03.31.08
What the hell is an elliptical?
I’m finally doing it. I’m joining…..a gym.
I have to admit, the whole thing kind of scares me. The other night when I took a tour to see what it was all about and whether it was worth the exorbitant price, I felt like a timid, shy girl on her first day of kindergarten.
What if everyone can tell I don’t know what I’m doing? What if they can see I have no idea how to use a treadmill? What’s the deal with the towels-where do you get them and where do they go when you’re done with them? What if my work-out clothes look janky? What if I’m not doing it right? Am I supposed to do something with weights? Should I stretch out first? How long am I supposed to go for?
So many questions and uncertainties. But the rooftop pool is definitely a draw. Plus, it’ll get me out of the house, get me in shape. And give me an outlet for the burning anger that’s bottled up inside me over you know what. I want so badly to blast him post after post, but know better.
Perhaps a kickboxing class is in order.
03.26.08
Here I Am. Again.
The suitcase I packed last Thursday sits by the door on Wednesday. An ironic metaphor for the relationship between Kit and I.
This morning, I took our vacation off my calendar at work. I’m not going on the cruise. And we’re not going anywhere anymore, together.
When he left me last fall, it killed me. I vowed never again. But then he came back, wanting me after all. Making me believe that he was ready for more…with me. But he never was ready and it was never “right.” And the sliver of hope I clung to then has been undone by his compulsive, negligent indecision.
Still, not wanting that, I don’t want to go through another break up either. A Kit break up is distinctly terrible. Exhausting and embarassing for the repitition.
And my impulse is to go, to run away too, to drown my sorrows- no, not my sorrows, not this time. To drown my anger, disappointment, and insult in a sea of sunshine, solitude, and sangria. But I think for once I’ll stay and enjoy the life I ensured I’d always have without him.
At any rate, I’m leaving my suitcase packed. I don’t know where I’m going next, but I’ll be ready. And I’ll look damn cute in my new sundresses once I get there.
03.19.08
Currently Away from the Blog
During March Madness, I will be away from my blog. My brackets (now in their 12th iteration) have eaten up all my brain power (and blogging time incidentally) and it’s not looking good for the rest of the tourney. Also, we’re going on a cruise next week…so there’s that.
Good luck to all those in their office pools and bon voyage!
03.14.08
John Mayer: Brilliant Tool Bag?
John Mayer, he of the cheesefest “You’re Body is a Wonderland” notoriety (ick, makes me squirm just typing it), is either the shiniest tool in the shed or one of the most brilliant satirists of our time.
While he often frightens me (it’s his toddler-like, disproportionately large head), I confess to being fascinated at the same time (but not in an I-want-to-add-him-to-my-list-of-celebrity-crushes-kind-of-way).
As a mainstay of US Weekly, he is often considered newsworthy for pulling a Heigl and mouthing off about some junk or other to the media, for dating women who also have disproportionately large body parts, and for regularly blogging about the ridiculous and the mundane (as fellow bloggers, we know how easy that can be). You know, odd and fascinating stuff.
For instance, Mayer recently wrote a letter to “an ex.” Taken as it’s written, of course it would be terribly mean, earning him US’s label as a cad of 2007. I actually think it’s kind of funny.
Apparently, however, the post script wasn’t enough of a tip-off to readers, so Mayer responded. In reading his explanation, I can begin to see where some of his more insightful lyrics come from (I’m thinking “In Repair,” “Say,” and “Daughters,” but decidedly not the aforementioned “You’re Body….” BARF!).
So maybe deep down he’s really a puppy-dog and didn’t just date Jessica Simpson to get a piece (like that would be a first). Maybe he’s both a gifted and misunderstood artist who has an eccentric proclivity toward ugly shoes and expensive watches. Or maybe he’s just a jerk who uses his celebrity to mock everyone around him.
03.13.08
Keeping Faith
For him, I always seem to make that leap of faith.
But that leap keeps getting a bit farther away. Or maybe I’m just getting older. Or wiser, is it?
Tonight, I went digging for something now forgotten through a stack of unopened mail, birthday cards, and flyers for the Joffrey…your typical run-of-the-mill junk on the edge of your kitchen table…and ran across an oldish photograph. Somehow, this picture (one of our very first as a couple) ended up tucked into an envelope with a few favorite family photos from over the years.
It was a photo of us at a friend’s wedding (of course). In it, he looks younger, thinner, and a bit drunk. Handsome in a breathless-inducing way. Still. And I… I look naïve and heavier, with a great deal of unruly hair and far too much eyeliner.
Studying our faces, I remember how oppressively hot the church was that August evening, how we suffered through the overcrowded reception. We barely knew each other. He was 36, divorced, and a father of one. I was in grad school, working as an intern, and had only just turned 23.
It’s one of the few photos we took during our first summer together. One of the handful that have survived all that came after. And, for me, it is one of five or so that I can look at without thinking about “her” or “what he said” or “where I failed.”
And yet, here is this piece of our mutual history. Here is this forgotten record of who we were before. And I kept it. It may be that which strikes me the most about the photo; that through all of it, I chose to keep it. I don’t remember having done so, haven’t thought of it since as “missing,” but must have felt it worth keeping. And I’m glad for that.
Glancing at it again, I catch myself shaking my head at the clueless couple caught in time. Five years before all that would follow. So many tears, so much turmoil. So many moments of connection, laughter, and hope. So much life between us.
I wonder though, if given the chance, we’d make the same decisions. If we’d arrive at the same outcomes. If we’d continue to make this same leap of faith together.
03.11.08
Junk-tastic, My Ass
Last weekend, mom and I were at Target (apparently quite a brave feat as it is widely known in those parts for rampant pistol-whipping incidents in the parking lot).
Anyway, we went for swimwear. It’s cheap and brightly colored and fantastic. Yes, it is. I heart Target.
But in the fitting rooms, wouldn’t you know, I see that, once again, my ass has become the unruly bastard it formerly was. And this time, I can’t blame McDonald’s breakfast either. Maybe it’s all the Oreo Cakesters. I don’t know. It’s a mystery.
The thing is, I don’t remember having that much jiggle when Kit and I were in Jamaica in January, so what the hell happened? Seriously. What?
I’ve got just over two weeks before we head out to CA for a cruise with his family and I’m flipping out. I’ll be damned if I let his amazingly fit and tall and gorgeous sister make me look squat and ass-heavy in contrast. She’s in her mid-thirties and has two kids. And I…I’ve…yeah, we all know how that sentence ends. Fuck.
The thing is, I’ve got a janky left knee that totally sucks ass. While I don’t need surgery, I’m supposed to do “core-strengthening exercises” for my patella tracking problem. Sweet. But no matter how many of these fancy “modified squats” I do to combat the spread of junkness in my trunkness, in two weeks my ass will still be what it is today…casting a shadow on sunbathers, frightening small children on holiday with their parents.
Visualizing this, I figured I should probably get it over with last night. No hiding it. No surprises. I’d just lay it all out there. The end of passionate romance and my mythic perpetual youth.
I found Kit at his computer, furiously at work on an annual report/ ESPN.
“Okay, so I just need to show you something. For real. And it’s better that I show you now so you’ll know what to expect and not be so surprised or embarassed or whatever when you see me in my bikini in two weeks. It’s bad. Very bad,” I said, shaking my head ruefully.
And with that I turned around, exposing the untoned, untanned cheeks in all their poorly- lit and CELLULITASTIC glory. And then, I ran away to hide and finish eating my chicken wings and macaroni and cheese. I did not run gleefully. Nor far, or very fast.
Two weeks. I’ve got two weeks. Goody.
03.10.08
A Much Needed Respite
At the last moment, I flew off to South Carolina over the weekend for some good old-fashioned “mom time.”
Mom and I used to have so much fun when I’d come home during college for the weekend. We’d hit up Taco Bell and wolf down cheap double-decker supreme tacos with nacho cheese and Mexican pizzas. We’d go grocery shopping and race our carts through the store (a likely reason I can’t stomach grocery shopping for more than 30 minutes). And we’d sneak away from my dad and brothers to have coffee or tea and gossip about everyone we know for hours on end.
My mom has been a friend and a confidante over the years, but never more so, I think, than now.
Last week was a rough one for me. So rough that I couldn’t even bring myself to write of the short-lived joy I felt when Christian won Project Runway (I knew he would and yes, I did get a little choked up). I could have written a lot about what was going on instead at the time, what is going on still, but I’d rather keep that where it belongs.
But, as I refused to blog about it, it became ever more intolerable. And I knew there was only one place for me to go. I knew where I’d feel loved and supported and cared for. I knew where I could waste an afternoon in bed watching Lifetime TV movies and sit side-by-side in a diner flipping through US Weekly over shared iced tea and peach cobbler. I knew it because she’s been there no matter what and always when I’ve needed her.
And although her laughter and homemade tuna casserole and pancakes didn’t make everything all better, it certainly was a comfort to be with someone who loves me so unconditionally. And somehow, that makes it feel just a little bit better after all.
03.03.08
Something Rotten in the State of Dairy
Home again after a 10-day business trip, Kit pops into the bathroom where I’m brushing my teeth.
“Hey, can you smell this? Your nose is so much sniffier than mine.”
I eye the uncapped milk jug suspiciously.
“March 5, huh?” Sniff, sniff….”whoa, definitely bad.”
“Ah hell, really?”
Kit closes one eye and peeks through the opening as he swishes the “milk” about.
“Yeah, by like A LOT. Don’t even think about it.”
“Well, now what am I gonna drink?”
“Dude, I dunno. It’s not my fault the milk went bad.”
Oh, how I miss these mornings when he’s away…
