On Being a Flabby Weakling

There are certain stereotypes about both writers and geeks being underdeveloped and scrawny, or hugely obese, squealing in excess Dorito dust when their troughs are emptied of Mountain Dew. These are cruel, demeaning stereotypes — but after a weekend of more sorting and moving some stuff to my storage, I feel there are nuggets of truth to them which need to be addressed. Using myself as an example, of course.

I’m freakin’ sore! My friend and I moved my sectional couch, more books, CDs, etc. I mentioned in my last post that I have recently lost some weight, but this weekend made it clear that it had nothing to do with anything resembling exercise.

Now, I’m an odd juxtaposition of my parents (as opposed to a combo of the homeless woman with the swollen leg-foot I passed the other day and Grover from Sesame Street, I suppose? If not my parents than who would I be a mixture of? Whatever. Work with me here.) My mother is a tiny, petite, intelligent woman who reads often and eschews any physical activity, relying on her hummingbird metabolism to keep her thin. My dad is a tall jock and always has been. He’s always outside, playing sports, and doing active stuff with his stupid mesomorphic body. I got my mother’s relative shortness, but my father’s body type — balance, potential athletic ability, and strength. Unfortunately, I do absolutely nothing with this body or ability other than throw it on the couch to read, play video games, or watch movies (something that has frustrated my father my entire life). I also look just like him (pretty much, I’m his mini-me). When my friend first met him, she freaked out at just how much we look alike. She still brings it up years later.

Coming from these parents, thin islands in an ocean of obese relatives, I have never been more than 15-20 pounds overweight. I’ve also gotten quite cocky, relying on what is frequently described as freakish strength and the body/metabolism I inherited.

Until I need to DO something.

My arms, shoulders, and back are sore, screaming at me of the abuse I have heaped upon them. If they could call Amnesty International, they would have done so yesterday. I was forced to use said muscles this weekend and they are not happy. I’m eating Advil like Skittles. My shoulder blades sound like they have giant Rice Krispies under them (partially due to work, I’ll admit). My forearm muscles feel like they are going to snap, rebound, and take out my eyes. I would say that I’m a flabby girl, but that would be a gross insult to our sedentary, chunky sisters everywhere.

I have thought of my father often today, and I can’t help but wonder if he is onto something with all that wretched activity. I don’t have to be the jock that he has always been, the beach bum he was, or the athletic beast he could still be. But getting off my couch once in a while might be recommended. I walk to and from work, a total of about about two miles every day, but as I’m not walking on my hands, my upper body is lacking, whereas I have muscled legs, thick calves, and could kill a man with them (look out, Chun Li! Lightniiiiing KICK!). If I could have donkey-kicked my belongings onto the truck and into storage, I would have done so.

In fact, I may try it next weekend. I will let you know how it works out. *moving my desk*

Spinning Bird KICK!

"Get in my storage. YAAAAAA!"

“Get in my storage. YAAAAAA!”


~ by Darren Endymion on February 17, 2014.

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