It started with this photo.

I randomly stumbled upon and it and have thought of little else since. I don’t care what sort of serial dating issues this girl has, this right here is my ideal. The bangs. The hair. The lips. The dress.

I want to single white female the crap out of Taylor Swift right now.

On Thursday mornings, I hit the snooze button on my alarm more than several times (I really am a pleasure to sleep beside) before rolling out of bed to get ready to get my ass completely kicked by Trainer Kim. I usually get dressed in the dark, because it’s much too much effort to turn the lights on and force my eyes to adjust to the bright light. (Not because it would disturb the person sleeping, mind you—I told you I was a pleasure to sleep beside) This non-light means, though, that occasionally I show up for training wearing my 11-year-old daughter’s yoga pants and not even any kind of bra at all.

My trainer should be sainted, really.

Trainer Kim only sees me on Thursday mornings. I’m whiny, I’m sweaty, I’m barely dressed. She knows me quite well at this point and increases both reps and sets when I get particularly complainy. It’s torture, I tell you and I usually have trouble making it down the gym stairs after my workout but somehow searching for an elevator in a gym seems sort of like those people at Disney World in the motorized carts. (The ones who don’t need them—not the ones who *do*) It’s good torture, though, because I am seeing muscles on my body that were most definitely not there before. It’s working! But, working or not working, I told Trainer Kim last week that I’m fairly certain she wouldn’t recognize me if she ran into me on the street. Her only relationship with me involves spandex and headbands and sweat and not even a single ounce of makeup covering up the very dark, dark circles under my eyes. Trainer Kim sees me at my least attractive moments.

In other words, I’m a sexy beast when I work out.

But is anyone really all that sexy while grunting and breathing heavily?

It’s probably best if you do not answer that.

I have been told that I clean up nicely. It’s one of those things that could be taken two ways—as an insult (“Are you saying I look crappy most of the time?”) or as a compliment (“I have a pretty smokin’ hot ass—thank you for noticing.”) I’m in the compliment camp, because no one looks her very best at every moment of the day. I mean, I have seen that Stars They’re Just Like Us! page in every celebrity gossip rag ever. Also, I do have quite a smokin’ ass for a 34-year-old mom of three. Actually, it’s pretty nice for anyone of any age with any amount of children.

The bangs are now mine.

The dress is now mine.

The lip color is now mine.

You guys, I’m basically Taylor Swift right now.

I figure all I need is a banjo.

I hope Trainer Kim comes to Emily’s Bat Mitzvah because hoo boy is she in for a big surprise, because, well, I clean up, erm, Swiftly?