Modesty

My handsome bf and I decided to go on an Alaskan cruise, something that had intrigued me ever since I had read about it from the comfort of my lounge chair on our last cruise. The itinerary looked interesting and the possibility of becoming hopelessly wedged in some glacial crevice for the week would be the perfect balm for my parched August-in-DC soul. The cooler weather would also necessitate a more modest dress code for my man of a certain age, big boned, beautiful just as I am fat-assed self.

It's not that I don't like going to the gym. It just goes against my strong moral conviction that exertion of any kind which doesn't end with dessert or an orgasm (though not mutually exclusive) is wrong and evil. Think about all the descriptions of hell. They include everything designed to torture and punish souls for eternity: getting hot and sweaty while repeating endless, pointless tasks (sounds like the elliptical machine and every job I've ever had) without the possibility of rest, food, sex or cocktails. The specific lack of these vital, life sustaining options in your hellish work day clearly implies that they hold the key to heavenly health, truth, joy, a clear complexion and a well regulated digestive track. I don't pretend to understand the reasons behind these great mysteries, but I do get the message loud and clear: as the sweaty, disciplined and gainfully employed sow, so shall they and their tight abs and bony asses reap.

I would explore this issue in more detail, but the exertion of writing has left me light headed and room service just arrived with my passion fruit and Metamucil daiquiri. Mmmmm...tastes divine!