I Was Unemployed for Four Months, and All I Got Was This Lousy Muffin Top

Bed. Couch. Desk. Couch. Back to bed.
Repeat as desired.

That was my life for a good four months.

Combine the energy level of a sloth with a craving for comfort food, and what do you get? Pants that don’t fit.

I almost didn’t notice it, until I busted out my office-casual attire, which had been tucked away, out of sight since before I accepted my previous job (where the dress code was extremely casual).

I mean, I’d joked about weight gain as a kind of general side effect of unemployment, but as usual, the joke’s on me!

As I tried on the black pants that had fit so comfortably just a year earlier, I was shocked: not only were they snug, they actually hurt. Clothes that hurt. Not a good thing.

“It’s okay,” I thought to myself. “When I get back to work, the extra pounds will just melt right off, what with the whole leaving the house thing.” Re-integration into normal, everyday life will surely expend enough energy to whip me back into shape.

I didn’t take into consideration my almost non-existent commute, and a work kitchen full of free, corn syrup heavy snacks. Maybe it’s my Unemploymentality getting the best of me, but I just can’t pass up that much free food without trying to hoard it (all at once, in my belly).

So, with no other options left (I had carefully weighed out the pros and cons of a minor eating disorder, cons winning…but barely) I decided to hit the gym. And I’m hating every minute of it.

There’s one in my building, so I have no excuse. I’m waking up a little early, heading down there and forcing myself to move. And sweat. To music. Before I’ve even had my first cup of coffee.

What hasn’t helped my new found motivation is that in the past week, one of my neighbors appears to have also had a fat wake-up call.  Sadly, he has the same taste in exercise equipment. Only he commits to an entire hour of hell.

With only one elliptical available, I have two choices: get there before him or resign myself to using the most tedious of all exercise machines: the treadmill.

My geriatric – yet incredibly sporty – neighbor sweats profusely,  sings Motown out loud to his Discman, and wears all 80s-inspired workout gear (complete with brightly colored headband and wristbands). At first I thought it was adorable. Now I’m just angry. And since he likes to enjoy his endorphin rush with his eyes firmly shut, I don’t think he’s even noticed me glaring at him with rage as I run clumsily towards nothing. I hate him for getting in my way, sure. But I think I hate him just a little more for being in far better shape than I am, at 50 years my senior.

And at the end of it all, I want nothing more than to crawl right back into bed and sleep it off. But alas, I have to go to work. Where I will surely undo all of my hard work with one delicious – and free – bag of Soft Batch chocolate chip cookies.

My unemployment might be over, but my Unemploymentality is still making me fat.