Finally! Truth in advertising.

This stupid broken heart of mine is going to land me in a wheelchair.

I’ve been running from frustration for as many miles as I can fit in, morning and night. It’s been my saving grace and all that has silenced the outrageous sex dreams I keep having about the man at the center of my sadness.

But it’s just not working anymore, and I needed to start focusing on my terrified & hidden abs. I have a tummy tuck planned this fall and I’d like to be in the best shape of my life when I go back under my plastic surgeon’s knife.

To be blunt: I’m tearing down the factory to build a playground.


Beachbody on Demand is going to help me fine tune my playground, but dear GOD is it a treacherous path.

I finished the dishes and changed into my yoga pants and half dozen sports bras. If it’s one thing that having huge boobs changes, it’s exercise.

I’ve been following Paulina, an amazing woman on Instagram; as she has transformed with these same workouts. I covet her swimsuit model bod, enough that I’ve been working on mine for the past few months by running again. It’s been in the back of my mind for a while that it was time to take it to this scary level.

Then my beloved Miss Crunchy started doing them too, and her workouts started greeting me every morning as I sat writing and having my third cup of jet-fuel-strength coffee. This same lady is loving her ex through being diagnosed with multiple myeloma cancer and facing a very different future than she imagined. She’s doing it by kicking ass and taking names, while shining like a diamond and singing like a bird. It’s one sort of miracle to handle life when it’s most difficult, but a whole other kind of spectacular example when you make it look good, too.

So why not? I pulled my hair up and tied my shoelaces a little tighter. Browsing through my options for the Beachbody on Demand I’d just gotten access to.

My closest friends know that I always prefer black to white. In my opinion, when it comes to men, clothes and chocolate, the darker the better. Unfortunately, I live in the land of white boys, so imagine my delight when a fine black man popped up on the screen full of options.


I sure will listen to anything he says. Click. How bad could “Insanity” be? I kind of thrive on it. Shaun T is LOVELY to look at. I’m pleased with my purchase. This fine man is going to lead me to the promised land.

20-30 devastating minutes at a time. Dear. Fucking. GOD.

Five minutes in, I realized that I’d jumped in the deep end of the pool when I probably should have waded in gently. Pretty sure I can feel my liver crying and I’m realizing that alcohol is out if this is the sort of body slamming torture I’ve just embarked on.

12 minutes in, I am literally melting. I know all of my body is sweating, but it actually feels like my face may slide off. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m sort of hoping it does so that I can take a break to find it.

You don’t really know yourself until you’ve endured some plank jumping jacks. Jesus Almighty, what have I gotten myself into??

But…at a certain point…the suffering dulls and the burn kicks in. I realize that it’s going to be fucking intense and will only work if I’m as determined to change the shape of my body, as I am to be more careful about where I put my heart. I can’t help missing him but I sure as hell can use those awful feelings to my advantage with Shaun.

Two soul-stomping workouts a day for 60 days ought to change the landscape and how I feel. ♥


Subconsciously Drowning

The deeper the temptation, the stronger the craving. I’m neck deep and damn close to drowning in the heady inspiration that comes from wanting what I can’t have. Innocent collisions with his ever-warm hands have me mentally undressing him. I pray the adjectives aren’t written all over my face and the invitations stay in my throat instead of falling out of my mouth.

When the man you are itching to unwrap also makes you laugh uncontrollably, it’s God testing you.

God- Level up, Honey.

J- It’s awfully unfair of you to make him funny, too.

I’m stuck and I admit it. Dating is pointless suffering, so I’ve turned to my next best cure. Exercise. Beachbody on demand. I’ve signed up for a year and know that the cure for this craving is just a few dozen intense workouts away. Bonus: the results are fantastic.

Self care is a difficult thing for me. I tend to worry about my own needs, last. Feeling so frustrated has taught me to slow down and breathe a little, but it’s also inspired me to the point that I have to run it off. I ran for 2 hours last night to a great podcast about shaking off these dumb feelings, took a bubble bath and went to bed early.

However… my subconscious is a dirty whore. She’s a cockblocking monster that tortures me constantly with my favorite details of him. I fall asleep and dream him right into the places I want him most.

The body I miss, hot, hard and unwrapped. The cologne that haunts me, closing the distance until I feel the length of him against me. The hands I can’t get out of my head, tangled in my hair and around my throat. The naughty grin that makes me wet, biting the back of my neck. The bakers dozen orgasms I really need to fall asleep, with his voice echoing in my ears.

Self induced torture. This is what it looks like. This is also why I’m not sleeping at night. I’m breathing through it by day and struggling to sleep for more than a few hours because I fantasize about hate fucking him every time I close my eyes.

The struggle is real, y’all.

So when you see me this summer with a lovely six pack of abs instead of beer, congratulate me for finding a healthy coping mechanism and struggling with style.