Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Eat Pie Instead

Exercise. What a heaping pile of shit this idea turned out to be. Certainly I have the wherewithal to recognize that any sort of physical activity is good for me. If nothing else, it's my attempt to counteract the heap of cigs I scarf down each day. What really bothers me are the cretins that pretend they're having the time of their lives, merely by exercising. When did we all start pretending that grueling exercise is a super fun time for all involved? In addition, each of these creeps have glommed on to their favorite exercise and they then spend the rest of their free time telling fatties like me how great it is.

"Have you heard about running? Oh ya, it's so freeing. I played running in college but I'm into this new thing where I don't wear shoes when I run and it's really changed my life."

Hey running enthusiast, you're an asshole. I get that there's an entire magazine dedicated to you and everything but stop trying to pretend that this is a new religion that we're all missing out on. You're simply going nowhere at an accelerated pace. That doesn't strike me as all that profound. Did you know that running was essentially invented in the process of hunting animals? Yet you continue to come back from your runs empty handed. You're doing a bad job runner. It's just exercise. Take it easy.

"I'm not religious, I'm spiritual. You know, like yoga."

Um....what? Just because you can suck your own dick, doesn't mean you're now a spiritual guru. While I do appreciate that yoga classes usually end with "Shavasana" also known as "Sleeping," I find the majority of their so-called "poses" to be a real slap in the face. I also don't appreciate how calm everybody seems to be while suggesting that I rest my entire body on my forearms and then touch my toes to my ears. What kind of freak show is this? And why are we all chanting? I get that we're in West Hollywood but not every activity has to incorporate a song and dance. So take your little sleeping bag or magic carpet or whatever you call it and calm the fuck down. I get it, you're enlightened AND you've been to India. I didn't come here for a pep talk. I just want my ass to be smaller.

"Oh you HAVE to come to my spin class. You burn SO many calories."

I mean...probably but you're also forced to torture your nuts or vagina for 50 minutes while someone screams at you, to the tune of Lady Gaga. Has anyone realized yet that spinning is riding a one-wheeled bike? You basically took a totally functional piece of machinery, made it immobile, and called it exercise. It's actually worse than running because at the end of the class you unicycled in place for an hour and probably gave yourself a Urinary Tract Infection in the process.

Its fine everyone! Exercise is a thing that helps people, hooray! But ya know what else helps people? Root canals, insulin and chemotherapy. But when was the last time you heard a diabetic talking about the awesome new syringe he got? Never. Because sometimes things that are good for you are actually terrible. You are living a lie exercise aficionados. Exercise is horrible. It hurts, it's time-consuming and sometimes it threatens to rip away at your private parts. Pretending to like exercise is like pretending that the man who beats you is misunderstood. Well he's not. He's a horrible person and exercise is a terrible torture chamber that we all participate in begrudgingly. I just wish we could be honest about it. I'd rather be doing anything other than using any of my muscles at any time. If I could spend the rest of my life eating buckets of chicken in bed, I would. And I am no longer going to sit idly by while the rest of you feign excitement each time you approach the treadmill. So the next time you ask me how my workout was I will answer honestly, "It was God damn terrible. I hated everything about it and all the people there. Save yourself and never participate in soul-crushing exercise. Eat pie instead."

Thursday, April 7, 2011


I'll do just about anything to fit in. As a result, upon arriving in sunny California, I became obsessed with the idea of seeking therapy. I didn't necessarily believe that I needed therapy, but every man that I've ever dated felt differently. Regardless, I knew that having a therapist was a super cool thing to do in LA, just like being a Scientologist or battling a drug addiction. I had a feeling that the mere addition of a therapist to my life would rocket me into the inner-world of Hollywood. I was sure it would be a direct connection to celebrities but I could not have anticipated how true this theory would turn out to be.

After a few weeks of aggressively seeking a therapist, I began to panic. It hadn't occurred to me that this process would be at all challenging. I hit immediate roadblocks, all of which I was determined to overcome. For starters, everyone I called asked the same stupid question, "What problems would you like to discuss with the doctor?" First of all, Doctor? Take it easy. That's a bit bold, don't you think? I get that you went to therapy school or whatever but let's try to scale back the doctor claims, shall we? Second of all, I was only calling the doctor so that I could advance my acting career, but I had an innate sense that this was not a good enough reason. Instead I chose to tap into any real problems that I found to be lingering. It went a little something like this:

Me: Hi, I'd like to schedule an appointment to see the doctor.

Dr.: Ok, what's wrong with you?

Me: *hysterical crying*

Dr.: We're booked. *click*

Can you believe it?! Every single one of those clowns claimed to be booked! Listen, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, "supposed doctors", but perhaps you should reveal your scheduling issues prior to opening the vault which is my inner-child. I was getting fed up with the entire process and it was becoming clear that literally everyone in L.A. had gotten on the therapy bandwagon long before I had arrived. I was upset and outraged. I needed therapy just to help me work through the fact that I couldn't find a therapist. I had never felt so alone and I began to do what I often do when the world becomes overwhelming, I pretended that I was Brenda Walsh from the critically acclaimed 90's classic television show, Beverly Hills 90210.

Man, that bitch had it so good. Perfect parents, bomb house, incredible bangs. Not a Wednesday at 7pm went by, during my adolescence, when I wasn't saddled up to the television, carefully following the trials and tribulations of that chunky Midwestern girl from Minnesota who found herself in the throes of Beverly Hills. I bet Brenda Walsh never had a problem finding a therapist. She didn't even need one! She had supportive parents, a hot brother, and slew of available, rich, potential boyfriends. As I settled into my Brenda Walsh fantasy, the phone rang. FINALLY!!!! There was one, lone therapist who was covered by my insurance and could meet on a Saturday. I didn't remember calling her, I didn't recognize her name, I knew zero about her but I could tell she was the one.

On the day of our first appointment, I was elated. I had finally arrived. I had moved to Los Angeles to be an actor and had officially employed a therapist. Things were looking up. When my new therapist/life coach entered the room I was overwhelmed. I KNEW this broad. I couldn't place her but I was certain we had met before.

Me: God you look so familiar.

Life Coach: Oh, you probably saw my picture on the website.

Me: No, but I mean, I feel like I know you.

LC: Well....have you ever watched the show Beverly Hills 90210?

Me: *astonished* You shut the fuck up lady.

LC: I played Brenda's mom, Cindy Walsh.

Dear God. I should have known that my answer would come in the form of the matriarchal figure from my favorite T.V. show. I all but attacked my newly found therapist after that. As it turns out, her name is Carol Potter and she got into therapy after working with the quacks on Beverly Hills. I suppose she had incredible practice. Clearly I continue to meet with her every week. How could I not? While she remains extremely professional, I can't help but hope that someday I'll walk in and have to fill out a sheet describing which Beverly Hills character I most identify with as an exercise for her to determine my general mood. I long to inquire about Dylan’s whereabouts, but I don't want to come off as desperate (seriously, where is he?). For now, I find solace in the fact that I grew up with my therapist. She already knows everything about me. She is the mom I've always wanted, the best friend I've never had. We even have the same agent! Therapy is working in ways I could never have imagined. The simple knowledge that I have a therapist makes me feel better. It solidifies a belief I had in high school, "No matter where you are or what you're going through, Cindy Walsh will always be there and she will always understand." Da na na na, Da na na na *clap* *clap*