For some reason I’ve been having trouble posting recently. It may be because I haven’t been offered a book deal or anything and I was certain that would follow shortly after my blogging debut. F. What’s unfortunate is that I have all sorts of rich blog fodder, but my sour blog mood has led me to refrain from posting. I dont think it’s fair to ruin a perfectly good exploitation opportunity because I can’t string together a good fat kid joke. Anyway, after a few weeks of blog silence, I was snapped back to blogality this morning when my ever-inspiring gym buddy gave me some gems.

First let me recap a few highlights of the last three weeks:

1. The Sports Club/LA: I wanted to be sure to punctuate it exactly as they do. It’s not the LA Sports Club, or the Sports Club, LA, but in fact some pretentious amalgomation that denotes that it can be called The Sports Club/LA even though you could not get farther from LA, unless you jumped in the Atlantic. Which I’m not going to do.

2. Nicole, gym buddy, The Sports Club/LA: There is no greater joy in life than hinging your physical fitness goals on a girl who is one phone call from mom away from packing it in and ending it. The idea that the two of us are motivating one another is almost as good as Cheney pretending that a back spasm deserves a wheelchair.

3. The Sports Club/LA cafe: One of the many gym absurdities of my new fitness megaplex is the cafe/lounge/bar/retail area. Now, it’s not like Equinox focused desperate amounts of attention on feeding me wheatgrass and lemon slices, but there certainly wasnt a spread of chocolate filled croissants or “rice crispy” treats made out of every breakfast cereal you can imagine. (I once heard a skinny, stupid girl remark that they were like a bowl of cereal to go. Which I guess is true… if you pour melted Fluff on your Total.)

The morning routine consists of Nicole picking me up while it’s still dark outside, driving me to the gym (en route we always have the same 30 second conversation about how fucking miserable we think going to the gym is, followed by silence, sometimes a cute story about a time that Nicole wrecked her car), working out, eating, and then sitting in the cafe chatting about the others. From the time I am picked up to the time I get to work is usually about 3. hours. That is a long fucking time to be at the gym, but as I’m learning, The Sports Club/LA is a LIFESTYLE.

Unfortunately, Nicole and I are neither the most beautiful, nor the skinniest girls at the gym. That is only highlighted by the fact that we round up our workouts with breakfast burritos and homefries while all the girls with husbands who have money chew on ice chips and gnaw on their fingernails. I can imagine that if someone made a film about us, they would exacerbate the scene by choosing actresses like Jeanine Garafalo and Virgina Madsen to play us. Good actresses, never captains of the cheerleading squad.

This morning, after Zen Bootcamp and some cardio, we headed to the cafe to dine. I was tired, hinging on cranky, and particularly miffed that Zen Bootcamp was nothing but a bootcamp with oming at the end. I’m going to instigate Zen Sex at my house, Zen Cooking, even Zen Pooing. If an om is all it takes, I’m Zen.

I was trying to keep up with conversation, mostly because Nicole was being sprightly, her spirits lifted by her progress on the treadmill, and because I knew that if I stopped paying attention I’d fall off my stool and run this risk of someone seeing my exposed stomach flesh. The conversation turned to talk of mothers, and I immediately knew that today I was going to break a most sacred vow: never write about your mother in your blog.

I don’t know who started it, but even the most estranged mother/daughter relationships are above blog reproach. Fathers are resilient. At the end of the day, even fathers are men, and just knowing that they were talked about makes them stand up two inches taller. Doesn’t matter if it’s debasing. It makes them feel sexy. Mothers on the other hand get all analytical. No laughing at the clear cheap shots, or getting warm and fuzzy knowing that I am making tens of people laugh at her expense. There is just the mid afternoon phone call. “Hi. I read your blog.”

F.

But today made it all clear to me. The book deal hasnt come through because I’ve been too private and family-is-off-limits to use the richest material of all. MOTHER.

Here is the thing: mothers are loving and warm and gentle. My mother in particular can wipe away doubt, convince me over the phone that I am skinny, or still tell me how smart and brilliant I am at work… even if she doesnt know what I do. But my mother, like all mothers across the land, is a liar. And that is why every little girl in the world grows up to be a fucked up mess who sits at the gym cafe and wonders why every guy in the room isnt trying to see the other side of her lululemons.

I dont understand. I’m gorgeous. My mom told me.

Your mom is a liar.

I know, I know. It’s hard to hear. You’re sitting in a bar, your dress is amazing, your hair perfect, your make up flawless. You have an image of yourself, the way others must perceive you, how statuesque you must look perched on your barstool.

All. A. Lie.

If we were all as beautiful as our mother’s tell us we are, Chelsea Clinton wouldnt have embarrassed a nation by proving that power isn’t always pretty. Sure, the hotel heiresses are hot, the sons of the monarchy are delicious, but our delegate to the political child club? A glee clubber with no clue how to use a hair straightener. It’s simply unAmerican.

I know first hand that what I say is true. I was a child of beauty and grace. According to my mother, every party I attended I was the belle of the ball. Women flocked to my mother, telling her how beautiful I was, how graceful, how eloquent. (Does this story sound familiar? Uh huh.) The dark underbelly is that my mother insisted that I dress in Talbot’s (for women) until I was almost 16. The first time was allowed to buy something from Express, my mother told me that she supposed I could wear whatever I wanted, even if that meant looking like a whore. I had curls THAT I BRUSHED, braces that were multicolored, and for a period of my life I thought it was totally okay to use craft glitter on my eyelids. It’s a miracle I can still see.

But yet, though I was perfect specimen of beauty, poise and style, a child who was born gifted and lovely, the silent envy of everyone, for my eighteenth birthday was was gifted my very own rhinoplasty.

I guess the beautiful can only get more so.

I haven’t posted in a long time. Mostly it’s because nothing interesting is happening in my life, plus I’ve had some harsh Half Truth critics tell me that they think it’s a literary cop out to talk about being fat and working out. (To which, I kind I want to point out that if their references to American lit cover my blog, they may need to reevaluate everything.)

So, due to these people, you’ve all suffered the misfortune of not getting to learn about my most recent gym adventures since joining The Sports Club LA, becoming a fake jogger, or the time that I made a detour to Mass General whilst running, just because I saw my life flash before my jogging eyes. That’s right. No more fat kid stories for you.

This time of no gym-blogging has led me to discover other exploitable shortcomings in my personality, as well as my physical self. It’s been a downright joy for the hubs. Just when I stopped standing naked in front of the full length and doing the fat dance, I’ve started holding up paint chips to my stomach to see whether I’m Ivory, Ecru, or Mother of Pearl. *Sigh*

Truthfully, if it’s not one thing, it’s another, and this time of year is basically high heat time for painful self discovery, bitter internal organizing, and reflecting on how far you’ve deviated from the person everyone hoped you’d become. I for one like to stop drinking in January, mostly because I feel like it makes the process more real. A lot like women who birth children with no drugs. Or that time I went off meds right before mom and dad decided they weren’t compatible. No sense in being in pain if it’s not completely unbearable.

Fortunately, this time of sober (pun intended) reflection has also freed up oodles of time for chatting on the phone, sending text messages that I will remember, and discovering how many people I only like when I’m drunk. I’ve reconnected with some old friends, and I’ve even set my sites on making myself a Godmother by 2010. Loftty, I know, but I’m just that good.

During a recent conversation with my longest, dearest, and most enduring (and endearing) friend, wherein I was describing my personal disdain and distaste for coffee and the way people consume it, I realized that I was going off on a useless tangent. Why I was allowing other people’s coffee habits to consume such an excited portion of my day made me a little nervous about who I was, and what the fuck was wrong with me. I did some strategic backpedaling, acknowledging to said friend that I was crazy and needed to shut up, when she said the most horrifying thing:

” I still like to hear your theories.”

OMFG.

Immediately, sitting at my desk, picture of my cat on my desktop, tea to my right, odd stuffed animal thing on my left, I realized I didn’t like myself. Theories? I have theories? I’m a theorizer? I fucking hate people like me.

Look, it’s never been a secret that I have a polarizing personality, and while I understand that it’s hard for people to accept my beauty without feeling self conscious, I’ve always felt as though allowing people to hate you for something you cant help is noble. They are sick. Jealousy is consuming them. Let it go.

But knowing that the personality that you have honed and perfected your entire life, the personality you controlled creation of.. now that’s cause to stick your head in an oven.

To make matters worse, I thought back over the last week to see if I could remember any other “theories” I’d shared.

And now I feel like I can’t speak with people. The iCaroline is a constant theorizer. Got a problem? I can think of a reason for it, as well as solution. For an extra dollar I’ll even stage the scene for you, give you dialog, and post facto phone support. Need to figure out a friend or colleague? Give me 20 minutes and I’ll have a psychographical profile concocted of nothing but my own bullshit meanderings.

I sound like a party gem.

Next stop is bullish femintist with a taste of for DADAist era literature and paintings with no faces to indicate oppression.

Fucking shoot me.