As of today there are t-minus 67 days until Toya’s super sexy 2nd wedding. And since my lil mini-me has decided that she wants her bridesmads to wear specially designed super short, very low-cut, fitted cocktail dresses, Operation Pull-It-Together is in full effect.
First, there were three weeks of the crazy 6.30a bootcamp workout to jump start the mission. Although I’ve done bootcamp in the past, that sure didn’t make going back remotely easier. Real talk? I still don’t know how I managed to wake up and get out of my house by 6.10am 4-days a week. ‘Cause if you don’t know anything else about me, please understand this: I am not the one for the early mornings. But praise god, somehow we made it through. And now, I’ve committed to daily hot yoga and at least 4 days of cardio at the gym.
Okay, bump what you heard about feeling more relaxed, detoxed and zen-like after bikram yoga. I’m gonna keep it real- that b.s. is kicking my ass coming and going. Seriously? I feel like 2 cents. From my toenails to my scalp, every inch of my body hurts. I can barely make it home before falling on my face. Ain’t nothing relaxed, or zen-like about me. And let’s not even talk about the gym… OMG, this morning I was on the elliptical machine for 15 minutes sweating and heaving louder than the 350lb woman on the machine next to me. Mind you, my resistance level was only 5. WTF?
So the next time you wanna know why I’m not thrilled to be in one of my very closest friend’s wedding, lemme tell you- it’s not the money on a dress I can only wear to a club in Miami or Vegas. It’s not the hours of my life lost stuffing envelopes with save-the-date cards. Or even the big ass hole homegirl has talked in my head with all the wedding day drama. Nope, all that is water under the bridge. The core issue is the damage control.
It’s trying to find a waistline that I haven’t seen since the summer of ’08. It’s eating an orange when what I really want is a warm chocolate chip cookie (or two). It’s the bars of deordorant that I’m going through trying to hide the constant state of stink I find myself in. Dammit, I’m tapped out!
For the record, I will so not be offended if any of my peeps decide that they don’t want to be in my wedding (whenever the hell that actually happens) because they’re soft and squishy. Just keep it real. Not only will I understand, I promise to save you a second slice of the cake.
I love the hell outta my ‘hood but I HATE my local post office.
