Feet vs. Fitness

In addition to being a full-fledged mysophobe, I am also a fitness freak. I have this horrible,permeating fear of being morbidly obese to the point of losing full flexion and extension in my joints, and needing a crane to take me from bedroom to bathroom. Because I begin to panic every 4 weeks, marking the point that a "new" workout becomes old and no longer challenges your muscles, I am constantly putting blind faith into innovative fitness products as seen on T.V.

It started with the Perfect Pushup. I wanted those arms, and obviously my arms would look like the ripped-yet-hot blond chick smiling as she pumped serious muscle milk. Then it was the Downward Dog Yoga mat, the DinoDisc, the Bowflex Light($$$$$), Bender Ball, and the list and credit card bill draws on and on until it just becomes a sliver in the horizon, eventually dissapearing.


So when Reebok came out with the balance-ball inspired EasyTone shoes, designed to firm up the butt, hamstrings, quads, and calfs (YES.PLEASE.), the shoes were as good as purchased. Unfortunately due to my stingy tastes, I refused to buy any of the current models becasue they were profoundly and undendingly ugly. Furiously logged onto Reebok's website, I was beyond relieved to learn you could design your own pair, and 3 hours later I have a champagne and candy pink duo that would surely kick my own ass.

I waited FIVE WEEKS for that pair of shoes. Finally, after an eternity of shoe purgatory, I came home from work to find a dented box perched on my stoop. What followed in the next few days was a roller coaster of joy, pain, angst, and sorrow. For the love of God, the manufacterers of my shoes forgot to use mesh on the majority of the pair as I had designed them. Instead, my EasyTones are a solid sheet of non-breathing material.

Non-breathing athletic material = super-breeding bacterial material. After a week of use, they reeked beyond any meaning of the word. Here's the crux of the problem: they worked. For the first time in my fad exercise purchases, I was seeing results. I lost 1/2 inch around both thighs, something years of the stairmaster has yet to accomplish. I even felt stronger, which is obviously secondary to looks (don't you dare judge me: you want the six pack abs for the beach not for battle). But the stench and the haunting images of bacteria bumping uglies in my precious EasyTones got to be a little more than I could stand. In a word, I lost it.

When I came to I was splayed flat out on my back, an empty aerosal can of Lysol Antibacterial Spray in Citrus breeze lolled against my temple. Hazy, I sat up, my eyes falling on my sopping wet pair of champagne and candy pink Easytones. Rivulets of Lysol ran down the sheeny, not breathing material, and in that moment I felt hate. How could a product this good betray me this badly? Why? What have I done?

I had to face facts: continue to get Jane Fonda gam results and stick my feet into cesspools of specimen, or give up the gig and wear my meshy Underarmour shoes and hope the starimaster ups its game and gives me those damned results. Eventually, I did what any self-respecting American would do: I wrote a letter. I wrote a letter very similar to what I have written here, the main point being that should I contract Lymphatic Filariasis from these shoes, the order Reebok messed up, then I shall wage a hellfire lawsuit war upon Reebok and all its affiliates. Histrionics aside, I got what I wanted, after another FIVE WEEKS of waiting: meshy, clean, pristing champagne and candy pink EasyTones, the way I intended them.

The Art of Selection Bias

I write this as I lay in bed kicking myself for posting a few days late. I can't believe I totally forgot to post, and because I have a plethora of mysophobic stories to relate I cannot fathom what would possess me to neglect the catharsis that is my blog.
Then I realized it was my boyfriends fault.
My boyfriend is a man, meaning he has a beard and bushy eyebrows (both of which come with their unique set of microscopic flesh-eating mites. seriously.), he washes his hands for 10 seconds at the very most (violation! should be 20), he will eat things that fell on the floor and he has been known to wear the same shirt around all day. In any other human being, these attributes would be the same level of heinous as Jeffrey Dahmer's extracurricular activities, pre-conviction. What is so aggravating to me is that Boyfriend is an exception to every obsessive-compulsive rule regarding human interaction and contact that I stand by. He is somehow immune. How did this happen? I suspect there must be nanobots involved in this, but that is for a different conversation.
I digress. The point is that I forgot to post on Tuesday because I was with him all weekend, and apparently engulfed in the amnesty of Boyfriend's germ-repellent qualities.
What I have deduced is Darwinian, if I do say so myself: through the forces of Nature, Boyfriend has been selected to surpass my phobia and thus interact (i.e. touch without dire consequences involving Lysol) with me. What exactly he possesses that accomplishes this is far beyond me, and I certainly have not yet ruled out nanobots. In any case, he is good company and has no qualms giving me a public lecture on the "ridiculousness" of some of my more specific tendencies (seriously, NO ONE was going to tell that little girl to cover her hellish, coughing mouth. I was doing the community at large a service.) Some even go so far as to say this dynamic is good for me, similar to the way a little germ exposure benefits my immune system. I am usually too distracted by the fumes of my anti-bacterial hand gel to fully absorb the good-intentioned nature of this advice, but I am almost certain the people saying it have the Cold and are just bitter about it. Suckers.
Boyfriend is turning in his sleep and is showing early signs of an REM sneeze. I barely know who I am when I say this could not bother me less. Natural selection, people.