Recently I did a MySpace survey and it asked me about things that annoy me. I cleverly replied "annoyances." Which is obviously true. But here is an expansion on that thought:
* Freecycle maniacs. I give a lot of stuff away on Freecycle, mostly because I can't be bothered trying to get money for things I just want out of my house and out of my life. It's much easier to give it away. But there are some people on Freecycle who seem to think they are granting me the mother of all favors by taking this stuff and want me to answer every stupid little question they might have about it. (Not that they're not doing me even a little favor; I see it as a mutually beneficial agreement.) Like when I gave away a wrought-iron wine-bottle holder. It was wrought-iron. It held three bottles. It had a leaf pattern on it. Seems simple enough, right? "We are interested in this item but want to know if it will fit in with our kitchen decor. Could you describe the leaf pattern in detail or enclose a photograph?" No, I could not, because there are ten more people interested in it, and I really don't have time to take your silly picture and send it to you. Seriously. If I'm giving away a rug or something, okay, then I'll enclose a picture, but otherwise, eff off! I gave away three bags full of VHS tapes and DVDs this week, and I literally had about twenty responses. People were falling over themselves to get these bags. And a woman e-mails me yesterday, two days after the posting, and not only is she the very last person to contact me -- in other words, no chance she's going to get the bags -- but she says in her e-mail, "I'm interested, but first I want to know if our movie tastes are similar, so do you think you could let me know what titles are included and then I'll decide if I want them or not?" Um. No. It's free. Take it or don't, I don't care, there are plenty more where you came from who are less annoying.
* Politics. This may surprise some of you. I am interested in politics even while I loathe it. Specifically, I loathe televised politics. Let's take the DNC for an example. "Hey, we have an hour and a half to go until Hillary Clinton gives her speech. Isn't that Bill Clinton over there? Yes, Bill Clinton is about fifteen feet away from me right now. How amazing. Why don't we go to another reporter, who can talk to us about what Hillary Clinton might talk about during her speech. Other reporter?" "Yes, I'm here, I see you're sitting no less than fifteen feet from former President Bill Clinton. That's great. Hillary Clinton is going to give a speech here in about ninety minutes. It will be an important speech. Let's talk to yet another reporter about how important this talk, ninety minutes away, will prove to the Democratic party. Other reporter?" ... and on. And on. And on. I can't handle it. I don't watch it. If I have my way, the TV is OFF during election season. Unfortunately, D is a political junkie, and he actually likes watching that stuff (do not ask me why). I'll read about it, sure, but it's like watching football to me. Twenty seconds of action followed by twenty minutes of discussion on the action. Argh. (Yes, football really, really annoys me, too.)
* Somehow, some way, several music publicists got a hold of my phone number and e-mail address, and they seem to have no problem passing it along to their colleagues. That would be great, if I covered music -- which I do, occasionally, but usually only for the blog, and only in the paper if our music editor has already passed on the music in question. So I have people e-mailing and calling me, ad nauseum, about all these bands, and "do you think you'll cover this band who's going to be here in September '09?" I don't fucking know! I'm not the music editor! I do respond to my e-mails (although not anymore), and I do answer my phone, and I try to be helpful, but really, I'm not the person here you need to talk to about music. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not. Please, tell all your friends. Don't call me or ask me about your indie rock band who's about to blow up the charts. Unless you're a trip-hop or dark, dirty drum and bass DJ, or unless you're Blackalicious or the Digable Planets or Dilated Peoples, just don't even try, because I don't care.
Wow. I feel much better now.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Division of Labor
For some reason, I've been seeing a lot on the division of housework labor on the Internets. I don't understand why, it's not like I'm seeking things out, but it's been in one of my daily advice columns and also an MSN story.
And it got me to thinking about my own, personal division of labor -- which some might argue is unfair. Here is how it's broken down: D mows the lawn, D fixes broken things in the house (like leaky pipes), D usually makes the bed when he has the day off and I have to work, and D does various other tasks which I assign him, like taking out the trash or vacuuming or whatever I put on his list for that day (he likes lists).
I do: everything else. Dishes. Laundry. Dusting. Bed-making five days a week. Tidying up. Bathroom. All. Of. It.
And I'm okay with that. No, really, I am. Because it makes more sense that way. And most of you know I'm one of the biggest feminists you'll ever meet in real life -- I even define myself as a feminist, which many women won't do.
But take laundry as an example. First of all, D hates to do laundry. HATES IT. So that's one factor in the assignation of tasks. Second, laundry in my house needs to be done a particular way. Some things get washed on the "casual" setting, some on the "normal" setting, some in hot water, some in cold water, some get hand-washed in the sink. Some get hung up to dry and some get to spend time in the dryer. Some don't use fabric softener and some do. Beyond that, I have three separate bags for laundry on my cart -- a darks/color bag, a lights/white bag and a delicates bag. If I were to ask him to do laundry, he'd do it, but my asking would go something like this: "Hey, can you do laundry today, it's time for whites, but don't put any of my panties in the dryer, hang those up instead, and make sure my sports bra isn't in the whites, because it doesn't use fabric softener." It's much easier to just do it myself. And since I do a load of laundry every day, it's never very much.
Or take dishes as an example. I make my lunch and do dishes every night. We don't have a whole lot of dishes because it's not really necessary when you do them every night. I do them right after dinner. If I ask D to do the dishes, he will -- but normally not until right before he goes to bed, whereas I'm usually doing dishes/packing lunch simultaneously. So what if I need a plastic container for something in my lunch and it's dirty? I have to wait until 10 p.m. until it's clean and then I can pack my lunch. And sometimes he forgets to do the dishes, and I wake up ready for my morning smoothie, except the blender is dirty, and so is my travel mug. And I won't even go into how much soap I use to do the dishes -- my dishes are CLEAN, dammit! -- and how little he uses. Unless I want to stand over his shoulder and ask him to do the dishes rightthisverysecond and then agonize over the amount of soap he uses, again, much easier to just do it myself.
And the thing is, as long as he's on board with my keeping-things-clean agenda, I don't need him to help. Like bathroom cleaning. We don't keep anything on our bathroom counters except the electric toothbrush & charger, hand soap and lotion. This is because every morning when I'm done getting ready, I spray down the mirror and the bathroom sink and the toilet, grab a paper towel from under the sink and wipe it all down, brush the toilet with a little toilet soap, and I'm done. The bathroom hasn't been disgusting for ... um ... I don't even remember the last time the bathroom was disgusting, because I do this every single day. It takes maybe one minute of my time. At first, I had to remind him: Don't leave stuff on the bathroom counter. Don't leave stuff on the bathroom counter. Like a broken record. But he sees what I'm doing, he gets it, and he keeps his stuff off the bathroom counter so I can wipe it down and we can have a fresh, clean, gleaming, sparkling bathroom every single day.
Same with the coffee table/dining room table/top of the dryer/bedside table -- all those spots that get completely out-of-control. There are designated things that are allowed to be on those surfaces. Every day when I get home, I do a little patrol through the house and put things away that are out of place. That keeps things tidy. It takes maybe three minutes. Easy.
In an ideal world, would he look at my own personal list of things to do and see what's next on it and do it and check it off for me? Yes. But in the world we inhabit, it's fine that he doesn't, because it doesn't take very long anyway, I still have several hours to myself every evening to spend doing whatever the hell I want (usually reading a book), the house is clean, we don't fight about it and it's fine.
Plus, I get a little bit of extra leverage whenever I ask him to do something and he's dragging his feet a tad. "I don't ask you to do much," I tell him. "This isn't a big deal. Just do it." And he knows it's true.
Win/win.
And it got me to thinking about my own, personal division of labor -- which some might argue is unfair. Here is how it's broken down: D mows the lawn, D fixes broken things in the house (like leaky pipes), D usually makes the bed when he has the day off and I have to work, and D does various other tasks which I assign him, like taking out the trash or vacuuming or whatever I put on his list for that day (he likes lists).
I do: everything else. Dishes. Laundry. Dusting. Bed-making five days a week. Tidying up. Bathroom. All. Of. It.
And I'm okay with that. No, really, I am. Because it makes more sense that way. And most of you know I'm one of the biggest feminists you'll ever meet in real life -- I even define myself as a feminist, which many women won't do.
But take laundry as an example. First of all, D hates to do laundry. HATES IT. So that's one factor in the assignation of tasks. Second, laundry in my house needs to be done a particular way. Some things get washed on the "casual" setting, some on the "normal" setting, some in hot water, some in cold water, some get hand-washed in the sink. Some get hung up to dry and some get to spend time in the dryer. Some don't use fabric softener and some do. Beyond that, I have three separate bags for laundry on my cart -- a darks/color bag, a lights/white bag and a delicates bag. If I were to ask him to do laundry, he'd do it, but my asking would go something like this: "Hey, can you do laundry today, it's time for whites, but don't put any of my panties in the dryer, hang those up instead, and make sure my sports bra isn't in the whites, because it doesn't use fabric softener." It's much easier to just do it myself. And since I do a load of laundry every day, it's never very much.
Or take dishes as an example. I make my lunch and do dishes every night. We don't have a whole lot of dishes because it's not really necessary when you do them every night. I do them right after dinner. If I ask D to do the dishes, he will -- but normally not until right before he goes to bed, whereas I'm usually doing dishes/packing lunch simultaneously. So what if I need a plastic container for something in my lunch and it's dirty? I have to wait until 10 p.m. until it's clean and then I can pack my lunch. And sometimes he forgets to do the dishes, and I wake up ready for my morning smoothie, except the blender is dirty, and so is my travel mug. And I won't even go into how much soap I use to do the dishes -- my dishes are CLEAN, dammit! -- and how little he uses. Unless I want to stand over his shoulder and ask him to do the dishes rightthisverysecond and then agonize over the amount of soap he uses, again, much easier to just do it myself.
And the thing is, as long as he's on board with my keeping-things-clean agenda, I don't need him to help. Like bathroom cleaning. We don't keep anything on our bathroom counters except the electric toothbrush & charger, hand soap and lotion. This is because every morning when I'm done getting ready, I spray down the mirror and the bathroom sink and the toilet, grab a paper towel from under the sink and wipe it all down, brush the toilet with a little toilet soap, and I'm done. The bathroom hasn't been disgusting for ... um ... I don't even remember the last time the bathroom was disgusting, because I do this every single day. It takes maybe one minute of my time. At first, I had to remind him: Don't leave stuff on the bathroom counter. Don't leave stuff on the bathroom counter. Like a broken record. But he sees what I'm doing, he gets it, and he keeps his stuff off the bathroom counter so I can wipe it down and we can have a fresh, clean, gleaming, sparkling bathroom every single day.
Same with the coffee table/dining room table/top of the dryer/bedside table -- all those spots that get completely out-of-control. There are designated things that are allowed to be on those surfaces. Every day when I get home, I do a little patrol through the house and put things away that are out of place. That keeps things tidy. It takes maybe three minutes. Easy.
In an ideal world, would he look at my own personal list of things to do and see what's next on it and do it and check it off for me? Yes. But in the world we inhabit, it's fine that he doesn't, because it doesn't take very long anyway, I still have several hours to myself every evening to spend doing whatever the hell I want (usually reading a book), the house is clean, we don't fight about it and it's fine.
Plus, I get a little bit of extra leverage whenever I ask him to do something and he's dragging his feet a tad. "I don't ask you to do much," I tell him. "This isn't a big deal. Just do it." And he knows it's true.
Win/win.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
size does matter
Last week I thought I lost my water bottle. (I'll give you a moment to imagine how traumatic that was for me.) It was in D's car all along, but I couldn't find it -- actually, he couldn't find it for me -- so I used some money I had on a Starbucks card and bought a new water bottle at Starbucks, and then I found my old one, so now I have two. Which, for a water-drinkin' fool like myself, isn't a bad thing.
The new one is only twenty ounces, it has a brown lid and brown rubberized bottom and some weird coffee plant-like designs on it (brown and green and beige). It's pretty cute, but the thing that I find most interesting about it is that I seem to drink more water when I have it.
I'm not sure why that would be -- and honestly, I'm really not certain that I am drinking any more water than normal. (Normal for me is around 100 ounces a day.) But even if the only result is me making more trips across the building to the water cooler, it can't be a bad thing. I keep my old(er) water bottle in the fridge and use it for working out, as the straw is much more useful than the screw-top lid, but it's also noisy in a cubicle area, so the screw-top lid is a better option for work.
Other random thoughts:
*I've been bad about blogging. I will endeavour to do better.
*I didn't watch a single second of the Olympics, in case you were wondering how my boycott went. Take that, China!
*I don't like purple bell peppers. I don't hate them, but I like a little sweetness in my salad with the red or the yellow. Purple bell peppers are not sweet. They're kind of like the green ones. Just so you know.
The new one is only twenty ounces, it has a brown lid and brown rubberized bottom and some weird coffee plant-like designs on it (brown and green and beige). It's pretty cute, but the thing that I find most interesting about it is that I seem to drink more water when I have it.
I'm not sure why that would be -- and honestly, I'm really not certain that I am drinking any more water than normal. (Normal for me is around 100 ounces a day.) But even if the only result is me making more trips across the building to the water cooler, it can't be a bad thing. I keep my old(er) water bottle in the fridge and use it for working out, as the straw is much more useful than the screw-top lid, but it's also noisy in a cubicle area, so the screw-top lid is a better option for work.
Other random thoughts:
*I've been bad about blogging. I will endeavour to do better.
*I didn't watch a single second of the Olympics, in case you were wondering how my boycott went. Take that, China!
*I don't like purple bell peppers. I don't hate them, but I like a little sweetness in my salad with the red or the yellow. Purple bell peppers are not sweet. They're kind of like the green ones. Just so you know.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
I'm A Freak
My erstwhile therapist, Kathy, used to (gently) get on my case about using what she called the "S-word." Should.
I use that word a lot. A lot more than I should, anyway (ha!). Yesterday was the saddest anniversary I have in my life, but despite the sadness, I was still happy. I am a happy person; I think we were put on this planet to be happy and love each other (yes, I know, I'm a revolting, disgusting hippie). I wake up every morning with joy and energy, and I feel fulfilled by my daily activities and tasks. I have a lot of love in my life. I'm healthy (for the most part). I do a lot of stuff -- go out to the theater, to films, to club nights, to hang out with friends. I do a lot of other stuff, too -- read, write, contemplate nature and the meaning of the world. I am satisfied and happy with my life.
But. Part of me feels as though I shouldn't be. Part of that feeling comes from knowing that I can't give my family members the peace and satisfaction that I have in my own life. I wish I could just bottle it up and drop it on them, but I can't. And what really makes my insides twist is the thought that even though I am happy with my life, not everyone else is.
Here's an example. My dad used to take me out for special one-on-one meals together. During these meals, he'd invariably say something that was totally cheesed-out (or so I thought at the time). Something like, "You know, you can do anything you want with your life. You can do or be anything. You have the potential."
He thought I was brilliant. He was, clearly, biased. But maybe I am brilliant. It doesn't matter. What does matter is this: There are things I will not sacrifice my peace-of-mind for, and one of them is work. "But it would make your father so happy to see you be very, very successful," I feel I can hear disembodied voices intoning around me when I start to feel content with my life as it is. "You could do so much more; you have it in you."
The thing is, I don't think I do have it in me. I don't want to be a person who spends countless hours at work. I don't want to throw myself into a job for social recognition. (I would throw myself completely into writing books -- novels, self-help, whatever -- if given that opportunity, and that is something I am working on manifesting in my life. But being creative to me isn't work; it's not on the same level as going into an office every day and grinding out a product. The grinding out a product part might still be there, but it has its roots in joy and love for the effort itself.) I like my job, I like the level of effort I put into it and I like what I get in return. I'm not looking for bigger fish to fry, as such -- I'm looking to turn myself into a different kind of fish, but that is another story and a completely different professional/lifetime ambition.
But then I feel bad, like I'm disappointing the disembodied voices. I'm just not all that interested in pursuing fame and fortune (well, maybe a little bit of fortune, but just so I can do my own thing). I feel ashamed of my life -- my happy, fulfilled life -- because it's just there, being happy and fulfilled, while I work on parts of myself that are not immediately evident or even interesting to the rest of society: my spiritual status, my creative mind, my just plain having-fun agenda.
And because I'm ashamed, I'm afraid to put it out there and say, hey, this just isn't me. I am just not one of those people who's going to throw their lives into a publication, or a company, or a house, or a whatever. A cause? Maybe. A way of life? Sure. But a thing -- I am not interested in things. I'm interested in the intangible, questions about why we were put on this planet to begin with, what we are doing here, what we can do here. That's really it: Not just what we are, but what we could be. I don't accept that the way things are is just the way they ought to be. I think they can be better, and I'd like to help make that happen, and that is my priority in life.
And sometimes I just have to remind myself: I am okay. I might be weird to be all happy with my life and my job and my husband and my dog -- and so what? I am weird. I admit it. I have to stop "shoulding" myself. It's not that I "should" be more this or less that -- it's that I "should" accept who I am and revel in it.
Besides, every group needs a freak. It's not always easy to fulfill that need, but all I can do is try.
I use that word a lot. A lot more than I should, anyway (ha!). Yesterday was the saddest anniversary I have in my life, but despite the sadness, I was still happy. I am a happy person; I think we were put on this planet to be happy and love each other (yes, I know, I'm a revolting, disgusting hippie). I wake up every morning with joy and energy, and I feel fulfilled by my daily activities and tasks. I have a lot of love in my life. I'm healthy (for the most part). I do a lot of stuff -- go out to the theater, to films, to club nights, to hang out with friends. I do a lot of other stuff, too -- read, write, contemplate nature and the meaning of the world. I am satisfied and happy with my life.
But. Part of me feels as though I shouldn't be. Part of that feeling comes from knowing that I can't give my family members the peace and satisfaction that I have in my own life. I wish I could just bottle it up and drop it on them, but I can't. And what really makes my insides twist is the thought that even though I am happy with my life, not everyone else is.
Here's an example. My dad used to take me out for special one-on-one meals together. During these meals, he'd invariably say something that was totally cheesed-out (or so I thought at the time). Something like, "You know, you can do anything you want with your life. You can do or be anything. You have the potential."
He thought I was brilliant. He was, clearly, biased. But maybe I am brilliant. It doesn't matter. What does matter is this: There are things I will not sacrifice my peace-of-mind for, and one of them is work. "But it would make your father so happy to see you be very, very successful," I feel I can hear disembodied voices intoning around me when I start to feel content with my life as it is. "You could do so much more; you have it in you."
The thing is, I don't think I do have it in me. I don't want to be a person who spends countless hours at work. I don't want to throw myself into a job for social recognition. (I would throw myself completely into writing books -- novels, self-help, whatever -- if given that opportunity, and that is something I am working on manifesting in my life. But being creative to me isn't work; it's not on the same level as going into an office every day and grinding out a product. The grinding out a product part might still be there, but it has its roots in joy and love for the effort itself.) I like my job, I like the level of effort I put into it and I like what I get in return. I'm not looking for bigger fish to fry, as such -- I'm looking to turn myself into a different kind of fish, but that is another story and a completely different professional/lifetime ambition.
But then I feel bad, like I'm disappointing the disembodied voices. I'm just not all that interested in pursuing fame and fortune (well, maybe a little bit of fortune, but just so I can do my own thing). I feel ashamed of my life -- my happy, fulfilled life -- because it's just there, being happy and fulfilled, while I work on parts of myself that are not immediately evident or even interesting to the rest of society: my spiritual status, my creative mind, my just plain having-fun agenda.
And because I'm ashamed, I'm afraid to put it out there and say, hey, this just isn't me. I am just not one of those people who's going to throw their lives into a publication, or a company, or a house, or a whatever. A cause? Maybe. A way of life? Sure. But a thing -- I am not interested in things. I'm interested in the intangible, questions about why we were put on this planet to begin with, what we are doing here, what we can do here. That's really it: Not just what we are, but what we could be. I don't accept that the way things are is just the way they ought to be. I think they can be better, and I'd like to help make that happen, and that is my priority in life.
And sometimes I just have to remind myself: I am okay. I might be weird to be all happy with my life and my job and my husband and my dog -- and so what? I am weird. I admit it. I have to stop "shoulding" myself. It's not that I "should" be more this or less that -- it's that I "should" accept who I am and revel in it.
Besides, every group needs a freak. It's not always easy to fulfill that need, but all I can do is try.
Monday, August 18, 2008
first one in a while
Another haiku
I sit at Red Rocks watching
the moon rise above
It started off orange
Bigger than a great beach ball
Now growing pale, small
The band on the stage
Is playing "Three Little Birds"
My fav'rite Bob song
I'm drinking Dale's draft
Hoppy, cold, foamy goodness
In a plastic cup
Zoolander starts soon
Incredibly good-looking
And filled with Blue Steel.
I sit at Red Rocks watching
the moon rise above
It started off orange
Bigger than a great beach ball
Now growing pale, small
The band on the stage
Is playing "Three Little Birds"
My fav'rite Bob song
I'm drinking Dale's draft
Hoppy, cold, foamy goodness
In a plastic cup
Zoolander starts soon
Incredibly good-looking
And filled with Blue Steel.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
paul never ever uses monia
Anyone else use that mnemonic device while learning to spell pneumonia?
I've been coughy and wheezy for a few days now. The wheeze has taken on a life of its own, muttering in my chest as I exhale. I'm the first to admit: it doesn't sound good. I may have to actually visit the doctor soon. Like tomorrow. Bah!
I've been coughy and wheezy for a few days now. The wheeze has taken on a life of its own, muttering in my chest as I exhale. I'm the first to admit: it doesn't sound good. I may have to actually visit the doctor soon. Like tomorrow. Bah!
Monday, August 11, 2008
the lengths I'll go to
We just drove to Northglenn just to eat at Cracker Barrel. We never do this because it's so far away, but I think the drive is worth it, when we have the time.
Also: MySpace plus Facebook plus BlackBerry equals a very dangerous equation for me. Let's hope I can keep it under control.
Also: MySpace plus Facebook plus BlackBerry equals a very dangerous equation for me. Let's hope I can keep it under control.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
this could get dangerous
I got a new phone today ... It's got capabilities for the interweb. So I can post now when I'm out and about.
Heaven help us all.
Heaven help us all.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Against All Odds
Today is actually going (fairly) smoothly. We'll see how that continues. One more day, I keep telling myself. One more day. One more day before I can take a day off.
The up side is, when I get back to work after my time off, my job will seem like the easiest job ever. I suppose that's the end result when you morph using superpowers into three people instead of one.
We might go to Casa Bonita tonight! I shouldn't have to tell anyone how exciting that is.
There's this dude who parks his SUV and his motorcycle in the garage. I wonder a) why and b) whether he even considers that he's taking up two spaces -- obviously he's not being charged for two -- and how fair is that? Not very.
I bought some new tea yesterday. Traditional English Breakfast. Quite delicious, particularly with a splash of milk.
Back to the grind.
The up side is, when I get back to work after my time off, my job will seem like the easiest job ever. I suppose that's the end result when you morph using superpowers into three people instead of one.
We might go to Casa Bonita tonight! I shouldn't have to tell anyone how exciting that is.
There's this dude who parks his SUV and his motorcycle in the garage. I wonder a) why and b) whether he even considers that he's taking up two spaces -- obviously he's not being charged for two -- and how fair is that? Not very.
I bought some new tea yesterday. Traditional English Breakfast. Quite delicious, particularly with a splash of milk.
Back to the grind.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Things I've Learned
* I've learned I like having girlfriends, and miss them when they're not around.
* I've learned that, despite being one of those freaky people who knows what they wanted to do even when they were six years old, I was right ... and I was wrong. My career path has taken some interesting twists.
* I've learned not to let other people's expectations of you get in the way of what you really want.
* I've learned to make sure of what I really want before I go defying people's expectations of me.
* I've learned that doing three jobs at a time is even less fun than it sounds.
* I've learned that, despite being one of those freaky people who knows what they wanted to do even when they were six years old, I was right ... and I was wrong. My career path has taken some interesting twists.
* I've learned not to let other people's expectations of you get in the way of what you really want.
* I've learned to make sure of what I really want before I go defying people's expectations of me.
* I've learned that doing three jobs at a time is even less fun than it sounds.
The Sad Truth
Here's the deal:
In 2005, I was skinny. Not that I'm obese now, but really, I was quite skinny, and I bought a pair of the cutest jeans EVER. I wore them until I got fat(ter), they became too tight, but I held onto them because I love them. They are, as stated, super-duper cute.
My goal this year has been to fit back into Cute Jeans. Hence the exercising. Seriously, I've been working out six days a week for almost two months now, and the changes I've noticed in my physique are both exciting and promising.
But.
Because I've been so hard core about working out -- a sweat-dripping regimen of at least thirty minutes a day is nothing to sneeze at -- subconsciously, I guess, I kind of think I can eat anything I want.
And here is the sad truth: That is not so.
It's not like I'm resigning myself to a life of salads. What I mean is, when our food writer walks up to me with a greasy, fatty pepperoni pizza in hand and says, "Hey, Amber, you want a slice of this?" and I have already eaten lunch and am not really hungry but I do kind of want a slice, I can't just take the pizza. Especially when I already had (healthy) pizza the night before. And especially when this is followed by a couple of days of eating deep-fried yumminess that has no place in my current diet. On a similar note, when I go to visit family, I can't just stuff my face with all the delicious goodness that abounds on those visits. I don't need to eat fried chicken and mashed potatoes and pie. I just don't. That is a sad truth to me.
I like food. I love food. Food is my friend. Food keeps me alive and gives me energy. But sometimes I have to say no to food. Even though I'm working out. Because what happens is, I think that I burn off enough calories to compensate for the food -- which is true. But I will never fit into Cute Jeans again if I don't start saying no, and saving the stuff that's really bad for me that I love for special occasions.
Plus, I'm really developing some serious ab muscles like I've never had before, and I kinda want to see what they look like under the flab that's taken up residence around my midsection since the Dawn of Time (aka puberty).
In 2005, I was skinny. Not that I'm obese now, but really, I was quite skinny, and I bought a pair of the cutest jeans EVER. I wore them until I got fat(ter), they became too tight, but I held onto them because I love them. They are, as stated, super-duper cute.
My goal this year has been to fit back into Cute Jeans. Hence the exercising. Seriously, I've been working out six days a week for almost two months now, and the changes I've noticed in my physique are both exciting and promising.
But.
Because I've been so hard core about working out -- a sweat-dripping regimen of at least thirty minutes a day is nothing to sneeze at -- subconsciously, I guess, I kind of think I can eat anything I want.
And here is the sad truth: That is not so.
It's not like I'm resigning myself to a life of salads. What I mean is, when our food writer walks up to me with a greasy, fatty pepperoni pizza in hand and says, "Hey, Amber, you want a slice of this?" and I have already eaten lunch and am not really hungry but I do kind of want a slice, I can't just take the pizza. Especially when I already had (healthy) pizza the night before. And especially when this is followed by a couple of days of eating deep-fried yumminess that has no place in my current diet. On a similar note, when I go to visit family, I can't just stuff my face with all the delicious goodness that abounds on those visits. I don't need to eat fried chicken and mashed potatoes and pie. I just don't. That is a sad truth to me.
I like food. I love food. Food is my friend. Food keeps me alive and gives me energy. But sometimes I have to say no to food. Even though I'm working out. Because what happens is, I think that I burn off enough calories to compensate for the food -- which is true. But I will never fit into Cute Jeans again if I don't start saying no, and saving the stuff that's really bad for me that I love for special occasions.
Plus, I'm really developing some serious ab muscles like I've never had before, and I kinda want to see what they look like under the flab that's taken up residence around my midsection since the Dawn of Time (aka puberty).
Friday, August 1, 2008
It's Late, I'm Tired
And I want to go home.
So here's a quick story for you:
Just now, I had the sudden urge to do a cartwheel in the middle of the hall. Which would have been disastrous, because I can't do a cartwheel.
I think it was the Dale's.
So here's a quick story for you:
Just now, I had the sudden urge to do a cartwheel in the middle of the hall. Which would have been disastrous, because I can't do a cartwheel.
I think it was the Dale's.
Haiku
Here I sit at work
drinking from a blue beer can
a Dale's Pale Ale brew.
I should edit more
but my window seat invites
car-gazing instead.
Back to work I go.
It's almost six o'clock now
and the end is nigh.
(Yes, I can drink beer at work. It's that kind of place. Pretty rockin' when you think about it. My boss even gave me the beer.)
drinking from a blue beer can
a Dale's Pale Ale brew.
I should edit more
but my window seat invites
car-gazing instead.
Back to work I go.
It's almost six o'clock now
and the end is nigh.
(Yes, I can drink beer at work. It's that kind of place. Pretty rockin' when you think about it. My boss even gave me the beer.)
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