Let's get physical, physical.

As I sit on our plush couch with no legs, admiring our near-fully furnished apartment and digesting the mass amount of fibrous food I just consumed, I observe my roommate Erin. At the moment, she's removing her shirt in a sweaty haze and scouring the kitchen for sustenance. For the hunt, she's donned in a sports bra and knee-length running pants that are pulled up to her belly button. "Excuse my fat rolls," she says.

Let us remember, Erin is a 5'11" stalk of celery; long, lean with a heap of hair on top.

After I avert my eyes, I attempt to rise from the world's lowest couch... But... I don't. My legs are too sore to stand up. After living  being a sloth in Austin almost 2 months, I've only recently started working out again. And what have I done? I've conned Erin into buying a gym membership to be my workout buddy. And this Sunday marks the end of week 1. And with that, marks the end of the first week of Erin's Hell.

One time, I played college soccer. That brief stint taught me a little bit about how to work out. One other time, I discovered I had an immune deficiency. That precious blessing taught me a little bit about how to eat. With my vault of nutritional knowledge now open, I'm pulling a Mr. Miyagi and enlightening Erin about the dangers of eating Conversation Hearts for dinner, and how detrimental it can be to your liver if you replace water with Blackstone Merlot.

We're working on it.

Anyway, our athletic endeavors began last week and I was thrilled, THRILLED to have someone to be miserable alongside as I lay my cellulite to rest in cottage cheese hell. Though, on the inaugural session of Mission: Sexy Celebrity Body Double we discovered that Erin, immersed in her classic novel reading and adolescent poetic composing, was never introduced to the wide world of pushups. Or split jumps. Or shoulder presses. Or anything that sorority sisters everywhere can't bob up and down upon. So, I have taken it upon myself to nurture this newborn gym baby. We spent a lot of this week just learning how to do things. And considering I've begun growing a front-ass orb, I didn't mind the easing-into-things.

Now, earlier this week we put pushup-position rows into one of our circuit workouts. Unfamiliar with exactly how to do it, Erin asked I watch to make sure she was executing the exercise at peak athletic performance. Mind you, we had already done about 150 reps of other things so our muscles were already burning. But in the middle of her pushup-position row I see Erin slowly fall to the ground. On the way down to her death, I hear her desperately wheeze out the phrase, "My arm, Sadie... my arm won't hold up my body." And just like the waning moments in the renowned scene of Titanic when a weary Rose lets go of popsicle Jack, down Erin went.

Disclaimer: Erin is a champion. She's been pushing through these workouts with an intense amount of reluctance, but determination to accomplish. And that's admirable. Plus, the counselor who signed Erin up for her membership is spicy hot. Motivation City, population: Celery Stalk.

At the end of every workout, we limp out of the gym as if our brain isn't sending the message "bend" to our knees, all the while discussing how many ripped cut abs we're going to have and how many quarters we will bounce off each other's firm badonks. We are living the lives of real twentysomethings; we have 9-5 jobs, a church we frequent, an apartment that resembles a knockoff Anthropologie store, virtually no money, and a workout regime.

Now, someone to come over and slap this delicious chocolaty treat out of my hand before I eat it and it's 9 other friends.

I will no longer be smelling like a deep-fried onion: I'm employed!

Hello, my name is Sadie. You might remember me from such careers as "Wild Bill's Burgers' Scene/Emo High School Waitress", "From Lifeguard to Headguard Then Demoted Back To Lifeguard" or "Lesbian UPS Truck Driver's Package Runner". I'd like to inform you today that as of November 28th, 2011, I have hung my part-time-job hat (knock on wood, touch a screw, hold your breath while driving through a graveyard, keep your freaking umbrella closed indoors and rub that lucky rabbit's foot raw).

I'm on day 8 as AW Media's Office Manager (plug), and while I would rather impale myself into a pit of letter openers than write invoices and manage payroll - I'm beyond thrilled (THRILLED) to have this job. Not only do I plan to kick the ass of all things administrative, but I plan to do it with the swiftness of a ninja so I can wiggle my way into the pages of the magazine. I want to contribute less to the filing cabinet, and more to the final product.

In light of my recent career-switch. I'd like to take this time and dedicate this blog post as a written memorial highlighting my soul-sucking, part-time past job life. Let the pitiful hilarity ensue.

The Early Age: Wild Bill was never really that wild.

I'm sure all of my high school friends can agree that Wild Bill was about as wild as a jar of pickles. But despite his resemblance to Bill Nye the Science Guy, the man knew burgers. My most fond memory of my working stint at Wild Bill's was getting the esteemed pleasure of serving one particular gluttonous contestant of the Monster Burger Challenge. First of all, the Monster Burger Challenge was a time-sensitive competition that summoned eaters to scarf down 3 1/3lb patties and 1 whole bun in 10 minutes or less. Second of all, disgusting. If you successfully achieved the goal (of which my dear friend Cameron Gregory puked and paled in comparison. 3 times.) you got your picture on the wall (sadly, Cameron never did). As I said, the walking seventh-sin came in and asked for the Monster Burger. With fries. I brought it out to him and we started the timer. After folding each patty into quarters and soaking the bun in his glass of water, Porky the Pig managed to finish the burger and fries in 2 minutes. 

2 gargling, snorting, panting minutes. 

He then wiped off his sweatstache and asked for a dessert menu.

The Demotion Age: I should have pooped in the pool while I had the chance.

Due to the longevity of my employment as a Wendy Peffercorn stand-in with the City of Hurst at the Central Aquatics Center (RIP Skin Cells: 2004-2010), I have concocted a list of favorite daily tasks/events/pastimes that seemed to never get old despite my ending salary being $9.97 and my age of resignation being 22. The list goes as follows:

• Babies, toddlers, children, tweens, pre-teens and foreigners never understanding that every time they take a fat dump in the pool, we have to evacuate the water for 30 minutes, giving them a self-established timeout and us an opportunity to do even less work.
• Having a tab at the concession stand and not paying it the entire summer.
• Asking women of all shapes, shades and sizes to wear a City of Hurst t-shirt because we can see their saucer nipples through their sheer thong bikini. 
• That summer Cameron and I had a crush on each other. While not an impressive burger-eater, he always had those chiseled pecs and an endearing incapability to effectively serve a volleyball.
• Playing an intense game of sand volleyball on rainy days. Also, watching Kathryn Wren do rain dances to the tune of "When The Thunder Rolls" by Garth Brooks while everyone else played volleyball.
• Hating the Asian family of 42 that came in 30 minutes prior to closing time. Every single night.
• Playing baseball, a sophisticated game of fencing, or jousting my arch nemesis with the Children's Pool measuring sticks.
• My amazing, beautiful, Brazilian-like tan.
• When patrons would clap after I heroically saved a drowning child or stereotyped adult.
• The inservices when I was Guard of the Week.
• The inservices when my best friend Whitley would rant about lifeguards less perfect than she.
• The inservices when we would go down the slides naked.
• Summers when my closest friends were my superiors.
• The summer I was promoted.
• The summer I was demoted.

And it all kind of went downhill from there.

The Lezbiazoic Age: What can brown do for you?
For a couple of Christmas breaks during college, I worked as a package runner for UPS. Actually, Cameron got me the job. Add "in the vocational know" to his list of qualities. Anyway, from 8am until 8pm I was running boxes (probability of the boxes being full of drugs: high) from a giant brown truck to various locations. Some of these locations included my friends' houses, some of these locations included the mall. You can imagine my 19-year-old dismay when I would catch eyes with people I knew who, unfortunately, noticed that it was indeed me sprinting through the mall, or hurdling up and down front walkways, donned in a dook-colored outfit made for a man who was shaped like a rhombus.

One Christmas, though, I had the spicy titillation of working with Gretchen Vandyke.*

*I can't remember her name, but I will work through my depression/early onset Alzheimer's and create a pseudonym for story's sake.

To sum up my lesbian UPS adventures, Gretch would often discuss her personal life with her mistress of 20 years prior. Seeking my womanly wisdom, she and I would go to lunch at any of these family-friendly locations:

• Buffalo Wild Wings
• Hooters
• Chili's Too!

One particular afternoon, as we were delighting in our boneless wings, she received a "hella funny" text from one of her "dudes." Why I gave her my personal cell number I will forever wonder, but the message was instantly forwarded. A picture message! How fun. A picture message with sounds that reached the loudest decibel that could measure utter embarrassment immediately upon opening! How mortifying. It's a hazy memory, but I know the text said a variation of: "HEY EVERYONE, I LIKE GAY PORN. ALL THE TIME. EVERY DAY, Y'ALL!" And with the push of the down button, there lay a graphic picture of something to the Brokeback effect on my Nokia Brick's screen. 

Gretch wound up tipping me 100 extra dollars after my seasonal schedule ended. I wound up blocking any more forwarded texts from her hella funny dudes. 

The Dark Age: Outback and Outofmymind.

We all remember The Outback Chronicles, hmm? While I feel I was employed with that corporation for far too long, I will say I gained some sodium-laden weight, and some valuable insight from my relationship with waitressing. Such key knowledge includes:

• Knowing just how disgusting restaurant kitchens are.
• Understanding that butter is the main dish, and vegetables are the garnish.
• Servers who spit in your food are real. And they are rampant.
• If you order something that comes in multiples (fries, chips, vegetable medleys), you're likely missing 4 or 5 pieces from your plate before you even get your plate.
• Ordering drinks that don't come straight from the fountain (excluding the bar), or ordering 2 drinks at once is a spit-worthy offense. 
• Does your plate look immaculately displayed? Your food was probably been poked and prodded by bare, unwashed fingers. 
• Realizing that there is at least 1000mg of sodium in everything you order.
• If I ever catch you not tipping the appropriate amount, I will impale you into the aforementioned pit of letter openers.
• And lastly, grasping that no matter how much you complain, you still don't matter. You're an amoeba in the restaurant world. And, again, spit-worthy. 

But I digress.

Male Gynecologists: OBGY?

Over the past few weeks, my daily conversations have been riddled with vagina. Why? I don't really know. But I do know that sometimes I feel like I'm in an episode of Sex & The City. And it's scary.

I'm 23 years old. And apparently at my age, I should have a vagyno picked out and put on speed dial. I have yet to divulge myself in the wide world of OBGYN, what with my abstaining from being wang banged and being prescribed birth control for whatever reason. So, that makes me out of the loop when my friends are swapping Gyno stories or sharing shaving secrets or gushing over whose uterus is the most normally shaped or, my personal favorite, whose Gynecologist is sexier.

And that brings me to my current ridiculous query, Male Gynecologists: The 8th Wonder of the World.

The Pyramid of Giza, The Sydney Opera House, Dr. Kenneth Furburger. What do these boggling works have in common? They all blow my mind. Now, I've pondered this. Really. I've spent many a minutes brooding, trying to understand why a man would want to go noodling around our great divide all day long. I just can't wrap my head around why someone, let alone someone of the male persuasion, would want to wake up, go to work and stare at a bushy bajingo day in and day out.

Women fanny nannies? Sure. We know what to expect. We know that beneath the Fruit of the Loom armor we will find God's sense of humor. We see it every day, and in the most unattractive and farthest-from-sexy way for one week a month.

And so, my bewilderment has led me to whip up a pros and cons list as an attempt to deem it acceptable for a man to be a doctor down south of the mouth. Observe:

Pros to being a medical Mr. Whiskerbiscuit:

• You're gay, and are therefore visually unscathed by the daunting coslopus.
• You are well-versed in the Chronicles of Vagarnia, and said knowledge could give you the upper hand in maintaining a strategically happy, healthy sex life.

Cons to being a medical Mr. Whiskerbiscuit:

• You're gay, and are therefore visually scathed by the daunting coslopus.
• You have to platonically poke, probe, feel around, lift, move, scrape, smell, slide, enter, exit and most importantly, look fixedly upon a flesh-toned venus fly trap for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

Cons > Pros. The defense rests.

Confessions of an ex-heifer part 2: Once you go fat, you never go back.

Last night, as I was eating  relishing the gluttonous glory of life in my Ghirardelli Almond Sea Salt Soiree dark chocolate bar, I began to think about my journey with food. If you'll recall, I've already delved the physical joys of being an ex-heifer, but being a bulbous baby doesn't only take a toll on your muffin top - it leaves a sticky-sweet fingerprint on your will power. That's why I, and all my once-a-whale sisters out there, can say that once you go fat, you never go back. There will always be something that tickles your binge button.

Observe:
Katie Miller (to Gerry Flynn): "Is your girlfriend still eating?"
Gerry Flynn (to Katie Miller): "Cheerios twice a day, then two pounds of sweets at any given moment in time."

You see, many of those who know me me know that I am a pretty healthy human being. My meals are for the most part green and/or organic, sometimes consisting of things people didn't even know came from the earth. And stop rolling your eyes, I don't eat like this for hipster or granola reasons. I eat like this because prefer the way my body feels after a hearty salad (so good), as opposed to the way my body feels after a 7 piece student special at Chicken Express (so good). Unfortunately, though, many of those who know me also know that I have a deep-seeded affinity for Chocolate.

Like, it's stupid.

As the 30 extra pounds of my youth began to slowly shed (heavy on the slowly)(pun!), I began to see my will power become enclosed in a chocolate vault.

When placed in front of me, the bag of Dove dark chocolate covered almonds becomes my prey. And I, the lioness hunting for her family ...myself, must ravish this 3-serving-large bag of pure bliss before anything might happen to it. Like a house fire. Or a tornado. Or my mother catching wind that I have chocolate goodies in the house. That woman is like a bloodhound for the sweet mixed scent of cocoa butter and semisweet chocolate.

While I do have my chunky childhood mostly to blame, it doesn't help that I believe this unhealthy adoration is genetic. I believe that my mother is the tippy top of the coocoo-for-cocoa family tree. And I absolutely believe that she passed on to me, along with the aforementioned baby weight of an extra baby, the inability to resist a nibble or 60 of anything of the chocolate descent. And it's going to be a slippery slope for the generations to come (sorry Gerry). Because on the one hand, I'm not interested in my children having type 2 diabetes at the ripe age of 7. But on the other, my milk-chocolatey heart would weep regularly if I robbed them of the wonderful, orgasmic, mouth-watering world of Dove chocolate products.

I've contemplated getting a grip on this "problem" since I no longer have obvious weight issues and I'm kind of a control freak, but... no. Besides, dark chocolate has heart-health benefits. So in my mind, the more dark chocolate I consume, the healthier my heart.

It's a win-win.