Naked in the Locker Room

It has been a crazy couple of weeks.  So much to blog about, but not really able to due to content and me valuing employment and my family life.  So many things that anger the pony, but also so many things that baffle the pony.  Today, I'd like to talk about body images.  I know, I know, I never talk about that, ever, right?  Ground-breaking stuff, really.

Since January, I have really tried to throw myself into world of fitness and gym membership.  It isn't easy being the fat girl in the dressing room or out in the gym, for that matter.  It's a pretty self-conscious kind of thing.  The Gym Barbies are out there in their sports bras, cute little yoga shorts, their hair in a high pony tail.  They look totes adorbs.  I, on the other hand, wearing a big baggy t-shirt and yoga pants that stop at the heel of my shoe.  This baby is covered up.  I have even recently purchased some snugger fitting yoga pants so that I can keep this jiggle under control.  When I am doing my intervals on the elliptical, I don't need my thighs giving me a round of applause.  When I am doing my kettle bell swings, I don't need my arms flapping.  This body moves, and not always when I tell it to.  None the less, it is what it is and I go forth and do what needs doing.  And, yes, I pick a time to go to the gym when there are not a lot of Gym Barbies down there.  I don't need to see that.  But ultimately, it is what it is, and I try and push it out of my mind.

What has become kind of a mystery to me is the locker room behavior.  I usually go down to the gym when there is only one or two other girls down there.  They are friendly, nice people.  By the time I finish at the gym and am  getting dressed, that is usually about the time the Gym Barbies show up.  The mystery to me is how people are so shy about their bodies.  Here I am, with every reason to hide and be ashamed, but I'm like you know what, if you want to look and judge, take a good hard look cuz here it is.  Doesn't mean I'm walking around naked owning the room, but I just stay over in my little corner and go about my business.  And it is serious business.  I mean, this body is now warmed up and I have to get the FCD to roll down over my boobs.  It is a work-out in itself. Sometimes I'm trapped there.  The FCD is all rolled up under my arm pits and I'm reaching around trying to pull it down, but it won't go.  I'm all contorted, belly sticking out, back arched, one arm tugging in the front, one arm tugging in the back, sometimes a full body shimmy is incorporated.  My Victoria Secret bra, with way more padding than any girl should attempt, is holding the FCD hostage.  I finally get it under control and now I'm sweaty again.  Now, it's time to get the nylons back on and try not to snag them.  It's an art.  You don't just go willy-nilly tugging those bad boys on there.  You were lucky to get them on the first time with no snags, but now a second time? You have just reached "dreamer" status.  Anyway, I'm just saying, it's like a side-show, but I own it and I put myself back together without shame.  This is the body I have, right now, like it or not.

In the midst of my dressing extravaganza, I do catch a glimpse of a person here or a person there. I am always amazed by the smaller girls either taking their stuff into the handicapped bathroom stall to change or huddling in the corner like a homeless waif desperately trying to cover up.  Really?  We are all women here. Unless you have boy parts that the average woman doesn't have, then I don't think you have anything to worry about.  And, who is checking you out? No one.  Everyone glances around as they talk and such, but I don't really think anyone is scrutinizing your body.  And, another thing, if this saggy, cellulite infested mosh pit of lilly white skin can make a semi-public appearance in the locker room, why can't yours?  You take care of it, you look great, why are you shuffling off into the handicapped stall?  I'm not saying you should do a runway walk through the locker room, but where is your self-confidence?  No body is perfect, even the skinny ones.  I don't understand, I guess.  Maybe it's just modesty?  I'm starting to think that maybe skinny girls have feelings...and body issues, too.  I mean, of course they do, right?  Maybe in that respect I'm better off than I think?  I mean, my husband has seen me naked...with the lights on and in the daytime.  That has to count for something.  I'm not saying I'm ready to go to a nakie resort or anything, but I am not going to freak if someone sees me naked in a normal situation where people get naked, ie, the locker room, the doctor, my bedroom, etc.

When I think about it, I think my sixth grade locker room trauma may have actually done me a favor in life.  There I was, in the locker room in sixth grade.  We were required to take showers and we had to get wet in the open showering area and then walk up to the gym teachers office window to get a towel.  And, if you were not wet enough, you were sent  back to the shower.  It was horrifying and humiliating for a girl of 12 years old. Especially a fat girl.  And, like as if the kids weren't already mean to me prior to sixth grade, this new middle school little bitch popularity thing was no fun to survive either.  So, in my effort to hurry back to my locker to get dressed, I was walking really quickly on a smooth cement floor.  I was scampering, almost.  You and I both know where this is going.  That's right, my wet feet slipped and I went down I went like a fish onto a slab and my fat butt and legs made a slapping sound like no other.  Everyone turned to look. So, now, here is a naked fat girl trying to get off a slippery floor with some sort of dignity.  It's impossible, just so you know.  Survivable, but not possible to hold one's head high after that.  I think at that moment I realized, just don't make an issue of it.  I'm just going to go about my business.  And, if that little pop-tart barbie bitch wearing her Garfield underwear that say Tuesday on the front of them and a non-necessary training bra wants to say something to me, Fuck. Her.  I'd rather blend in than run around trying to hide.  I mean really, it's like a Buick trying to hide behind a blade of grass.  Come on, get real.

And so, back to modern day in the locker room.  What are these women so afraid of?  What is it about their body that is so horrid they have to go hide, or why are they trying to wrestle a towel and and their clothes at the same time so no one knows they are naked under there? You know what?  If I wear my underwear that say, "Bombshell" on the ass of them, I'm going to own it.  Check 'em out, ladies.  Of course, then you have the other side of it.  You do have the Gym Barbies that are all tan, got big hooters and seem to enjoy standing there buck naked talking to you with grand hand gestures.  I'm glad she's comfortable, but could you reign it in?  I know I just said own it, but I didn't say flaunt it.

Really, what I'm saying is, hey, it's no secret that I hate this skin I'm stuck in.  I'm trying to change that and I'm trying to believe in who I am becoming, but I can still stand there and own it.  I guess I should be proud that I can, because even some of the prettiest and skinniest of girls can't.  As a bigger person, I have spent a lifetime with these body issues and viewing the "skinny bitches" of the world with envy, admiration, hate, jealousy and contempt.  I think, maybe I have been too hard on them, or given them too much credit for being "lucky."  Life is so much more complex than how we look, it's too bad society is so keen on keeping that in the forefront.  Anyway, I'm not going to lie to you, I'm still going to be jealous and I'm still going to watch America's Next Top Model to see skinny bitches in turmoil, but in the locker room, I think maybe I can be a little smug knowing that I'm not hiding in the handicapped stall.

Work it, bitch. (insert finger snap, here)

I AM The Sun

What. A. Day.  This week has been a stressful one as the gradual change-over happens from Four Feet of Fury to Cross Fit Crazy.  I have not wanted to get out of bed all week and today was no exception.  My alarm went off and I kept hitting the snooze button.  My good dog Spanky crawled up on my chest and snuggled his head under my chin.  While I laid there and contemplated staying in bed with Spanky, I knew I needed to get moving.  I got out of bed and walked over to my dresser to pull out some underwear.  I stood there and could not decide between the white ones with tan polka dots, the teal colored solid, or the red and pink stripes.  I don't know how many minutes went by as I seriously analyzed how each pair would work with my possible wardrobe choice for the day.  This decision shouldn't be this hard.  It's underwear.  It's not something as complex as black shoes or brown shoes with an off-white top and jeans.  I mean, that could really go either way.  It depends on several factors and the overall "feel" of the ensemble.  Anyway, I finally settled on the appropriate pair (white with the tan polka dots, because I know you are invested in this conversation by now).  The rest of the morning was equally challenging, what to wear, what to make for lunch, what am I bringing to the potluck? What the hell is going on with my hair? Why won't this hairspray do what it says it will do on the can? Mother Trucker.

I started on my way to work and realized just how late I was running.  I sent FFF a text message informing her that I would be late because I had a bad attitude and that I would be there soon.  When I did finally arrive, it was like the gates of hell were unleashed.  The first thing I see is 200 fresh donuts, visitors that were here to launch a new product, all carrying red balloons, wearing shirts with a sun on them and eagerly waiting for employees to arrive.  Someone led them straight to me.  I won't go into all the details, but it wasn't long and I found myself in the freaking sun costume and I'm walking around the building with a fistful of balloons and spreading sun-shiny joy.  Forced smile, crazy eyes, excreting all the damn that I could give.  I was a ray of sunshine.  People were confused.  They know better.  I guess this made it funnier, but the visitors following me around thought I was, and I quote, "A natural at this."  And that I really am good at this and should do it professionally and look how great everyone is responding.  Look, out-of-towners, this ain't my first rodeo.  How does one "professionally" wear a sun costume and promote their product?  Were they offering me a job?  Should I do Jimmie Dean commercials in my spare time?  I finally finished doing my rounds and returned to my desk.  I took off the sun costume and said, "Sunrise is over folks, if you want mid-day sun, talk to Cross Fit Crazy."

My day progressed with random chaos.  Things like, "Hey, is there anything you can do about the smell in the women's bathroom?  It smells like a urinal when the janitor is done in there."  I responded, "I'm pretty sure it smells like that before he goes in there.  I'm just relieved when it doesn't smell like someone just emptied their bowels.  I guess I don't notice the urinal smell."  Seriously, do I really need to be fielding this question right now?  Then, it's an email about the vending machine, "hey, the water line in the back of the machine is making a beeping noise and a light is flashing."  I needed to have someone check my back, does it say Janitor on the back of my little sweater?  I looked down, yep, I'm still wearing a dress and I don't see any yellow scrub gloves on my hands.  I didn't see an embroidered name tag on my sweater that said "Greg - Vending Machine Repair.  Hmmm, I wonder where these people were getting their information?  After being told yesterday that the cheeseburgers in the vending machine were causing stomach upset and needed to be changed more regularly, I was about at my end of patience for this bullshit.  Hey, dumbass, stop eating cheeseburgers out of a pre-sealed plastic bag that is stored in a lit up carousel of processed crap food.  I would think if you shit your pants once, that would do it.  Maybe cause you to change your ways.  But if you want to just keep shitting yourself and complaining, then I don't know what to tell you.

"Cassondra, I need a new badge holder."  "Cassondra, can you make a color copy of this?" "Cassondra, is it okay if we put pictures of race horses on these boxes and put them by your desk?"  "Cassondra, where did you get these decorations?"  "Cassondra, will you go get me a donut?"  "Cassondra, I don't like the way my free t-shirt fits, get me a new size." "Cassondra, can you make sure everyone knows they are invited to this meeting and arrange it?" "Cassondra, do you have any swag I can take to a work function?"  "Cassondra, do you have superglue?"  "Cassondra, can I have the straw out of your cup?" "Cassondra...."  And on and on and on....I found myself feeling a little on edge at 2pm, still had not taken lunch, but had consumed a donut and random potluck items.  Now, I felt bad.

The day started to wind down, but people kept coming around to say their good-bye's to FFF, so it was constant commotion.  At one point, we found ourselves, don't really know how, but we found ourselves discussing how the term "420" relates to marijuana.  How did that start?  Who started it.  I suggested I would Google it.  FFF immediately said, "NO, if you do, do it at home or your phone, not on the work computer."  LOL.  Look how cute she was, trying to keep us all out of trouble.  Fine.

Finally, everything calmed down, FFF left the building for the day and I had a few moments of peace.  Cross Fit Crazy came out of the office with our VP.  The VP asked me, "Well, do you think this is going to work?"  I told him, "Yes, no worries.  I believe under my close supervision, I can mentor him and make him a good Director.  He's not the first boss I've trained. I think he has potential.  No worries, I got this."  I could tell this put the VP right at ease.  I'll whip Cross Fit into shape.  Indeed.

I walked out to my truck with Valerina and we discussed and solved the problems of the company while standing in the rain.  I think we got it hammered out.  Just need to do the appropriate amount of ass-kicking, monitoring and enforcing.  A lot of problems are handled in the parking lot.  Maybe the US President needs to move some of his meetings to the parking lot. I'm telling you, it's very productive.

Feeling better about things, but still exhausted, I headed home.  I thought I'd call my brother and ask him about the 420 thing.  He is kind of a subject matter expert.  We don't need to discuss how he is an expert.  Sadly, he was not available...possibly because it was after 4:20pm and he was ...busy.  Just a theory.  I wish I could get into that whole drinking or smoking a bowl thing, I really could use to unwind and achieve full relaxation.  As a matter of fact, I can think of a few other people that maybe should smoke a bowl from time to time so they don't send me over the edge.

I really have no eloquent or transitional way of ending this blog tonight, other than to say, I"m done.  It's been a crazy day, tensions were high, energy was weird, people were stressed, things are a mess, any sense of normalcy is gone, I'm in a funk and need a serious vacation.  I need to have Sassy Pants stop being my chocolate pimpette and I'm not calling anyone to ask them any "light-hearted" questions because of all the previous things I just mentioned.  Shaking off today and going to bed. 

Four Feet of Fury - End of an Era

Exactly one year ago, a brand new boss arrived at the Glass Palace.  She came in there, all sunshine and rainbows and I was like, oh, hell no.  I'm not gonna be all perky.  And, after a previous boss leaving and me being so sad about it, I decided I wasn't going to get attached.  The good bosses never stay and the bad ones stay too long. Not getting attached.  Her prior admin told me, "you will not be able to not like her.  You will not be able to not get attached."  I said, "Well, I'm not into that perky crap, I won't succumb." 

Turns out, the boss, Four Feet of Fury, as I would come to name her, grew on me.  I was powerless to stop it. I even spent the last week decorating the stupid Glass Palace with flowers and bees and butterflies and spring crap.  Looks like Spring threw up in there.  I did it all for Four Feet of Fury because I knew it would make her happy.  Dang it if I didn't actually care.  I wanted her to be happy so she would not want to leave.

Today, a year after her arrival at the Glass Palace, I found myself standing in her office along with the supervisors hearing her tell us that she was resigning.  I stood there, sick to my stomach.  I would not cry.  I promised myself when this day came, and I knew it would, although, not quite so soon, that I would not cry.  I'm just an employee and she is just a boss.  Except, she wasn't just a boss, she was Four Feet of Fury.  She made me smile when I didn't feel like it, she listened to me go on a bitch rant when I needed her to, she trusted me to do my job, she would get all riled up and cuss.  She would be on a conference call with her headset on and come running out of her office, only to have her headset jerk her back in there.  She made me laugh at least once everyday.  I would miss her, a lot.  I left her office after the announcement and I cried. Stupid girl emotions. Hate them.  Stupid uterus and fucking hormones. And, what are those other things?  Oh yeah, feelings.  Ugh.

As if the day could not suck anymore, I had an appointment with Dr. B.  Time to follow-up with her on my progress.  Last time I saw her, she put me on some meds to help my weight loss get unstuck.  I went there knowing that results would not be what I wanted them to be.  I wore the lightest dress I owned, wore the lightest jewelry, thought about foregoing underwear, my watch and shoes, but then realized I probably needed those things.  I went in there and I'm five pounds down from last time.  A victory for some, but a harsh blow considering how I had been killing it in the gym and trying so hard.  With the exception of the last week that I took off due to my hip/butt issue that is causing me grief.  I was told to try harder and keep on going.  She asked me how I was doing mentally.  Not a good day for this question.  Today, I wasn't feeling so great and I was disappointed in myself.  I don't care if it was justified or not, it's how I felt, so get over it.

I left Dr. B and started driving back to work.  I was mulling everything over in my head.  Angry, sad, frustrated, scared, worried.  And then, that's when "Fuck it" Pony chimed in.  Fuck it Pony said, "Let's stop by the store, get a bunch of candy and drown our sorrows in chocolate."  And then, I was like, "no, we can't do that.  That is defeating, we can't do that."  Well, Fuck it Pony made quite a convincing argument and so I found myself at Rite Aid in the Easter candy aisle.  Look a 2 for $5 special.  I loaded up my basket with chocolate, and one package of pretzel Goldfish, because correct me if I'm wrong, but Goldfish soak up any evils you put in your belly, and I was off to work.  I walked in, stomped over to Sassy Pants desk and dumped all the chocolate there so that it wasn't at my desk.  I was back five minutes later to get my cut of the loot.

Now I was settled back at my desk, surrounded by candy and I started to read all the messages on my computer.  I was not amused, nor patient with some that chose to message me today.  I sent back angry retorts to their stupid questions.  I ate some more chocolate.  My phone rang.  It was from someone else that had an "emergency" and needed an answer now.  You know what, I'm the boss of me now.  Screw these people.  They will get their answer when I decide they get it.  No one bullies me today.  I chose not to answer.  That is what voice mail is for.  Her message sounded desperate.  Annoyed, I sent her an instant message.  She didn't answer, so I copied the message and emailed it to her.  There.  Problem resolved.

Four Feet of Fury came out and stood at my desk.  She said I couldn't come with her to her new job because I don't speak Cantonese.  I told her that I spoke Bitchin-ese, which is universal.  Apparently, that is not a recognized language.  She said the opportunity just came to her, she didn't seek it out.  I said, "I want an opportunity to come to me."  She said I have to be open to it.  What the hell does that mean? I'm open.  I gave her the stink eye and she went away.  Hmph.  I started thinking about the situation more and more with each bite of chocolate.  Why do the good bosses always leave me?  She told me I couldn't leave her.  She's leaving me.  How come I'm not leaving these people in the dust?  How come I'm not using my college degree?  How come I don't have a career?  How come I'm just a dumb admin with no future, no hope and a fat ass?  How come?!  How come I'm not open to opportunity?  Apparently I'm only open for cellulite and debt.  Now, I'm really mad.  And now, I am sick to my stomach from all the chocolate.  It's time to switch from missiles to guns, I got the Goldfish out.  These crackers would make it better.  Then, my good pal Ambular reminded me of my plan.  The plan we have had all along.  The plan is, we ride this pony till it breaks it's leg and then we find a new pony.  That's always been the plan.  Stick to the plan.  But, if I stick to the plan, what happens to me inside?  Am I bitter?  Am I happy being an admin for the REST OF MY LIFE until I can't work here anymore and then I end up at freaking Walmart being a freaking greeter while I sit in my go-go electric chair with my inhaler and and IV drip hanging behind me?  And then I hope someone helps me change my Depends in the restroom later?  And then at 7pm the short bus with the ramp comes to pick me up and take me to the shelter where I live with a cot, one wool blanket with holes in it that the rats chewed and a copy of TV Guide from 1984 that has a crossword puzzle about the soap opera General Hospital, which I have to use a pencil on so I can erase the answers and then do it again later like it is a new puzzle, which I think it is, because I don't remember what happened ten minutes ago, let alone yesterday, but fucking-A, I remember when John Stamos was on General Hospital and Rick Springfield, too.  Is this my destiny?  Is this how it's all going to play out?  All because I can't speak Cantonese?  Or because I can't get motivated to lose weight or have a real career?  What is the point of my life?  And more importantly, is it time to walk over to Sassy Pants desk and  get more of those mini-Twix bars because I think the Goldfish have settled my stomach down?

I sat there, feeling dejected and sad.  Feeling like a big loser.  I decided to open a couple of boxes the mail lady left on my desk.  I had just ordered some more balloons for the Glass Palace.  Four Feet of Fury loves balloons and fun.  I opened them and there they are, the smiley face balloons I ordered.  For her.  Because I knew she would love them.  Now I just wanted to blow them up and punch them all in the smiling mother trucking face.  Then, I opened the package that had stars on them.  They were latex with white stars.  The first one I pull out is like a creamish-transparent color.  Good Lord, it looked like a bag of condoms.  The stars were raised off of the balloons.  Ribbed...for her pleasure.  Condom balloons.  Really?  Admin fail.  I'm not even a good admin. 

I sat there feeling dejected.  I turned around and Valerina had left her stinky lunch at my desk, had destroyed my sarcasm magnet that had a pen attached to it.  The pen kept jumping to it's death on the floor.  Someone else had left their water bottle there.  I had a box of open happy fucking balloons and chocolate wrappers everywhere.  I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. My eyes were puffy, my hair had gone wonky and I had chocolate dots on my dress.  I felt like maybe I was coming off some sort of cocaine overdose and was living in some alternate universe called Babysitting Land.  I'm going to die here.  I know it.  Either here, or at Walmart...or at the shelter, under the holey wool blanket...with the TV Guide page stuck to my right cheek. I sat there for a moment coming off that image and then noticed the the blue, plastic peace bracelet Four Feet of Fury gave me.  I think it was a consolation prize for surviving the day, I guess.  I put it on.  I didn't feel at peace.  I got a defective bracelet.  Mother Trucker. It figures.

As I was getting ready to leave, I told Four Feet of Fury that it had been one hell of a day and that I had to blog tonight.  She said, "oh no, please don't blog about me."  I'm like, you're not the boss of me anymore.  I do what I want.  And so, tonight's blog is a wrap.