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I say “Fuck the Lemons and Bail” (when the going gets tough…)

13 Jun

One of my all-time favorite movie quotes comes from Forgetting Sarah Marshall. In the scene where Jason Segel’s character is getting a surf lesson from Paul Rudd’s character (Kunu/Chuck, the surf instructor), Rudd’s character imparts some wisdom:

“When life gives you lemons, just say ‘fuck the lemons’ and bail.”

I know this has some pessimistic connotations, but if you think a little harder, sometimes saying “fuck the lemons” is just what’s needed for a pick me up. Having gone through some pretty heady stuff in my personal life fairly recently, I’ve found that sometimes taking those lemons and making lemonade as the original saying goes is either impossible or not worth the energy. By “fuck the lemons and bail”,  I don’t necessarily mean go ostrich and bury your head in the sand – that just makes you a pansy. What I mean is move on. Get over it. Don’t whine, dwell, or play twisted “what if” games in your head. Additionally, don’t take those lemons to social media- chances are, no one cares.

Don’t get me wrong, my lovely readers. As mentioned in my post about Facebook, I am a reformed addict. If shit was hitting the fan, it was on Facebook (or years ago, MySpace). I’ve found, however, that by posting stuff like that online, you’re making it bigger than it needs to be, and likely pissing your friends off in the process. There are exceptions to this rule (death in the family, tragic news, etc), but day to day bitching about trivial issues should be kept to a minimum. Nobody likes a Debbie Downer, and let’s face it… that pity you’re looking for can only drag you down even further.

Recently, I’ve had some fairly emotionally trying experiences – none of which will you find mentioned on my Facebook or Twitter, or even here. Partially because said experiences are intensely private, and partially because I don’t want pity. I want to say “Fuck the lemons.” Picking myself up by my bootstraps (do people still actually have bootstraps? WTF IS a bootstrap?) and trying to move forward has proven to be cathartic in its own right. Does my mind still wander to the “what if” list that is a mile long? Occasionally, but I do my best to quell those thoughts.

When saying “Fuck the lemons,” I’m not saying “I want to pretend this never happened” or “I don’t want to deal with my problems.” I’m recognizing the difference between things I can control, and things I can’t. Pretty simplistic concept, right? It’s a goddamn shame it’s only taken me, oh, I don’t know… 26 years to finally get that shit through my head.  It’s amazing what a difference a little age, some lessons learned the hard way, and a willingness to become more positive can make.

Kunu may have a flaky hippie kind of dude, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t make a great point.

 

 

An Open Letter to Sallie Mae

7 May

Dear Sallie Mae,

I wish I could be kind, but that is simply not an option here. You have effectively and efficiently secured your place in my life as “bane of my existence.” There is no bill I loathe paying more every month than yours. Your exorbitantly high payments are painful and cut me to the core. While I appreciate you financing my education (you know, for that Advertising degree I’m not really using), I did not realize it was simply a ploy to fuck me over in the long run.

On more than one occasion, you have screwed up my account – sending me notices that I am past due, when in reality, I made my payment early and for more than what was due. You keep me from squirreling away a substantial amount of money into my savings account, hindering me from saving for my future. When I call to discuss my account, I am met with speakers of a foreign language. They do not understand me, nor do I understand them. Your customer service is atrocious. When I call in with questions, it is generally because I need help with something so I do not further wreck my already recovering credit score. I certainly understand that outsourcing your customer support saves you money… however, I do not feel that you NEED to save money, considering the filthy amount you bleed myself and hundred of thousands of other college students for every single month.

Many of us went to college in hopes of not only bettering ourselves and learning, but to ensure that we could someday achieve financial stability. We got degrees because it’s been proven that people who have them make more in a year than people who don’t. What we didn’t expect, however, was to be up to our ears in debt the minute we moved our tassels to the other side of our cap. Your high interest rates and unwillingness to bend or work with your borrowers can be financially crippling for many of us, making us wonder why it is we went to college in the first place.

Rarely can I log into Facebook or Twitter without seeing a friend lamenting on their wall about your lack of concern for their financial health. You rape and pillage us for our hard-earned wages, while shipping our calls for help to India to force us to face a language barrier that is thicker than the Great Wall of China. It saddens me that the bulk of my educational debt is owed to you, because American Education Services (who hold a third of my loans) is always a pleasure to work with. They are helpful and friendly, and they speak my language (that would be English, in case it isn’t clear).

Your practices are unethical and cruel, and frankly, I can only hope you somehow get taken out. Other major financial institutions have collapsed in recent years. You’ll have to forgive me for hoping that you’re next.

With Disgust and Mistrust,

The Walking Mishap

PS – GO FUCK YOURSELF.

Happy F*cking Valentine’s Day, bitches! (Being single just ain’t that bad)

14 Feb

Valentine’s Day is for suckers. I’m not saying this as a single woman, but as a pragmatic and perhaps mildly cynical individual. I have NOT ONCE in my 26 years had a Valentine’s Day that goes down on the books as “most romantic day of my life”… not even close. Have I had V-Day dates? Yes. Were they spectacular? No.

Here’s the thing with Valentine’s Day. It is so built up and so overwrought that by the time the planning is over, everyone is too stressed and anxious to enjoy it. Why do we need a particular day earmarked each year to express our love for a significant other or sweetheart or boyfriend or girlfriend or husband or wife? Honestly, most people I know who are in relationships want out. They stay for the convenience or the faux companionship being able to say “I’m taken” comes with. Couples stay together for years longer than they should for all the wrong reasons. Don’t get me wrong, there are couples who are happy and in love and who still lust for one another after years of being together… couples who have found a way to make it work while still actually liking each other. My mom and dad, for instance, have been married since 1989, and they are more in love today than they were when they got married. They love each other unconditionally. Do they argue? Yes. Do they disagree sometimes? Absolutely. Do they find a way to work it out and come out on top each time? Damn right.  They are the standard to which I hold myself and my relationships – why stay when you’re not happy? Sure, breaking up is hard to do. Yes, it sucks. Yes, it’s usually harder on one person than it is the other, but them’s the breaks. If you’re not happy, chances are, they’ll eventually catch on. If they do, and they don’t end it themselves, then they’re not worth your time – anyone worth their salt wants the one they love to be one thing: happy. If they’re completely oblivious to the fact that you’re unhappy, then perhaps you’re not as ”in tune” with one another as you’d like everyone to believe. Here’s another favorite:  Stay together for the kids? No thanks. Had my mother and biological father stayed together for my sake, I’d be one fucked up individual (more than just mildly dysfunctional).

I seem to have gotten off track here. I won’t go into the complete commerciality of the holiday known as Valentine’s Day – we all get that Hallmark and 1-800-FLOWERS are in cahoots to suck the romantically inclined dry of all funds. I’d rather go into the superficiality of the holiday. Don’t mistake this post for bitterness, or think it’s me hating  on love. Being in love is the greatest feeling in the world. Being in love has made people travel across the world for one another, donate vital organs to save the life of the one they love. Shit, Romeo and Juliet died for one another (we won’t mention the snafu in THAT plan). I love being in love. There’s a quote that I feel sums it up perfectly:

“We are all a little weird and life’s a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.”

I have no idea who is responsible for saying this, but I’d like to shake their hand. That mutual weirdness is seriously the best feeling ever. Why do we need a holiday to mark that? Valentine’s Day is a day every year when people like to put on those rose-colored glasses and pretend that love isn’t flawed. That relationships are perfect and hunky-dory and that for that one day per year, all issues go out the window. What I’m trying to get at, dear readers, is that if you love someone, SHOW THEM. TELL THEM. DON’T LEAVE ANY QUESTION IN THEIR MIND THAT THEY ARE THE ONE YOU WANT AND DESIRE. It shouldn’t take a holiday for us all to go out of our way now and again for the ones we love, to make them feel like they are the only person in the world.

I’m not a sappy kind of chick. Romance to me doesn’t always equate to picnics in the park or candlelit dinners or sunsets and roses. Sitting on a bench people watching while drinking coffee and just shooting the shit is more my speed. Laughing about everything and anything (and sometimes anyone) is more romantic to me than awkwardly sitting across a table from someone in a poorly lit room making googly eyes at one another while secretly plotting how to get them out of their clothes. Having FUN (true, genuine, “I don’t want this to end” FUN) with someone is sexier to me than the typical definition of “romance.” Who says a Valentine’s Day date can’t be to an arcade or a dive bar or a bowling alley or even in your own living room if you are in the company of someone you genuinely enjoy being around, someone you crave being close to? Don’t mistake this concept of mine for naivety or idealism. I know that even the person whose company you want most, who you adore and who you want nothing more than to spend time with them isn’t perfect. I know the circumstances involving that person may be flawed as well. I know that no one’s perfect, but I also know that if they seem perfect, it could be too good to be true. Yet another quote to back up my point:

“There’s no such thing as the perfect soul mate. If you meet someone and you think they’re perfect, you better run as fast as you can in the other direction. ‘Cos your soul mate is the person that pushes all your buttons, pisses you off on a regular basis, and makes you face your shit.”  -Madonna

Yes, I realize I just quoted Madonna. That crazy bitch has quite the valid point, though. If the person you’re spending all that Hallmark money on isn’t going to call you on your shit or be there for you when the rest of the world is walking out, you better find someone better. If you insist upon making a big rigmarole out of Valentine’s Day, do us all a favor and make sure it’s with someone worth it. I don’t know about all of you, but I want someone who is going to be there for me when the shit hits the fan, no matter what, without question.

Am I a single 26-year-old woman on Valentine’s Day this year? I sure am. Would it be nice to perhaps be in a relationship with someone for this most insipid of all holidays? Sure. Am I going to sweat the fact that I’m not? Hell no. Why is that, you ask? Because I know damn well that I’m one hell of a catch, and I’m not going to waste my time on someone who doesn’t deserve me or my ridiculous amount of awesomeosity. I just beg of the rest of you who ARE in relationships, chill out with the sugar-coating. I like shiny baubles and flowers as much as the next girl (diamonds and garnets for the first, liliess and orchids for the second, in case any of you care to show me a little love), but I also know that at the end of the day, those things won’t keep you happy. They might bring fleeting joy, but they won’t keep you warm on a cold night or be a shoulder to cry on.

Also, ladies, if your man goes all out for you on Valentine’s Day, make sure you go all out for HIS holiday… March 14 of every year – Steak & Blow Job Day. Trust me, he’ll appreciate it.

An Open Letter to Best Buy

2 Jan

Dear Best Buy,

I’d like to start by saying, you sell some really awesome shit. From iPads to XBox to the beautiful new TV I purchased from you, I tip my hat to you. You’ve got the gadgets all the cool kids could ever want or need or know what to do with. Kudos on that.

My concern, here, however, lies with your staffing decisions. No matter when I visit your establishment, no matter which store location I patronize, I am almost always disappointed. If it is a quick trip, one in which I am merely picking up a DVD or two, I generally leave apathetic about the experience. Not angry, but not impressed, either. My grievance is based upon my experiences when trying to purchase items more technical in nature – a wireless router, a television, an external hard drive for my Mac Book, etc. These items are not things bought on impulse, but rather with careful planning and previous research.

My most recent shopping excursion to your store is what prompts me to write. Best Buy, my friend, sometimes a consumer simply can’t find all the answers she is looking for on the internet. Difficult to fathom, I understand, but it’s true. When I came into the store on a Wednesday evening, ready to finally bite the bullet and purchase a TV, your employees in the television department ignored me. Perhaps it was because I look young, and couldn’t possibly have been there ready to spend half a grand, or maybe it was because I was bumming it on a day off. This hurt my feelings, Best Buy, it really did. I stood in front of the counter, waiting for a sales associate to ask me what they could help me with. I was torn between two TVs, unsure of which to choose. I could have stood there all night, maybe doing the Mexican Hat Dance, and I probably would have still been ignored while your unwashed minions buried themselves in their computer screens. Angered and annoyed, I stormed out in a huff, vowing to purchase my TV elsewhere. You’re a crafty one, it seems, much to my dismay. I could not find a better deal on a better television anywhere else. I searched high and low, reaching the end of the internet before resigning myself to the fact that I would need to return to your big blue building, and plunk down a large sum for the wares I desired, all while swallowing the bitter pill that is your substandard customer service.

I’ve always known you don’t always hire the brightest bulbs in the box. Sure, there has been a good egg here and there, usually in the form of a helpful young chap who knows what he’s talking about not due to your stellar training, but because he actually cares about his job and the products he is selling. As a member of the retail work force myself, I understand that good help is hard to find, but I’m urging you to up your standards. In a competitive world where places like Target and Wal-Mart vie for a piece of your market share, perhaps you could consider a more stringent screening process in choosing your employees. First and foremost, please make sure they know what they are talking about, and actually enjoy working with people. I cannot tell you how many times I have found myself, the customer, more knowledgable about what I was purchasing than the sales associate attempting to help me. Many times, I have a couple of complex questions before being fully ready to purchase – your workforce should know how to answer them. A cleanly appearance would earn my trust and respect as a customer, as a wrinkled, unwashed golf shirt that looks like it came from the trunk of a car after a hard night of drinking leads me to believe I’m not working with a master of the craft. I feel I shouldn’t have to comment on hygiene in the workplace, but I must say, a lack of hygiene is distracting. These people are the face of your company. The face I often see is a stoner who was dragged out of bed at the crack of noon to show up late for work. Not appealing.

Because of your staffing decisions, I had to rely on the knowledge of friends and consumer reviews to choose my TV. I did not purchase in store, but rather paid online and arranged in-store pickup for later that afternoon. While the young lad who rang me out was perfectly nice, he congratulated me on the purchase of my new LCD TV. I had purchased a plasma. Quite the snafu, as he had me questioning both whether or not I had purchased the right TV, but also whether or not I was taking the correct one home.

Please see the error in your ways, Best Buy. You are truly convenient, and I’m far too impatient to have my DVDs shipped from Amazon.com.

Regards,

The Walking Mishap

PS – The TV is an excellent addition to my living room.

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas (a little too early every year)

19 Dec

'Tis the Season...

This post probably should have been written, ohhhhh I don’t know, over a month ago, but forgive me. I work retail. You know, where Christmas starts before Thanksgiving, and continues on through the new year. With the exception of one year, I have worked retail through every holiday season since 1999, in one aspect or another. Through high school, it was at a local pharmacy. After graduation and through college and beyond, it’s been in either a mall or a standalone store, in the same industry (though for various companies). This generally means long hours beginning right after Halloween, and rolling right on through til the new year. This is the profession I  have chosen, and it pays me well, so please don’t mistake this rant for lack of appreciation toward having a job that keeps a roof over my head and food on my table. Most of the time, I enjoy what I do, and I really like my coworkers. What I don’t like, however, is how early the Holiday Season gets jammed down our throats every year. Working retail during this time also means having no real concept of time, other than “What time does my shift start?”, “When is my lunch break?”, and “Is it time to go home yet?”.

Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those people who wants the world over (non-believers included) to “Put the Christ back in Christmas.” The back of my car will never look like this:

Bruce (yes, my car's name is Bruce) wouldn't allow such a thing.

I’m probably one of the least religious people you’ll ever meet. The main reason I go to church on Christmas and Easter? To not disappoint my grandparents who have done so much for me over the years. I guess you could call me an agnostic. Do I think that many years ago a virgin birth took place in a manger, attracting attention from the four corners of the world? I’m not sure. It’s a lot for me to grasp. I do, however believe that Christmas is a time to spend with friends and family, to slow down a bit, and to be appreciative of what we all have. I also believe that it’s a time to find a way to help those less fortunate… maybe by volunteering, or donating canned goods, or just doing something selfless for another person.

I’m not going to get all “Save the World” on you here, nor will I be self-righteous about this. All I’m asking is to maybe take a step back for a minute, and NOT jam holiday music and decorations down my throat as soon as Halloween is over. I mean, doesn’t Thanksgiving deserve the spotlight for a few moments before we get all “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”?? The turkeys who so dutifully give their lives to allow me to overeat without needing an excuse should have their time to shine. While my Thanksgiving this year was pretty routine (dinner with one side of the family, not really seeing the other side, receiving the obligatory “you don’t call or visit enough” guilt trip from a grandparent or two, then retreating to my own home where I can have a glass of wine and settle in with a close friend to decompress and just relax before working my ass off for Black Friday), I must say, as I grow older, the more I enjoy it. It’s a time to spend with people you care about (even if you don’t always like them), share in eating a delicious meal, and not worry about who bought who what.

Turkeys Need Love Too

At my place of employment, the Holiday Season started on November 7th. That’s right, folks. Christmas music and sparkly holiday decorations went up, and we went into Christmas mode. The number of customers we’ve had would never give it away, of course, but apparently, we weren’t the only ones. The malls and other retailers in this area either beat us to the punch or were right in line. Were our customers happy about it? No. I cannot tell you how many “Can’t we just get through Thanksgiving?” gripes I heard up until Black Friday. My fellow retail cohorts (damn right we stick together) worked our asses off on Black Friday, pulling long hours with smiles on our faces while people bitched we didn’t have better sales and trampled each others at other retailers all across the country. That’s right, TRAMPLED each other  to get the best sale on Tickle Me Justin Bieber or whatever the fuck this year’s hot toy is. People DIED on Black Friday. Pretty sure many of them were screaming a battle cry of  “Keep Christ in Christmas!” while pulling hair and pushing and elbowing other shoppers to get to the front of the line at the local Wal-Mart.

Gotta Get the Bieber!!!

Christmas makes people cranky. I cannot tell you how many times my parents, my sister, and I have gotten in arguments while all trying to get ready for Christmas Eve dinner and church with my grandparents. Whether it be about one of us taking too long in the shower or someone hogging a mirror or people just being snippy, it’s usually a calamity. We have a silent car ride to my grandparents’ house, and then we get over it. Same goes for Christmas shoppers. Traffic becomes unbearable, store clerks become harried and overworked, and people get downright mean. While shopping the other night, I witnessed at least three arguments over the last items on a shelf. Isn’t this supposed to be a season of good will and happiness? Aren’t we all supposed to be a little kinder, a little gentler? To me, it seems we all get a little meaner, and all start to resemble one of my favorite Dr. Seuss characters, The Grinch (second only to the Cat in the Hat – and not the live-action versions, either. I’m talking the old school animated versions). That green bastard attempted to ruin Christmas not only for himself or one other person, but for the entirety of Whoville. You know, until those little Whos singing their little Who hearts out and recognizing the true spirit of the holiday melted his icy heart and turned him into a softy. That’s right. Post Who sing-along, the Grinch became kind of a pussy.

Don't Fuck With The Grinch

In summary, folks, all I’m asking for is a little consideration for one another and for those of us who bust our asses to make sure you’ve got plenty of material gifts to give to those friends and family you may or may not like. I’m not even asking for you to do it for me. Do it for Whoville.

Facebook – The New Myspace (or, aren’t we all a little old for this?)

8 Dec

Before I begin, I will openly admit that I am a reformed Facebook addict. I was a serial status updater. If I did something with my day, everyone I’m friends with on Facebook knew it. After some serious razzing from my friends and growing bored with logging in all the time, I have scaled back my usage quite a bit. Sure, I still update and post pictures and communicate with friends. What I don’t do, however, is give people a play by play like I used to.

When I joined Facebook, it was like a secret club for college kids. In order to join, you had to have an email address from any of the colleges Facebook deemed worthy of being allowed on their network. It was a place where there seemed to be no creepers lurking on every page – unlike Myspace, which was my favorite social networking site of choice… up until I was receiving requests from guys asking if they could do things to me I’m not even comfortable repeating.  As time went on, Facebook opened up to certain employers, and then finally, the general public. This is where the trouble began.

As the Facebook craze grew, developers started adding apps… the bane of my existence. My favorite example? See below:

FARMVILLE

I want to commit violent acts every goddamn time someone plants some corn or builds a barn or fucks a sheep and it shows up in my newsfeed (by the way, the NewsFeed was something I loathed when it first showed up – creeped me out). For those of you fortunate to not know what Farmville is, users create a virtual farm, with virtual crops and virtual animals. From what I understand, if users don’t tend to their virtual farm, it burns to the ground or meets some other horrific fate. If you have enough time on your hands to tend a virtual farm, perhaps you need a non-virtual hobby. Baking, real life gardening, running, SOMETHING. Either way, I’m sick of seeing your updates begging other “farmers” to send you nails or chickens or an Amish cabana boy.

Since I have confessed my guilt about being a recovering serial status updater, I feel I am allowed to comment on some of my Facebook friend pet peeves:

THE PERPETUAL WHINER

Last I checked, very few, if any, of my FB friends are certified therapists. Why so many people insist upon using Facebook as a running journal of complaints, ailments, whining, and overall emo-esque “woe is me, my life sucks, wah wah fucking wah” is beyong me. Sure, I’ve bitched and moaned, but I do try and keep my more negative thoughts to myself. If your life is THAT shitty, perhaps you should find another outlet for your issues. I’m not talking about the occasional “Having a bad day” post, or “We’ll miss Mr. Skittles, our poor puppy who ran away.” No. I mean the people who EVERY TIME THEY POST have something to complain about. Hey asshole, guess what?! You most likely don’t have it that bad. We all have shitty days. We all stub our toes and forget our lunches and deal with the occasional asshole. We don’t all, however, feel the need to tell everyone and their mother about it.

THE UBERPOSTER

Did you just brush your teeth? Take a piss? Walk upstairs? Walk downstairs? Chew your food? Good for you. I probably did, too. Guess what I didn’t do? Put it on Facebook. Perhaps in the past I was overzealous with the updates, but recently? Not so much. I now fully grasp how annoying it is. Please stop. We don’t care that you just sneezed or pooped or chipped a tooth. Well, we care if you chipped a tooth, but only if there is a hysterically funny story that resulted in said chipped tooth. The Uberposter and the Perpetual Whiner are often the same person.

THE PEOPLE WHO PEAKED IN HIGH SCHOOL

I wasn’t one of the “cool kids” in high school. I was in choir. I read books. I had a solid group of friends (to whom I no longer speak, with the exception of maybe one or two), but I wasn’t nominated for Homecoming Queen – not that I would have wanted to be.  Having gone to the biggest high school in the state, I blended in with the crowd. Skinny and curveless until senior year, I felt awkward. It seems, however, I’m better off for it. Mainly because most of the people who WERE the “cool kids” hit the pinnacle of their life success between the ages of 14 and 18. Many of these people have friended me on FB, and I have accepted, mainly out of curiosity. As it turns out, most of them have done absolutely nothing productive with their lives. As they clog my newsfeed with irrelevant banter, I see they are still friends with the same people, having never expanded their social circle. These people annoy me for the plain and simple reason that they still seem to think they’re “the cool kids.” Some of you probably think I’m just bitter, but really, that is not the case. I have grown into someone who is confident, passionate and unafraid to test my own limits. My social circle is diverse, and I have friends and acquaintances from all walks of life. I do NOT need to validate myself by hanging with the same crowd I did way back when. Sure, I have friends that I have known forever, but I also don’t reject the opportunity to welcome newcomers into my life. I don’t turn my nose up at someone different from myself because I know they can teach me something. Those who peaked in high school don’t have that luxury. They still have the same “that’s what she said” inside jokes from when they were 16 and smoking in the boys froom. Guess what? No one cares. You bring absolutely nothing to the table. Congratulations, you have hit the climax, and are rapidly on your way downhill. Thank you for sharing that with the entirety of the internet.

THE FACEBOOK STALKER

We’re all guilty of it. We check out that new guy or girl we met, or we perhaps check in on an ex or a friend you haven’t seen in a while. What I’m talking about is those people who chime in IMMEDIATELY after you post, who seem to be anxiously awaiting your next FB move with baited breath. Sure, there are occasions when you may “like” someone’s status only a few seconds after they post it because you happen to be logged in at the moment. If this happens more often than not, however, you might be a Facebook Stalker.

Aside from the posting habits of others, the silly status games that people play are downright obnoxious. Apparently, letting people know where you put your purse when you first walk in the house is supposed to equate to breast cancer awareness. Making your profile picture a cartoon is supposed to show you’re against child abuse. No, wait. It actually started as a group of pedophiles trying to make friends with the kids. Wait, maybe it wasn’t… it was just a hoax.

The main reason for this post is the recent “numbers game” that has surfaced. Copied from someone who played this game, the numbers game is as follows:

“Send a # from 1 – 1,000,000 in my inbox and I will post a status response about a memory I have of you or what I think of you…maybe both.”

If this isn’t about as self-serving as it comes, I don’t know what is. If you want to know what someone thinks about you, ask. In person. Don’t play anonymous internet games where the person you sent a number to is going to inevitably post something sugary sweet about you. It’s fishing for compliments at its finest. Essentially, it’s saying “Please pay attention to me, I need you to validate my online existence and perhaps my personality as a whole.” Grow up, kids. We’re all a little old to be playing these “HEY! LOOK AT ME! MAKE ME FEEL SPECIAL!” games.

This rant has probably pissed people off. I’m okay with that. I’m okay with that because if it pissed you off, perhaps it has something to do with the fact that maybe you’re one of the people I am writing about. Food for thought, people, food for thought.

Shameless plug: Friend the Waking Mishap on Facebook!  See the link on my blogroll. That’s on the right hand side of the page.

One last thing- a quick shoutout to Miss Lauren… this one’s for you!

Planet Fitness Should Probably Revoke My Membership (because my head is NOT a judgement free zone)

4 May

I’d like to preface this post by saying, I’m not in shape. I certainly don’t resemble a beached humpback or angry rhino or hungry, hungry hippo by any means, but I get more winded than I should while climbing stairs. I’ve got the curse of curves, but I love them, so my fitness efforts genuinely are an attempt to live a healthier life.

I’m sure you’re thinking, “Riiiiiiiiiight. They don’t call you Meatloaf for no reason,” and part of that thought is correct. I’m not one to practice tons of willpower when it comes to delectable edibles. I try to balance my love of food with exercise and keeping a close eye on my weight. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will never be built like a runway model, or any of those skinny bitches you see competing for Tyra’s love and affection on America’s Next Top Model. Screw those chicks anyway, someone needs to feed them a cheeseburger or twelve. I love my shape, though I’m sure some would think I’m a little too thick for their taste. Screw them, too, right along with the wenches who wouldn’t eat a carb if you held a gun to their unproportionately large heads.

Now, back to the matter at hand. I’m sure many of you fine readers are familiar with the recent explosion of Planet Fitness’ popularity nationwide. This chain of franchised fitness clubs dares to be different. With its purple, yellow, and black color scheme,  its dirt cheap membership fees, its bagel mornings and pizza evenings, and its lack of a meat-market-esque environment, the place is a fitness oasis for people like me (by people like me, I mean those of us who are not hardcore about fitness and who hate the atmosphere of Bally’s and LA Fitness). Both locations I’ve been to have always been clean, the staff has always been helpful, and from what I can tell, the place is pretty decent.

The thing about Planet Fitness that seems to draw such a huge following, is their branding. Their positioning, if you will. They have set themselves apart from other shinier gyms who offer classes and juice bars by making their locations the “everyman gym.” They call themselves “The Judgement Free Zone” and take this motto of theirs very seriously. There is a huge wartime-like siren attached to the front wall of the gym, which they have cutely named the “Lunk Alarm.” If you’ve ever heard one of these things go off, you may have been tempted to tuck-and-roll off your treadmill or elliptical and hide because you were afraid you were in the middle of an air raid. The Lunk Alarm is designed to embarrass the living shit out of any meathead who tries to get too much attention from others in the gym. For instance, if Bruno in his cutoff t-shirt, too tight shorts, and weight belt (their free weights only go up to like 60 lbs… is the belt really necessary?) starts grunting too loudly and dropping weights, the Lunk Alarm is sounded. Awesome.

You would think in an environment such as this, I could keep my cynical, horrible thoughts in check. I may, perhaps, embrace the culture of this place simply because with a strict dress code such as theirs (no do-rags, no jeans, no boots, no spaghetti strap tanks, etc), what is there left to judge? Oh, let me tell you…

Sauna Suits.

Unless you are a high school or college wrestler trying to drop weight before a match, WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU WEAR ONE OF THESE? And in public, no less? Tonight during my 35 min of cardio, I counted no less than three people on treadmills wearing sauna suits. Okay, fine. They aren’t at the gym to look good, they are there to work out, and sauna suits suck extra sweat out of your body. Cool. Whatever. The sight of these things make me think maybe it’s laundry day, and the only thing left these poor souls had left to wear were garbage bags. Silver, shiny garbage bags. Intergalactic looking garbage bags.

Nevermind the fact that keeping one’s dignity while wearing one of these suits is a damn impossibility, did I mention they are LOUD? Surely, my dear readers, you’re all old enough to remember “swishy pants.” You know what I’m talking about – those pants that often came with a matching jacket, made of a material that would cause the wearer to make a “swish swish swish” sound as they moved. Sauna suits take me right back to ’92 and swishy pants, because of the goddamn sound they make. I really feel workout gear should neither be visually offensive nor audible; those fucking sauna suits rape my senses as I’m trying to get my cardio on, and it offends me.

For those of you who still have no clue what I’m talking about, I provide you with exhibit A:

I don't care if it helps you sweat more, you look like a dumbass.

Moving right along…

Sweatbands, Spandex, and Short-Shorts.

In case my fellow gym goers were not aware, it is 2010. It is not 1987, Jane Fonda is not still a fitness icon, and Sweatbands, Spandex, and Short-Shorts (think Richard Simmons, really) are NOT acceptable gym wear. As I mentioned above, I’m offended when my senses are raped while I’m trying simply to work out. People who rock any of the 3 S’s of workout gear don’t just rape my senses. They sodomize them with a hot poker, while making them beg for more. It’s twisted. Let’s break it down, shall we?

Sweatbands. These elastic, terry cloth pieces of fabric people wear around their heads and wrists ARE NOT COMFORTABLE. They chafe, they leave an ugly imprint, and they make you hotter than necessary. Not to mention, they look fucking stupid. Some might argue that those who rock sweatbands are trying to go for some trendy retro look. I argue they look like morons who are either A) oblivious to the fact they look like morons, B) don’t care they look like morons, or C) poor victims were dropped on their head, causing irreparable damage to the part of their brain that allows them to comprehend what is fashionably acceptable.

Spandex. Two words: Camel Toe. That’s right, ladies, I have absolutely no desire to see what you’ve got going on in that region, so let’s get some shorts that are a bit looser. Also, NO ONE, and I mean NO ONE, looks good in spandex. It’s the least flattering fabric ever created. The only way you should wear spandex is if you do so under a sauna suit, and if you plan on stepping in front of a bus on your way to the gym. A bit harsh? Maybe, but I’m just saying what most of you have thought at least once or twice.

Short-shorts. Good Christ, people. This look is horrendous. Listen, Mr. “I’m here just here to get fit”, I have no desire to see your pasty ass legs, especially above the knee. Sure, I get it. These things help you keep cool. Know what else helps keep cool? The air conditioner the gym has CRANKED. If your shorts are short and tight enough to see what you’re working with and which way its hanging, you fail. Seriously. I wasn’t kidding with the Richard Simmons remark earlier. Do you really want to look like this??

Short-shorts: Best Guarantee EVER That You'll Never Get Laid Again

I’m not even going to comment on the combination of these three items worn together – I prefer not to dry heave while writing. And before you get all holier-than-thou on me, I think y’all should know I generally wear sweats and a t-shirt to the gym. Non-descript, not over the top, functional, and comfortable. Sometimes I’ll switch it up and wear a pair of mesh shorts, but either way, when I work out, all of my bits and pieces stay in place.

Makeup.

It’s one thing if you’re coming straight from work, ladies, and hit the gym before removing your makeup. I’ve done that myself. We’re in a completely different ballpark if you’re applying makeup to go to the gym, especially one like Planet Fitness. The dudes there are not on a hunt for their next side piece, girlfriend, or wife. They are there to work out. Contrary to whatever fantasy you may have conjured up, the likelihood of you locking eyes with Mr. Right from across the 30 minute weight circuit and finding love at first sight is just about the same as my likelihood of hitting on the Powerball drawing this weekend. Ain’t gonna happen. Go to the grocery store, maybe you’ll find him there.

Primping for the gym is like primping to give birth. You’re going to grunt, sweat, and look like shit by the end of it anyway, so why even bother?! You WILL look a hot mess when that makeup gets runny… that is, unless you are one of those chicks who primps for the gym but never works out while you’re there. If you’re one of those chicks, you should probably put on some spandex, a sauna suit, and a sweatband and find the nearest bus depot. Walking around the gym in your cute little outfit, looking all primped while not actually working out annoys most of us. If you’re looking for the next notch in your bed post, try the bar. Drunk guys might actually be stupid enough to take you home.

While I certainly have more pet peeves involving the gym, I’m going to hang on to them for later. Wouldn’t want you all to think I’m a complete asshole, would I?

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