On the Friday that the Dork Lord and I went to Austin, I got up at five, as normal, put on a bunch of assorted and mismatched Nike apparel and headed down to boot camp. I was feeling pretty good – energized and strong – and though I’d grown accustomed to a good butt kicking, the workout that morning was nothing short of brutal. We ran suicide drills in relay teams. And if it wasn’t your turn to run, you were doing intense ab exercises in push up position. Each relay segment was followed by a sprinted lap and… then repeat. I swallowed my own vomit twice. What’s more, I came in last every single time. There was something so fundamentally humiliating and defeating about pushing myself to puke-inducing-maximum only to lag behind (way, way behind) even the other jiggly folks, who like myself, aren’t exactly athletic, that I had a bit of a breakdown. I apologized to my team for being slow and when camp was over, I sat in my car, key dangling in the ignition, and cried. I did not feel strong. I felt embarrassed.

I came home, pulled myself together, told the Boy that I believe yoga was more my speed, and never went back. I just couldn’t stomach the idea of being last again. And again. The interesting thing is that between yoga and walking/jogging, I’ve lost exactly the same number of pounds as I did at Boot Camp the month before, but I don’t feel like an utter failure -  like the last, awkward kid picked for Red Rover. Yes, it was an intense work out and the trainers were, for the most part, excellent. But as it turns out, I’m just not into the torture of it all. 

Who knows, I may opt to subject myself to humiliation again when spring rolls around and people start saying words like, pool party. At that point, torture becomes sort of relative.

I’m baffled. Why, oh sweetbabyjesus why, would you come to yoga today? You clearly have the flu, swine or otherwise (though, after listening to your chesty cough for the last hour, I feel consumption may be an option as well), and all that hacking into your shoulder isn’t doing a bit of good for the rest of us in this room. This room which is heated and humidified, so as to make the conditions for germ sharing OPTIMAL. See this guy to my right? He’s been farting since Awkward Chair and I don’t resent his presence nearly as much as I do yours.

Though, I agree with my friend Laura. Neither of you are really making deep, cleansing breaths all that appealing, but at least he’s not potentially effing up the only vacation I’ve had this year. Actually, the only real vacation I’ve had since March, 2008. You understand my angst; that’s a very long time. And, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m having lunch with Cinderella in two weeks. And if I miss this lunch, I swear on all that is holy, I will find you. And I will cut off your hair in your sleep.

By the way, your Standing Bow is pretty. Bear in mind, it would probably look less so without hair.

Love,

“Dudes,” I said, turning quickly around. “That’s Chace Crawford right there.”

“Who’s Chace Crawford?” Among my friends, this question was universal. Yes, who is Chace Crawford?

“You know, the one who’s not Zac Ephron! Heartthrob of the teeny boppers! Gossip Girl, blah blah.”

Blank looks all around. I watch two television shows TOTAL and I knew who he was. Good grief, I thought, these people need to get a little more People Mag in their lives. I yanked out my phone and googled.

“This. This is Chace Crawford.”

“Yeah, that’s totally the same guy. But I still have no idea who he is.”

“His sister dates Romo.”

And that’s when the lights came on. The boys all nodded and a general murmur of recognition went ’round the group.

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place? She’s hot.”

Mmm hmmm.

Anyway.

Yesterday, my brother left two lines of a Monkees song (This Just Doesn’t Seem to Be My Day) on my sister’s Facebook wall. Reading the lines, I cocked my head to the side and thought for a few seconds. Yes, it was vaguely familiar. And then, it wasn’t. It was TOTAL RECALL. It has probably been 20 years since I heard that song but wouldn’t you know it, it’s like it was encoded in my DNA. I’ve been singing the damn thing ever since. And yeah, maybe pining a little bit for Davy Jones and his tooth sparkle. Ping!

Earlier in the week, I got bit by a spider. Again, because of course I did. And it wasn’t much more than an annoyance until the whole bee incident. And then, after the bee did his thing and it crossed some sort of venom threshold, the spider bite on my inner arm that was the size of a quarter grew and grew until yesterday, when I took my angry red, tennis ball sized owie to my doctor. She poked, prodded and then drew a black line around the red halo on my arm and said, if it gets bigger, call me. Then she loaded me up with antihistamines and antibiotics and sent me on my way. I’ve been obsessively checking that line ever since. It’s a new hobby.

Insects and arachnids aside, we had such a fantastic weekend with Stephanie, Phil and their pint-sized scalawags. Oh, to hear three-year-olds say scalawags! I was endlessly delighted by the things that came out of their mouths. Then there was grown up time, which was mostly about putting things in our mouths – like, wine and bread pudding and this thing called drunken bread. I didn’t make it to boot camp yesterday. I’m still recovering. For the Dork Lord and me, it was the perfect way to celebrate our first year together*. You know, minus the bees and spiders and such. Or the part where the Boy left his wallet at home in Dallas. Or where I forgot to pack deodorant. But I guess ‘perfect’ is sort of a relative thing.