I warned you. You opened it anyway. This is your LAST chance to save yourself a TMI visual of epic proportions. I’m sharing because, well, I dunno really other than I tend to find everyday chaos and real life things hilarious. This was not hilarious as it was happening but as I look back and think of it in my head. The story MAKES, no, begs me to share. I normally keep all my stupid stories to myself or very close friends
but while I’m trying to lose weight, I’m trying to gain the me that got suffocated by all M’fluff. Although, once a few years ago I wrote a VERY personal story about something and posted it anonymously really late at night through some really big crocodile sized tears
and I still feel guilty and wonder about it be- boppin’ around in the cyber universe forever and ever. I had to make the hubby read it to rid myself of the guilt and he didn’t think it was funny
…but, it so was. On with the show…
This morning I had a weigh in scheduled at NastiFast.
I was concerned it wouldn’t be a super great one for a few reasons. One, I started adding some moderate weight training to my workout this week
and that always tends to slow my loss for a bit and TWO(as in the freakin’ #2!) my downtown plumbing has been on the fritz. I’m going to be as delicate and cryptic as possible to not cross over from regular ol’ TMI territory to creeptastic overshare. Oh, h
ll…it’s the latter and there’s just nothing to be done about it.
I suspect the sluggish plumbing is related to the MASSIVE decrease in food intake and then there’ s the whole eating powders, puffs and potions
until I have to watch myself so I don’t start snacking on packing popcorn.
With a little Tony Chacheres it’d probably taste better than the NastiFast puffs, bites? I don’t know why I call ‘em puffs. Probably because they are kinda poofy when you bite ‘em.
Last night I was thinking’ of my downtown discomfort and about the weigh in and thought I should try to correct the plumbing problem or I might um, see the scale not moving south and it would be all on account of dumbbells and a backed up back porch.
When you have a problem you want to correct
it, no? So, of course I took a “correct
ol”. One. Uno. One itty bitty pretty little pink pill.
Imagine my surprise when this morning I woke up and all was quiet in the nether regions. Nadda. Crotch crickets(not the kind you get from tequila shots and a sketchy guy marinatin’ in polo cologne) The kind when nuttin’s happening. Oh well. I dropped my little one off at school
and decided a big cup of black coffee
may jump start the little pink plumber. I stopped and grabbed my go go juice, guzzled
, then headed for the dreaded weigh in. I hate getting on the scale! I am a person. Not produce, although I do resemble the world‘s largest apple pear. Yet, when dieting, I do weigh daily because I’m a glutton for punishment, and a regular ol’ run of the mill glutton, I suppose. It’s why I’m here.
See how easily I get off track?
Weigh in goes fine. 2.2 pounds lost and I was ok with that… all things considered.
Speaking of “all things“, t’was still quiet down in the wooded area so I decide to head home before heading to
exercise. I spotted a garage sale sign near my neighborhood and I got a wild hair up my rear (join the party!) and decided to take a look see.
I’m perusing around the junk I don’t need to lug home but seriously TRYING to find anything that I can pretend I need because let’s face it, I can’t eat Ben & Jerry’s. I can’t afford to shop retail because NastiFast is so crazy expensive so I’m putting in real effort to spend a few nickels. I find something’ to add to my clutter and am diggin’ in my wallet when who decides to get off her keister and get to work? You guessed it. The little pink plumber.
That heiffer! I practically threw the money at the garage sale lady and walked to my car much like a penguin with a hemorroid problem might move about. I get to my car and silently thanked my lucky stars that I was so near my own neighborhood but worriedly did a math calculation
that involved the distance from my house to the amount of hours the little box said it would take to “gently” stimulate a laxative effect. I become more and more panicked as the little pink plumber became more and more aggressive in her plumbing approach. My God! Gently, you said gently!. My hands are white knuckled, clenched on the steering wheel
as I try desperately to revoke the contract by clenching elsewhere if ya catch my yucky drift
. I slammed the radio button to do anything to distract myself from what I was rapidly realizing was a very real situation that might have a very real ugly outcome before I could make it 3 more blocks. Milli Vanilli is pretending to sing “Girl, you know it’s true!! Eeewww Eeeewww Ew Ew! (It’s probably “OOhh Ooh oh oh” but I felt a little creative license in the spelling was more than appropriate here). While wondering why I don’t have milli vanilli on my ipod, I round the corner of my very own street where my very own house sits and inside that house is my very own toilet. Whew. This makes me happy. Given a choice for a million bucks or a toilet, I’d of chose the toilet.
I calm a bit for a moment or two before the little pink plumber
does some crazy industrial strength business down there and full on horror sets in that I. am.so.close. Yet, I don’t think I’m going to make it. I drove the length of my driveway like it was the Indy 500
, flung open the car door, purse spilling out, left it open and made for the back door with the tiniest of shuffles because a full on sprint just didn’t seem feasible. My keys, thank god my keys are in my shaky fisted hand. The lock is right in front of me. I am shaking like a leaf and screaming omg!
Omg! Omg! Please no!!!(at who? at myself? I dunno) My hands are trembling so badly, I am cursing the little pink plumber
in my head with words so vile I will not repeat them here.
(The irony of my sudden self editing in a re-telling of an experience such as this does not escape me)
I’m in the house. The dog is so very happy to see me. The dog, as he does every time one of us returns, jumps a few feet in the air excitedly slamming himself into my legs. I try to reason with the dog and explain calmly but in a VERY loud voice, “OMG, “dog’s name here!“, please don’t jostle my lower region!“ I cannot see straight at this point.
Decision making has moved into the fight or flight scenario and is happening at lightning speed.
I decide to just stop and play statue for a moment for absolute certain that one inch will make the difference in me keeping or killing my favorite fat pants. In a flash of brazen courage, I decide to make a hemorrhoidal penguin type run for the hallway.
It was not a good decision.
My pants. My favorite black, comfiest of fat pants in all their Capri-ness glory endured the unthinkable. Pants surely choose to lend themselves to adults rather than babies, I would assume to avoid a fate such as this.
The next good while involved lots of bleach, vigorous cleaning, bathing, humility and spewing forth profanities to the
little pink plumber. At first I vowed revenge
but my sacrifice, the loss, was such that I just wanted to put it behind me, so to speak.
I share because I care. Let not one more pair of fat pants be lost to the evil pinkness. Pep your pipes carefully least you be pants -less.
When I added my tagline under my username. I chose that “I want big pants!” due to this wildly unintentionally hilarious commercial for some weight loss biz where the guy is holding out the waist of some way too big britches and smiles entirely too big
as he asks way too enthusiastically “Do YOU
want big pants?!”. I confirmed aloud to him that yes, I did indeed want big pants. Looking back it was prophetic to say the least. I suppose I should have said I want big, CLEAN pants. Live and learn.
I do realize that instead of all of the above yammering on and TMI type details I could have spared you all with one simple sentence…
“I totally sh*t my pants, y’all!”