Cosmo and Stuff

I got my hair done last weekend, and with every haircut comes a new Cosmo magazine.  I buy one because my hair appointments are long and I need something to read.  I don’t bring books because I don’t want falling hair getting trapped between pages.  That’s, like, gross and stuff.  

Cosmo is a standard women’s magazine that contains articles about “new” sex techniques that aren’t really new and common sense relationship “wisdom” (i.e. don’t talk about your ideal wedding on a first date).  It’s also less about empowerment and more about fulfilling social obligations (having minimal to no body fat, buying fashionable clothes for the gym, being a key player in work “projects,” etc).  

The magazine assumes its readers are high-income, business-savvy hot chicks with big-dicked boyfriends and downtown condos.  No fat married ladies with kids or  20-somethings with shitty part-time jobs and sexless, martini-free weekends.  

Anyways, one article was about losing seven pounds in seven days without radically altering your diet.  

I’m not a doctor or nutritionist or personal trainer hired for my hot, muscular physique, but I know that you can’t lose seven pounds in a week without radically altering something.  Sure enough, the diet requires women to cut out carbs, sodium and sugar for one week and rely solely on small portions of grilled chicken and plain vegetables.  Also, the dieter must do 30 minutes of “hard” cardio each day and have a half hour of vigorous woman-on-top sex each night.  

Perhaps I’m ignorant or unlucky, but I don’t think 30 minutes of nightly sex is feasible.  Also, a half hour of uninterrupted bouncing is unrealistic.  

Well, it is for me, anyways.  I get tired easily, and I don’t like it when my leg muscles ache.  Also, constant thrusting can get tedious for both partners.  And really, how much calories does flexing your thighs really burn? 90? 100? 150, maybe? That’s less than a Weight Watchers whole-grain bagel.  It’s even less than one medium-sized oatmeal raison cookie.  

To be fair, I guess people on the quick-fix Cosmo diet shouldn’t be eating cookies anyways.  

The point I’m trying to make, I think, is that the article is telling readers how to shed water weight in preparation for a big event (wedding, birthday party, a night out at Boston Pizza with friends they haven’t seen in 6 to 8 months).  What the piece doesn’t take into account is that the minute the woman consumes a beer/pizza slice/fry/crouton, all of that water weight comes back and leads to bloating and vicious gas pains.  

I’ve done mild crash diets like that, and nothing ruins the feel-good vibe of super self-control like renegade air ricocheting around your large and small intestines.  It’s both awkward and painful, and forces you to make funny expressions that puzzle other partygoers.  

The next morning you’re 10 pounds heavier and 30 times more  depressed than you were when Cosmo first called you fat and told you to reward yourself for a hard day’s work as a partner in your prestigious law firm or PR agency by eating a low-fat, gluten-free cupcake with the icing scraped off.  

You want to lose a few? More vegetables and less treats.  Oh, and a few long walks and a run here and there.  Don’t hunt down a partner for 30 minutes of work-filled, unsatisfying nightly intercourse had solely to tone your ass.  An ass that, God willing, won’t be seen by fellow party guests anyways.  

I’d rather have random mid-morning sex that has nothing to do with shaping my gluts, and I don’t believe in fat-free cupcakes. Treats aren’t supposed to be healthy, that’s why they’re treats.  If you’re that concerned about losing weight, end your awesome day at your awesome downtown office with an awesome slice of cucumber.

Spoiled?

I had a discussion about upper-class cities today, and it got me thinking about wealth and opportunity.

Opportunity eludes some (perhaps many), and it’s often unfair.  For example, a surgeon who moves from India to Canada is forced to work at Tim Horton’s because his degree is not transferrable and he can’t afford to upgrade.  That’s difficult, because some people assume older people in the customer service industry are there because they can’t get a “real” job.  They just couldn’t earn some marketing degree because they were too busy, I don’t know, failing at life.

This phenomenon is, of course, unfair.  Anyone who’s ever worked a minimum-wage job during their high school/college/university years knows that it’s hard to be intermittently condescended to based on an apron.  Everyone who has to ask “do you want fries with that?” knows that there’s a lot of jokes about imbeciles who have to ask wealthy and accomplished lawyers that question everyday.

On the other end of the spectrum is the obvious disdain some people have for those with comfortable salaries and upper-middle class homes.

This – though perhaps less disagreeable because those on the receiving end may sleep easy with the knowledge that the surly complainer is probably jealous – is still irritating.  

When you’re born with a little more than you need (or a lot more), you must be aware that your circumstances are, financially speaking, sometimes enviable.  Money doesn’t make people happy, but it makes them less worried about survival, which must lead to some increase in overall well-being.

Last year, I held a cushy 9-5 office job and got paid reasonably well for doing nothing.  I usually arrived five to 10 minutes late, took a lot of tea breaks, and played around on Facebook.  When it came time to work, I keyed numbers into a program and sorted invoices.

I hated it.

It made me want to die.

I hated the white walls and the blue carpet and the constant hum of the air conditioner.  I hated the shitty soft-rock on the radio and the swivel chairs and the loud conversations about nothing (most of which I probably started).  

Every afternoon I contemplated a nervous breakdown or a sudden heart-attack, anything that would promise some time off.  

I knew that I should’ve been grateful that I wasn’t serving coffee or bagging groceries or scrubbing bathrooms (all of which I’ve done, and one of which I do now), and I knew that most people thought I was lucky to have a “family business” to go to.  In fact, every time I complained about the rotten cesspool that was my decomposing brain, I’d often hear, “but you’re so lucky, I’d love to get paid for doing nothing.”

I’m telling all of you naysayers and doubters that you’re wrong.  

A promised position in a family company made me feel more useless and lazy than a barista or a grocery store cashier.  When you’re working with your hands and doing something for others, the lowness of your occupation compared to, like, the prime minister, doesn’t matter.  You’re busy, you’re working, and you’re getting something done.  You may not want to do it forever, but maybe it’s good enough for the time being.

When you’re sitting in a chair staring at a monitor with a bright blue screen and big yellow letters wearing stupid dress pants and ugly leather shoes (Stacy and Clinton would have died), you feel like a fat-assed, sedentary drain on the system.  A big speckled fish that sucks algae off the bottom of an expensive fish tank.

I wasn’t “lucky.”  I didn’t ask for that opportunity, I didn’t demand that the company make room for me.  But, since it was there and I was fresh out of school, I took the job.  I took it because it was easy, and because I didn’t have to work for it.

I think that, occupationally speaking, that was the worst year of my life.  Other great things happened, but while I sat in that building for eight hours, I felt nothing but disgust for myself.

It doesn’t really matter what you’re given.  You’re not lucky if you’re not happy, and sometimes fortune isn’t fortune at all if you’re better off without it.  

If you think you’ll be happier working in a bakery than at your mom’s law firm, then fill out that application.  Don’t let anyone tell you to appreciate the opportunity to make money while someone else vacuums the men’s aisle at Wal-Mart.  Sometimes, believe it or not, vacuuming is better than slouching over an old PC creeping Facebook all day.

Don’t feel guilty about “not appreciating a great opportunity.”  Monotony just kills the soul.