Category: too old for the road

Lord haf mercy, mama gettin’ old!

So I ventured out to Bungalow 8 last night to help my homegirl DJ Kiss celebrate her bday and surprise engagement to her man, Mos (YEAH KISS!!) And while I LOVE , LOVE , LOVE getting dressed up and celebrating special occasions w the crew… I gotta tell you, it sure ain’t as easy to do the whole dancing till 3am on a weeknight stroll no more. No maam. When I woke up this morning, I felt like a mack truck had rolled over, stopped and reversed over every part of my body from the top of the head to the bottoms of my feet. Just a mess.

And I’m not going to even try to explain how hard it was to wrap my head around the story I just read about the 31-year-old Indonesian man who was mauled to death by two kimono dragon lizards! What in the world??

So basically, homeboy is professional fruit picker (err-um, who knew those even existed?). And he’s up in some sugar-apple tree doing what he does best. Then for whatever reason, poor thing falls off of the godforsaken tree and the lizards who just happen to be chilling at the bottom of the tree ATTACK!!! They bit the shit outta his hands, body, legs and neck. Mmm-hmm…

Apparently, the reptiles (which can grow up to 10 feet long and weigh damn near 150 pounds) have shark-like serrated teeth. And addition to the cuts, the bite can be deadly because its saliva contains roughly 50 different known bacteria strains. Eeeewwaa!! So dirty!

Seriously? If this ain’t some ole cracked-out-Wes-Craven-sci-fi-animals gone-wild-type mess I don’t know what it is. Good freakin’ luck.

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.

Um hi. I’m looking for my waistline, have you seen it? It disappeared sometime shortly after August and hasn’t been shown any kind of definition since.

I’m beginning to worry because according to the all the damn catalogs and invitations that keep flooding my mailbox, bikini/ wedding season is around the corner. And considering I don’t have a baby to blame there’s really no excuse for the bulge that insists on making its prescence known over the top of my jeans. Not at all.

So seriously, if you live uptown and belong to NYSC, please holla at the kid. Cause I’m in desperate need of a focused workout buddy to help with the search.

Anyhoo, as usual, in the last 48 hours of the year I am running around trying to do all the things that should’ve been accomplished in the past 363 days. I’m trying to make returns, drop-offs at the Goodwill, find a new desk, clean the apartment from top to bottom, workout and of course, find the perfect dress for New Year’s Eve.

Which is exactly why instead of peacefully enjoying my “stay-cation” inside my apartment, I was out in the streets and visually assaulted at every turn with what I consider the biggest fashion offense of the year- rib-cage length cropped winter coats and sweater (a.k.a. the reinvented shrug). Yeah I said it. That bullshit needs to GO.

Seriously, what the hell is the purpose of this half assed cover-up? Especially when it’s your winter coat?? Just so I’m clear- you’ve got the long sleeves and and hood with the fur but not the actual coat part? Call me anal but doesn’t that defeat the purpose of the coat concept? Wait, lemme guess, only your boobs get cold in the winter?
I can’t.
And for the record, at five feet flat, I’m a huge fan of the standard waist-length cropped coats/ jackets/ sweaters/whatever. But NO ONE looks good in those Forever 21/ 5-7-9/ Marshalls bargain bin specials.

I don’t care if you’re not “fat” or eventechnically “chubby”- if you ain’t anerexic or rocking the certified six-pack, your stomach will poke out from under that mess. It will jiggle when you walk. It is sloppy and yes, you do look a hot ass mess.

Let the prayer circles commence, I’m tagging out.

And to think, I thought I was having a rough time lately… According to AP reports, it’s gonna cost Madonna close to $75 million dollars to get a divorce form guy Ritchie. And the best part? That’s the settlement! He didn’t even take her to the mat for cheating with lameass A-Rod. Damn.

But wait on it… as if it isn’t enough to hand your hard earned money to a good for nothing marginally talented director- oh wait, some people would prob say the same about her as a singer- in a recent concert, the Kaballah Queen slipped and fell down mid-step. Yup, sure did. One minute she’s prancing across the stage in booty shorts and some trannie certified sneaker-high heel hybrid and the next she’s on her back. Splat!

Granted, I’ll give it to her. The Material Girl definitely tried to play it off like an intention move. But let’s be real, Madge ain’t no body spring chicken. There wasn’t going ot be any ‘jump right back up’ like the time Ms. Beyonce tumbled down the steps in her concert. No sir. Lord knows, she’s probably seeing a chiropractor right this moment.

You know, it almost feels wrong to laugh at the senior citizen… almost.



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