Temple of Fat

Feel this. This burn is good, the burn is good, the burn is good.

The more I say it, the more I'll believe it. The more I say it, the less it will feel like physical pain, and more like an abstract affirmation. An affirmation of life. Life. I'm Alive and Madonna is telling me right now that it's fine, "I'll die another day. Hear me Roar Roar Roar, Rah, Rah, Rah.

Here me grunt and double over in abstract affirmations of my super-empowered female self.

The elliptical is burning my lungs and my thighs, my back, calves, arms, everything. Everything is on fire and the fire, methinks, could care less about feminist declarations of grandeur. Focus. Must focus on the positive. I'm tidying up the loose outlines of myself which should please me. This should be pleasure. It feels good. No, GREAT! It's pure endorphin-driven euphoria to run in a packed phallynx formation with twenty other sweating, panting, equally distressed yet fiercely determined wobbling bodies all grasping desperately for the distraction of iPod playlists with pounding bass rhythms and little individual plasma screen TVs.

Groan.

The woman beside me- let's call her Trish because, if I was to hazard an educated guess, I think there's a 90% likelihood this individual was named circa 1982, a'la Debbie Gibson, Electric Youth. You can tell from the illegitimate hair shafts- dark roots spawning canary yellow children, combined with an obvious durability testing candidate for Spandex sports bras....this must be a product of our infamous New Jersey coastline. No other viable explanation.

Well, "Trish just gave me a look suggesting that my little inadvertent outburst might have caused her to lose one-tenth less of a calorie than her standard pre-allotted 30 minutes on the elliptical would normally bequeath to her in return for her consistent attendance to the Temple of Fat. Good thing I've learned to ignore passive aggressive behavior. And this, I do believe, is a prime example thereof.

If only the New York Sports Club was in the very lucrative business of selling indulgences. I would certainly pick up a few of those: Ten dollars for a top shelf margarita and a basket of chips??? SOLD! Feel lazy this month? No problem. Simply pay your fat tax for the month and you're released on bail. No questions asked.

I would buy one of those in a minute!