Fact: I am a woman, therefore I will complain about being fat occasionally.
Fact: I am a woman, therefore I am allowed to complain.
Myth: There isn’t anything you can do to lose weight.
Mich and Jess live in our complex. All they do is bitch and rant about losing weight. We have this communal braai area in our complex which is where we meet to do this complaining.
I have asked them, at the risk of bringing the fat conversation with me to the trails, to take up mountain biking. See, I am nice. It will save them a fortune on gym fees and personal trainers and the only thing judging the cellulite is the bushy-tailed Cape Town squirrel:
And they poop in their living room and eat out of the trash.
Instead of agreeing to come with, they complain about the sweat and the muscular cyclist man-legs that they will no doubt develop. So really, they’re choosing whether to look like Kirstie Alley or David Bowie.
Ladies, mountain biking let’s you lose calories surrounded by the trees and flowers. What more could you ask for? Perhaps, a dingy gym filled with wet-towel smell, lone pubic hairs and Miss Universe telling you how to do a real sit-up that consumes your will to live and replaces it with a burning desire to slow cook missy teaching you.
It’s not that difficult either. I take all the easy routes and convince myself it makes my ass look smaller because the numb feeling I get in that area after half an hour on a bike seat, makes me think that it’s disappearing. This way I come back. It’s also not a competition (Unless of course Mich and Jess join me, in which case I’ll drop those bitches in t-minus 5, unless you, who is reading this, is Mich and Jess – then OMG you looked stunning on Friday. Both of you. Seriously.). I ride purely for the exercise and to get an afternoon away from being the momdoctorentertainercook.
We might be going to Jonkershoek this weekend. Maybe. If the devil mother-in-law comes through for us to do the sitting of Jared or if he stops needing his diaper changed. But being 7 months old this might be more of a miraculous intervention than my potty training efforts. Especially considering that at this age the poop-and-look-on-mommy’s-face joke is like stand-up ventriloquism for him. Bother.
Wendy The Mom