nowhere and giving no shits and putting cheese on everything. I really tried to enjoy that. I couldn’t. My fat pants were snug. Uncomfortably snug. They used to hide my flaws but now they are more of a highlighter. They are now tight in some places and baggy in others. Have you ever had a helium balloon and a few days later it’s very morosely hovering a foot or two above the floor and there’s something very sad about it. At a closer look it’s bulbous and saggy all at once. That’s what my fat pants were doing to my ass. Or my ass was doing that to my fat pants. To be honest I’m not sure who the real victim was. But I blamed the pants and I lamented my cherished garment. I renamed them Brute because in the end they betrayed me too.


I had other moments of chubby realization. In the form of security footage. The footage won’t lie to you the way that good lighting and the camera at the right angle will. The security footage is harsh. Never look directly at it. There is a reason security footage is a little blurry despite the many advances in technology. It is a tender mercy. Then there was the moment of fascination my two year old had with the squishyness of my belly. Followed by the hour of fascination I had with the squishyness of my belly. Then there was my old sports bra. I loved it because it was snug and quite excellent at preventing a painful bounce. I put it on, and discovered I had way more boob under my arm than in that trusty old bra. And then of course the inspiration of my previous blog. The forceful shudder all over my butt when I run. It hurts. It’s violent. I’m legit afraid my butt will bounce with such force that I pull a muscle in my shoulder. In that last blog I referred to it as a clapping but Jerry. Lee. Lewis. That is so much more frightening than a clap. It’s a great big heavy monstrosity chasing me and I’m running and I’m screaming and I’m on a treadmill so no one helps me. Trauma all the live long day it is.

Again with my butt drawing. I know, it’s horrible but I am truly afraid of the power here. You underestimate the power of the backside (say it like Vader or shut the F%$# up Sharon!)

I’m not even sad about it all though. I am fascinated. In the land of the middle aged all of the warning signs have been replaced with really really harsh consequences. No warning. No explanation. You are just f%#&ed. One false step and you are done my friend. Kind of like when Indiana Jones has to carefully step across the floor or he’ll plummet to his death. If you lift that box wrong we will forever have a herniated disc. FOREVER. It’s a shoe box. For the love of Hans Gruber do not sneeze without bracing yourself and squeezing your pelvic floor. So much goes wrong so fast.


Your doctor will now listen to you explain that all you did was choke on a little piece of toast. Just a little choke. More of a cough really. A sip of water more than handled the crisis. But now there’s a horrible pain in your neck and shoulder. From coughing. A little bit of coughing. The doctor will listen and nod and then just says “yeah. that’ll happen now.” FUUUUUUUUUUUUuuuuuuuuuuuuunnn (I had to cut back on the enthusiasm of that swear cause I ran out of breath. Now I need a minute.)

I’m in good shape for my twenties. That does not mean I have the body of a twenty something. I actually have the body of like a seventy something. A seventy something year old sailor who’s lived a hard life and seen things that will make your eyes retreat into the vacant void of your now dark and tortured mind……….. SHARON!! If you don’t focus I’ll ram this kabob into your kaface. Repeatedly. So recap, good shape for my twenties does not mean body of a twenty something. What it really means is I do all the things I would need to do to be in good shape if I were in my twenties. I get some sleep. 3 out of 5 meals are basically pretty healthy. I also exercise a few times a week. This healthy lifestyle is also known as INSUFFICIENT.

Why? it’s pretty good stuff. Good habits. It’s worked before. Here’s the issue. You turn 30 and everything is great, smells good, looks good and then BAM you’re shapes. Squishy wrinkly turdy shapes. Everything hurts and each and every single time you smell toast, you think this is it! this is how it happens. It’s my time. It’s not, but it’s the only sign of a stroke you clearly remember so breakfast is now a horror show.


GOING TO HAVE TO STOP YOU RIGHT THERE. We live in a time and place where we are all trying to teach each other to love ourselves and all my rambling has you on your haunches ready to demand I love myself or reassure me that I’m pretty. Settle down. I love me. I am a very happy with me kind of a person. I dislike cats. I’m not a cat. Therefor I love me and all the non cat I am. But I am not attracted to me. At all. I would not buy me a drink. I would not swipe right. I would not wink at me and make pelvic thrusting gestures in an alley. Which is fine. I don’t have to be in peak physical condition to love the whiz out of myself. I have like 17 billion other really great qualities that make up for at least one weird nipple. Love me, wouldn’t want to do me. That’s where I’m at. That’s an okay place to be. I’m good here.

this is my big ass self hugging my big ass self in my sweet orange moon boots

If it were all a matter of physical perfection I would just keep drinking my wine and eating my fries but I have a few medical conditions that become unbearable the weaker I become. It’s a losing battle because in addition to the natural decline in muscle mass that starts in your 30’s I have ailments that expedite that process. So what it comes down to is I’m super fat because I’m super efficient. Super efficient at losing muscle mass and replacing it with wiggley jello like squishyness. It’s bad for my heart and will kill me all the way dead. HA! SUCK IT MRS ANDERSON my third grade teacher who thought I’d die in a fiery inferno with her foot so far up my ass my forehead would say Reebok and my mouth stapled shut because someone finally got so sick of my shit and they did what they needed to do. She was a hell of a gal. And a bit of a twat. No regrets.

All this amounts to I need to step up my game and be in good shape for my thirties because I’m about to turn 40 in a few years and I’ve heard that’s a real shit show.  Makes your 30’s look like the opening act for a Tijuana style main event.  So now before the onset of more middle age party favors I am going to actively pursue not being a piece of shit. Physically. Also and sort of the point of this particular blog is to announce, for the foreseeable future my Monday blog will be both a writing exercise to help me get started on my professional writing and a journey in to all of the things I am going to half ass in an effort to healthy up my whole ass.

I’ll also begrudgingly mention all the things my amazing husband does to get ready to participate in the Alcatraz Triathlon because Mr interesting is always doing amazing things in amazing ways and almost never fails to reach his goals because of all his “dedication” and “hard work” and “commitment” and other words that aren’t on my resume. Did you know that time we did the 21 day whole natural dirt food thing he did all 21 days. I did an afternoon. It was like sucking shit through a straw. Who even wants to be successful with that?

This is where I stop writing and go grow me some muscles.



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