Taking a "Break"

Picture it: Thursday night in Downtown Atlanta. A very chic young reporter and her adorable BG buddy Chrissy were at an invite-only event at one of the city's newest, hottest salons for the revealing of a fashion line. Ahh, the first 20 minutes was a blast. We had Vodka cocktails and fancy chicken on a stick. It was lovely.
Well, one of the perks of the evening was free services, such as manicures and massages. If you did not know, I am a sucker for a message, so Chrissy and I sashayed over to the message area for some complimentary back rubs. Here is where the story goes South.
I looked down at the massage chair, which did not look like it could support a woman of my...my...magnitude. So I politely asked the masseuse if the chair was fat people friendly. What does that mean? For my weight-impaired friends, it means is the chair sturdy? Will it support me? And the masseuse said and I quote, "Of course! It is people friendly."
So I cop a squat on the chair and it felt study. So the masseuse begins to press down on my back...hard. He said I was tense, which was no surprise, and as I close my eyes to enjoy the message, the chair broke! It simply snapped beneath my weight. Broke. I felt bad because the free messages was a big part of the event, and I was only the second person he'd done. The night was still young!
With the speed of light, I apologized, grabbed Chrissy, tossed my empty cocktail cup, grabbed my gift bag, and bounced. And can I say that Chrissy was the perfect getaway driver? I jumped in the backseat and she hit the interstate with no questions asked.
So why did I leave? Well, as you can imagine, I was embarrassed. I just really wanted to go before word spread around the shindig that I was the one that broke the chair, and since no one had seen it happen, I couldn't think of a better time to leave. Might I add that being fat embarrassed is NOT my style, but the crowd was very to-do like. Those gay designers in leotards would have been relentless!
We were halfway to my house when Chrissy suggested I look in my bag and see if I had all my stuff. I am NOTORIOUS for leaving things, particularly my phone. So I check my bag and notice that I am missing my tape recorder. Not only did I have three interviews on it that I needed, but it also hat my name and job title recorded on it.
Hearing this, Chrissy busted a U-turn at Six Flags and we were headed back to Downtown. By the time we returned the venue was packed, so I was able to slip in and slip out, unnoticed. However, I had butterflies the whole time. I just knew that my face read, "I am the fat bitch that broke the chair! Point and laugh at me!"
Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened. In the 7th grade, I broke my stool in the orchestra. Sophomore year of college I went to church and sat in a pew, breaking it instantly. The summer before that, I went to my friend Chloe's house and broke one of her dinette chairs. However, I was not sad about that. She got it from Ikea, and we all know that their stuff is not sturdy. Now this.
What did I learn from this situation? Well, I learned that I can not ask if something is fat people friendly. I thought that this guy may have been on my wavelength, seeing that he wasn't small, but no. As a professional fatty, I have to look at the situation and assess the fat people friendliness of the situation myself.
I have heard many weightloss confessionals where fat folks have said that breaking a chair or something had them running to the gym. But since I am already there, there was only one place for Chrissy and I to go to end our evening. You guessed it, Krispy Kreme! There is no better way to end a FATastic night that with three hot original glazed.

Man-O-Man

If you have not seen South African runner Caster Semenya you should google her. She is a real looker.
Her backstory? She is the athlete that has been kicking ass and taking names in track and field so some haters went and called the International Association of Athletics Federation (IAAF) and told them that they think that Semenya is a man! So the IAAF is demanding that she take a "gender verification test."
What upsets me the most about this situation is the way that I have heard the news reporting on this. Instead of reporting on how...um...sexist and disgusting this is, even if the chick does look like a dude, they are belittling and insulting her! A loser on one channel was like, "Of course she is a man. She doesn't have breasts!" My jaw dropped! Many athletes, including gymnasts and swimmers do not have breasts. Hell, many average everyday women do not have breasts. Then they went on to discuss how Semenya has a hard face; that she is not attractive. I personally was not aware that if you were not a pretty woman than you were not a woman at all. The only thing that is not being taken into account when figuring out Semenya's sex is that she does is fact have A VAGINA! Isn't that all we need to know?
The insults have gotten so terrible that Semenya's father had to come forth and be like yes everybody, I was there when she was born and she is a girl! How insulting.
I did not want to go here people but I am going to pull a Ne-Ne Leaks and "Keep It Real." It rubs me the wrong way to watch White news figures dedicating time on their shows to talk about how ugly this Black 18-year-old is. Not cool. I also think the ploys that are being used to discredit Black athletes from imprisonment from shooting yourself to accusations of being a man are said. Furthermore, I don't like how male reporters are accrediting physical characteristics besides having a vagina to what makes a girl a girl. When we put these power in the hands of men and science, all women are in trouble. Hell, if half of these same men saw their wives' legs without being waxed, they would be labeled men too.
There are those that are saying that physically Semenya is a woman but hormonally she may be a man. Maybe, maybe not. I guess what bugs me the most about all of this is how they are treating this kid like a science project. If I were her, no matter if the test results said I was a woman or a man, I would sue for pin-pointing me and putting my business in the streets.
The only good thing that could come out of any of this is getting our eyes opened. It is not the old days anymore. Folks are taking hormones and getting surgeries that makes are definitions of gender gray instead of black and white. Whatever Semenya's outcome, re-defining/ addressing gender is something that is going to have to be dealt with on a legal and social level.
As for Semenya, I hope that she doesn't let the bad press get her down. All she needs to do is keep working hard, and take the negativity like a man...I mean, woman...I think.

Introducing B Cubed

So "Jail House Rock," a.k.a. "Margarita Man" had to exit stage left when I found out that he was married with kids. He's still fine, but a girl has got to have principals. Now, on to the next crush. I have named him B Cubed, for, you guessed it, Best Buy Boy!
Although he goes to my gym, I saw him for the first time when I went to Best Buy to buy my new Maxwell album hot off the press. He's tall and dark with a friendly, yet expressionless face. He doesn't strike me as a smiler or a talker, but his hair has a lot of character. He is one of those cats that gets designs cut into his head like boys used to do when I was in kindergarten. When I saw him the first time I was like, "Hey, that guy is fine."
Then I saw him again after the Great August Cell Phone Crisis. My little crap-crap Go Phone completely went south on me, so I had to break down and buy a phone worth something, and there he was, standing around at work, and I was like, "Hey, it's that fine guy."
So Wednesday I was pleasantly surprised when he held the door open for me at the gym. It's a small world...or just a small town.
I was watching him work out that day. He has man pudge. I am a fan or man pudge. You know, when a guy is the guy version of thick? He isn't built, but he isn't fat. He's solid, but not really. For some reason, I feel like you will understand this confusing description.
Anywho, he works out in normal clothes, not those weird garbage bag suits or cutoffs like the other ultra-buff dudes, which, is a big plus. He looks like he may be my age or two years older, and he has these tattoos on his shoulders. They are huge! I can tell that from the outlines. They are the type you have to step up on a guy to read because he is too dark. Yes, the best type of tats. Sidebar: I did not know I was into tats, but I have to say, I'm embracing them.
My spider senses are telling me that this guy most likely would not be interested in me. But as I have shared, I need crushes to survive. Plus, I am working on coming out of my dating shell and approaching men I like, even if I feel the guy may say no. I need to build up my tolerance for rejection.
OK, I will keep you posted. Hopefully he won't be married.

Sundays with Mony

I few posts back I mentioned a woman who came and prayed over me while I was on the treadmill. After having a few other encounters with her, I found that her name is Mony. She is a very adorable very fit little Asian woman, probably in her early 30s, that has a Southern accent. Something about Asian people with Southern accents tickles me.
Well, yesterday, during my tread from Hell, she came over to give me some encouraging words. Usually, I hate it when people cheer me on as I work out, but I did need the push. Ten minutes into my work out I wanted to cry and throw the treadmill up against the mirror in front of the machine, the lovely three-way mirror that documents the sweat, sadness, and strain on your face.
So Mony and I spark up a convo, and she invites me to her church on Sunday. Usually, I would decline a church invite, but Mony seems really nice so I accepted, even though my Aunty warned me that they are rumored to speak tongues at her church.
The last time I went to someone's church on an invite, the church ended up being creepy. It was one of those churches that you can tell used to be a car wash or something, and the members did weird chants that I was NOT familiar with. Truth be told, I have not had a stable church home since I lived in New Orleans. Many of my friends didn't like the church I attended there, primarily since the preacher didn't really...preach. I didn't care though. The people were nice. I liked to see everyone's outfits, and there was music. Don't forget the music!
Plus, I find that just going there every Sunday did something for my spirit. I was happier when I went to church. I did not feel as alone, whether I was really taking anything away from the services or not. Now, living at home and always being broke and annoyed has REALLY worn on my spirit. It is past due time to head back to church.
I will let you know how it goes. Hopefully, this church is normal. I don't know if I can be a member of a church where they make human sacrifices or use snakes or ask you for your W2s before you join. You never know these days in the A.

Holly and the Margarita Man

So yesterday I went to the gym and actually worked out and may I tell you that I got my ass kicked on that treadmill? To punish myself, I walked at a higher speed than I usually do and on an incline. That will teach me to slack! As my friend Dizle would say, I've got to get back to the money.
So while I am sweating and looking my grossest, who walks over to my machine but Jail House Rock, the nickname I have affectionately given the super-tatted, super-muscular possible ex-con that I had developed a crush on at the gym.
As usual, we started our conversation on the topic of Yoga. This was fine, because as I spoke about cobras and downward dogs, I was building up to my big break. Long ago, I had decided to ask him out for Margaritas at my favorite watering hole and after talking to my buddy Brownie, I got the push I needed to ask him. I mean true enough, Brownie would talk me off a ledge if he thought there would be a mildly humorous outcome, but what are you gonna do? I needed someone to co-sign on this ridiculous idea.
Before I could even wet my lips to ask him he goes, "I don't know if my wife would even want me going to a Yoga class so early."
Once he said wife I just wanted him to go away. But he didn't of course. He went on to talk about his four kids, one being 21! I was thinking damn, how old are you brotha? And when did you have time to create all these kiddies and tie the knot while serving time?
Of course, he has never told me he went to jail. I just assumed he had, with the tats and the teardrops tattoed under his right eye. I don't know what disappointed me more: his having a family or he possibly not being the thug that I had painted him to be in my mind. I do this all the time with my wild imagination, create what people might be like based on their appearance. This idea is usually fantastical. Then, when I get to know them and they are not what I had dreamed them up to be, I am disappointed.
So long story short, another crush bites the dust. I'm not too sad though. I didn't really have the cash to splurge on Margaritas.

Under Control

I was just watching TV and saw one of those law firm ads alerting the public that if they were a female that ever took Yaz or Yazmine that they were in danger of more side effects than they were aware of. I can not remember all of them, but the one that stuck in my mind was sudden death. Funny, in this commercial, there were no women doing synchronized swim routines in the pool or kicking an animated red ball down the streets of New York in the rain. Interesting.
My personal views on birth control have been the same since I was like thirteen. NO THANK YOU! I just don't understand, besides menstrual regulation ( and I have never bought that explanation by the way. I personally believe it's just a plot by pharmaceutical companies to get teen girls on the pill) why I would have to take a pill with side effects like blood clots and kidney failure when a guy could just wear a condom, or when I could just not have sex. I don't know. The whole idea has always been fishy to me.
Plus, I have seen birth control at its worst. When I was younger, my Aunt Alice had this friend who kept having babies. Prior to her getting on the Depo shot, I could not recall a time from kindergarten to fifth grade when she was not pregnant. She had to be about my age now. Well, two months or so after taking the shot she got so big that she had to walk around her own thighs! I have a mental picture of her just sitting on my aunt's couch with a baby in her lap sweating. She didn't have to worry about pregnancy after that because I am pretty sure she was no longer having sex. I mean, she had to stop to take breaths walking to the kitchen to get her formula bottles out of the refrigerator.
Rings in your vagina. Little tabs with a string that stay in for five years. Pills that stop your period. Cups in your jay-jay.Then they get you by focusing on how some of these pills or products can make your nails grow and your skin pretty. I know that I do not have sex, but is the thrill of it so awesome that you are willing to put yourself in danger of terminal illness? I am overweight and Black. I am at risk for enough without adding to the Pu-Pu platter of illnesses that could take my young life voluntarily.
At the end of the day, it is every woman's choice on how they want to shield themselves from unwanted pregnancy. I choose to take my grandma's advice and keep my ankles crossed.

Taming the Beast

I am going to be honest with you and say that I have pretty much fallen off of my workout regimen. It was like I was afraid of my progress. Every time I stayed on the treadmill a minute longer or lifted a pound of extra weight on the arm curl I would reward myself by going to the pool...until all I was doing was going to the pool. What is the consequence of this? Well, besides feeling like crap and being disappointed with myself and having to get totally reacquainted with the equipment, I now have to see results in women who started working out at the same time as me that are now like 50lbs lighter. I hate not sticking to things.
So yesterday, I went to the gym and decided to workout for real for the first time in like two weeks. But I went there with one goal in mind: to do at least fifteen minutes on "the beast."
"The Beast" is the nickname that this beefed up lady that I met in the gym has nicknamed the Stair Master. She competes in fitness competitions and can stay on that thing for hours at a times at high speed, burning over 1,000 lbs. She filled my head with stories of being able to lose major weight in like two months if I got on the Stair Master instead of the treadmill. So I tried it once and fell off. Literally, I hit the floor from the top step. Luckily, my head landed on a stray yoga ball, or I probably would have cried.
Yesterday, I marched into the gym ready to get on "The Beast." This time, I was determined not to fall because there would have been a huge audience. So I asked one of the trainers, Ms. Bernice, to help me. No exaggeration: I was on the machine for a minute and forty-two seconds before I was pleading to get off. And in that minute, which was the hardest minute of my life, I burned 41 calories. I burn that in fifteen minutes on the treadmill! Clearly, taming the beast is the key to my workout...if I stick with it.
Why am I not at the gym right now? No good reason. I am sitting at home, eating Peanut Butter Cup Keebler Chips Deluxe Cookies, buy one get one free, with some cranberry juice. I felt so crappy about my crappy workout, I fell into bad, old habits. No worries. I will go tomorrow. Promise.