Working on my fitness. You’re my witness. June 20, 2008

Apparently, as human people, we are supposed to want to eat right and get in shape and lose weight and look fabulous.  Apparently, these things are very desirable.  But apparently, I am missing this gene.  Because I’ll be honest.  I don’t particularly WANT to eat healthy, or get in shape.  I mean I want to be in shape.  It’s the getting there part I’m not so keen on.  I want to eat crap, and I consider “working out” to be the sort of thing that responsible people do.  You know those people who have magazine sorters and slot things for their bills and who keep all of their documents organized in a file cabinet?  They work out.  People like myself, whose file cabinet is in my purse and on top of the crockpot and on the kitchen table and tucked into the utensil rack, also in my tote bag and sometimes on the passenger seat of my car?  People like me do not work out. 

Have I told you I’ve been working out?

A few weeks ago, Jude invited a few friends & I to join her at the gym to take a cardio kickboxing class.  This is when I apparently blacked out, because before I knew what had happened, I had replied saying I would love to go!  EVERY NIGHT OF THE WEEK IF I COULD!!! 

UNSEND!  UNSEND!!! 

[Ack!]

I could make any good excuses about how I accidentally broke my leg last night while sleeping or how I can’t find my left arm.  But I’m a terrible liar.  I don’t even try.  So I was stuck.  Instead I opted to email her again, explaining that I may need some gentle coaxing to get me there.  A reminder phone call here.  A gently persuading email saying, “You suck, get off your butt & let’s go!” email there.  That would maybe help.  I was also very clear about another thing; I HATE TO SWEAT!  She assured me that this would be a problem.  Now, it isn’t just that I’ve never worked out.  It’s just that I tend to lean towards lower impact exercises that don’t cause me to sweat.  I HATE TO SWEAT.  And know what gyms are like?  Smelly.  People sweat in there.  Ew!  

But I steeled myself and met the ladies there.   And as we stood together in this scary, terrible place, I resigned myself to working on my fitness.  I joined the gym, purchased my boxing gloves [that's right people, I own boxing gloves!] and tackled class #1.  This is also when a small voice in my head whispered, “You are going to die.”  45 minutes later class was over.  I had actually dripped sweat.  From my body.  Into my eye!  But I had done it!  Right then, I didn’t feel like I was going to die.  I felt pretty good & satisfyingly accomplished.  I was going to be all right!

So of course, you know where this is going.  About two hours after we’d finished working out, I began to feel something strange in my legs.  Ow.  About three hours after working out, I stopped being able to fully extend my legs.  OW.  And by day 3, I was walking around like I was ninety-four and bowlegged and had rickets, shrieking about how my LEGS were BROKEN, and this is ALL JUDE’S FAULT, and she had best bring me some WINE!  

Well, y’all, it has been almost a month since I went to the gym for the first time and I continue to go back 3 times a week.  Without even being coerced!  I know!  I’m feeling good and I have actual muscle definition.  The next thing I know, my legs are going to be all toned and tanned, right?  I’m thinking, what?  One.  Maybe two more classes?  Hey, maybe I can become one of those crazy workout people! I can talk about endorphins and my gym and resistance training and cardio.  And all those words I don’t think should be used in polite conversation.  I’ll become an exercise machine!   My steel-like thighs will be the envy of all!  My butt will be so gorgeous and shapely that it will be suitable for framing!  This is what I am thinking.  Right?

Well, maybe no.  Because the other day, there was a disheartening incident.  See, there is a boy that goes to the gym that my daughter knows.  I’m guessing he’s like, 15.  Normally he’s not in my class, but the other day he decided he was going to stay after his regular class & work out.  Right next to me.  So we’re in the midst of doing our floor work [crunches, weights, stretches, etc.] and he’s all,

Boy: “No, no … not like that.  Like this.”

Me: “Oh, ok.”  [Continue doing it how I was.]

Boy: “I bet you wish you could do this.”  doing a flailing-type thing :::grunt grunt grunt:::

Me: “Oh, yeah.” [No.]

Boy: “You’re supposed to be doing this … the way you’re doing it is wrong”

Me: “Oh.”  [Continue doing it how I was.]

Boy: “Oooooh, yeah, look at this.  I bet you can’t do this.”

Me:  “Hmmmm.”  [What?  Be a complete jackass?]

Boy: “Something, something, look at my muscles, blah-blah I do lots of exercising dee-blah, something about SUCK IT!” 

Me: <blink>  [Did he just tell me to suck it?]

Boy: “Man!  That was even hard for me.  I bet it was REALLY hard for you!”

Me:  <blink blink>

Me: “You’re single, aren’t you?”

So anyway, now I have new motivation.  Getting in shape enough to kick his ass.  Wish me luck.

Have a great weekend!

I am not brilliant June 10, 2008

So, here is something that I find enormously funny and also mortifying at the same time.  That is pretty much all the explanation I can provide for my actions, which are both innocent and criminal.  But, even though I can’t give you an explanation, I can give you some backstory.  Which I will begin … now!

A few months ago, I was walking through one of the departments at work when I walked past a couple of cardboard boxes sitting outside of someone’s cubicle.  The boxes were full of discarded books & magazines.  Among them, ’People’.  Well, I’m more than a little ashamed to tell you that I was just unreasonably excited because, God help me, I love People magazine!  And there they were for the taking.  So I did.  And I continued to do so for the next several months.   Magazines, hardback books [including recommended reading from Oprah's Bookclub] & paperback books alike. 

On Friday I stopped by to check out her stock and was pleased to find a fresh batch of ‘People’ as well as an entire years worth of ‘Cincinnati Magazine’!  Which, you guys!  This was very exciting because they are a very handy resource for restaurant reviews, things to do, events, etc.  Again, I was embarrassingly excited, scooped up the lot of them & off I went, thinking to myself, “You know, I should thank this person.  It’s really very generous AND eco-friendly of them to recycle their reading material.  I’ll do that next week.”

So, I decided to swing by the boxes on my way back to my office from lunch today and people, I DO NOT have to tell you how MORTIFIED I was to now see a sign hanging above the boxes reading:

VETERANS MAGAZINE AND BOOK DRIVE ITEMS HERE

â

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!  Y’all!  I’ve been jacking reading material from the Veteran’s!  For months! 

People, I cannot emphasize this enough.  I STOLE FROM THE VETS. 

STOLE!  FROM!  VETERANS!

 

 

At this realization, I scurried away in INTENSE DISCOMFORT at the thought that I am going to have to return these pilfered items!  Frankly, the only thing that could make this situation any more awkward would be to get caught RETURNING them and have them be all, “Awwww, thank you so much for your contribution to the Veteran’s of America.”  To which I’d have to come clean and reply, ”You’re welcome.” 

 

I’ve always been a Goonie! June 2, 2008

In his most recent blog entry, John! had the following words of wisdom [along with a fun flashback] for us all.

John writes:

Go back into the annals of beloved ’80s films, and you’d be hard pressed to find a movie closer to the hearts of thirty-somethings than The Goonies.  I’ll spare you the synopsis, as you most likely already know it, but if you don’t, no need to worry – you’ve seen 20 other movies like it in its time. The template: nerdy but affable underdog(s) suffer unrelenting ridicule by jocks in varsity letter jackets but ultimately have their comeuppance, usually stealing a smoking hot girlfriend or two in the process.

   In the case of The Goonies, a band of awkward, socially outcast kids set off to find a buried treasure, narrowly averting almost certain death and outrunning, among others, a popular high school jock named Troy.  Troy is one of  the classic cinematic archetypes of the 1980s; the jock. He’s good looking, rocks a period-relative badass Mustang convertible, and he’s a total prick.  All we can do from the moment Troy enters the frame is to wait with baited breath to see Troy lose and the Goonies win. 

And in that end, back in 1985 when the underdogs had their day, (and their bag of jewels), and the final credits rolled and we called our parents for a ride home, we realized something fantastic: It’s true, we weren’t Troy. But for the first time, thanks to The Goonies, we no longer wanted to be Troy. It was okay to be us, thank you very much.

   Cut to present day.

   What happened to the better part of a generation that once walked out of their local theater rooting for the Mikeys and Chunks and Datas of the world? They’ve turned into Troys. Troys who can’t accept the differences in others and condemn the things they don’t understand. Finger-pointing, shit-talking Troys.

   Ask yourself: with whom do you identify more these days, Troy or the Goonies? And if you’re reading this and you happen to be an Internet shit-talker, could it be because you think I’m Troy?  Because honest to God, I’ve always fancied myself a Goonie; the underdog who toppled over the narrow-minded naysayers and walked away with a treasure.

   So maybe this whole thing is one big misunderstanding and it turns out we don’t need to go down as a generation remembered as having spent the ’00s wearing our asses like hats after all. Maybe it will turn out that we needed a little time to figure out that in the end we’re all just a bunch of Goonies.

   JM

Yes!  I AM A GOONIE [to exactly noone's surprise]  Look!  Just one more thing John & I have in common.  I’m a Goonie.  He’s a Goonie.  Coincidence?  I say destiny.

Beware of booty traps.  You mean boobie traps?  That’s what I said, booty traps.  God, these guys!