Placebo Effect Exercising: It’s Something, Right?

I have this ongoing internal battle with myself, all stemmed from what I deem “placebo effect exercising.” I’m continually battling what little bulge I have, in an effort to ultimately be bulge-less, yet never see the results I fantasize about.

By Ashley

I eat a yogurt for breakfast instead of a yummy prosciutto and egg breakfast sandwich. Ten points. I walk a block. Five points. I do a little dance in my dainty undergarments in (dim) light. Jackpot. I put a bikini on and prance into natural light. I’m in the negative.

My boss brings cupcakes to work and I eat a lovely little concoction called a “Michael Jackson,” (white on the bottom, chocolate on top) so I join the gym after work. I decide to buy some super cute workout clothes to motivate me to go to the gym. I go. Once. I ran a half mile on the treadmill. “That’s OK,” I think to myself, as I walk another 1.5 miles. “Maybe if I run outside, I’ll have more to keep me interested.” Right. I tried that and stopped to pet every animal (including squirrels and pigeons) that crossed paths with me and picked a few flowers. Scratch that idea. “Lingerie dance party….. in heels,” I think. Back to square one.

I notice after a couple weeks that I’ve seen no results. “How can that be?” I think to myself. Calculate one menstrual cycle into the equation and that relieves any dietary discipline I may have demonstrated before. What’s a foot-long sub and a whole Boston Creme Pie once a month (in one day), after all? Apparently it’s five pounds on my ass.

Okay, try something else. Put cute workout clothes on with the intent of dragging my lazy ass to the gym. Sit on the couch to tie my shoes. Decide to open a Miller Lite instead. I dream of being on a treadmill and feel exhausted at the thought. Surely that burnt some calories and worked a few muscles? It seems that the mere thought of exercising should provide (some) physical benefit. It does, after all, require energy to formulate those thoughts. I feel satisfied for occupying so much of my time thinking about working out and crack a few more Millers.

Apparently there is no fitness-related benefit to drinking a twelve pack of (LIGHT!?!?) beer and having a gangster-rap dance party all by yourself, topped off with a delightful striptease at the end. I sure felt it the next day (besides the bumps and bruises), but did it really do anything for my health?

Fitness is fun. Even if my idea of fitness is solitary drunk stripping, skipping around in high heels, and masturbating (which I refer to as “butterfluffing) for hours upon hours. I once read that each orgasm is equivalent to running a flight of stairs ten times; I know it’s bogus, unless a “flight” is considered a single stair, but, hey I’ll believe it for my own recreational (aka health) benefits.