Gym's Are For Getting Buff - Not Being IN the Buff

I was totes out of commission on Saturday. I guess that’s what a sweet tea vodka/pink champagne/Brooklyn lager combo will do to ya.

So I was pretty much holed up all day watching “16 and Pregnant” (obsessed). I felt so guilty, so remorseful, that I made SURE I was up and at ‘em Sunday morning. Like, 10am up and at ‘em. UnHEARD of in this city.

After a lovely brunch with Olivia, I beat it on over to my gym.
But I wasn’t just “going to the gym.” I was going to sit poolside on the breezy, beautiful rooftop of Printing House. And boy was it fantabulous. (I give you full permission to haterate.)

I spent my day resting, reading, and relaxing in the cool, cool summer breeze. Took a couple of dips in the pool. Then decided that I should perhaps go for a stroll on the ole treadmill.
With a grin plastered on my face (how could I not be smiling after such a gorgeous afternoon!) I walked on into the women’s locker room.

Then – THEN – in my buoyant, rapturous, smiling state, with a spring in my step – I nearly rammed smack into a buck naked, saggy old lady.

Seriously. I don’t understand it!!!!!!! Why do people have no shame? No shame whatsoever.

I’ve never seen such a group of immodest people. They’ve never even heard the word. They don’t even know what it means.
Perhaps I’m a tad overly self-conscious. I mean, sometimes I go into the bathroom to change. If my towel slips the wrong way after I’ve taken a shower my heart drops. Literally, drops. And I start sweating (thankfully not enough to need a re-shower...but still).

I certainly ain’t saying I’m any great shakes. But my 26-year-old bod looks a tad different than a 40, 50, or 60-something with all that sag and more rolls than a Shar-Pei.

Yet it’s me, not them, who is über bashful. They have no problem whatsoever walking around in the buff.

And it’s not like, Oh let me just drop tow (towel not trou! hahah) while I put my panties on.

Oh no. It’s more like, Oh let me stand here naked while I slab lotion all over my wrinkles and rolls and boobs and butt; while I blow-dry my hair (oh GOD the bending over, kill me now!); while I put on my makeup; while I TALK ON THE PHONE.

It seriously blindsides me. Like peripheral vision vomit. Like eyesight pollution. Like toxic wasteland scenery. Like a horrific horror flick. Like shit yo, if I see one more naked booty I’m going to SCREAAAAAAAAAM.
Kudos to them, honestly. But in what world do they think it’s OK to parade around interminably in their birthday suit whilst fellow gym-goers have to endure it?

All I ever want is to ellipticize in peace. The gym should be a place of relaxation, not refluxation.

I like me some buns, sure. But they’re cinnamon flavored and gooey and covered in frosting. Dunkin’s comes after the gym, not at the gym.
So come on ladies, keep those buns covered!

To steal a line from Lily: “It’s not fair and it’s really not OK, it’s really not OK, it’s really NOT OK!”

Obsessive Impulsive Disorder

Compulsive, impulsive - I’m a little bit of both. The latter especially as of late.

I blame my new apartamento. You see, I didn’t want to go out and get supplies and decorations upon decorations when I moved into my rabbit hutch. But I’m just beside myself and overcome with excitement over my new mansion (chicken coop shall we call it?) that I’ve shopped, shopped, shopped - and boy has my checking account dropped (dropped, dropped).

I suppose I’ve always been impulsive. It’s kind of like having a split personality - I’ll be in a store and my Miss Moneybags persona takes over, all reassuring and calm and confident. Of COURSE you can buy that and oh! That’s cute, you better get it now before it’s gone! Whatever it’s such a bargain!

I blackout and I buy. And then I regret.

I blame Bloomingdale’s for escalating and encouraging my impulsive behavior (my fabulous, glamorous former co, Miss Samantha Chu, has a fabulous blog - how I miss her!)

I was surrounded by clothes, clothes, clothes all day long - can you really blame me for not walking out of my shift with purchases in hand? Working there taught me to take shopping lightly. To snatch things up before someone else did.

Miss Moneybags was a semi-OK persona when I was at Blooms - unfortunately for Miss Parry, though, her bad habits endure to this day. In a more expensive city. Where discounts don’t apply.
My impulsiveness, like nausea, comes in waves. Every few months I’ll crack the proverbial whip and put myself on mandatory retail probation. If I don’t pass below Houston, the shops in SoHo cannot collect my Monopoly money. If I avoid sample sales, my wallet can puff back up a bit (a very slight bit).

No manis, no pedis, no waxing, no threading - I try my darndest to suck it up and invoke my inner D.I.Y.onista.I was on one such self-mandated probation until mid-April when I upped and moved. Then the itty bitty shopping bug bit me - and apparently it’s still biting and sucking and draining bill after bloody bill from my bank account.

I don’t know how to reason with myself. I can’t argue both sides. It’s like sense of urgency tinged with anxiety takes hold and consumes me. I’m all tunnel-vision all the time - if I see something I like (within reason, obvi!), I simply have to have it. There is no thinking it over, no rationalizing that I already have four navy blue skirts (do I really need another??), or that because something is only $5 that means I must buy it. And absolutely not, not ever, ever are there thoughts of saving for the future (do people actually do that?)
Alas, I think it’s a good sign that I recognize my impulsivity - that’s the first step, I do believe. And I am happy to report that I can no longer blame myself for my ne’er-do-well-ness.

You see, this horrific trait-o-mine was not something I learned - like my ABCs or how to ride a bike - oh no. It was something innate, something I inherited from my mother and my father, an imprint on my DNA if you will.

Father-Mother-Daughter all share this same Obsessive Impulsive Disorder gene. (My brother I must exclude - he actually takes time and thinks through his purchases...that’s why he’s going to be a millionaire and I’m going to be a poor little pauper begging him for money all the time.)

I didn’t really put two and two together until a few weeks ago. My mom was in the market for a new chair for the living room and found one she thought she liked. She stared and sat and talked to the saleswoman and then she bought it. Only when the chair was in our house did she ask what the return policy was (there wasn’t one). Cue Anthony Marentino, “HATES IT!”

Oh and then there was the time my dad decided to get a bulldozer. I mean a boat. I mean an RV.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Let’s see. There was the shower curtain I just had to have on target.com (even though I knew I would be going to an actual Target Store within the week). I got it, liked it, went to the real store and loved a different one they had. Fail!

There was the TV stand I just had to have before I moved in and knew what my space would be like. Not enough room. Fail!

Then there’s the million little holes in my freshly painted walls from impulsive picture frame hanging placements gone awry - fail! (Still a work in progress - need to get me some plaster to fill dem holes!)I have so many shirts, dresses, pants, necklaces, earrings, rings, shoes, bags - all purchased in Monopoly-money-blackout-moments, all never worn.

What’s a girl to do, though? Never shop again?

Don’t make me laugh. I just think they need to invent a pill for OID.