Gym Fag

So, it seems I've turned into a total douche muffin since I've been going to the gym. (A whole week, WOOHOO!!)
See below to understand what I mean.

Scene: I yell at my Mom in what seems like a ‘roid-fueled fury.   She hasn’t eaten dinner yet and is ready to leave Planet Fitness after a healthy forty-minute workout. 

“Are you KIDDING ME?” I sputter, eyeball popping out of my head, utilizing thigh trainer. 

 “But we just got here—I haven’t even done my back, the second ab machine, my glutes...”

She glares at me. “I haven’t even eaten dinner yet, Jess.  I’m starving.” 

The teeny-boppers at the next machine over start to stare at us.

“Mom, how the fuck do you ever expect to lose weight if you’re just going to work one body part like...once a week?! I bellow. “This is fucking bullshit--I don’t ever want to hear you say that you’re fat again.”  I notice more people are looking at us. My mom shifts her weight from one leg to the other, pivots around and starts toward the back strengthening machine.

“OK FINE, I murmur.  "Just let me do glutes and then we’ll go.” I roll my eyes, spraying down the seat.

Exhibit B)

Scene: I got home from the gym and—naturally—felt that I needed a little snack after all that hard work.  (I definitely just imagined myself saying that in Garfield the Cat’s voice, with my head on his body.) So, I reached into the freezer for the Stewart’s Piece of Cake Ice Cream Box.  (Were you all aware they carry that shit in half gallons now?!)

I feel a pang of guilt and glance at the nutritional information on the side of the box. 

“170 calories for half a cup,” I whine to Tommy, chucking the ice cream back into the freezer. 

 “I guess I shouldn’t eat this.” 

Then, I open the fridge and took a look at the yogurt container.  It perks me up a bit.

“This isn’t so bad,” I say.  “130 calories, and you get a whole cup!” 

 I imagined myself choking down plain, fat-free yogurt, and referring to it later as, “my dessert.” The thought kind of make me want to hang myself from the bathroom showerhead. 

“Jesus F. Christ,” I mutter, grabbing a jar of Nutella and a banana.  “Two tablespoons, TWO HUNDRED CALORIES?!” I leave the Nutella on the counter to flop on the couch and sulk.

Yes folks, this is what my life's been reduced to.

FIN.