Sometimes bitch face just comes easy

It was raining at the buttcrack of (non)dawn (because does it really count as dawn when the sun isn’t out?) Wednesday as I drove to the gym for Body Pump. I guessed it was probably a good thing I didn’t decide to get into running.

I upped my weights that day, and I definitely felt it in my arms, legs, and ass. Hurts so good!

I didn’t get stuck with the handicapped shower, but the shower I did get had its own problems. Someone had jerry rigged the shower head with what looked like the mouth of a garden hose and perhaps a twist tie. Everything was fine for the first few seconds after I turned on the water, but then something shifted, and suddenly water was shooting out the side of the pipe. I reacted audibly (but no swears), I’m sure to the amusement of whomever was in the neighboring shower. I tried to correct whatever the fuck had gone awry, but it was useless, so I proceeded with my shower.


I took this picture after I got dressed, and whomever had showered while I was getting dressed had somehow jerry rigged the jerry rig, so the effect isn’t as dramatic here as it was for me. Also, I keep saying “jerry rig,” and I have the vague sense that’s somehow an offensive expression. I hope not. Cursory Googling does not reveal why it would be. Forgive if I’m wrong! Anyway, imagine it just like this, but instead of a trickle pouring out the side, a geyser is shooting horizontally out the side.

After I was dressed, I went to advise someone on the staff of the shower problem. I’d talked the previous day about the handicapped stall with the woman at the front desk. She’s very fit and always quite made up, and she has a very strong resting bitch face. When I told her about the handicapped stall on Tuesday, she gave me a bitchy yet concerned look and thanked me for letting her know.

Handicapped shower is handicapped.

Handicapped shower is handicapped.

She was at the desk Wednesday as well, as was Warren (of Lean Muscle with Warren fame) and some dude I didn’t recognize. I said, “Hey, just wanted to let you know the middle shower stall has a problem, too.”

The man I didn’t recognize said, “Leaking?”

As I started to open my mouth to reply, Resting Bitch Face said, “It doesn’t have a problem. I just used it.”

Um? My hair was still wet. Hers was coiffed and stiff with product. However it may have been working when she “just” used it, it wasn’t working that way anymore.

But whatever. Resting Bitch Face led the other guy away and told him she’d show him what she was talking about, and I muttered “okay” to Warren and remembered that judgey gym bitches are one of the reasons I didn’t want to join the gym.

The good news is that most of the ladies at my gym aren’t bitches. At least, not the ladies I interact with. Sweet Candy is sweet; Alyssa is awesome; the regular attendees seem friendly yet focused. I’ve never seen Resting Bitch Face do anything but stand behind the counter, so it’s likely there will be few reasons to interact with her.

And who knows. Maybe RBF is a perfectly sweet young lady. A resting bitch face is not always telling of a person’s true bitchiness.

I’m amused by the little things like jacked-up shower heads that reveal a certain… thriftiness in the management of the gym. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a nice gym. They want you to know it, so there’s a window fountain you see as soon as you walk in the door, and a smoothie bar to the side. The locker rooms have saunas. The back area with the treadmills and ellipticals has signage labeling it “cardio cinema.” Each of those machines has a little TV you can watch, and you can listen if you have headphones.

Behold the luxury! I had to yell at my kids to quit sticking their hands in this.

Behold the luxury! I had to yell at my kids to quit sticking their hands in this.

But then you have shower heads held together with twist ties or hair elastics, which likely won’t be replaced any time soon. And, really, I support mechanical ingenuity. It just seems out of line with the facade that Resting Bitch Face herself represents standing at the front desk.

So that was Wednesday. Thursday, parental duties prevented me from making it to 6 am RIPPED, and I wound up squandering some of the time I had to work out in the circuit room by chit chatting with a friend. I got in two circuits, then had to shower–in the good stall, yay!–even though I didn’t get all that sweaty, because I didn’t shower before I got there. Am I supposed to say that? I’m a morning showerer, but I’m sure not showering BEFORE I go to the fucking gym. That would be pointless.

Even though Thursday was a pretty light workout, I decided to allow myself to take Friday off. It’s not like the first week when I needed a day off because I was hurting so much. It’s more that I was trying to decide when to go and what to try to do, and it started to feel like too much pressure. So I said, fuck that. I went to the fucking gym Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, AND Thursday, and even if that ends up being all I do this week, that is FOUR DAYS. Four days is really fucking good, if you ask me. Ain’t nobody got time for guilt.

I’ll probably go some time this weekend. We’ll see. I have other important things to do. Like get my hair cut and get my nails did.

Gym Week Three, Days Three and Four

  • Favorite part: pumping up my body, til I become sexy. Sing it with me now!
  • Least favorite part: RBF

My abs fucking hate each other.

I suffer from a delightful condition called diastasis recti. That means that my fucking abdominal muscles never came back together the right way after my pregnancies. Google that shit. It’s fucking weird.

In addition to contributing to what’s lovingly known as “mummy tummy,” and also hilariously as the “mother’s apron,” i.e. the belly pooch you can thank your darling children for, diastasis recti fucks up your core. And your core is really fucking important.

Or something. Look, I’ve done tons of Internet “research,” and all I’ve “learned” just swirls around in my brain and mixes together. All I know for sure is that when I lift my arms a certain way, my stomach gets this bizarre, vertical hump. And when I lie on the floor with my knees bent, lift my head a little, and touch my abs, I can totally feel this weird gap of just… nothingness where I am quite sure muscle is supposed to be.

To illustrate, observe:


See those muscles? They’re supposed to be all snuggled up together, the way they were before someone’s offspring came along and spread them apart like curtains.

baby belly

Why am I telling you this? Because immediately after my midwife told me I had this funfest going on, four years ago, I asked Dr. Google what to do, and I learned that Oh Em Gee, whatever you do, DO NOT DO ANY FUCKING CRUNCHES. Crunches will jack that shit up even worse.

Well. Dr. Google didn’t have to tell me twice not to do crunches. Fuck crunches. Fuck them, I say!

There are other exercises you’re supposed to be able to do to fix this shit up, but the Intarwebz cannot entirely agree on what those are. Do it one way, and your belly will be as flat as an ironing board in no time. Do it another way, and you might as well consign yourself to wearing maternity clothes the rest of your life, because you’re always going to have that perma-pregnant look going on.

The result is that on the rare occasions I’ve gotten a bug up my ass to work out a little, I mostly ignored my abs. I mean, fuck crunches, amirite?

So this is what I’ve got going on.

Left: my "mummy tummy" at rest. I can pooch it out a lot farther than that if I try, though! I should totes start using that to get "expectant mother" parking at the mall. On the right, "mummy tummy" sucked in.

Left: my “mummy tummy” at rest. I can pooch it out a lot farther than that if I try, though! I should totes start using that to get “expectant mother” parking at the mall. On the right, “mummy tummy” sucked in.

So today at the fucking gym, I came prepared with a printout of this (stolen from the article I linked to above):

And I did my prissy little “mummy tummy” exercises for my delicate little abs. Because fuck crunches.

Let me just stop and say that the number of times I’ve had to type “mummy tummy” here is starting to make me feel nauseated. Put “mummy tummy” alongside “Hooter Hider” on the list of expressions that effectively infantalize mothers.

Let me also say I’m not entirely sure there actually is a cure for this shit short of the Kate Gosselin special. I mean, my kid is FOUR! No, I haven’t put much effort into knitting my abdominal muscles back together, but for fuck’s sake, they all still live in there. Shouldn’t they have kind of found their way back together now? I do think this may have improved a little bit over time. By, like, fractions of an inch. Every now and then I remember one tip I read once this one time that said you should basically SUCK YOUR GUT IN AS FUCKING HARD AS YOU CAN AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE. So I do that sometimes. Maybe that’s helped!

Anyway. Back to the gym.

The fucking gym.

Today I returned to the circuit room. Ah, the humble circuit room. A couple of years ago, I paid for the cheapskate “circuit room only” gym membership for a few months, of which I actually went to the circuit room for a couple of weeks in the beginning. I kind of like the circuit room. It’s small, and it has machines, and you only have to do each machine for 30 seconds. There’s a timer that tells you to move! It’s a lot less intimidating than the sea of machines out on the big floor, covered in huge, burly dudes.

The problem with my cheapskate gym membership was that they were serious about it being CIRCUIT ROOM ONLY, BITCH! Like, I wasn’t allowed to use the locker room. I had to change in the little circuit room bathroom. And I learned that the circuit room bathroom is where all the gym employees go to take a dump. And someone’s shit schedule was perfectly aligned with my lunch break, which is when I was going to the circuit room.

Now I have the more-expensive membership that includes workout classes, childcare, and access to the fucking locker room, thankyouverymuch.

But the circuit room felt familiar today. And luckily, it did not smell familiar.

I did three circuits, skipping the ab stuff to instead do my fancypants diastasis recti exercises. My demeanor said to the others there, “Wut? Fuck crunches. I have mummy tummy, bitches. Look at me again. I will fucking bury you. In the gap between my abs. Try me, bitch.”

On the third circuit, I may or may not have also skipped the quadriceps machines, because my legs fucking HURT after the last two days of this going to the gym bullshit.

My three circuits didn’t take as long as Body Pump or motherfucking Zumba. But once again, I broke a sweat. And so did my iPod, because I wore it under my bra strap. Near the end, it actually slid in my sweat and spent the rest of my workout nestled between my boobs.

No moisture-wicking action to save us today!

No moisture-wicking action to save us today!

Tomorrow I am taking a fucking break. My body needs to rest. It’s not used to all this… activity and shit.

Gym Day Three

  • Favorite part: the hot bath I’m about to take.
  • Least favorite part: feeling like my poor, stove-up ole Mammaw, God rest her soul.