Lethal Weapon

Tonight will be the final class of the advanced program that has taken up my Monday and Tuesday nights for the last eight months. There will be a final exam tonight, for which I am not nearly as prepared as I’d like to be and also for which I should be studying. As in, right now. But I’m feeling particularly Over Everything with a little Let’s Just Get This Over With thrown in there, plus I heard a rumor today that the test won’t determine whether or not we get credit for this program and frankly? I’m putting all my money on that horse.


This morning’s training session went fairly well, despite not getting enough sleep and feeling kind of gross from all the pizza I stuffed down my throat last night. But then, right at the end we had An Incident.

There is one particular “total body” exercise from the Personal Trainer Repertoire that Muscle Man is hell bent on getting me to perfect: It involves keeping one leg raised while you lift two dumbbells through a bicep-curl-to-shoulder-press-and-lower-them-back-down sort of thing. Then you switch legs and do another set. (Ever since the first day, when I almost took Muscle Man out with a full body check as I lost my balance, I’ve been trying to improve my form.) This morning MM picked up two 15-lb dumbbells off the rack for the exercise. “Too heavy?” he asked. “Nah,” I replied, “but I may quit halfway through the set.” So he exchanged them for the 12.5ers. “If these are too easy, we’ll switch ‘em out for the fifteens” he promised.

So. I’m smoothly (if I do say so myself) taking the weights through the motions, balancing on one leg, feeling The Burn and wondering how I should price the tickets to the gun show when it starts to get difficult. Suddenly these 12.5-pounders are getting HEAVY. I try to increase the speed of the exercise (to get it over with) and am told to slow down. I feel like my arms are going to fall off. Each time I lower the weights back down to my sides the movement is less and less controlled. MM is standing next to me, murmuring words of encouragement in my ear. I only have 7 more to do. I can do this. If I can just. not. let. the weights. fall. too quickly, and… FWOP. MM doubles over, almost falling to the floor. I look over my shoulder in confusion which quickly changes to mortification as I realize that I had clumsily let the weight in my right hand drop down too quickly, inadvertently delivering a swift metal punch to my trainer’s … special equipment.

“Oh my god!” I exclaim, “Are you okay?”

He’s bending, crouched in a self-protective stance, eyes closed, turning away from me. “Uhhhh, I felt that one all the way up into my stomach…”

And I tried to stay mortified (and concerned), I did. But out of nowhere I, too, was doubled over, gasping for breath. I just couldn’t get the apology out around the hysterical laughter. People on the elliptical machines were starting to look over at us. MM and I, engaged in this weird, half-crouching dance, circling each other (I’m pretty sure he didn’t want to get near me ever again), unable to talk.

“Well,” he was finally able to say, “I’ve never had THAT happen before.”

I apologized profusely. And then again. And again.

Five apologies later he was able to stand upright and at that point we both decided the workout was pretty much over. This conclusion was brought about most likely from the dull throbbing in his nether regions, as well as the fact that I couldn’t continue the exercise due to uncontrollable bouts of giggling.

I’m fairly certain that when I see him next, he’ll be wearing a cup.

It’s probably a good thing we didn’t use the fifteens.




OR I'll make millions as a famous artist

Hi! Did you know there are starving children in Africa? And people who don't know how to read, right here in the States? And others who routinely mispronounce words like "sorry" and "about" up there in Canada? Just to illustrate that yes, I do realize there are plenty of people who have it worse. And I'm not really complaining about my stress level and full plate, etc. Not really. But I am, unfortunately, at maximum mental capacity these days, so (speaking of illustrating) instead of a proper post full of slightly-entertaining words, I've drawn you some pictures to clue you in on the current state of affairs here in Quinnland.

Here I am, going over the agenda for the week (I kept trying to draw bags under my eyes, but it just made me look like a weird, girly football player or something. So from now on, let's just assume extreme fatigue goes without saying/drawing):

Now here I am, realizing that it's actually a 3-day work week because we are leaving at an ungodly hour tomorrow morning to visit my family in Chicago, which is guaranteed to be stressful what with all the parent/brother breakdown drama (seriously a bad scene that's had my stomach in knots for weeks now) and oh no I haven't even packed yet!

After a brief conversation with the parents yesterday, in which I was told:
1) we probably won't be visiting my favorite pizzeria in the whole world while we're in Chicago, because, despite the fact that it is proving impossible to find decent pizza in Dallas, my parents "just had pizza last week." Heaven forbid you have pizza again this month, guys! Don't want to get you into a food rut or anything!
2) Regarding my brother: "well, as long as he still acts like an idiot, I'll still call him one."
3) Regarding our change of plans to actually spend MORE time with my parents, instead of staying overnight in the city which is fun and escapist for Monk and me but (apparently) heart-crushing for my parents: "Your mother's going to be really unhappy with all these last-minute changes."
4) Also: "Oh, great, so now that you're coming directly to the house you're going to need a ride during rush hour?" (Monk and I now plan to just take the train out to their 'burb from the airport. Wouldn't want to put anyone out.)
Um, wait, what day is it? And WHEN am I giving my notice, finishing class, studying for the national exam, having no money, scrabbling around for pocket change in the couch cushions, etc. Holy hell, is that only 3 weeks away?

Anyway. Not to be all cliffhanger about it, but this story can end in two ways here- either the stress causes my brain to spontaneously combust in the next few weeks,

Or: I quickly gain success and fortune as a massage therapist, spreading the power of touch and a few other granola-y philosophies throughout the world. Guess which one I'm crossing my fingers for...


My body is my (old, busted up) temple

You know how you can just be sailing along in life, thinking you’re actually in pretty decent shape, all things considered, slapping high fives with yourself for taking 12 flights of stairs a few times a week and calling it “cardio,” and then you’re at the gym playing contortionist, or hopping up and down and around this step thingy, or slowwwwly lifting your leg up then raaaaising your arms to the sky while clutching little dumbbells, all the while thinking pshaw, this is kid stuff. I am in terrific shape. An athlete, yes, that is what I am. Core, shmore, stability exercises, shmability… you get the point.

And then, an hour later as you step out of the shower and reach for your towel your body kind of hiccups out a FUCK YOU? And you can barely hoist yourself into your car to drive to work? And you start fantasizing about calling in ‘out of shape?’

I’ve joined a gym and signed on with a personal trainer. Pssst, this is because I will eventually be pursuing a personal trainer certification and not only should I see what it's all about firsthand (can I write the sessions off next year as “research?” Anyone?), I’ve heard you kind of have to be in decent shape if you want to have any credibility in the field (I mean, if I really wanted to be out of shape and yell at people as they exercise, I suppose I could get a job as a middle school P.E. teacher). Oh, AND because I do not have enough going on right now, and also we are rich (the last two reasons might be lies. You decide).

Three sessions down, a million to go. Luckily the guy I’m paying to kick my ass (what a world we live in, eh?) really knows his stuff, shares the same hometown, is a pit bull advocate and doesn’t hesitate to shower me with compliments throughout the session. Really, getting up extra extra early to be tortured is a little easier when you know you’re going to be hearing things like “good job! You look great! Excellent form! Perfect, you’re perfect” for an hour. A girl could get used to this.

But, um, ouch. All over.


Mood Swingy

Too many things in the works to write a proper post, sorry. And I may be losing it a little bit, if the following "art project" is any indication (click to enlarge, of course).
Okay, where were we?





Happiness is...

*The sun is out. At first I didn't know what was going on, what was this unexpected brightness, this lack of moisture, this, this, BLUE SKY? But then I remembered. If only I could scoop all the sunshine and blue sky and NO GODDAMN RAIN up into my hands and fill my pockets with the glory... I might need a little in storage considering the forecast for the next month will be clouds, scattered storms, and general depression. Oops, that last part was an editorial addition.

*So the new tattoo that somehow appeared on my back over the weekend may not be healing as well as I'd like it to be, but it gives me an excuse to not only go back to the tattoo place Monk and I actually like for a re-inking/embellishment, as well as start the brainstorming process for the four-design totem-like thing I plan to have running along either side of my spine... eventually. For now, I get to call myself "a walking work of art," which is a) awesomely arrogant and b) a line from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, which happens to be one of my favorite musicals of all time, mostly because when I saw it Donny Osmond was starring in it and he floated over the audience and looked ME in the eye and waved at ME (yes, that is the story I'm sticking to) and SWOON! Donny! Donny! Oh my god, Donny! I never realized how cute you are and oh boy am I ashamed right now!

*Speaking of musicals: Monk and I are going to the theater this evening. I've heard good things about Spamalot, specifically that it is "pee your pants funny." This is nice, because it has been a long time since I've peed my pants. That I know of. Moving on...

*I went climbing two days in a row this week, and I have the scrapes, bruises, calluses and sore forearms to prove it. Wonder when I started to view day-after pain as an indicator of a good time?

*And maybe best of all: Climbsalot got into med school. His first choice (not a big surprise considering he's a smarty pants), which happens to be right here in Dallas. Which means he is NOT moving 6 hours away like we thought he might. Which means I won't be losing my climbing partner at the end of July. I mean sure, yay for the med school admission, but bigger yay for ME and my climbing addiction.