We Get It, Skinny Bitch

Improbablygonnabeacatlady introduced me to an amazing website chronicling the daily activities of Suri Cruise. Rain or shine, happy or cranky, Little Miss Suri conducts herself in a manner that lets the world know that she is infallibly adorable and her life is amazing. Hence, "We Get It Suri."

A recent, and reoccurring, event in my life has extracted a similar visceral response.

Every Tuesday at 12:30pm, I join approximately 20 other young women and 2 gays for Corey Hill's trio of classes: CORE Booty Blast, CORE Upper Cuts, and CORE ab blast. Like any gym class, it is comprised of a wide spectrum of body types. These body types can be divided into three main categories, each of which serves a purpose in my personal endeavors:

1. Super Skinny Tall Chics
They make me rethink anything I have ever eaten. They also make me feel better about my 3 lb. weights and excessive downtime between ab exercises. They also help the time pass, as I constantly glance at the mirror to reassess exactly how much smaller their arm is than my own.

2. Compact Athletic Chics
I look to them when questioning my form. Also, their mind-boggling ability to do a tricep extension with an 8 lb. weight pushes me to attempt to quell the shaking in my arm as I raise my own 5 lb. dumbbell toward the ceiling.

3. I Probably Live In, Or At Least Enjoy The Nightlife Of, Midtown Chics
Their average height, average weight, and average athletic ability makes me feel a lot better about my own life slash thighs.

Altogether a lovely combination that helps me to achieve my gym goals in a relatively peaceful environment.

Until a new girl arrived in class. Her arrival necessitated the creation of a new category:

4. Skinny Bitch
Ok so she's tall and skinny. Sounds like category #1, right? Wrong. The girls in category #1 may be weak, but they still manage to complete the exercises, albeit with minimal weight. This girl is not only weak, but I am willing to bet she has never heard the phrase "chest press" in her life. For the last three weeks, she has stood in the middle of the class making a mockery of every exercise. I have never seen form this bad in my life, and judging by the derision in the eyes of my fellow class members, neither have they.

Now, before confusion overtakes you, let me explain something. I am aware that my own form is far from excellent. Once, mylifeissonotironic and I decided to attend a kickboxing class, only to find that we were two feet taller than everyone in the room and spent the entire class in the back of the room flailing our excessively long limbs every which way. My problem with Skinny Bitch is that she literally can't even do a bicep curl. Like, come on, you curl your arms up and then you curl them down. Is that really that confusing??

Apparently.

The main kicker is that not is she incapable of completing (or even beginning) a single exercise, but this girl could care less. She doesn't even attempt to figure out how to do things. She stands in the middle of the room, letting all of us know that she doesn't need our silly little classes in order to have the body we are all working to attain.

We get it Skinny Bitch, you may not understand the purpose of a gym, but you don't need to. The fact that you look like an idiot in class doesn't bother you, because you already have your "bathing suit body."

Now, since you serve no real purpose in my personal pursuit of skinniness, if you could please find a new afternoon hobby, that would be great. Because this is supposed to be all about me. Thank you.

The Wise Words of Whoopi

I would like to begin this post with a quote from a life-changing, under-mentioned film:

"If you wake up in the mornin' and you can't think of anything but singin' first...then you're supposed to be a singer, girl."

Thank you, Sister Act II, for enabling me to pinpoint my true passion without ever leaving the comfortable confines of my Posturepedic. All I have to do is wake up? Done. K, now back to sleep for a few hours.

This being said, I love to sing. Probably even more than I love to act. I used to perform quite often, (when I was still in school and my future wasn't in need of a good polish) but let's just say, it's been awhile. Unless you count my next door neighbors who are forced to hear my awkward vocal warm-ups through our shared wall. You're welcome, neighbor whose name I can't remember and whom I've only seen three times. People are going to pay for that privilege one day. Uhhuh. Yup. They suuuure are. (I said the same thing to my siblings when we were growing up and they would make up rules about where I could and couldn't sing: "No singing in the kitchen." "No singing in the car." "Mooooommmm tell Stacie she can't sing while I'm trying to do my homeworrrkkk." See if I get you guys tickets to Divas Live 2016.)

So, last week I finally have an appointment to go in and sing for someone. Someone who actually manages vocal artists and could potentially help me find more opportunities to perform (read: make people listen to me) in the future. Perfect timing. My voice is getting back in shape, I've been working on some new songs, I'm healthy...

The day before my audition, I wake up with a fever and swollen glands. I can't speak, let alone channel Sarah Vaughan or bust out some Taylor Swift. Appointment postponed.

Sometimes I strongly dislike my life.