Fistful of Dollar Menus

Now that I'm working normal human being hours (9-6pm... no, I KNOW), I've committed to enhancing other areas of life.  My mind was starting to atrophy, so I enrolled in an online class -- "History of the World: 1760-Present," and am currently 6 weeks behind.  I also got very competitive with the quizzes.  You can take the girl (WOMAN) out of H-A, but you can't take the H-A out of the gal (WOMAN, please).  Well, you could take the tuition out of your parents' account.  Also, class message boards are a really scary place.  Only second to the Equinox/Soul Cycle/EarthBar Juice Bar complex in West Hollywood.

Speaking of gorgeous models in spandex, I've committed to getting into shape.  Baby just wants to be called "Gamine" or "Lithe" or "Waif," or "Girl with the body of a Victorian child" for once in her life, you know?  So I signed up for a gym membership at Fitness First.  Personally, it's food first, then naps, THEN fitness.  I'm a big fan of this gym because it's perfect for young professionals (read: people with no money).  If you're in the DC area, I highly recommend joining.  (AND IF SOMEONE FROM FITNESS FIRST HAPPENS TO READ THIS AND DECIDE TO GIVE ME A FEW MONTHS FREE, I WOULD THINK ABOUT ACCEPTING THAT KIND GIFT.)

I've recently started a regiiiiiiime.  (I hope you read that like someone who un-ironically says tar-jaaaay.  Or vahhhjaaaaayjaaaaaay.  Gross.)  I have a trainer named Brennan.  Brennan is beautiful, coordinates his sneakers to his non-uniformed apparel, and his teeth looked like they were touched by an angel, who carries Crest Whitestrips in her harp purse.

Before I start my workout, Brennan asks/suggests/tells me to get my ass upstairs and warm-up for 10-15 minutes on the treadmill or elliptical, where I would be ellipting... elliptical-ing... ellipticling?  Moving on.  The other day I walked in and headed over to my usual treadmill.  I looked into the mirror in front of me, (because what's better the analyzing every area on your body that gelatinously pulsates upon each tread, on the mill), and made eye contact with a boy.  Nay, a man.  A man who used to be a boy, who I was pretty into in high school.  I couldn't look at him.  I reverted to the all-girls school (with uniform) me, where I couldn't physically make eye contact with a boy until about age 18.  I looked everywhere BUT the mirror.  "Oh, that's an interesting crack in the Styrofoam ceiling tile...I'll just observe it for another 7 minutes."

I started fear sweating.  On top of the physical exertion sweat.  Then I sweat on top of the striated sweat because I was nervous my butt wasn't cute enough.  That was the view he had, so it better be good.  Since I was so focused on my bootaaaaaaaaay (see above for pronunciation), I noticed something.  My underwear was starting to slide down INSIDE my "yoga" pants (Old Navy says they're yoga pants...).  Just so you get the image -- pants UP, underwear DOWN.  This created a noticeable band at the top of my thighs.  We all know what happened with Lululemon, so imagine the quality of OLD NAVY pants.

I didn't know what to do.  I couldn't stop, hop, and pop those suckers back up because that would require me reaching in my pants like so...





So I continue to yog, and just start maniacally laughing.  Of all the times my underwear decides to fall down and bunch in my un-flaw flattering pants, it had to be now.  With Blank Blankity (not real name, so don't waste your time facebooking) right behind me.  Why couldn't it be with Laura whilst watching Bravo?  Or in front of my apartment elevator where I would shamelessly fix the sitch.

I'm going tangential, people. So, I like to think I have "interesting" logic.  Most people go from A to B, whereas I go from A to Cyrillic.  One time, when waiting for the elevator back in my LA apt building, the same thing happened to me but it was underwear under tights (under a dress).  Maybe I have an underwear-repellent ass.  (Note to self: Check WebMD to see if real disorder.)  With no one in sight, I just flipped up the back of the dress and did what had to be done.  Once everything was back in its proper place, I looked around for any witnesses and then noticed the T.J. Eckleburg of "Hollywood Regis Condos."  There it was.  Some jerk camera, staring straight back at me.  And my FIRST THOUGHT, my FIRST thought.  Was.

"Oh my God.  I really hope no one gets murdered in my building."

Here's my logic -- if someone gets murdered, one of the first things police do is review the footage.  And then they'll see me (and most likely my Coppertone tush) setting things straight.  Then thought train just kept on a-rollin' -- if I prevent the cops from looking at it by stealing footage, or they catch me deleting the tapes, they'll think I'M the murderer and then I go to jail, and then the truth will come in the end anyways.  About the rogue underwear.  Not the murderer.  The murder's probably long gone by now because I've been interfering with the investigation.  But if I had to bet, my roommate at the time was probably the murderer, because she was too silent to be emotionally stable.  But she WAS lenient on late rent, so you gotta give her that.

OK where were we?  The gym.  So after I finished on the tread, I attempted to run to the women's locker room.  This was a little difficult with my underwear down my pants -- sorry, I'm not sure if you've really gotten it, so here's a picture:

My underwear set up shop at that middle ridge.

Alright, underwear back up, let's get this show on the road.  I have my training session.  30 minutes, 15 side-eyes, and about 5 exasperated "Ughhhhhscomeonnnnnnwhyyyyyyyyyyblehhh's" later we finished.  He told me that he was really going to focus on my core because (in his words) "I wanna get rid of allllll this."  He then grabbed my stomach.  The man was handling my stomach.  If Shylock were around, we'd have an adequate pound of flesh, easy.  My response?  I stared at him, sympathetic to his cause.  Earnestly I replied, "I know Brennan... I know."

It's 2 hours out from today's session, and I am currently taping the band of my underwear to my core.  Que sera Saran wrap...