All posts tagged exercise

“Is that…m-my…b-b-butt?”

Published January 16, 2013 by Sandee


I’m not a foodie.  But I do like mayonnaise, and I like toast with olive oil and salt.  I don’t eat these foods excessively but my metabolism had problems grinding these foods up along with the free cheese-laden cuisine I was getting from the café at work all last year.

Because I never have the right to pass up bags of free food, my ass is swollen.  I blame free cheese-laden cuisine.  While I’m a cake enthusiast, and lover of strudel, pie, donuts, cookies and candy, I control myself.  I know it could get ugly, because it has.

In ‘night Mother, Anne Bancroft’s character says, “I don’t like food — I like candy!”  I so could have played her, because I identify with people who hate food and like candy.

You’d expect anyone proclaiming to hate food to be bone thin.  Yah, but I’m not bone thin.  I don’t hate food the same as those people who get away with eating very little, those small-boned people who brag about how they forgot to eat.  How cute are they.

I always fear that the food I eat won’t metabolize properly and will just sit there turning to blubber.  I have fear of food — food anxiety.  I also resent spending energy buying, cooking  and eating food, and I hate washing dishes.  This all takes too much time.

I’d like those pills that they had on the Jetsons.  They took care of all your nutritional needs.  You simply pop one in your mouth, and off you go with your jet-fueled back pack to that shopping mall on Venus.

I was inspired to write this post after seeing my image in a dressing room mirror. Aren’t those mirrors evil?

“Is that…m-my…b-b-butt?”  I said.  Maybe I’m in denial about the amount of food I eat?

I really don’t eat much, but once I start eating, it continues until my body says it should stop, and I hate that because it thwarts my fantasy of getting away with eating just once a day.

I know I’m twisted when it comes to food – and maybe a few other things — but, I just need to eat, live and stop ragging on my butt – it’s a useless exercise.

I do have the ability to enjoy food however.  I enjoyed Chilean bass a couple of days ago.  Maybe I’ll write a post about that, and how I only decided to look at the price on the wrapping around the rest of the fish in the refrigerator after it almost killed me because it was so transporting.  It dawned on me that any fish that could do this had to be pricey.

Entenmann’s Cherry Cheese Danish

Published June 14, 2012 by Sandee

On the walk home with my groceries including my Entenmann’s cherry cheese danish that I totally planned to eat for dinner, a neighborhood drunk, sitting on the side of the historical house says, “I thought you was supposed to be losin’.”   That son of a bitch!  He sees me jogging all the time so I guess he felt like he was calling me on something.  [Warning to men: “Female Problems” Alert] I have fibroids that make my stomach stick out at “certain times.”  I was twisted with bags and wearing a tee-shirt so it was probably prominent.  I don’t have a weight problem.  I exercise regularly and generally eat quinoa, steamed vegetables every night – organic shit – that kind of thing.  So what he said didn’t make me want to run home, get on the scale and throw my danish away – I’m too old for that shit now.  My toothpick days are over, and it ain’t as bad as I would have imagined as a 25 year old neurotic who’d rather smoke than eat.  I do know this rat bastard – he’s one of the neighborhood bums and drunks that I plan to write about.  “How dare you?”  I said lamely, and went home where I indulged in a scrumptious meal of Doritios, orange ginger cookies and my Entenmann’s cherry cheese danish.  Suck my dick you greasy drunk bastard!

I’m Late for Shabbos

Published March 28, 2012 by Sandee


I tell my buddy at work before leaving on Friday evening that I’m exhausted because I don’t get much sleep.  I want to run, but don’t know if I’d survive it.  This young woman’s a big runner, so we often discuss running and the races she participates in.  She’s much younger than I am, so of course she says I should go on ahead and do it.  “It energizes me when I’m tired,” she says.  “Oh all right.  I’ll try,” I say.  “Yeah, just run real slow,” she tells me.

I don’t know that I can refer to my running as running anymore, it’s more like jogging these days.  As years pass, I get slower and slower.  I watch young bunnies pass me by and remember the old days when I sprinted along with the wind in my youth.   I think with pride – “I’d beat your ass right off if I was your age!”   I do what I can now, sweating like a pig, taking forever to jog the few miles I try to tackle every week, swallowing my pride about how I look.

Having left work, walking on the path to the bus, I feel like I’m trudging through molasses I’m so tired.  My senses are dull, the color green in the trees and grass doesn’t seem that green, and my hearing is muffled.  Walking irritates me.  I stop an impulse to start whining, and my pocket book feels like a bag of rocks.  I hope I don’t run into anyone I know on the bus.  I work in the lush area of Riverdale, where you don’t find the heavy traffic of people that you find in midtown.  There you can hide from people in the throng of suits.  The idea of small talk overwhelms me and makes my chest tense up – the energy it demands, the cheerful façade you have to put up.  I am sure that a grimace would seep through the conversation and that the other person would think:  “Sandee is finding this conversation painful.”   At the bus stop, I prop myself on the garbage can, which smells like a dead rat, but I don’t care —  either that or I’m stretching out on the grass behind me.  The BX7 pulls up, I get on and think, ‘How the hell’m I goin’ runnin’?…zzzzzzzzzzzz…’

At home I put on my running clothes right away before I change my mind.  Should I drink coffee first why hell yes!  This’ll do the trick to propel me down the street.  I’m doing it, jogging down Seaman, toward Bennett now.  I’m on that stupid incline turning from Broadway onto Bennett, shit!  — This is the part of the jog where I start sweating — I’m sapped.  I coach myself, ‘Fuck it I’ll walk-jog, I ain’t fittin’ to have a heart attack’.  I’m fine as long as I don’t think too hard and don’t worry about how I look – the ego’s a bitch like that.

Four blocks into Bennett I hear the clacking heels of shoes.  It’s just a few yards behind me.   It doesn’t sound like the heels of a woman’s shoes.  The sound is a solid stride that comes from a man’s shoes.  It gets louder.  No, I think.  It’s louder now.  NO, NO!  I say to myself.  This person is merely walking.  I turn around.  He’s an…interesting, well, he’s a young Jewish/black kid, wearing a yarmulke.  He’s got kinky blonde hair, full lips, and other partially African features – I think, I know this kid – could life be weirder.  When I worked in midtown years ago, there was a black woman who’d get on the train with her obviously biracial son who was about three or four at the time.  She was dressed in orthodox Jewish clothes and the kid was wearing a yarmulke – this was that same kid now grown up, a teenager.  How many orthodox black/Jewish kids with kinky blonde hair could there be?  He’s walking faster and faster I can hear — race walking.  I look him in the face now as he’s side by side with me!  Through my huffing and puffing in my version of running, I say pointing at him, “You’re trying to make me look bad!”  I start laughing then.  He smiles and says, “No, I’m just late for Shabbos,” and he continues to walk past me.  He leaves me in the dust by two whole blocks!   The rat bahstid!  I’d just been passed by somebody walking?!  This is the funniest shit that’s happened to me in quite a while – I’m so invigorated by the humor in this that I don’t even feel tired anymore!  Between laps, I’m laughing my ass off when no one’s looking.