My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover if Not Being a Dumb Ass Is the New Black, or a Culture-Up Manifesto Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Jen Lancaster
Watchers and quietly selecting/competing against various nemeses at the gym, I inadvertently began to grow up, improving my well-being in the process.
Even though I’m not yet thin, I’m healthier both physically and spiritually. 26
Unfortunately, all my effort will be for naught if Barbie kills me on this goddamned treadmill.
For our final session, Barbie decides we’re going to do yoga. Ugh. Yoga. I’ve done this before and it’s never gone well. I normally forget the effect gravity has on loose T-shirts and end up smothering myself. Today I’ve at least had the foresight to tuck my shirt into my shorts, Urkel-style.
I admire the muscle definition yoga enthusiasts sport. They aren’t gross like the professional yogis—their arms are nicely defined and not too ropy or stringy. Strong muscles are beautiful. Visible tendons? Not so much. 27
Since it’s gorgeous and sunny, Barbie says we should exercise on the patio that separates the gym from the office building next door. That would not be my first choice, but we’re just coming out of eleventy thousand straight months of winter, so fresh air’s a powerful draw.
The stretching feels good, but between my smaller-but-still-present girth, shorts pulled up to my armpits, and total lack of grace, I fear I may look like Chris Farley in that old SNL Chippendales skit. Sure, he had the same moves as Patrick Swayze 28 —unfortunately, certain parts of his body kept moving when he stopped dancing. I’m giving myself a real bowlful of jelly vibe here.
That’s when I notice office workers watching us from the building next door. Hopefully they’re leering at the cute blond trainer and not laughing themselves into an asthma attack over the human Weeble. I tell Barbie, “If this ends up on YouTube, you die.”
I’m sweaty and covered in concrete dust from the patio after our session, but Barbie hugs me good-bye anyway. After a year of working out together three times a week, I’ll miss not seeing her every couple of days. I’m going to spend the better part of the next two months on the road, sometimes only coming home overnight. I probably won’t have a chance to do my laundry when I get home, let alone squeeze in a training session.
I’m delighted with the level of strength I’ve achieved, but I worry about keeping up my regimen while I’m on the road. Who knows if I’ll even have a minute to hit the hotel gym between all the travel, media, and events? There’d be a great irony in me getting fatter on tour for a book about dieting, no?
The tour’s over and summer’s officially begun, which means I’m working on the next book. My deadline’s looming, so naturally I feel the best use of my day is to head to Stacey’s family’s weekend place for swimming and grilling and gossiping—basically doing anything but writing. I’m en route, happily singing along to my Fergie CD, when the accident happens.
A few minutes before, I noticed the red pickup truck in front of me with a bunch of new furniture loaded into the back. Since the pickup was laden with a queen-sized mattress and a variety of other household items stacked on top of it, I wisely checked my speed and changed lanes, partially because I’m careful and partially because Fletch urged me to keep his precious, precious car safe. Too bad for him that before he mentioned how important my safety was, he told me not to get the car sticky . . . so I obviously had to get the messiest burger I could to eat en route. 29
When I left the house, the skies couldn’t have been more blue or cloudless. I opened the sunroof and windows, delighted to feel the sun on my skin and wind in my hair. I spent the better part of the last two months in airports and hotels breathing recycled air, so I’m loving the breeze blowing through the front seat, even if it means being pelted in the teeth by the occasional grasshopper.
The closer I get to my destination, the more the azure sky darkens and begins to look as
Even though I’m not yet thin, I’m healthier both physically and spiritually. 26
Unfortunately, all my effort will be for naught if Barbie kills me on this goddamned treadmill.
For our final session, Barbie decides we’re going to do yoga. Ugh. Yoga. I’ve done this before and it’s never gone well. I normally forget the effect gravity has on loose T-shirts and end up smothering myself. Today I’ve at least had the foresight to tuck my shirt into my shorts, Urkel-style.
I admire the muscle definition yoga enthusiasts sport. They aren’t gross like the professional yogis—their arms are nicely defined and not too ropy or stringy. Strong muscles are beautiful. Visible tendons? Not so much. 27
Since it’s gorgeous and sunny, Barbie says we should exercise on the patio that separates the gym from the office building next door. That would not be my first choice, but we’re just coming out of eleventy thousand straight months of winter, so fresh air’s a powerful draw.
The stretching feels good, but between my smaller-but-still-present girth, shorts pulled up to my armpits, and total lack of grace, I fear I may look like Chris Farley in that old SNL Chippendales skit. Sure, he had the same moves as Patrick Swayze 28 —unfortunately, certain parts of his body kept moving when he stopped dancing. I’m giving myself a real bowlful of jelly vibe here.
That’s when I notice office workers watching us from the building next door. Hopefully they’re leering at the cute blond trainer and not laughing themselves into an asthma attack over the human Weeble. I tell Barbie, “If this ends up on YouTube, you die.”
I’m sweaty and covered in concrete dust from the patio after our session, but Barbie hugs me good-bye anyway. After a year of working out together three times a week, I’ll miss not seeing her every couple of days. I’m going to spend the better part of the next two months on the road, sometimes only coming home overnight. I probably won’t have a chance to do my laundry when I get home, let alone squeeze in a training session.
I’m delighted with the level of strength I’ve achieved, but I worry about keeping up my regimen while I’m on the road. Who knows if I’ll even have a minute to hit the hotel gym between all the travel, media, and events? There’d be a great irony in me getting fatter on tour for a book about dieting, no?
The tour’s over and summer’s officially begun, which means I’m working on the next book. My deadline’s looming, so naturally I feel the best use of my day is to head to Stacey’s family’s weekend place for swimming and grilling and gossiping—basically doing anything but writing. I’m en route, happily singing along to my Fergie CD, when the accident happens.
A few minutes before, I noticed the red pickup truck in front of me with a bunch of new furniture loaded into the back. Since the pickup was laden with a queen-sized mattress and a variety of other household items stacked on top of it, I wisely checked my speed and changed lanes, partially because I’m careful and partially because Fletch urged me to keep his precious, precious car safe. Too bad for him that before he mentioned how important my safety was, he told me not to get the car sticky . . . so I obviously had to get the messiest burger I could to eat en route. 29
When I left the house, the skies couldn’t have been more blue or cloudless. I opened the sunroof and windows, delighted to feel the sun on my skin and wind in my hair. I spent the better part of the last two months in airports and hotels breathing recycled air, so I’m loving the breeze blowing through the front seat, even if it means being pelted in the teeth by the occasional grasshopper.
The closer I get to my destination, the more the azure sky darkens and begins to look as