Arm Fat.

I went to the gym today to combat both my feeling of icky-ness and my fat arms.  The icky-ness was a result of a morning spent alternately lying on the couch watching HGTV and surfing the internet for my new $750,000 home.  The fat arms are a result of ending one too many nights eating hot fudge sundaes where I didn’t actually put the ice cream in a bowl but rather poured the hot fudge right into the carton and then sprinkled peanuts on top.  Fat arms aside I highly recommend this method as it cuts down on dishes, therefore cutting down on water usage and being good for the environment.  It’s probably the most delicious way I know of fighting global climate change and it makes me feel better about all the aerosol hairspray I used in college.

My true fat arm realization (Oprah would call it an “Ah ha!” moment but I prefer to think of it as a “Fuck you” moment) was when I was getting dressed for work a couple of days ago.  I had begun to notice a few weeks ago that my usually pretty tight and well weight trained arms had started to look a little less Sports Authority and a little more K-mart.  This could have something to do with the fact that the only thing I had been lifting lately were my grocery bags; full with equal amounts of Lean Cuisine meals and quarts of Neapolitan ice cream.  I’m a fan of jackets and was excited that it was chilly enough outside to wear one of my favorites, a short sleeve brown pleather number I bought at Forever 21 while I was living in South Korea.  Don’t knock shopping at Forever 21 until you’ve lived in South Korea and tried to find a clothing store that offers items without Hello Kitty on the front, and don’t knock pleather: it saves cows from being killed for clothing so they can be killed for their rightful purpose, steak.  I pulled the jacket on, checked myself out in the mirror, and decided (as I had with the other 4 outfits I had put on that morning) that it just wasn’t working.  Yes, all of my students that day were under the age of 10, but let’s be honest, kids are cruel.  In the third grade I listened to my mother when she suggested I wear a sequined leotard to the roller rink so it would, “sparkle under the lights,” and the pain I endured that day still lingers. 

I grabbed the bottom of the jacket and tugged ready to pull it off and replace it with something more tweenage chic.  It didn’t budge.  It was stuck.  On my arm fat.  I pulled again.  Nothing.  I danced in a circle while grunting and pulling on the jacket and managed to pull the shoulders of the jacket over the arms so the whole thing was hanging behind me inside out.  Then attempted to grab the collar and pull again while jumping up and down to give myself more leverage.  Five minutes of circle dancing, grunting, and jumping later I simultaneously pulled the jacket off and made it rain.  I threw the jacket on the ground where it lay crumbled like a pile of brown pleather road kill and shouted, “Fuck you!” at the top of my lungs..  That was my “fuck you,” moment, and the moment I realized that “When you can’t get your jacket off” needed to be added to the “pro” side of my current “Should I get a Roommate” list.  My most recent entry was on the “con” side and was titled “When you want to watch Glee in the nude.” 

Needless to say I got my act together and went to the gym to get back into strength training mode.  I also realized that the zippers on the arms of my jacket, which I normally leave open, were closed when the incident occurred which makes me feel a little better but does not excuse my current habit of trading dumbbells for dairy.  Strong is sexy, and it feels good to be back on track.