And then it happens.

You’re standing in a guestroom in a basement in Wausau, Wisconsin, trying to pull a pair of jeans up around your ass that used to fit four weeks ago. Tugging and pulling, you manage to fasten the button on the jeans without breaking your hand- but just barely. You turn to take in your rear view when you see it:

YOUR MASSIVE FAT CAR ASS.

That’s right. In the past month you’ve gone from gym-toned to home-grown faster than you can say “I’d like another beer please.” Suddenly, visions of yourself in your wedding dress become like a nightmare reel, playing faster and faster as you clamp your hands over your ears and scream, “I should’ve used Splenda! I should’ve said no to the fried cheese kurds!”

The next day, you climb into the car with new resolve. Every three miles you do butt-ups, clenching and releasing to the beat of “Poker Face” by Lady GaGa. At night, you scan your backside
for improvement, but find that you still can’t quite recognize the misshapen ass that is staring back at you.

With only two weeks to go, you’re already planning the fast you’ll go on the second that you step out of your car and back into real life. But until then… bring on the miles and the french toast. This is America, after all.