Vomitoriums are not what we think they are. Also, I’m too weak to think of a real title.

I am not in shape.

I’m thin, yes, but I’d still be one of the first to go in the zombie apocalypse. I just don’t have the stamina.

It’s also that time of year when I’m cleaning out my apartment and my car and I think to myself, “Why not just clean up your whole life! Let’s start running and working out all the time!”

I contacted my sisters. One of them is a former marathon runner. The other is basically just a beast. Seriously, this woman works out more than I thought a mother of two could ever work out. I’m pretty sure that professional fitness trainers don’t work out like she works out. Her arms are gifts from Athena herself. And the weirdest part is that I think she actually genuinely enjoys it… My mom is also a fitness instructor… I’m starting to question my biological connection to these people again.

Anyway, the marathoner has me on this schedule where I sprint up hills in the morning and go on longer distance runs on flat surfaces once a week and then the other sister tells me all about these great 30-minute workouts she does, which she loves and says are the reason for her Athena Arms.

Guys, I just tried one of the 30-minute workouts. I lasted 12 minutes. And that includes the time I took to stop and go get water and use the bathroom before looking at the British dude with the bleached mohawk on my screen and shutting him down.

And then I texted Boyfriend.

Me: I… am not in shape. (I had to add the ellipses to account for the heavy breathing)

Boyfriend: Me either, my legs are so sore from yesterdays morning workout. (Apparently he’s on this must-start-working-out-again train, too?)

Me: I just tried to do one of my sister’s (aka THE BEASTHULKWOMAN) 30 minute workouts and I didn’t even make it halfway through before feeling like I might die in a vomitorium of sweat and sadness. And inside this vomitorium, there is no oxygen, oh no. Lungs collapse upon entering the vomitorium. The only thing one can inhale inside the vomitorium is failure and shame.

Boyfriend: Oh gosh babe, that sounds like a rough neighborhood.

Me: There’s lots of gang violence.

Boyfriend: Countless assaults on life and limb.

Me: Housing is pretty cheap, though, so that’s nice. You just pay in tears.

On a separate note, I just googled “vomitorium” (risky move, I know) and it’s totally not at all what I thought it was… I expected so much puke, but all I got was a bunch of tunnels because I guess a vomitorium is basically just the giant tunnel that you walk through when you’re leaving a stadium at a sports thing, which I think it weird because that’s like the stadium is puking you back out to society? That being said, though, it totally still works with what I’m saying because when you watch sports you’re never in as good of shape as the people playing the sports so then you could go to the vomitorium to reflect on your fitness failures in life, right? No? Am I still doing this sports thing wrong? I might be doing this sports thing wrong.

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3 Responses to Vomitoriums are not what we think they are. Also, I’m too weak to think of a real title.

  1. trillie says:

    I came for the vomatorium and stayed for the commiseration. Man it sucks to be weak. My arms may not be gifts from Athena, but I’m pretty sure if I flap my flab with enough enthusiasm, I can get some sort of Dombo thing going.

  2. Shawna says:

    Just have four children. No one expects anything after that, not even yourself.

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