Mrs. Flinger: A work in progress

UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015

Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.

So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.

Desk is to Chair as Ass is to Spreading Wildly Without Concern Of Emotional Recoil Feb 09, 2010

#Fitness#Weght Loss and Body Image

Here’s something. You remember those horrific questions on the SAT and GRE? Those “This is to That as That is to _____” and then you have to pick from a list that matches NOTHING and OMG my fourteenth #2 pencil just broke and I need a smoke and I don’t even smoke.

I’m a living proof those standardize tests do two things:
1. Prove nothing. I was told, after each test, to just go live barefoot in the kitchen because you stupid whore, you can’t even do a multiple choice test well and mygod what will society do with a creative thinker? and
b) traumatize me forever.

Which is obvious with the start of this post.

In other traumatic, although not unexpected news, I’ve gained weight. That’s right, laugh all you want. EATING CLEAN IS MAKING ME FAT. Yes. You read it here. DO NOT EAT CLEAN. Go! Eat your High Fructose Corn Syrup and your Corn-based by products and corn-fed chicken and turn in to a giant stalk of corn because at least you’ll be tall and thin and not round like an apple.


I say this for your health. Go eat a candy bar. Pronto.

I could probably blame a lot of things. I can blame my mid-thirty estrogen-imbalance. I could blame my new full time desk job. I could blame my love of a good dark stout or the fact that I am now making homemade meals nightly that rock our worlds and OMNOMNOM.


But I’m not.

I’m sitting here, on my spreading ass, in total awe. SHOCK and AWE if you will.

And so? Enters Hot Yoga.

If you haven’t done it, it’s like a sauna with other half-naked people sweating but bending over in front of you so as to reveal things about them that you will wish you could forget. But it will be branded in your mind forever.


The man who wore the tiny speedo-ish shorts? With the belly? And the tattoos? And the, OMG the, loudest breathing ever? And the slap-slap of your thighs? You are a hero to someone. I think maybe yourself.

The lady with the bra and shorts that twisted in ways I envision people pretending to know how in inappropriate chat rooms, just.. wow.

I have no room to judge, though. This is why I think Hot Yoga is the great equalizer. I left there as red as a ricotta, wet as rain. My pores were shiny. My legs shook. The heavy-tattoed-speedo wearing bearded man? Suddenly looked smart. A SPEEDO! DUH!

As painful as it was, as reminiscent of a Galveston Gulf Coast Mid-Afternoon in August, I ache to return. Ache being the optimal word. It’s oddly addicting, oddly rewarding and simply odd. Which fits me just fine. Unlike my pants right now.