August 6, 2010
Tuesday in disguise
“We also have this new face cream which neutralizes the free radicals that attack the skin. Let me ask you: what’s your skin regime?”
“My regime? The regime from which the radicals are trying to get free? Are we selling face cream or staging a coup?”
It must be Tuesday, because Fridays just DO NOT start out like this.
They don’t start out with your cell phone waking you up at 6:30 (after getting to bed at 1 am) just before the battery dies, because you still have no power. They definitely don’t start out with a 3.5-minute cold shower, AFTER which you realize that of course your hairdryer isn’t going to work you idiot, so you’ll have to air dry on your way to the metro, except that the air on the way to the metro is soggier than the towel you just used, so good luck with that.
While Fridays very occasionally start with the beeping of a delivery truck backup alarm around 7:30 or so, they haven’t yet followed a nearly sleepless night soundtracked by the supermarket whose proximity normally means MORE convenience, not a migraine doing katas all over your cerebrum to the beat of its backup generators.
In short, if my place still doesn’t have power tonight (according to a kindly neighbor who bought some shelf-stable milk at said supermarket, where the employees had called the power company, it’s “going to be a while”), can I come over and use yours? It won’t be for long – maybe for 10 minutes or so before I fall asleep again.
August 4, 2010
Flat Dagny
I was going to wear heels today, but ran into two problems.
The first, is that today’s workout has left me feeling somewhat two-dimensional – a condition under which raising one’s center of gravity seems unwise.
The second, is that today’s workout has left my legs feeling somewhat irritated towards me, and as I reached for the heels, they *ETA: (my legs, not the shoes!) detached from my body and kicked me until I promised that I would employ the flattest shoes I own.
That’s what it feels like, anyway.
July 28, 2010
Special Forces, all right
Trainer has decided to get creative. And by “get creative”, I mean “indulge his long-denied fantasy of being a drill instructor”.
Ow.
He’s been cribbing moves from special forces training manuals, apparently. Which is why I was crawling like there was barbed wire a few inches above my body, crouch-walking the length of the exercise room several times over, and various other things that had my legs shaking with exhaustion by 15 minutes into the workout.
*whimper*
If I had wanted to be special forces, I probably would have, you know, SIGNED UP TO BE IN THE MILITARY. As it is, it will probably TAKE special forces to get me up the stairs to my condo by the time I get home this evening.
On the plus side, the gold lamé dress is going to look fantastic, and I’m pretty sure that’s not something they let you wear when you’re special forces. Not unless The Nanny is their new wardrobe consultant.
July 21, 2010
Zen Ze Game of Lowered Expectations
This, I had to think about. Because, well, spas are supposed to be relaxing, first and foremost. Invigorating, sure. And I suppose there are spas out there that put the invigoration first and the relaxation second, but a spa whose entire existence is centered around chocolate, a spa with little bowls of free kisses and fun-size bars pretty much everywhere? Is not a spa that is all about Health! And Exercise! And AWAKE!
No. It is a spa about languid relaxation with a schmear of decadence.
So, I signed up for my package, and it included something called a “Rain Shower”. I had no idea what this was, but figured it was probably something enjoyable, and why not give it a go?
(hint: I’m about to tell you why not)
I changed into my bathing suit, and was escorted into a very complicated shower stall with many shower heads placed so that water could be directed towards the center of the stall from pretty much every angle. These shower heads, I could see, were connected to some very impressive looking gauges, with some complicated knob arrangements alongside. And, a hose.
The technician started the bottommost set of showerheads, and it was cold, and then it wasn’t, and then it was kind of hot, and then I stepped out of the stall and refused reentry until the temperature was readjusted downward. The flow was similarly opened to subsequent sets of showerheads, progressing upwards, with a similar shock of cold followed by (thankfully, not so close to boiling) warm water. The hose was aimed at various muscle groups, and the water pressure allegedly massaged the major muscles, and I repeatedly told myself that this was a new experience and I should keep an open mind, because I WAS NOT RELAXED, NOT AT ALL, NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST, because there was a GROWN WOMAN WITH A HIGH-PRESSURE HOSE POINTED AT ME.
And then, she stopped, and for a spit second, the warm water emitting from the showerheads created a rather pleasant cocoon. And then, she turned on the final part of the shower – something she called a “waterfall deluge”.
All of those pictures of people happily cavorting in waterfalls? LIES.
Freezing cold water poured directly onto my head and took my breath away. Nothing could save me, not the warm water from the horizontal showerheads, not the fluffy towels stacked on the other side of the room, past the lady who STILL HELD THE HOSE, as though she’d use it to corrall me like some unfortunate wayward calf. “Get back in the stall!” I imagined her shouting, as I struggled to regain sufficient control over my person to fill my lungs with air.
And then it stopped, and she told me, in that calm, quiet “spa voice”, to use as many towels as I liked to dry off, pointed out the plastic bag for my swimsuit, and said she’d meet me outside the outer door, so she could take me to my “soak”.
At this point, I was more than a little afraid of what might happen next.
July 19, 2010
Zen? Zen. Zen what? Zen we take care of ourselves.
You might think that a hyperindulgent weekend would result in one feeling terrible on Monday. You might think that six women in a condo 500 feet from tax-free outlet stores and .5 miles from a cocoa-centric spa would result in excessive purchases of clothing that would refuse to button the following week.
You might be wrong.
I’d been apprehensive about the weekend – I tend to feel gargantuan around most of my female friends anyway, as I am 3.5″ taller than the next tallest (who, it might be noted, wears clothes 3 full sizes smaller than mine), and they are all athletic and gorgeous. Not to mention smart and funny. Lovely and intimidating.
Also, I’d never been to a spa before. I signed up for one of the packages, thinking that the people who put these things together probably know a thing or two about producing enjoyable spa experiences. And we’ll talk more about the “rain shower” another time. But the massage? The massage induced the most blissfully languid epiphany:
I want to take care of myself.
I’ve had this body for kind of a while now, and I’ve hated it since I was six. For a while, I hated it passively, making it sit around on couches while I fed it all manner of junk food. Then I hated it slightly more actively, engaging in mild exercise while swearing off almost all foods, save a bizarre ritualized assortment of things I consumed only when alone. Then I hated it more damagingly, partaking of “tiny little flaming sticks of death” on a regular basis. And then I hated it a litte more responsibly, working out 4-5 times a week and eating more healthfully than I ever had before (though that’s not saying much). But I’ve never not hated it.
At least, not until somewhere in the middle of that massage, when it occurred to me that I didn’t. For at least 3 minutes, I not only didn’t hate it, but I loved it, and wanted to take care of it, rather than beat it into submission.
And this morning, I slept for an extra 45 minutes and neglected to put sugar in my tea. I also cringed at a few photographs from the weekend.
Baby steps.
July 15, 2010
Grey suede pumps and other miscellania
Thirty dollars plus shipping, people. For the perfect grey suede stiletto? I’ll take that. Alloy – the clothes are mostly in juniors sizes, but the shoes? Fair game, by my way of thinking.
I know this might draw a little heat, but I just feel it’s necessary to point out that nine times out of ten, the drivers in Northern VA who piss me off the most? Do not have VA tags. These people stop too far from the intersection, thereby failing to trigger privileged greens AND exacerbating gridlock behind them. Where they’re going is a secret to everyone including them, apparently, as they never ever use turn signals nor seem capable of merging into the appropriate lane before making a turn across multiple lanes of traffic. They go below the speed limit on roads where passing is not permitted, and insist on backing into parking spaces despite being really terrible at it. Really, they’re just IN MY WAY. For all that people from these various places try to claim that VA is a horrible, backwards place not worth visiting, let alone living in, they sure as heck spend a lot of time driving here, and it’s pissing me off.
Why yes, my Klonopin script DID just run out. Why do you ask? I’m just going to go stare at my pretty, 4½” heeled shoes for a while.
July 6, 2010
Queasy
Sibling Extraordinaire and I were chatting earlier today, and she pointed out that everyone uses the word “nauseous” wrong. Also, I have no idea if I’ve spelled it right. But we didn’t talk about my spelling issues.
Apparently, everyone uses nauseous to describe their own lack of intestinal fortitude, when “to be nauseated”, in its various appropriate tenses, is the correct word to use, here. Nauseous is the word one uses to describe something that makes one be nauseated.
Example:
Your wretched grammar is nauseous. I now require ginger ale.
All of which comes to mind primarily because I woke up at 4:30 this morning, having gone to bed at midnight. And I made myself snooze until 5:00, and then got up and went to the gym. Right now, I am so tired I am nauseated. and possibly nauseous, given that my dark circles probably aren’t doing my appearance any favors.
June 28, 2010
Lessons learned
While it is perfectly okay for people to be upfront about horror stories and major concerns about parenthood at a baby shower, being open about one’s lack of desire to partake will most likely have people thinking that something is wrong/missing for you.
Also, if you are building something from Ikea, and have leftover parts at some point prior to being completely finished, just be prepared to undo everything you’ve done so far, because you likely skipped a step.
Pretty much every comedian I’ve ever seen on a recorded special will have been slightly funnier in that special than in person. Jim Gaffigan, however, came closest to closing this gap.
Sometimes, things can seem like the Most Fun and Best Idea Ever. And then three weeks later, with the help of a little critical thinking, you will realize that not only was it not the best idea ever, but it was ridiculously dumb and boy howdy, you expect better of yourself.
Watched pool league operators never call to let you know if you’re going to Vegas or not. I still don’t know.
June 17, 2010
My way
“Finish him. Finish him! YOUR way.”
“Oh, my way. Thank you Vizzini. But… which way is my way?”
“Pick up one of these rocks, and get behind that boulder. In a few moments the man in black will come running around the bend. The minute his HEAD is in view, HIT IT WITH THE ROCK!”
“Oh. My way is not very sportsmanlike.”
I know. You come here, you see a post entitled “My Way”, and you expect Sinatra from the Jersey girl. However, since that song can apparently get you killed in certain parts of the globe, I thought I’d go with a different reference.
Pretty much all I want is to be left to my own devices, even if someone else thinks that they aren’t the most efficient methods in the universe, unless my own devices are somehow to the detriment of another person. Because odds are, I have reasons for doing things the way I do – good ones, in my estimation. And to be told that those reasons aren’t important isn’t likely to do much besides piss me off.
So. I’m going to do things my way. My track record is decidedly one of positive progress, and I’m pretty sure I’m not hurting anyone, so unless either of those things changes, kindly keep your comments to yourself.
ETA: Oh, dear. I didn’t mean YOUR comments. Not the ones HERE. I meant the OTHER you, the one behind you and slightly to the left. *sigh*.
June 11, 2010
In which an old friend stops by
Karma: Yooooooo hooooooo! Anybody home?
DT: YOU! But… it’s been so… oh! This is all your doing!
K: Of course! Remember that thing that you got all indignant and dudgeony about? And the other thing, with all of the judginess?
DT: Yes. Oh… my. Yes, I do.
K: Bwahahahahahahaha. Seriously, this is some of my best work yet. This? Is hilarious. Oh, I slay me!
DT: I’m sure. Okay, okay. I get it. And honestly, this is really well done on your part – have you been working out or something? Learning new techniques? Do they even HAVE CPE classes for what you do?
K: Well, I don’t want to brag, but I have been going to the gym quite a bit. The rest is all my innate brilliance, which I have decided to bestow on you.
DT: Thanks, I guess? Oh. I did have one other question. The sweetgum tree thing – was that you? And if so, what on EARTH did I do to deserve that?
K: Hehehehe. I’ll never tell….
Seeking John Galt 