y’all, i don’t exercise

Y’all, today I died and went to Hell – fat girl Hell.

For those not close to Coty, just know that he has a serious case of OCD. He obsesses about cars (more on that in another post) and exercise. People with OCD require routine. Here is Coty’s:  he either runs 4 – 5 miles or does 60 minutes on the elliptical every morning, lifts weights three days per week, and walks Maggie every night. Y’all. Like every fucking day – all seven of them. #freak Me, on the other hand, I play games. On my phone. From the couch. I watch TV. The only lifting I do on the daily is my vodka tonic. And, the bulk of my steps are me getting from the couch to the refrigerator.

Periodically, Coty tries to guilt me into exercising with him. Today, it was, “it’s gorgeous out; let’s go for a leisurely bike ride. I promise I’ll go slow. I’ll take you on the trails (he recently discovered) and I won’t make you go all the (goddam) way to the Bark Park. You’re not 60 so stop acting like you are” (he said with love). Now, let’s just say that I own a bike. And, that bike has a place … which is hanging on the wall of our garage. I bet we bought it ten years ago. We paid stupid money for it a Sun & Ski. My fatass *may* have ridden it one time and that was enough for me. Coty informed me that the tires just “needed a little air” and that it would be good to go. Whatever. I promise him that if he will air up the tires and take it for a spin to deem it safe, I’ll go. That bought me a whole 3.5 more minutes to play a game on my phone. I secretly hoped that the bike would crash and catch fire. Sadly, he was back in before I could finish my game. I stood in my closet for a good ten minutes – telling him that I had nothing to wear. I finally opted for yoga pants (that, for the record, HAVE seen the inside of a yoga studio) and my pink Vineyard Vines hoodie. If today is the day I die, at least I’m wearing a color that compliments my skin tones.

I looked both ways – mostly to make sure no one was watching – and off we went. You know the phrase, “it’s like riding a bike”? Yeah, my decrepit old broken-down hips call bullshit. All I could do was focus on staying upright. Of course, my darling husband goes pedaling off into the day without a care in the world. #skinnybastard He’s steering with one hand and looking back at me and even offered some words of encouragement like “you’re fine”. The grip I had on the handlebars left a permanent imprint. At one point, he claimed that he was doing me a favor, “as a real estate professional, you should about these trails; they’re a huge selling point for our subdivision”. What I heard: “now, you can tell your clients where to hide the bodies”. He kept trying to ride side-by-side with me. I finally had to tell him in a not-so-polite way that I needed the entire width of the sidewalk. He actually asked, “why? You don’t trust me”? No, mother fucker, I don’t fucking trust you. One of your life mantras is “rubbin’ is racin’”. Get the fuck up outta here before you “accidentally” rub my tire and send me flying off to my grave.

We followed the sidewalk out of the subdivision to his new found trails and before I knew it, we were all the fucking way at the dog park. What the actual fuck? How the HELL am I meant to get home? It’s almost two miles, TWO MILES. I can’t walk. Get the car. Water! I didn’t pack water. Snacks! There are NO snacks. Oh. My. God. This is how I die. Video killed the radio star and a bicycle ride killed the fat girl. Coty is all smiling and shit and I’m behind him gasping like I’m taking my last breath. He never felt the daggers I kept shooting into his back with my eyes.  I passed another plus sized lady on the trail (she was smart enough to be on foot instead of a fucking bicycle) and we exchanged looks – isn’t it better to be fat and happy than thin and without tacos? Even my Apple Watch was yelling, “you’ve closed your loops; YOU’VE CLOSED YOUR LOOPS” – translation, “go home, fat girl”.

I did not sign up for this. Coty stopped to tell me, “oh, right around this corner, there’s a little dirt path that makes a circle. Wanna try dirt”? You’re joking, right? The only dirt I’m going near is the dirt I’m about to bury you in. After all, I wouldn’t be in this state of misery if it weren’t for him and his insistence that I exercise. Thinking back, I believe the fresh air must’ve gotten to me. There’s no other explanation for why I would agree to a dirt path. In my mind, I envisioned a high school track with dirt on it – long straights and easy turns. Nope. There were a shit-ton of *sharp* turns, tree branches in the ground to “jump” over, mini hills and me on my fat girl bike. Coty kept yelling back at me, “shift down; stand up to pedal”. Bitch, I can barely sit down to pedal. Fuck the gears; fuck this bike. I’m fucking dying. Right here on the dirt path. Behind the dog park. My life flashed before my eyes and it wasn’t pretty. He added, “we should ride out here more often so we can feel at one with nature”. Look asshat, the only thing you gonna feel is my foot going square up your ass when I get off this goddam bike!

I refused to let Coty ride behind me on our way home. Honestly, I think he took secret video and I fully expect to find them on the internet soon: #fatkarenridesabike Look for it. Periodically, he’d slow to a stop to wait for me to catch up. Here’s the deal with me: if I’m moving, don’t try to slow me down. Momentum. I took two semesters of college physics and it’s one of the only things I remember – a body in motion, stays in motion. If I have to use the energy to stop and then start back up again, I may hurt someone. Since there’s no one else around, that person is likely to be you. #gobitch

There were two places on the trails that had a pole in the middle of the sidewalk with a posted sign, “no motor vehicles”. The first place, was an intersection with cars that were not required to stop. Ask me if I stopped. Ask me if I looked both ways. Nope. Kill me now. Plow me over. This is how I die. Sadly, no luck. The second pole encounter was at a wood bridge that crossed some sort of river/lake/ocean. What the fuck ever. I was intimidated. People were coming towards us so I did my best to fake it and made it safely across the bridge. On our way back, I wasn’t so lucky. Coty yells back, “watch the bump”. Yeah, I watched the fucking bump … crash me in the wall of the bridge. [Note to self: send letter of thanks to City of League City for providing a wall on the bridge or else I would’ve crashed to my death]. I look up at Coty (who stopped ONLY to laugh) and tried to redirect my now bent handle bars back towards the path. I never heard “are you okay?”. In case y’all didn’t recognize it, that’s called love.

We when finally get home, my dismount and following walk look nothing shy of Carol Brady from the episode when the Brady Bunch rides mules down into the Grand Canyon. Coty made some remark like, “that’s the most action those yoga pants have seen since…”. He stopped there because I fucking killed him. I mean, not really. I would’ve killed him if I could’ve caught him. When I complained later, he responded “but did you die”? And, that, my friends, will be on his tombstone.

My shaky legs carried me from the garage to the back patio. Coty comes through and starts explaining the Fitness app on the iPhone and how we rode nearly FIVE miles. I managed the words, “the only fitness I’m currently interested in is fittin’ this vodka tonic into my belly”. He didn’t say much else but did offer to take me out to dinner since “your makeup doesn’t look *that* bad after our ride”. <don’t mind me while I swoon>. I won’t be able to walk tomorrow or the day after. But, hey – let’s get Thai for dinner.

Here’s the good news: I have a follow up with my GP on Tuesday when I’m certain he will ask (because he *always* does), “have you been exercising?” Just think, I’ll be able to respond honestly with “yup, I exercised for six straight days after Christmas (because we were at Disney World and then again on Sunday!”