In my new endeavor to take control of my life and better myself and all that jazz, I have not only joined a gym, but also hired a personal trainer. His name is Zack and I pay him to yell at me to do stuff that's good for me. Plus, he counts my reps and carries my book. He has me running on the treadmill because it's harder than the eliptical machine or the bike. No easy street for me, no sir! He checks my log/journal to see how far and how fast I ran and then eyes me up as if to say, "you're such a loser." He may not think that I'm doing all that great, but I am r-u-n-n-i-n-g on the treadmill. I haven't ran since my army ROTC days in college. So despite twenty-two years later and forty(give or take) pounds heavier, I have hit a milestone in my quest for a better me. Yeah me!
Zack says that I'm one of his favorite clients (yeah right) because I don't complain. First of all, I'm just trying to catch my breath and not fart or vomit on the guy. Secondly, why complain when I can just talk about him in my blog!(shh...don't tell). He tried to get me to buy these diet pills with caffeine in them that they sell at the gym, but I told him that I worked really hard to get myself this way and I'm willing to do the work to undo as much as I can...the hard way. One time, when he had me doing core exercises, he told me that I'll have a six-pack in no time. I told him that I'd be happy just to see my feet again. He was not amused. I usually end up quoting the frat pledge's line (after he just got whacked with a wooden paddle) from the infamous movie, "Animal House": "THANK YOU SIR MAY I HAVE ANOTHER?!
OK, so back to the bridal shop and sausages. A couple of weeks ago, a middle-age bride-to-be (or just "bride" as we say in the business) came in for an appointment. This was going to be her second wedding and she brought in a co-worker/best friend to help her find a dress. The bride was pretty; the dark hair, fair skinned and Irish-eyes pretty. She was pear-shaped...very much so in the rear area. She was thinner through the waist but very wide through the hips and butt. She did comment on this fact to me several times throughout the appointment, but not as much as declare (with great disgust) how much she hated her flabby arms. She called them "sausages" and jingled the flab with her fingers. She really hated her arms. She told me that no matter what dress she decided to buy, she was going to have sleeves made to hide her disgusting sausage-arms. Oh, this was going to be a fun appointment.
Her friend and I did our best to encourage her and to compliment her on how lovely she looked in the different dresses that she had selected, but all she saw were the "sausages." I never thought much of them because I had my own bratwursts jing-janglin' off my shoulders. It was my goal to help her find something that would make her forget about her arms...for a while. However, throughout the appointment, I was waiting for this debbie downer(whah-whuh) to literally start flogging herself out of deep disdain for her own body. I felt sorry for her, truly sorry for her. I mean, hey, we all have our own body image hang-ups, but this woman honestly loathed the body that she walked in.
Thank God that my thought "filter" was working that day because I wanted to tell her to quit whining or I'd have to call the "w-h-a-m-bulance." Instead, I looked right at her and calmly told her that with each dress that she had tried on, I never once looked at her arms. It never even crossed my mind to do so really, because I was too busy focusing on how beautiful she looked. And she truly looked lovely in most of what she tried on. She got quiet and I could tell that she wanted to believe in what I was telling her, but all she saw and smelled were those stupid so-called "sausages" that hung from her body. She refused to allow herself to be beautiful for that moment. I should have started to sing "You are beautiful...in every single way..." (Christina Aguliera), but that would have just ticked her off even more. Plus, I can't sing...shouldn't sing, really.
Of course, she wasn't happy with anything that she tried on because they didn't do anything to hide her dreaded sausages. She left with her tormented soul in tow, never to return again. Maybe she found a blazer or cardigan or parka to wear for the ceremony. I should have given her Zack's number...a couple of weeks of Zack-attacks would melt the fat from those flabby pork-link arms like butter in a frying pan. Maybe she could be happy then with leaner, turkey-sausage arms. Or just switch to patties...I really don't know. I bet Jimmy Dean would.
No comments:
Post a Comment