Corporate Asshats and Weight Gain, Oh My!

I went into work today on one of my precious days off, because I wanted to help out.

Okay, you got me. I went in because my wallet was making all sorts of growling noises at me whenever I looked at it. Figuring it was feeling a little on the thin side, I felt it was prudent to put some extra hours in. When I arrived, a coworker revealed to me this horrid sight.

That's right. All of the dishware was replaced with this bullshit. Some corporate upper management fuckwit decided that rather than have folks take the 10 seconds to rinse off a plate and toss it in the dishwasher--which sits conveniently next to the kitchen sink in our break room-- it would be simpler to just ditch all of the plates, cups, and bowls. And replace them with fucking disposables.

Being the environmentally conscious individual that I am, I naturally was just a little bit absolutely livid.

Angry Black Man powers activate!

If you've been paying attention to my past rants on the subject, you'll know just how I feel about my employers. I didn't think that opinion could creep much lower, but by golly they proved me wrong. This fine example of "convenience" is just another example of what's wrong with this country, and people in general; let's just sacrifice more of the natural world-- the one we all depend on to sustain us while we stare zombie-like at our phones eagerly awaiting the next opportunity for Kim Kardashian to thrust her overly hyped, plastic body in our screens-- for the sake of expediency. As always.

So now I have to bring my own plates and bowls and fucking spoons-- because yes, they even tossed the non-plastic spoons and forks-- because I'll be damned if I end up contributing to the needlessly slothful disaster that is now the company break room.

"What's wrong with being a sloth?"

Sorry about that. Didn't mean to get all environmental in this bitch. Just had to get that off my chest. Because no doubt I'm the only one who cares in that train wreck of a business.

In other news, I bit the bullet and hired a personal trainer to customize a workout regimen for me. Why? Well, let me answer your question with a joke: what's black, bald, and currently the size of Jabba the Hutt's morbidly obese cousin?

The scale says that I am sitting not-so-prettily at 220 lb, a number that is horrifying to me. Never in my life have I EVER weighed this much. It's so bad that bulk of my clothing doesn't fit anymore; I have at least 4 pairs of jeans that yell "NOPE" anytime I approach within five feet of them. If I get any bigger, I'll develop enough of mass to pull stray objects into orbit around me.

So with that ugly truth reflecting back at me from my mirror, I felt drastic times called for expensive measures. Vanity aside, there are all sorts of health reasons for me shelling out $250 for a trainer; too much more of me inhaling whatever looks sweet in a futile attempt to fight off the frankly depressing state of disaster that my life is in will result in a heart attack. Or heart disease. Or the beetus.

Which is scary shit.

On a more positive note, the trainer is very sure that the regimen he prescribed will correct a lingering irritation of mine: my left knee. Last year I went to see a doctor about the painful soreness I was experiencing and learned that I had a patella tracking disorder resulting from all sorts of muscle imbalances and genetically tight hip flexors. A lot of stretching was proscribed, but it didn't solve the issue. My personal trainer, on the other hand, identified what muscles were tight and weak, and how to solve the problem, within 15 minutes of our meeting, all by simply watching me perform some basic exercises.

And so it's back to the gym I go! This time with someone knowledgeable about these things holding me accountable for my shit. That and my wallet's helpful reminders that I starved it for this very purpose, and I better not fuck this up or it will cut me.

So there we have it. The desire to fit in my cloths plus body image shame and death threats from my pitifully empty bank account equals Fit By Summer. 

Future Darren