April 7, 2010
Last night, I was in a very bad place with respect to my legs.
I’d just finished a reasonably satisfying stint on the elliptical, with a side of abs, and made it home to my annual birthday present to myself – my birthday dress. It had arrived via UPS, and was tried on as soon as I’d emerged from the shower. And it fit!
Except that it’s a SHORT dress, and I’ve always wanted to look at myself in the mirror while wearing a short dress, and see the kind of legs one sees on the person wearing the dress in the catalog. And that’s just not going to happen, lengthy inseam notwithstanding. Because the kind of legs one sees on the person wearing the dress in the catalog are apparently not descended from Dutch dairymen & Polish farmers, and don’t belong to a body that is decidedly more pear than willow.
Most of the time, I talk myself out of these moods by reminding myself that legs that can regularly pull off 6.23 miles on the trail are something to be proud of. I DO things with these legs, and that is reflected in their appearance, to an extent. But last night, for about 15 seconds, I fantasized about going all Heidi Montag on them, just to be willowy for even a little while.
And then, this morning, I had an appointment with Trainer. And Trainer likes to make me do things that, as a non-athlete, make me nervous. If you’ve never really played a sport, you’re going to be a little uncertain when it comes to jumping on or over things with hard, sharp, pointy edges. And we do a lot of that.
But today… oh. Today, he had a special surprise for me. Because we were playing with the stairs! And not just running down, then jumping up every step. Oh, no. Today, we were going to run down them… then come back up BACKWARDS and UPSIDE DOWN. Using our ARMS.
I can’t raise my arms above my head. Also, my elbows are skinned. And, I will not take my legs for granted again, because they are GOOD at things like stairs.
I love my legs. Love. Them.
This is what I was doing.
March 5, 2010
I might have mentioned an attempt on my part, to get more vegetables into my life. It’s been going pretty well, although monotonously.
I do occasionally roast Brussels Sprouts or steam some broccoli, but there’s been an awful lot of carrots and salads in my life as of late. And my standard weekday lunches are tuna sandwiches, or chicken on a bed of lettuce.
Also, I am a lazy git when it comes to cooking weekday stuff for myself, so I was just buying the precooked, precut chicken strips and throwing them in a tupperware with some mixed greens and a little vinaigrette. And then putting salt on it when it was time to eat it, because DEAR G-D that was not fun to eat.
But last night, I had to stop by the store, and they still had some of the warm roasted chickens in those little containers under the warming lamp. And I thought that I would try one, as W has extolled their virtues as the perfect post-workout meal solution for some time now.
And seriously, that was the best $7.59 (plus tax) I’ve spent in a really long time, because I just pulled some of it off and stuck it on my salad, and it was SO much better. I do not need salt, or salad dressing. It is fresh, tasty, preservative-free chicken, and I want more.
So, you know. If you haven’t tried those roasted chickens that every supermarket around here seems to sell? Give it a go. It’s probably tastier than you think.
November 10, 2009
I’m running out of things to say, I think. I mean, I could certainly talk about how ready I am for this cold to hightail it to someone else’s upper respiratory region, because I HATE the taste of cough drops and yet, they’re the only things that keep me from showering germs all over my fellow commuters and cube-dwellers. But really, there’s only so much one can say about a cold.
I haven’t had the gumption to do much more with my condo than clean it – and that halfheartedly, at best.
I’m not spending Thanksgiving with my family this year, for perhaps the first time ever, but I don’t know what to say about that yet.
And there’s the situation. The one that I’ve been alluding to for weeks now, and can’t really get into more detail about without betraying the principles of Darth Vaguery that have made it possible to maintain this space without pissing people off. But it’s driving me insane, because how can people who seem perfectly decent in so many ways, who seem to be possessed of a perfectly normal value system… How can they just choose to be wrong? How can they choose to be wrong over something that is so clearly not worth it? And how am I supposed to sit there and keep my mouth shut?
It takes me a long time to let go of people, when I have at one point thought they had potential. And it’s not just because I hate being wrong. It’s because I keep wondering if there’s just something I’m missing, something I’m not seeing. I don’t want to cross that point until I’m sure there’s no reason not to.
And so, I have a hard time letting go, and so right now that task is filling up my brain and not giving me all that much more to say.
November 3, 2009
Well, not entirely. Really, I could still do an excellent Phyllis Diller impression.
I’m a big baby when ill. And right now, I want someone to bring me matzoh ball soup, to make me vats of tea, and to handle that little laundry problem that’s been growing in the corner.
Sadly, I’m still in this little condo of mine sans roommate or kindly governess figure, so I’ll have to fix my own spoonful of sugar to help the nyquil go down…
November 2, 2009
Ok. Hopefully, you’ve had a chance to watch the video. The idea for my costume originated here, and the outfit was a rousing success, thanks in large part to the Helpful Artistic Person who not only created my “French’s” banner complete with authentic lettering, but who also willingly donned a frog mask.
It was a very entertaining evening.
In other news, I thought it would be a good idea, for some reason, to schedule a hair appointment involving noxious chemicals for 3:00 Sunday afternoon. While the results please me (currently a subtle red that will likely turn auburn with time), I have learned that hangovers and foils don’t mix.
Finally, I seem to be losing my voice, something that I suspect is related to a late night of partying plus exposure to noxious fumes. Should I discover otherwise, I will have a strongly worded letter for the makers of my flu shots… just as soon as I get out from under the covers.
August 31, 2009
First, a little background.
I’ve been playing pool in a league for just over two years, which is roughly the entirety of my pool-playing experience. A game or two here or there over the years, but it was something I did maybe every other year or so, and never in earnest. Also, I have hand-eye coordination issues.
In short, I’m not very good.
But over the past two years, I’ve paid attention to people much more experienced than I, and learned a thing or two about strategy. I can’t execute half of my ideas with any degree of consistency, but I know what should happen. Pool, you see, can be like chess – with pesky physics running amok all over the board.
And in my league, the best players are ranked at “7”, and the least skilled are ranked at “2”. I am currently a “3”.
So when I, a lowly little 3, was selected to play a 7, I was relaxed. Nobody expected me to win this match. The captain of my team apologized for using me as cannon fodder. I was maybe a tiny bit nervous, as it was my first match in Vegas, but I was content with my role as a human speed bump.
Until my opponent hit the 8 in early in the first game, meaning that I only needed to win 1 more to secure a big fat W for my team. Meaning that success was possible. Meaning that I could accomplish something for my team beyond my mere existence. THEN, I started shaking like a leaf, and lost the next three games pretty quickly, as my opponent ran 6-7 balls without too much difficulty.
But then we played our fifth game. And the eight ball, my six, and a couple of his stripes were tied up in a cluster. And he kept giving me ball in hand to avoid accidentally hitting an early eight, and I kept on making a ball and then a defensive shot. Ball. Defensive shot. Ball. Defensive shot. And then I was on the eight. And then I made it.
And it made pretty much every frustrated moment of practice, every late Monday and Thursday night, every wrinkled nose at the stench of cigarette smoke emanating from the laundry pile completely and utterly worth it.
July 29, 2009
I know everyone’s talking about it – that show. On Fox. With the guy, and the women, and the size-realted clichés, and it surprises me not at all that this show is on this network. After a trip to the gym and some quality time with Jillian Michaels, I turned to this show as unironically as possible while consuming a protein shake and some Kashi cereal.
One of those indelible memories that I wish were anything but, is of my biology class, freshman year of high school. My lab partner was a sophomore guy. And our class was two sessions long, every other day, to accomodate lab time. The four minutes of travel time were ours to use for restroom breaks or gossip.
During one such four-minute break, my lab partner’s friend slipped into the seat left vacant by a classmate, the seat directly behind my lab partner. I don’t know what else they talked about, but I remember this:
“Your lab partner has a fat ass.”
I’m not saying that he was lying. At 5’8″ (still not done growing at 14) and 185/190 pounds, I wasn’t slim. This was just the first (probably not) most memorable time someone had acted as though I wasn’t a person, right there in front of them. As though the weight made me a different species, incapable of understanding the speech and customs of The Thin.
My lab partner stopped joking with me after that. The cameraderie we’d established by mocking our professor’s atrocious spelling, by agreeing to alternate the handling of the more disgusting tasks, faded away. I became Lab Partner (XL edition), the personality-free automaton next to whom he sat every day. I was Fat, and therefore Other, and therefore not worthy of association.
But when I saw this show, I thought about this story, and I wondered if we would find ourselves having separate proms, distinguishable only by the BMIs of those in attendance. Oh, right. From the preview reel at the end, it looks like they’ve already got that planned.
June 24, 2009
“While you think quite highly of yourself, you may well have reason to believe the criticism offered by another.” ~ Express horoscopes.
Alrighty then. Who let Dr. Taggart write the horoscopes? Perhaps the universe is telling me that I have better things to do than read the horoscopes?
I’m just going to sit tight and think about this. Should I ever own one, it will most assuredly be named My Preciousssss.
Though, since I’m thinking about what I should be reading instead, if anyone has good book recommendations, that’d be much appreciated. Since it’s summer, any and all fiction is welcome, but I’d love to hear about some sci-fi/fantasy authors that are not named Terry Goodkind, Robert Jordan, David/Leigh Eddings, Joel Rosenberg, Melanie Rawn, or Weis/Hickman. Of those, the last three are among my favorites.
June 5, 2009
So, yes. There are many milestones to celebrate. I can walk through my living room without stepping over anything; in fact, I can make it all the way to my bed. In which I got very little sleep last night, and not for any particularly fun reasons.
I was able to MacGyver a new dowel for a glass shelf in my china cabinet, which now has some of its usual suspects milling about inside. It’s not quite as awesome as the time I built my own extension cord (for real), but it’s still better than driving to Woodbridge for a single 12 cent item.
Of course, I WOULD be driving to Woodbridge to get a $200 item, and would be happy to pick up a dowel while I was there, but Ikea is holding the bookcase I want hostage.
It’s a $200 bookcase, and they’d charge more than half of that to ship it. PARDON? It’s also out of stock in the three closest stores to DC – and of course – of COURSE I actually considered driving to Philly to obtain it. I don’t think I will. I suspect that more sensible minds than my own will come up with better ways to spend my time this weekend, but I think I need to admit that I have a problem.
Maybe I can MacGyver a bookcase out of all these unpacked boxes.
<does best young Brando impression>
May 29, 2009
Considering that I’ve not been at the day job most of this week, you’d think I’d be rested and rejuvenated.
But, no. I’ve been packing. And today I was moving. And now? Now I unpack.