2005-01-18 - 3:19 p.m.
operation humiliation
Okay, so I decided to join the YMCA. Less of a meathead culture, less expensive, good facilities and they have basically all the equipment and stuff that I want. Unfortunately, they also have this annoying $100 joining fee. If it weren’t like 10 degrees out, I might hit the corner to come up with it. I actually have enough, but that would require me to collect cans until my next paycheck. I’m going to see if my sister can lend it to me, if not, I’ll just have to wait until payday.
I had a decent end of the week, and was doing fine until I decided to be social on Saturday and go out clubbing. I’m convinced that the only way to perfectly control one’s eating is to never go out and not have any friends. It seems like someone is always celebrating something, having some damn birthday party, or buying everyone a round a drinks at the club before going to IHOP to end the night. Fuck.
One of the most embarrassing things happened to me when I was out on Saturday. We went to this club that has Asian inspired décor, and they sell teryaki sticks. It’s weird, I know, but people are always starving at the end of the night and they sell like crazy. Anyway, I decided to buy 2 sticks and me and my friend walked back to the car. She ended up seeing someone she knew, so she stayed outside to talk to him, and I got in the car to eat my teryaki. This guy waves at me and starts walking over, so I tried to hide the teryaki and held the stick lower, near my thigh. I know that makes no sense at all, but the idea of some guy catching me eating teryaki in the car alone just struck me as really fucking embarrassing. And it was. I thought that he didn’t see the teryaki stick, so I was all relieved. He smiled when he came over and asked me if I had any more teryaki. I almost died. Ugh. I’m sure I looked like some lonely fat girl eating alone. The guy didn’t seem like he cared at all, and he was really nice, but I couldn’t be smooth at all during the conversation because I felt like a fatass.
Anyway. Thank god for pickles. It’s like the fat girl’s best friend.
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