“I’ve dated heavier girls before,” a co-worker told me once.  We were at Yogi’s, and I had a couple drinks (read: 4305934) in me as he made this comment.  I raised my eyebrows, eager to hear what came next.

“Yeah, like this one girl I dated, she was like, 5′7, and she ballooned up to like, 145 pounds.”

I think he went on from there, but I blacked out somewhere between slamming my drink down on the bar and immediately going into my rant, which I’m sure was peppered with “Jesus fucking Christ!” every other phrase.  Once I calmed down I realized that the kid probably had no idea what “overweight” meant for a 5′7 woman; I haven’t the first clue what the typical height/weight measurements are for men. But his comment tainted my good times, dammit.

I’m no fatty. But since graduation I’ve gotten a bit more Rubenesque* than I care to be.  So last week, I joined the Bloomington Sportsplex.  I’ve only been a few times, but I like it so far.  There are fewer machines, but it’s far from crowded, and it feels less like a meat market than the SRSC.  And they have audio hookups to their TVs, so I could watch The Bachelor: Paris to distract me from the fact that I am practically dying from lack of fitness on the elliptical trainer.

*You see what that was, people?  That was an Art History reference: “Rubenesque” originates from the adorable, plump women so frequently put to canvas by Renaissance Master Peter Paul RUBENS. Who cares if my parents spent thousands of dollars on my liberal arts education and I work two hourly-wage jobs.  My blog is educated, dammit.**

** So. Fucking.  Insecure.