I am stark naked, covered in glitter, and surrounded by strangers.
I’m not dreaming, kidnapped, or working my way through college… I’ve taken a dare to spend one night at a charity gala– as a bodypaint model!
According to a new poll, 1/3 of women think they are too fat to be naked around their spouse. My immediate thoughts are:
1 – If I ever decide I am too fat to have sex, it will be after a complicated system of ropes, pulleys, and hope goes horribly wrong.
2 – Having to stand, buck-ass, in a ballroom full of socialites and ice sculptures is a better motivator than any gym playlist.
To pull this off, I will need to get tighter than pre-Frappuccino Britney.
The party is four weeks away.
What I have signed up for sinks in. Realizing I need to talk to someone who doesn’t Just Love Me For Who I Am, I consult a trainer.
His advice: “Focus on getting lean all over. Shed the outer pudge and your abs will start showing.”
He writes me a strength program coupled with high intensity interval cardio.
Also: “Water. You should be drinking at least half a gallon a day.”
We’ve all heard that one. But I’ve never listened before.
After a day of drinking that much water, I am peeing like a 17 year old Chihuahua from the animal shelter. But I feel amazing.
The trainer introduces laps of lunges around the entire gym to my routine. My quads feel like charred steaks. When it’s over I look down between my runners, half expecting to find a newborn.
“There’s more to looking good naked than just doing a bunch of crunches,” he informs me, “If you eat clean and build your core, the abs will come.”
On the upside, my body is getting used to processing all that extra water. I decide to wait another week before asking my draft-dodger neighbor for tips on faking my own death.
Terror sets in. Public Nudity is 14 days away and I’m not seeing results fast enough. I should have followed my initial instinct to consume only egg whites, laxatives, and workout pills that entered this country smuggled in a balloon.
Because I won’t stop whining about how I’m doomed to be a tubby, naked laughingstock, my friends invite me to the pub. Unfortunately, designer cocktails can pack as much as 6.5 cellulite-tingling teaspoons of sugar.
So instead of hitting the bottle, I hit the bag, trying some boxing inspired workouts.
My next few gym days consist of alternating speed-punching combos with fantasizing about starting bar fights just to watch fists shatter against my stomach.
After an especially torturous set of planks, I poke my midsection. What was once soft –like a roll cookie dough eaten alone in one’s car– now feels like actual ABS!
Results of any kind are a total rush. For the rest of the week my workouts gain momentum until I am so confident I nearly buy a trench coat and start lurking in the public park.
Before the party, undressing for the airbrush artist, comes the final flash of panic. Then, every side-plank and bosu-twist-pushup from the past month floods into my mind and I’m fine.
Whatever fear you wish to conquer (or if you just want to look really good naked) fitness is the answer. My inner fat kid is still here, but I refuse to let her wear a t-shirt to the water slides ever again.