I am embarking on an epic, Holy Grail-like health adventure, and like my Monty Python brothers before me, I expect it to be full of failure and consequent hilarity. I am doing this because when I was late to a flight at the Denver Airport and had to sprint across its gargantuan terminal, by the time I got to the departure gate, I thought my lungs were going to magically sprout tiny union workers, holding signs and forming a picket line in protest.

The worst part is that I used to be an avid backpacker with a closet full of carabiners ready and able to participate in all outdoor adventures; but this last decade in New York has left me a translucent, broken cicada shell, clinging desperately to memories of when I was able to get to the top of a six-story walk-up without my heart wanting to explode into a crimson firework.

You know that expression, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels?” IT’S NOT TRUE. If I could whip a ziplock bag of parmesan cheese out of my pocket, for “pasta emergencies,” I would. If I could substitute Krispy Kreme glaze for lube without my vagina turning into a penis fly trap, I would. If I could motorboat the entire counter of Milk, I would. I sometimes have dreams about Italian gelato so real that when I wake up ice cream-less, I am actually upset. I could write a desperate love novel, à la The Notebook, about my relationship with white sugar and flour. Not to mention, I feel for salt and potatoes the way that Forrest Gump felt about Jenny: I cannot quit you.

Because of this, I’ve gained, give or take, a wet preschooler’s worth of weight this year, which is fine considering that my sister used to describe my physique as “methtastic.” Now I love my new body; it’s warm, friendly and easy to talk to…But my future as an Instagram It Girl with an instant Barbie toe and rehearsed flounder face who likes to show her ass for likes is in jeopardy.

The good news is, as my intake of exercise and amphetamines have slowed down, I have developed “breasts” that require a “bra” and what was known in the early 2000’s as a “badonkadonk.” It’s like having a superpower I only read about in comic books. So this is what it’s like not having to rely on your “personality” to get guys. I now understand why most hot chicks rarely develop a prefrontal cortex. Why would you? Totally unnecessary. So, clearly I don’t want to lose my new lady lumps, but it would be amazing to feel like my mind and body were on an upward path to health instead of what it’s actually on: a rocket ship to planet Pillsbury.

Where do all these nightmare #fitspiration workout addicts find the time? I wonder as a bass-mouthed, honey baked ham-assed wonder woman breezes by me, the sun glistening off her slick Aveda-scented ponytail on her morning run. The faint glow of her perfectly coordinated neon outfit leaves acid-like trails in her wake, while the subtle scent of disciplined genetic superiority wafts out of every pore. These people are especially impressive to me because even when I do put down the Bloody Marys and go to the gym — IF I can find a sports bra, non thigh-high socks, AND a hair tie that didn’t come off a banana — I consider it a feat akin to stealing fire from the gods.

Perhaps these uber-manicured people don’t have four jobs and an elderly dog that walks about as fast as a sea turtle crawling up a sand dune to lay its eggs. It is also possible that they don’t have a gaggle of Oscar-worthy actors as BFFs having Fukushima-style life meltdowns every other day. Because everyone appears to be buff and on their twelfth day of a cleanse consisting of a combination of cold-pressed, gluten-free, sugar-free, kosher, dairy-free, vegan rabbit pellets and a murder-forgiving level of insanity.

My biggest problem is that I hate NYC gyms. All I’m trying to do is work out hard enough to get a good vag sweat, but instead, I’m being tracked by the eyes of men whose blood is 95 percent protein powder. I can almost feel them imagining my knock-off Lululemon’s in a pile next to their Vitamix.

Then I look around and see everyone on treadmills, all Gatticadded out, with this serial killer look in their eyes, determined to run forever or sit on a stationary bike spinning their lives away, and I’m like…fuck that….and then I turn around and meet my friend for a cocktail.

Because I recognize that I am walking a dangerous tightrope between “Baby Got Back” and being mistaken for a Costco Crisco tub, I will be enlisting the help of fellow COOLS contributors Fernanda de la Puente (superstar nutritionist and an obnoxiously beautiful Peruvian chef and yoga guru) and Chelsey Wilkens (American gladiator goddess with ice-blue Terminator eyes, gymnast and trainer) to lead this parched horse to sugar and alcohol-free water.  

Suffice to say, if I can actually pull this off, so can you. Because apparently health isn’t akin to looking like a fashionable stick insect with tits. Being fit is about being strong, having a clear mind and a ton of energy so you can do all the fun things you want to do until you’re so old that people will schtup you because you’re literally the only person left alive at their assisted living facility.

I will be chronicling my new-found health adventures with comedic and hopefully not pathetic updates. I will also be listing all of the horrible cleanses and Spanish Inquisition-style torture workout routines in hopes that you, too, will be able to follow along with me on my path to “health.” Wish me luck!

Check out my badass mentors on Instagram…

@fernandadelapuente
@chelseywilkens

And find me here: @drznightingale

 

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