Today feels like a good day for quitting

I am so frustrated. I made a commitment a couple of weeks ago to try and be out of the 180s by June 1^st. It was difficult to get out of the 190s, but it has been even harder to get out of the 180s. Like, crazy hard. It’s not looking like I’m going to make my goal. I don’t know why my body is resisting, but I’m ready to heave these scales across the room. Every time I step on them, I feel like I’m on some hidden camera show where they are playing horrible tricks on me. I’m feeling all “why isn’t this easier?” I mean, some people can just do one thing and lose five freakin’ pounds. Not me. I feel like I have to turn my life upside down to lose even one meazly pound. I just don’t know what the hell is up…but I’m ready to give up. Call it quits…and order a damn pizza.

I’m sharing this because I’d be full of crap if I only shared the successful moments or moments when I feel totally up to it. Because that’s not real. It’s not life. Sometimes you try really hard and the reality is, you don’t see immediate results. Sometimes you want to just give up and say “forget this crap”. Because it’s one thing to know you aren’t doing what you are supposed to and therefore not seeing results. But it’s a whole new ballgame to actually be doing what you are supposed to and NOT see results. That’s so frustrating. And when people ask me questions like “well, are you eating healthy?”, “are you working out?” and “have you been giving it your all?” I just want to punch them in their face and say “no, you complete moron. I’m eating cheese fries for breakfast, sitting on the couch and half-assing it and expecting to lose weight.” 

But sometimes, when I look at the scale and am expecting to see some results and I don’t, it does make me want to drown myself in cheese fries and watch The Notebook. (Please tell me I’m not the only one.)

Well, I didn’t drown myself in cheese fries. And I didn’t watch The Notebook. But I did have a macadamia nut cookie. And it was good. Really good. I’m not going to commit diet suicide over the cookie. Even though (today) I feel like it. Because part of maturing is realizing I can’t always do what I feel. And by feel I mean swim in an ocean of spicy ranch dressing.

So, I’m gonna take a break from the scales for a few days. Because, frankly, I am mad at them and that is what you do when you are mad at an inanimate object – you ignore it or at least take a break from it. (It’s a lot like being mad at a real person.) Tomorrow is a new day. I will work out. I will eat healthy. Because I know (aka I hope) that eventually, it will make a difference and all be worth it. It will, right?

Excuses are like what?!

Excuses. My guess is that if you are from the South (or perhaps anywhere in the United States), you know the ole’ expression “Excuses are like butts. Everybody’s got one and they stink.” You know, I never really liked that expression. For one, it is not entirely accurate in its claims. Let’s say for instance, if you just took a bath, my guess is that your butt doesn’t stink. It probably smells quite lovely…especially if you used some of that fru-fru bath gel from Bath and Body Works. And secondly, most of my excuses do not stink. If excuses were a scent, mine would smell like the aroma of fresh pine of a cool spring day.

Okay, well, not really. 

I have to be honest here. Have you ever walked through the cosmetics department during the holidays? Whoa! I bet your little nostrils, like mine, were working major overtime. It is just too much. a spritz of this cologne here, a whoof there. By the time I walk out of Dillard’s during the peak of holiday shopping season, I have a smell-induced migraine. I think that is probably what my excuses smell like. One or two is okay, but a whole host of excuses just smell like…too much of the same thing.

There have been times in my life where I am filled to the brim with loads of excuses. Especially when it comes to weight loss. Perhaps these sound all too familiar…

I don’t have time to work out.

It’s summer. It’s too hot to work out.

It’s winter. It’s too cold to work out.

It’s spring. My allergies bother me too much to work out.

It’s fall. The kids have too much going on right now.

I’ll wait till summer gets here. I’ll have more time.

I’ll wait till school starts in the fall. I can be on more of a schedule then.

The gym costs too much.

There’s nothing but skinny bitches at the gym.

It’s raining outside.

It’s not raining outside and I want to enjoy this beautiful day not working out.

Eating healthy costs too much. I can get a McDouble for only $1!

I don’t have time to plan my meals and cook healthy.

I’m just big-boned. (This is my favorite)

I don’t like health food.

You only live once. I don’t wanna deprive myself.

I’m just not a runner.

I’m just gonna try some diet pills…or Sensa! Yeah, Sensa! All you do is sprinkle that on your food and bam! Instant weight loss.

I can’t get up at 5 a.m. and work out. I would be miserable.

I can’t work out when I get home from working all day. I’m too tired.

And those are just a few…

Wow. With these thoughts, it’s no wonder I let my 5’2” frame get to 205 pounds. I wanted all the benefits of being fit and healthy but wanted no part of the sacrifices it took to get there. My mindset was a spoiled little brat. I wanted it my way and made my own demands. The thing about that is, my body didn’t respond to my brattiness. My body, in a sense, just looked at me all stupid, crossed its arms and was like “Mmmhmmm. No she didn’t!” That’s why it took me so long to lose even the smallest bit of weight. I wanted to be lazy, eat whatever I wanted - all the while expecting the pounds to just melt away. (I sorta still hope for that, even though it’s highly delusional. Or at least I want to half-ass it some days.) But the truth is, that’s insane. Literally, I heard once that is the definition of insanity…doing the same thing but expecting different results. Except now I hear that insanity is a new workout DVD so I guess the joke is on me.

The point is this: we all have reasonable excuses. In the summer, it is hot. It is more expensive to eat healthy. It does take time to work-out and cook healthy. And there are and will always be skinny bitches at the gym who intimidate the hell out of me in their spandex. But my excuses do not get me any closer to my goal. So, what I have to do is find a way around my excuses. I’m not saying excuses aren’t valid. But in reality, at least for me, the more correct definition of my excuses would actually be inconveniences and a sense of discomfort. It is uncomfortable for me to workout when it’s hot. But I can do it. It is inconvenient for me to get up at 5 a.m. to workout. But I can do it. It is (highly) uncomfortable for me to wear my extra large ugly t-shirt at the gym while I huff and puff from walking on the treadmill and watch Barbie in her hot pink spandex run 10 miles without breaking a sweat. But I can (arggg!) do it. 

So, I guess I’ll go press play on my workout DVD now. Because Barbie isn’t here. It’s not hot. And I have the time.

Doing life...or something like it

Oh. My. Goodness. It’s been awhile, huh? I have so missed blogging! But since I’m just now getting internet (hello stone age) at my house (which, as you might have imagined…is in the sticks) I’m back!

So, what have I been up to the past…um…six months or so? Well, let’s see if I can give you a little update.

Job status: unemployed

            side note: pounds gained since unemployment: 3

Relationship status: single

Side note: idiots who take me out on a date and “forget” to tell me they have a 

girlfriend: 1 (but isn’t one enough?)

Additional side note: men whom I am attracted to who are emotionally unavailable:       unlimited

Last time I had a good work-out: …………………(my point exactly)

I think that pretty much covers it, don’t you?

Oh, now don’t go and think I’ll be throwing myself a pity party anytime soon…not because I don’t do that from time to time, but because I just threw myself one last Saturday. One in which my best friend refused to attend with me. But that was a good thing because sometimes you need friends who won’t throw on the pity party hat with you, but ones who will say “This party sucks! Let’s go somewhere else!”

I suppose I could get all depressed. But, at least for the day, I’m not feelin’ all “woe is me”. Maybe it sounds silly, but I think it’s because I watched this video on YouTube about this guy, Ben.

I will break the video down for you in a Letterman-esque list of 10.

1. Ben got fat.

2. Ben got sad.

3. Ben got inspired.

4. Ben started running.

5. Ben, like Forrest Gump, kept running. 

6. Ben lost weight.

7. Ben lost a lot of weight.

8. Ben became happy again.

9. Ben says you should do life.

10. Ben says if you want to do something, all you have to do is just do it.

 

I like Ben. And because I’m not all technologically-savvy and know how to post a link to the video, you need to look up the video and watch it. Just type in “120 pound journey” or “Ben does life”. I mean, the video combined with Coldplay’s song “Fix You”…just break out the Kleenex. Ben also has a blog that I follow quite regularly…well, since my internet is up and running now. I like his story (and him) because he’s real. He’s not perfect. He eats pizza. He works out. He slacks off. Then he gets back up and starts again. Now, for me, THAT is motivation. It’s not about being a perfect robot that never screws up. But rather, it’s about picking yourself up after you realize you are doing more talking about changing than actually doing something about changing.

It sure is easy to think about changing, isn’t it? It’s fairly easy to make a list or journal or daydream about starting to change and what that change would do to me if it ever came to fruition. But, for me, it is kinda hard to get started. And when I do get started, I almost psych myself out by anticipating when I will, in fact, fail. Then I fail (and feel like an epic failure) and just don’t want to try again. I mean, who wants to feel like the loser who keeps failing over and over? I’ve felt like that too many times to count. And when I feel like that, I tend to just mentally and physically tap out. I become a gross slob surrounded by fast food sacks and to-go Styrofoam containers. My house turns into filth because I have passed the point of caring. Simple things become such an inconvenience. I’m even too embarrassed to say how long a sink full of dishes stayed in the sink. I don’t want to take any pride in myself by fixing my hair or putting on my make-up. I want to revert back to the newborn stage: sleep, eat, poop. Except my mind is far more advanced than a newborn because I start engaging in all these “my life is so horrible” thoughts. I compare myself to others and just upset myself by wondering what is wrong with me that I’m not married at 32 or don’t have a set career or that I’m not as thin as I want to be. All the negative thoughts just hit me like an emotional tsunami. And when I’m in this zone, it’s almost like committing a living suicide. I am existing. But I’m not living. I am, by no means, as Ben says, “doing life”. And boy, is that depressing or what? I’m going to let you in on a little secret…I’ve been sort of going in and out of this for about eight years now. But, the whole time…all I had to do was just do it. I heard once that whatever you feed…will grow. I mean, not too hard to grasp that one. However, I was feeding all my “I can’t change” thoughts. And they grew. Again, both emotionally and physically. It grew into this ugly monster.

But I could change. I can. Whatever the change may be…letting go of a bad relationship (once and for all), losing that final five pounds, running that extra mile or stepping out and taking a big risk career wise…I hope that this quote (from Ben) awakens something in you that was awakened in me…and I believe has changed my whole outlook: “If you want to do something, all you have to do is do it.”

Her personal tragedy DID affect my good hair

Everyone...excuse me...every WOMAN knows the high importance of finding a good - er, I mean, great hairdresser. Well, I had found one years ago, but she got a wild hair up her butt and decided to move to California to pursue fashion design. Bitter, party of one? Yes, that's me. Ever since then, I have been wandering lost in the land of "I am looking for a good hairdresser-ville" for about three years now.
In my search for "the one", I did find a pretty great guy who meets all necessary "great hairdresser" requirements...which are as follows:
1. Great hair washer. Everyone knows the washing of the hair can be one of the best parts. (And it is of utmost importance that the hairdresser practices proper hygeine and smells great since he/she is bent down in front of my face as he/she washes my hair. So - first qualification met.
2. Must make me feel comfortable. This qualification can be met in a series of different circumstances. For instance - good conversation. There must a certain "ebb and flow" between my hairdresser and I. Awkward silences? Save those for first dates, not my trips to a hairdresser. Besides, wasn't that a class in hair design school? Communication 101? The hairdresser should also feel complete and total freedom to make several comments as to the healthy condition of my hair. I am there in a vain attempt to feel beautiful and goregous. Any comments made to make me feel as such are greatly appreciated.
3. Must be able to speak and (correctly) interpret basic English. In other words - a "trim" should never be confused with a "cut".
4. Obviously must be able to properly use a pair of scissors. Key word here: properly.
5. A great hairdresser can operate in the midst of any personal crisis...In the words of Anelle from Steel Magnolia's..."My personal tragedy will not affect my ability to do good hair."
6. A good amount of gossip is crucial. But not too harsh. It's really an art that has to be mastered over time. Just enough to keep me interested. Again, I find a Steel Magnolia's quote so appropriate here - "If you don't have anything nice to say about somebody, come sit by me." And don't worry...I don't repeat gossip. So listen the first time.
7. And while this is not a requirement, per se, it is definetly a plus. Gay men are great hairdressers. I'm just gonna say it. I hate to stereotype, but I have yet to meet one gay man who was a hairdresser who wasn't absoutely fabu. (And by fabu, I mean "fabulous"...gay men are great with coming up with these phrases.)

Well last week, Thursday to be exact (because all tragedies are remembered) I was desperate. I tried to make an appointment with my newfound hairdresser, but alas, he was not available until the next week. (Of course, because he's fabu!) So, I took a major risk and decided to go with a new gal. MAJOR MISTAKE. I even asked the receptionist making the appointment, "Um...maam...is this girl any good?" Her response? "Of course!" I think by "of course!" she meant, "Hell no! The girl failed first grade for not being able to use scissors." Because THAT comment would have been much more accurate than her saying, "Of course." She clearly sits on a throne of lies.

Here's a run-down of how this went down...

3:20 p.m. - Arrive early. Because that is what adults do. (Usually I don't act like one, but today was an exception.)
3:35 p.m. - Receptionist tells me that I can go on back because my hairdresser is here.
3:45 p.m. - Still waiting. My appointment was at 3:30 p.m.
3:50 p.m. - Irritated as hell. Walk up to the receptionist and ask, "Um, did you tell her I was here?"
3:51 p.m. - Realize that my hairdresser was sitting right beside me running her mouth while I was waiting impatiently. "Oh, are you Danielle? Well, I have been waiting on you." REALLY?!!
3:55 p.m. - She doesn't rate too bad on the "must be a good hairwasher" requirement. And she is actually beginning to make good conversation. Hey...this could turn out to be pretty good.
4:00 p.m. - I realize that through her conversation (and my woman's intuition) that she is exactly one of the women who slept with one of my friends husbands. Oh yeah. These.Are.The.Days.Of.Our.Lives.
4:01 p.m. - She immediately realizes that I know. Awkward silence the remainder of my appointment.
4:05 p.m. - I directly point to a girl sitting next to me and say, "That's exactly how I want my hair cut." I am thinking that there is NO way she can mess this up. I mean, she has a living model sitting right beside her to look at how I would like my new "do" to look. I gave her too much credit.
4:15 p.m. - Awkward silence continues.
4:35 p.m. - and awkward silence continues to, um, continue.
4:50 p.m. - Wow. She is cutting a lot of my hair.
5:00 p.m. - Okay, she is cutting A LOT of my hair.
5:05 p.m. - Put my glasses on and look in the mirror. Yup, she cut off a lot of my hair. I am resisting tears. First, she is a homewrecker. Second, she is a homewrecker who just gave ME a bad hair cut. What a biotch.
5:15 p.m. - GET ME OUT OF HERE!
5:20 p.m. - Put on my best, "Oh, i like it!" smile.
5:30 p.m. - Immediatly look at myself in the mirror when I get into my car and say, out loud, "Oh my god. I hate it." I put on more lip gloss and blush in an effort to distract from what quite possibly may be the worst haircut ever.
5:33 p.m. - Look in the mirror again. My hair looks like a cross between a really bad "mom" haircut and a mushroom.
5:45 p.m. - Look in the mirror at home. And absoutley, have a tantrum. Complete with real, crocodile tears. This goes on for a few minutes.
6:00 p.m. - Thinking about throwing myself a for-real by-invitation-only pity party. Complete with party favors and party hats...to cover up the bad hair.

I am SO sticking with my gay hairdresser from now on. Even if I have to wait a decade.


 

So bad I can't even come up with a witty title

WARNING: This is one of those stories where you could quite possibly think that I am lying, telling a story, stretching the truth...or just all-out, making this crap up. I. AM. SO. NOT. Nothing has been changed, thwarted or even made to sound better and/or worse to enhance the actual story. So, brace yourself for what I'm sure will be somewhat of an emotional journey for you, as it was for me. Today you will get to experience a variety of emotions including intriguement (is that a word?), curiosity, anger, rage, sympathy, hilarious-ity (again, is that a word?) and then we'll hopefully wrap it up with motivation. So, you ready? Here goes...

Last week, I woke up (mid-morning as I normally do), and in usual Danielle fashion, I rolled out of bed and checked my cell phone to see if anyone interesting called or texted me. Facebook sends me my messages and posts via text so I wasn't too surprised when I got a text notifying me that someone sent me a private message on facebook. "Hmm...wonder who sent me a message?" It was a guy with whom I attended high school. "Oh, he must want to catch up or see how I'm doing." As I read my message, I could hardly believe it. For one thing, I had only been awake for a mere two minutes and after reading that message, I started to think I was still dreaming...or perhaps nightmare-ing - because in the land of my dreams, this conversation would NOT occur. Yes, that must have been it. Because surely, no human being would actually (a) say this to me or (b) um...say this to me or (c) have the freakin' guts to say this to me! So, you are wondering what exactly this person could have said to be of the amount of importance to actually blog about it, right? Well, here it is - word for word:

"Dam!!! Danielle I C U havent missed to many meals!!"

Geez. If the guy wanted to reconnect with me on Facebook, a simple "Hi, how are you?" would have sufficed. Was it absolutely necessary to cut me down like that? I was mad as hell. Appalled. Hurt. Pissed. Enraged. As I laid there in my bed contemplating what I just read, I considered which, of my many, responses I could give this asshole. Here's a complete list:

Well, damn, I see you haven't picked up a book since high school. First of all, damn is spelled with an n at the end, not like a water dam, you complete moron. And the "to" you used in your sentence to insult me is actually supposed to be spelled "too". And your use of an extreme amount of exclamation points was a little extreme don't you think? So, yeah, the next time YOU want to insult someone, please, at the very least, use correct grammar you idiot.

Oh, I see you like television too! It sounds like "Snapped" is your favorite TV show. That's good, because at the rate you are going, you will make your television debut soon. Very soon.

Actually, as a matter of fact, I ate a kindergartner back in 2004. I'm still digesting.

I'm sorry, but I recall a certain memory that involved you showing your...ahem...male package... to the entire physical education class when we were in high school. Well, you were in high school. By the looks of things, it appeared your package was still in elementary school and didn't get the memo.

...and those are about all the witty, biting remarks I could muster up. But instead of sinking to that level, I just responded by blocking him from my Facebook. Why would I need that kind of negativity in my life? I don't. And people like that are looking to get a reaction. And I refused to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Most days, I would have really let that get me down. I might have even cried about it. But, I didn't. Because, although it hurt a little for someone to say something so hurtful and rude, I genuinely didn't care what he thought. And that is not a familiar place for me. Usually I care too much what people think. And I don't know where I found the confidence to not care. Maybe what I've lost in pounds this year I have gained in confidence and the self-assurance that I am okay with me.

People will never be satisfied. Especially those who are negative. I guarantee you that if I were to actually loose weight to what would be classified as a normal, healthy weight for my height, people would say I was too skinny. There is just no pleasing some people. And I'm okay with that. Because, strangely enough, that comment came during a time where I was actually feeling very good about myself. Sure, I'm not exactly where I want to be. But, I know I've made healthier changes and I've lost 20 pounds since January. That is progress. Progress that I am proud of. Toot. Toot. And do I still have a way to go? Yes.

And one last thing: Dear A-hole, perhaps you thought your comment would make me want to give up? Oh no. You are sadly mistaken. And for your sake, I hope we never cross paths in public. Because I would hate to insult you with my witty, intelligent, highly sarcastic tongue. 

Of the things to forget, a bra is not one

I have attempted to write several things today. But, it's one of those days where I am at a loss of great words, wisdom or even wittiness.
What I have today is short. However, I hope you find the information useful - like a piece of advice you can store in your mental closet of "never do that".

I forgot to wear a bra to work.

I know right? How does a 31 year-old forget to wear a bra to work? A 31 year-old who is well-endowed? You wouldn't believe me if I told you. So the important information to remember here is that I, chubby girl, forgot to wear a freakin' bra. In the land of this crap only happens to me...it happened.

It wouldn't have been so bad if I were a secretary or something not so mobile. But I am working at a famous chain restaurant (which, come to think of it would have served as a benefit if I worked at Hooters) where wearing a bra is...um...of utmost importance. But by the time I realized I didn't have the bra in the backseat of my car like I thought I did... wow. I just realized how scandalous that sounded. But I promise you - it's so not scandalous. The truth of the matter is, I wish that was the reason I had a bra in the backseat of my car. But the truth is way less, um, sexy. The truth is that I am one of those "I could live in my car" girls and along with three purses, countless pairs of shoes, a few bath towels, a Caboodles make-up case and random jewelry, I was sure I left a sports bra in my backseat after changing from a workout.

I was clearly mistaken.

So, I spent the night sweating like a pig at work due to a lack of support for Thelma and Louise. I made many bathroom trips to grab a few napkins and pat dry. (Don't worry, I totally washed my hands every time...I mean, 80 percent of the time. Kidding.) Luckily our work shirts are a starchy, heavy material that doesn't have good "see through" powers. Otherwise, I'd just be mortified. And also, I did have a tight fitting tank top that sorta disguised my bra-less look I had going on. And just in case anyone (how dare they!) asked about my new "look", I was going to respond with a totally untruthful story about how I had a non-cancerous knot removed on my boob and was unable to wear a bra. I shouldn't have spent so much time concocting the whole lie of a story, but I had to cover all my bases. Because saying, "I forgot to put one on" just wouldn't suffice. Why couldn't I have forgotten socks? Or something borrow-able? But, me? I had to forget a bra. It's not like I could just walk up to my boss and say, "Hey, I forgot my bra. Got one I can borrow for the night? We look about the same size."
Geez. Sometimes I feel, and act, just like a 12 year old.

Chubby girl @ water park...snarky comments need not reply

I remember the summer of 1992 - I was 12. My dad had just gotten full custody of me that summer and was quickly learning that I was indeed a girl and not one of the 15 bratty little boys he was coaching that summer for little league baseball. The point that I was a girl was driven all the way to home base when he received a call from work from me crying on the other end of our huge cordless phone telling him I had gotten my period. I know, right? I think that might have been one of his most horrific moments as a parent. It was definitely one of mine as I made a faulty choice (with lack of motherly consultation) to use a tampon. The first time I got my period. Every woman knows - this is a no no. So, traumatic experience? Heck yes.
Now, you may be asking, "What in the hell does tampons and first periods have to do with water parks?" Well, my dad decided to make me feel better by allowing me to go with him and his little league baseball team to the water park in Memphis - Adventure River. Perhaps you too went in the 90's - it was 'da bomb diggity. I was less than thrilled to attend with a group of meandering little tween boys - who would without a doubt annoy the piss out of the only girl attending within the group. But yet, I was excited to get my swim on. I picked out my most sporty swimsuit and packed my bag. I could hardly sleep that night with thoughts of water slides and wave pools. The drive to Adventure River was nothing short of...well...an adventure with a group of grown men and annoying little shits also known as 6th grade boys. But alas, I almost wet myself when I saw the tips of swirling slides from the Interstate as we quickly approached the park. I was excited. We are talking Griswold National Lampoon Vacation excited. But something about being there with a bunch of boys when I was 12 just made me feel extremely uncool. I chickened out and barely rode any of the thrill water slides. If I could go back to when I was 12, I swear I would push myself up that water slide and show those boys who was the queen of the water park!
That was 19 years ago. But today, I embraced my inner 12 year old. And I mastered every single water slide at the park. And I'm 31 years old. And I'm chubby. And I'm as white as they come. And you know what? In the midst of tanned and toned teenagers, moms who had better bodies than me, little kiddos in their floaties, and most importantly, the  12 year old little baseball bullies who brought me back to 1992, I, 31 year-old, white-as-a-ghost chubby girl rocked the hell out of that water park. And I did it with flare. 

The Accelerator.
Fear scale: 6.
My first slide of the day. I may have had a somewhat difficult time maneuvering myself onto the inner tube, which I am sure brought entertainment to some spectators, but I did the damn thing. (And a little bit of pee may have came out in the process.) Oh, and it should be noted that my one piece suddenly became a thong at the end of the ride. Dear fellow on-lookers, you're welcome.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 10. 











 

The Cyclone.
Fear scale: 6-7.
Water rides, like cheese fries, are much more fun when shared. I rode with my friend and nephew. This slide - part in pitch-black darkness and part in the light (which you see pictured), was just pure fun. And I felt like the 12 year old in me was saying, "Finally! A little fun!" My serious 31 year old persona disappeared with the first splash of water.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 2.

The Pipeline.
Fear scale: 5.
Most fun water slide of the day for me. I rode it three times (he! he!) And I'm pretty sure I said "Whoohooo!!!" Did I make a total idiot out of myself? Yup. Did I care? Hell to the no.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 8.5.

Black and White Lightning.
Fear scale (before riding): 4
Fear scale (after riding): 9
This was the type of water slide I would not ride that day back in 1992. Partly because I had (um...make that have) an extreme fear of falling off the side of the slide and plunging downward toward my death. But, caution was thrown to the wind today as I plunged down both slides. Would I call drinking a gallon of chlorinated pee water and scraping my knee loads of fun? Not quite. But I did it anyway!
Bathing suit in my ass scale: can't remember because I was checking my pulse to see if I was still breathing.

Vortex.
Fear scale: 7
This ride was kind of like a shot at the doctor's office - the more you thought about it, the worse it seemed. But when it actually happened, it wasn't that bad. Besides the fact that it was completely enclosed and super-fast, it was not that big of a deal. (But because most people thought this was the scariest of them all, I felt like superwoman afterwards).
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 9.5 - I mean, hello? It is called Vortex. What did you expect?

Vertigo. (aka "blue fish bowl" or my personal favorite "Hell's toilet bowl")
Fear scale: off the charts
The definition of vertigo is: a medical condition that leads to a sense of spinning, dizziness and disorientation. Wow. And we pay for that?
I must have had an out of body experience to have ridden this. We've all had the unfortunate experience of flushing Goldie the goldfish down the toilet when he met his untimely death. Well, I'm pretty sure this was natures way of paying me back. Because I felt just like a goldfish...or something else being flushed down the toilet. It all happened so fast that my only thought was, "when will I get to the round bowl thing so it will be over?" And then I landed in a large pool of water and was quite surprised that the lifeguard did not come to my rescue. Since I looked horrified and all. "No, it's ok, Mr. Lifeguard, don't help me. It's not like it's your freakin' job or anything." Yet, my overwhelming thought was, "I did it!" Twelve year old Danielle would have never attempted hell's toilet bowl. But 31 year old Danielle jumped in feet first...because...I mean, that's what the sign said to do.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: Who cared? I was alive.

Usually, I'd be so concerned with trying to not look like an idiot. I normally would have fretted over which bathing suit made me look the least fat and then spray-tanned my way into an oompa-loompa orange so I wouldn't feel like Casper the friendly ghost at the pool. But, today, I did something better. I lived. Granted, it was only water slides. But, I lived it up. I had fun. I didn't give a rip what people thought or how fat I was or any of the other less than appealing things I could have worried about. I didn't give a rip. I looked at myself in the mirror in the bathroom on the way out of the water park - and I saw a girl. I saw a chubby girl. I saw an extremely pasty-white girl with no hopes of ever having a tan. I saw a sunburned girl with a tired face. But you know what else I saw? I saw a girl who had fun.

So, have fun. Do life. Ride the slide. Don't worry about looking stupid. You get one life - so do it.