Crying in your Underwear is Overrated.

Yesterday kicked my ass.

I know you’ve all experienced those days. You wake up, sweaty and disoriented.  Your alarm is going off and you can’t seem to find it. You swing your arms like a lunatic, hoping your efforts will result in hitting snooze for at least another five minutes. (Everybody knows five more minutes of sleep will make all the difference to your day.)

I’ll admit it; I’m the snooze button’s bitch. It has me wrapped around its snoozey little finger, filled with promises of continued dreams and prolonged comfort.  We have a love-hate relationship, and I’m okay with that. I really just wish it would allow for longer than five minute intervals. That shit really cramps my dreamin’ style.

I should also mention that every day I wake up to a sassy Latin dance beat. And every day it makes me want to kill dance. I know you’re jealous.

As I was saying, it was one of those days. The subway was late, I missed my connecting train, everyone in the subway car smelled like feet, bad breath and stale coffee, and as soon as I walked into the office, I was swamped with work and had to deal with the French fuckers that always make my day super awesome*.

*By super awesome, I mean: I’d rather pull my own fingernails out, one by one, than deal with them…. Except I need to pay my bills and I wouldn’t make any money doing that… well, I guess I probably could, but I only have 10 fingernails, and I’m not sure how lucrative the fingernail market is…

I work in the financial industry. It’s in no way, shape or form the field I studied, and I still feel funny when I tell people what I do…largely because math gives me hives. Maybe not hives that you can see, but internally, when I have to do math, I’m covered in them. Yesterday, I had to do a lot of math. With the help of a patient coworker (who didn’t mind hearing me mutter Motherrrrrfuuuuckerrrrrr every few seconds) we effectively calculated something. Reaching the ‘correct answer’ was not even a little bit rewarding and being forced to solve math problems left me in a bit of a tizzy for the rest of the day. That’s possibly the biggest understatement ever. of life.

After work, I ventured to the gym.A good work out will alleviate the rage, right? 

Wrong.

My treadmill fucked up and refused to slow down or decline (Don’t make me work harder than I want to, you piece of shit!), and then I ran into my crazy bootcamp instructor, José, who told me to stop eating pasta.  I don’t eat a lot of pasta… but I understood what he was trying to say. I’ve cut bitches for less, little man.

I eventually made it home, and immediate hysteria ensued. I was in an emotional state that would have made Lindsay Lohan look away in shame. I stood in the kitchen, in my underwear, wildly crying, doing dishes, all the while praying my roommate didn’t walk in to witness my horrendously embarrassing state of frenzy. (Yo, Roomie, thanks for not coming home. It wasn’t pretty. I promise I did not break any dishes… even if I desperately wanted to.) 

The icing on the cake was when the light in the bathroom blew and I realized I didn’t have any replacement bulbs. If you think you want to see an adult weep at a blown out light bulb, I’ll tell you right now that you don’t. It’s a good thing I eventually got my shit together, because when the beets I was cooking semi-exploded, leaving something that resembled a bloody murder scene in my microwave, I was able to laugh it off. (I may have also had a brief conversation with the beets about how weird looking they are and how they look like little alien eggs.) I grabbed them by the root and twirled them around for fun. When I stabbed them with a fork, they made a high-pitched noise. For a brief moment, I felt remorse… And also disgust because ew, I don’t want to eat an alien egg.  To my delight, upon cutting into them, I could tell that they were most definitely beets.

redruM....redrummmmM

And then I ate 2/3 of a pizza and said a silent Fuck you to José.

I woke up this morning with pains in my lower abdomen and suddenly all of the whining, tears and frustration made sense. Typical. Am I right, girls!?

The Spanish Inquisition Gets Physical.

I decided about year ago to kick my ass into shape.

About six months ago, I actually started going to the gym.

I was initially quite perplexed by the whole thing- namely the smell and how the fuck people managed to squeeze themselves into shorts 5 sizes too small.

For all of our benefits, I’m going to steer away from talking about the eldersnatch I’ve had the misfortune of witnessing on a far-too-frequent basis.  Just know that it’s a very real phenomenon, sweeping women’s changerooms nationwide.  If I wanted to know what a white-bearded crotchpocket looked like, I’d use the internet. Privately. In shame.

Old lady bits aside, the gym is a fascinating place. On your left, you have the girl that has negative 65% body fat, weighing herself relentlessly as she struggles to lift her stick-figure arms above the gaping holes where her titties should be. And on your right, you have the man who lost his balls to steroids, and has made up the difference by letting out audible, disheartening grunts and emitting offensive body odors. Thanks, bro. Appreciate it.  

Itching to be able to kick some serious ass, I decided to take on the “no pain, no gain” mentality and signed up for Boot Camp.  I don’t know about you, but when I think of Boot Camp, my first thought is this guy:

Oh, hell to the no, motherfucker.

Yell at me like that, and I’ll turn your P into a V. If you know what I mean.  

To my surprise, not only was the instructor nothing like that dude, he was old, Spanish and pretty fucking small. My first thought was I could take him.
Wrong.

Turns out: he’s a shitstorm of freaking crazeballs.

This Spaniard has clearly encountered one too many fucking bulls in his day and has decided to stop taking shit from anyone. He also apparently ate a dog at some point, because the barks that come out of his mouth are both alarming, and shockingly authentic.  He mutters to himself, promises a cookie* if you ‘shut your freaking mouth’ and declares that he’s a monkey, ‘unlike you bunch of fucking slackers.’  I guess being a monkey is a good thing...? 

*The cookie thing is a lie. There are never any goddamn cookies.

While he may be slowly kicking my ass into shape, I still don’t feel prepared to fight a Matador and I constantly have cravings for enchiladas. I may not be as tough as your ‘grandmami’, José, but I’m pretty sure you’re 70, and if that bitch is still alive, she’s a goddamn champion. And also, probably a zombie. Jussayin’.