There's an epidemic at the gym...

...and it is NOT pretty.

I'm not talking about gingers with too many cleavage freckles. I'm not talking about creepy young guys that wear oversize cargo pants. Though why do I feel like everyone terrible in Portland comes to my gym? Ew.

I'm talking about old men. And short shorts. These are two things that should NEVER go together. If I were more clever I'd think of two things that don't go together as an example. But I'm not. It's a shame really. You can think of something that doesn't go as a pair on your own. No, not those two, they're delicious together and you know it.

Back to the gym. There's this one guy in particular: I call him Short-Shorts. See, told you I'm not that clever. Guess what he does. Other than gross me out by wearing the same pair of super short work out shorts every day, not much of anything. Tonight at the gym? Two more men in hot pant caliber shorts. It's too much. They must see us look at them. The ole up and down with the eyes move? I know I'm not good at hiding my facial expressions. I'm very clearly rolling my eyes and trying not to laugh when I walk by. Also when I see something really bad I kind of stop breathing for a little while. It's weird, I'm not gonna lie. Maybe (probably) they think I have some kind of emotional problem. Maybe they don't get the connection. Maybe they think I'm trying to flirt with them. Guess what, I laugh at everything okay, get over yourself.

But this isn't about me. This is about the gross old men and their ridiculously hairy thighs. That is serious intel I should NOT have on multiple men that frequent my gym. They can't possibly think they look good. Do they? They can't possibly be comfortable. Short-Shorts is almost constantly tug tug tugging on the hem of his shorts in a clearly vain attempt at humility. They have something that'll solve that problem for you champ: they're called pants. Figure it out.

Insomnia isn't always a Robin Williams chucklefest

Right now it's only 10:30 and that hardly counts as insomnia. But for the past week (and most of my life) I've had difficulty sleeping. Difficulty falling asleep, difficulty staying asleep, it all sucks and leaves me exhausted. Last week I was on steroids for my sore throat which causes insomnia even though I was supposed to be sleeping and trying to get better. I feel better now (thanks drugs) but still have a feeling I won't be able to fall asleep.

Some might claim it's that I leave the TV on. But if I don't watch Simpsons and Futurama over and over and over, who will I ask? The communists? I think not. And when I try to sleep in pitch black silence all I can hear is my brain and that is not something I want to listen to. I hear about my car, my job, my finances, my living situation, boys I like, my weight, my diet, my past, my future, my insecurities. It's the worst. So I watch TV instead. But sometimes even Bart's shenanigans and Bender's burps can't drown out my crazy.

Like right now. I'm so very very tired from leaving the house today (for the first time in a week and a half that wasn't the doctor's office or grocery store). Four whole hours I spent walking around. My legs are sore right now, that's how sedentary I've been for the past 10 days. The good news is I have a fancy dress outfit (right down to the accessories) for my little brother's wedding next month. So now I lie awake and think about my complexion and my tan lines my hair and again my weight. I want to sleep and not worry about anything but instead I worry about everything. I know I'm not alone in this and for me writing gets the crazy out of my head and into the interwebs where no one will ever see it and it can't harm anyone. I assume.

So hopefully whatever I just took will kick in soon and I can shut it down. At least for a while.

I'm living a Wayne's World quote

Only it's actually the opposite of the quote. Does that make sense? No? Too bad. You need to be hopped up on a multitude of drugs and exhausted but unable to sleep thanks to one of the side effects of said drugs. (Thanks PREDNISONE you can suck it!) What's the quote you ask?

"I once thought I had mono for an entire year, it turned out I was just really bored."

For the last couple weeks I have NOT wanted to go to the gym. I've been fine seeing friends and working but my heart was not in it when it was time for stupid cardio. When I did go it was lackluster and while I was sweating a lot I'm now fairly certain that it was totally the humidity. I chalked it up to boredom and a little sadness cause my actual friends and gym friends had either left or changed schedules and I didn't know anyone except all the people I stare at and judge constantly. And they're fun for a while but again, I'm easily bored so the novelty didn't last.

It turns out I wasn't just bored. I have mono. Awesome. When I read up on it and the "incubation time" (that makes me want to watch some Aliens (GAME OVER MAN!)) before symptoms appear (in my case an insanely vengeful sore throat and swollen lymph nodes) is 6 weeks from exposure. I do believe that leaves me somewhere in the Alaskan wilderness. I did let my germophobe guard down while there: sharing glasses and the like. Hey, it was ALASKA! Oh well. I still stand by the fact that it was an amazing vacation, even if it did leave me with a severely painful and lasting impression. It could have been sweat at the gym or even that hobo I let cry in my mouth, but I guess we'll never really know for sure.

Side note: Because I like to research things, especially when they make me feel crap crap crappy, I learned that 90-95% of adults have been exposed to mono. So yay I'm in like the biggest, stupidest club on the planet now! And the best part? Epstein-Barr virus, the cause of infectious mononucleosis, is totally in the herpes family. So they're right: what happens in Alaska (or Vegas I guess) stays in Alaska. Except for herpes. That shit'll follow you home.

Fun is F.U.N.

But it definitely doesn't help a girl lose weight.

I gained another 2 pounds. Which puts me squarely at 177.whatever pounds. Which means these last 10 pounds are going to be my arch nemesis. I can already tell. I've been sweating a LOT at the gym this week but I think it might just be the humidity. But it does give me that smug sense of self satisfaction I so very much enjoy. I also get that same sense when I find a really good happy hour or get a shot (or many) purchased for me so all those days I skipped the gym last week for friends and drinking? Totally worth it. I have too much fun in the summer and after giving up friends, family and booze for a year I don't want to do it again. Not yet. I'm not ready.

The main reason I'm not ready to give up my life for the gym is that the gym is BORING and I hate boring. Seriously it's the worst. So I skipped for a while and had too much fun. Drank most of my calories anyway so it was all fine. It's science.

I finally started going again and yesterday (on the future machine of course) I was staring and judging (my two favorite things to do there) and all my besties were there: Steroids and his girlfriend, the scary ginger girl with a severe muffin top, crazy mullet woman (she AND her mullet are crazy), tiny tattooed guy, the two Korean men (I think they're "just friends"), Jessie from the Biggest Loser (my gym's totally famous no big deal). And I realized (after freaking 16 months at the same gym) that if I have been staring and judging all this time are THEY staring at me and judging? What's my nickname? Do they think, oh there's that girl who burps too much, talks to herself and makes weird faces all the time. What the hell is her problem? Why are her shirts on inside out and is that a chocolate stain? Cause yeah, that's me.

I can't very well walk up to Paperwork or Short-Shorts and ask them if I have a nickname. I did walk up to one of the trainers to inform him that he'd shaved his beard and that he didn't really resemble the nickname I'd given him anymore. PS it was Johnny Surfer. Clean shaven he looked more like Johnny Straightedge. Bo-ring.

But most people don't do stuff like that. I think.

My particular brand of crazy = extra crazy

Part three:

The other questions were basic but still so much fun to answer (and I was rating how much I like these things on a scale of 1 (loathe) to 10 (lurve):

Running errands irresponsibly and often

7, I like being able to say "crap I forgot cotton balls at Target" and going to get them but I also hate traffic, crowds and spending money. So if I was forced to live without something because I couldn't conveniently get it, I'd be okay with that. Resourcefulness!

Carrying purchases 5-10 blocks

5, because I've never done it I don't know. I imagine I'd look pretty awesome pushing a crazy old person cart down the street though. Maybe get some cats to hang out the sides.

How much money do you spend on your insurance and gas per month?

I spend $50 on insurance and about $160 on gas a month. Not to mention the emotional cost of all these accidents (since none have been my fault there’s no payout on my end) and the ulcer I’m growing on account of the almost constant road rage (seriously if I never see another bicyclist I’ll be happy; no one knows how to drive around them- slamming on your brakes is a wonderful idea dumb dumb!). And if I got a new car I would have a car payment again, probably upwards of $150 (GROSS!!!). And while the car would be slightly nicer and gas would go down because of non-16-year-old mileage, the insurance would most likely go up and it would be a wash.

So I’m hoping that this writing is helping my crazy run its course. For the most part I just want to be drunk or sleep all day long. Or both. That could be the PMS talking but I've felt that way for a while now. I blame all the car accidents and the fact that I want to move out of my house so badly I'd be willing to kill a man. Well, not really. Maybe punch a man in the throat. Or a really ugly baby. It’d have to be pretty ugly though. Le sigh. I don't like being stressed! It doesn't suit me at ALL. My sarcasm gets more and more sardonic and scornful. 

Though when I think about it, that totally does suit me.

My particular brand of crazy = extra crazy

Part two:

My life seems to moves at two speeds: super fast, blasting across the alkali flats in a jet powered, monkey navigated... it goes on like that (also, that's a Simpsons quote) or nothing happens ever and I get annoyed and bored. For weeks Insurance Company A (and then B) was doing nothing and then BAM both told me to get estimates and “they wouldn’t have a problem paying me.” Right. Again, the pessimist knows what’s coming.

Last week I went to different body shops and no one would give me an estimate because my car is totaled. Twice. The guy at Kuni said I should call Insurance Company A and tell them about both accidents and just be straight with them. And I was like fuck you, I'm going to get fucked over if I do that. (I didn't say the first part out loud (cause that’s mean) but I did say the second part (swearing is how I make friends)). He instead started telling me how nice the new BMWs are and that they have warranties and all this BS and bitch please, you think I drive a 1995 piece of crap that sounds like a freight train with tape over the check engine light, doors that don't lock (and one that's stuck shut), giant dents in either side, a turn signal that falls out if I go over speed bumps too fast that I can’t take through the car wash because the inside fills with water because I have a duffel bag full of cash in the trunk that doesn't open? Fuck you again and again.

Anyway.

There are so many options and variables and unknowns floating around my head and occupying my every thought. What if I don’t get any money and I’m stuck with a worthless (twice) car? What if I somehow manage to get both insurance companies to (rightly) pay for repairs? Do I keep my car (if A or B don’t take it in the process)? Do I get a new one? Do I go without a vehicle (which I’ve never done before)? Again, there’s all that crazy. So my friend Elyse, who used to be my gym buddy until she defected to North Carolina, came up with a handy quiz (which appeals to the part of me that still wishes I could read Seventeen magazine quizzes that will tell me if the boy in my math class really does like me. SPOILER ALERT: he doesn’t) to help me decide what I want to do, regardless of any other factors. One of the questions made me laugh and laugh and laugh. It’s a completely reasonable question but one that is truly… well, laughable. So here it is, reprinted with my permission.

Do you see your car as a status symbol?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Totally legit question, but if you saw my car right now... oh lawdy. I was downtown the other night and since my car won't lock (or rather unlock so I can't lock it) I like to make it look as terrible as possible to deter possible thieves or ran sackers (though there’s nothing of value to steal now that my beer tokens were taken), with dents on both sides it's not hard to do, but I pull out the turn signal just for good measure and this guy saw me and started laughing. I explained (summed up) and he just laughed harder and was like "maybe they'll take pity and leave a twenty in there for you." It was... pretty hilarious. So short answer long... no. No I don't. 

Also nobody left me a twenty.

My particular brand of crazy = extra crazy

Part one:

I’m a Paul, a woman, a Virgo and pretty bat-shit crazy. That is an almost lethal combination of ridiculous. I obsessively think about everything. Worrying about things I can’t change, planning and plotting the things I can, lying wide awake at night replaying conversations in my brain - both good and bad. It’s a mildly psychopathic existence, I’m not gonna lie.

With all this crazy floating around my head I was surprised that getting into a car accident two months ago (my first one ever thank you very much) was not as traumatizing (at the time) as I would have thought. The guy was a dick but it wasn’t my fault so my optimistic side wanted to believe everything was going to work out fine. My pessimistic side (the one that’s usually right) was already figuring out all the ways I was going to get screwed over. Cut to two months later and we can all guess which side was on the money (and I’m totally using that term derisively).

Three weeks ago I got into another accident that was also not my fault- this time I wasn’t even moving, just sitting in my car watching the scene unfold before me. Again my inner pessimist knew the score and all I could do was drink copious amounts of beer to get her to shut up. Two bottles alone during the phone call to my insurance company. That’s my MO most of the time regardless so what the hell. 

Detox blows anyway.

The past five weeks...

... have pretty much been the best. I am a pessimist at heart, always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the rug to be pulled out from under me, and any other weird esoteric phrase involving fabrics (while I wouldn't say I have bad luck and most of what I deal with are first world white person problems it does seem like nothing is ever very easy for me). While I use every opportunity to display caustic wit with a dash of hypocrisy and disdain, I really am happy most of the time. Expecting the worst from most everything means I'm pleasantly surprised almost all the time. And the ability to laugh at even the smallest (and dumbest)things is awesome, everyone should try it. A couple weeks ago I was on my way into work and there was a giant penis drawn in chalk on the street. Like bigger than my car. I laughed for 10 minutes straight and then randomly throughout the day whenever I thought of it. Best commute ever.

Though all the the car accidents aren't the best thing ever, I still have to laugh (or else I get really upset & frustrated and I hate leaking emotionless robot tears), joking with the sarcastic cop that told me to go all Dukes of Hazard on my non-opening door. No one (I hope) expects to get into three car accidents in less than six weeks. Only one was my fault- the one with little to no damage to either car (except my turn signal falls out if I go over a speed bump too fast). The ones that weren't my fault? At least now Jack has horrible symmetrical damage to either side. It appeases the obsessive-compulsive in me on some ridiculous level.

Back to the "best" part. (It doesn't take much to get me on a complain-y streak. But complaining makes me happy so then we're back to that!) Alaska was amazing, beer is wonderful, my friends are fantastic and I like my job. All good news. I decided multiple times that "detox starts tomorrow" but then something would come up: free concerts (Matisyahu at the zoo, my friend Halie at the Heathman) free booze at block parties, bar-b-ques, girls nights, weekends in college towns, and the Brewer's Festival. When I got home after that I had 4 plastics mugs in my purse and a beer token in my bra. THAT is a successful day. So detox was pushed and pushed and pushed as was my liver and bank account. To the extreme.

Now it's August 1st. I haven't counted calories or cared much about the gym (it's so mundane almost all the time, thank goodness for my innate ability to judge everyone around me or I'd be so bored) since the middle of June. Now that summer is finally here I can play tennis and go on hikes, that alleviates some of the more banal workouts. I weighed myself this morning and it's not too bad, all things considered. 175.9. I've had worse. By about 40 pounds. But now instead of only seven pounds away from my goal I'm back to 10. So detox officially and for realsies starts today. Counting calories, shunning my friends and booze (I'm equally sorry to both parties) and hitting the gym six times a week. I want to be in the 160s by my birthday and maths tells me that's six pounds in six weeks. I'm pretty sure cutting out alcohol alone will force out a couple of the more bloated pounds.

Also fudgesicles don't count during detox.

Back from vacation...

...and I need detox STAT.

But it's not happening. I can't get back into the groove of not drinking and not hanging out with friends. All I did for a year was shun people and booze and yes I lost a bunch of weight and now I'm SO close and vacation was SO fun that I just don't want to go back to that. Plus it's sunny out and there are books to read outside, beer to drink on patios, tennis to play, mountains to climb. I made it to my goal (by .1 pound) the day I left for Alaska and was pretty damn pleased about that.

Then vacation began. I started drinking way more than I have in the past year. Now that I think about it, I've probably had more booze in the past three weeks than I have since May of 2010. Oops. Oh well, I heard somewhere that my liver is totally fixing itself as I type this so I may need to imbibe even more later to give it a run for its money. It is the weekend now.

I was going to wait till Monday to weigh myself for the post vacation verdict because I PLANNED to have a week of detox first. But it just wasn't in the cards. So detox is pushed back another day, another week, another month and soon I'm 31 and fat again. No, it won't go that far. Though I did jump the gun and weigh myself this morning and although everything in my closet still fits fine (including the amazing ass designer jeans I got in Anchorage. They are both amazing and amazing for my ass) I did gain five pounds. Oh. Well. Honestly I couldn't care less. I wasn't done yet anyway and now when I jump start my system it'll be even more willing to drop the first couple pounds quickly. I hope.

Now I have to make a trip to the gym. Then to beer. It'll all work out in the end. Everything usually does.

I'm not counting weeks anymore...

...the math hurts my brain. Calendars and science are hard.

I've not so much given up as seriously slowed down. My impending vacation and my truly heroic intake of beer (it's SUMMER damn it!) have impeded what little motivation I have left. I go to the gym 6 days a week still, yes but since I go at 6 o'clock with everyone else in Portland it's really hard for me to do what I want when I want without the urge to punch some meat head in his face. Or short shorts. Seriously dude. Buy some damn pants, I beg you. After staying at 177 for two or three weeks I dropped almost four pounds in only two weeks to weigh in at 173.5 last Tuesday. Or Wednesday. I don't remember. That's only one pound away from my "official" goal but I'm probably going to keep going. I'd like to be solidly under 170 so when in the future (and for the rest of my damn life) when I get up to 170 I can be like "whoa NJ, chill on the beer and snack treats and head to the gym".

Many years ago I lived in Corvallis. I was walking down the street downtown when some Casanova yelled out his car window "if you drop five pounds I'd bone you!" and my first thought was disbelief: is this real life? I looked around and it was only me this Lothario could be hollering at, I was alone on the street. At first I was in shock that it had even happened, then I just started laughing. Five pounds? That was it? I can't really remember, but this was in the stage between the skinniest I'd ever been (about 10 pounds heavier than I am now) and the heaviest I've ever been (after a devastating time in my life and a move from Corvallis back to Portland) so I'm going to call that I was around 200-210 pounds. That's a solid 28 or 29 on the BMI, I was only a couple pounds from obese and this gentleman was only requesting that I drop five pounds?

I wonder now that I've lost 45 if I should look him up. I'm still the same asshole I was then, I'm just skinnier. But apparently that's all it takes to hook a man of car-hollering caliber.

The past three weeks (18-20)

...in which I'm still trying to lose weight but care less & less about the number on the scale.

5/18 - 6/6

And honestly I can't really remember most of the past three weeks. My life is gym and work with beer and friends thrown into the mix for a nice balance. This week has been all about the car accident and Operation: Fuck That Guy Up.

I started a new job on the 16th of May. One that involves sitting on my ass all day. That probably plays a part in my body's refusal to lose any more weight. I could also blame my shockingly high beer intake. But I'll blame the sitting. I'm still counting calories but I took a week off in there because I just got so sick of it. I also took last Saturday off because it involved two cookies, a giant tamale and five (yes, five) delicious beers. I know it wasn't the optimal choice for someone on a "diet" but I honestly don't consider myself on a diet, I never have. I don't restrict any foods because that's just stupid. My body and its allergies do that just fine on its own, thank you.

My gym buddy got married the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend and that was super fun. The food was amazing, the cake SMELLED divine but of course I didn't eat any of it, and the bride looked SO SKINNY in her beautiful dress. No calories were counted that day either, but as the photographer I spent all day busy busy busy with not very much food. The whole day was a blast and honestly I can't wait for her to get back from her honeymoon so we can start being gym buddies again.

I weighed myself on Tuesday and while I'm still hovering at 177.7 (for days now which I figured was lucky, but then the car accident proved to me how wrong I was) I can tell my body is super pleased with everything I've been doing. ESPECIALLY drinking beer. And now it's almost the weekend again and the sun's supposed to be shining the whole time and I'm pretty sure that means friends, beer and books. And no gym.

I knew I shouldn't have bought that boat...

I didn't buy a boat. But it's like in all those cheesy 80s movies (McBAAAAIIIINNN!! A movie within a tv show, I know) when the cop is about to retire and he only has two payments left on his boat/house/RV and then he gets gunned down and everything is ruined?! Okay, that didn't exactly happen to me, but I only have two payments (maybe three...) left on Jack and BAM someone hit me on my way to the gym today. Right in front of my gym actually. So that was probably the best part, at least there were supportive people on my side right there, if it had been anywhere else I'd be stuck alone on a street corner with the wind blowing my skirt up. So... any other Monday night. Nah, I kid.

It was already a rough day at work, my newly minted office job has me realizing what Office Space and Garfield were really all about. As much as I love it there, Mondays really do suck! It's not just a cliche! All I wanted was a beer or some serious cardio. Since I had been drinking since Thursday my obvious choice for weight loss was cardio. I was just driving along, singing to my heart's content (Jebus I love Adele) when BAM the aforementioned hitting of my car. Jack didn't deserve it. He tries so hard (no he doesn't) and to be taken down in his prime (it's not his prime) is just a travesty and a disgrace. Plus he looks like trailer trash now!

Bastard McGee of course claims it was all my fault. "Why were you driving so fast?" he yells. "Whoa," I say. I am NOT dealing with anyone's bullshit right meow. It's too much, TOO MUCH! So he called the cops. Wonderful, it's his fault, let's get the whole freaking town involved! First he claims I was speeding and he couldn't see me coming. You didn't see me because you didn't look. Then when the police arrived he told them that he was simply "repositioning his parking spot" and that I must have been swerving. Uh, no thanks. The cop takes one look at my car and makes a snide comment that pretty much negates Mr. McGee's whole story (stories). Love it. Score the first (ever) for Beaverton PD. I take pictures, my trainer/lawyer/insurance agent/life coach is there to help (almost as much as I think a beer would have) and even though I'm still worried I'll get shafted (and not in a Monday-night-street-corner kind of way) I know I'm right and I know Bastard McGee is wrong and I'm only hoping everything works out fine. It usually does.

NOW WHERE'S MY DAMN BEER!?!