Tag Archives: Thinner

Stiff Nod to 2011. Open Arms to 2012.

(Heeeey- check out the new banner art by Will Manus, my funny, talented friend. It’s me! I’m on a horse. The Lone Rangerette. Let me know what you think.)

2011, you maestro of mania: I will not miss you, but I will take a moment to acknowledge the lessons you taught me (an abbreviated version, inspired by Squeaky Robot), before I move on.

1. Extreme activities are something I was not built for. I know what you’re thinking, 2011, that your predecessors 2005 and ‘10 covered this one, but those were snowboarding accidents. Totally different. Yes- ok, I did face plant and have my legs sail over my back and head in a scorpion move, completely reversing the c-curve in my neck; and then there was the cracking of my tailbone and hyperextension of my arm when I used it as a ski pole (to protect said broken butt bone as I fell), but I still felt confident this year when I signed up for volleyball and when I went indoor kart-racing with a friend. Joke’s on me. Strange sensation when a tendon snapped in my leg at volleyball, I could have sworn someone behind me took a swing at my calf with a baseball bat, but nothing could have prepared me for the special pain explosion when I nailed that wall karting. Ooo-eee bub. Knocked my helmet and neck brace clean off and then slammed my never-before-broken ribs into the metal kart frame with alarming force, changing that break status. I recall the race employee recovering my helmet some 15 feet away and mouthing, “How do you feel?” I replied, “I can’t hear you and my body is numb.” Which made him nod and slap my helmet back on my noggin. Race on.
2. I don’t have the attention span for kickball. Remember last spring, I was so excited to assemble my new portable grill for pre-game tailgates, delighted someone scored matching headbands for the team, and jubilant when I came across a pom pom in our team color, yet I groaned when I had to set down my Solo cup to head out to the field on game days. I’m hanging up my sweatbands for now and focusing my energies on upping the social event planning instead of converting a sporting event into one. Wisdom.
3. To say “no” and not feel badly about it. Also in the spring, 2011, you found me canoodling with an old flame who I’d been over for quite some time. Subtly, you smacked me in my conscience with the reality that he really did absolutely nothing for me, was a bit full of himself, and that I should not be spending time and/or energy on a relationship I cared nothing about. Excellent point, and I’ve taken it to task, also purging my heart and calendar from events or dalliances that leave me unfulfilled, bored, disappointed, or all of the above. Finding myself with loads of free time…
4. If it doesn’t have a sippy lid, I have no business drinking out of it or setting it anywhere near my electronics. I feel as though there may have been a gentler way of teaching me this one, you minx, but if dumping the contents of a 16oz Coke Zero all over the keyboard of my Dell Vostro was how you wanted to go about it, then let me at least thank 2010’s rationale that had me purchase full coverage. I mean, I typically do not drink soda, unless there’s booze in it, and I certainly never leave the cap off and set it next to my livelihood, so props to you, 2011, for seeing that coming and seizing the opportunity to school me. I hate you.
5. Perseverance. This one is a tricky bugger that you really spent most of the year hammering home and it will probably never finish resonating. Not ever. I finished the B-O-O-K the first week of June, which felt amazing for exactly 23 minutes. The sense of satisfaction swelled in a lot of places and I recall feeling capable of just about anything I put my mind to. I could do it, after all. I was a finisher, which I had never thought I could be before (Exibit A: a tattoo with only the outline of what it was originally designed to be; B: countless half-written manuscripts fizzled in my docs folder; C: hair that I keep intending to grow out and then hack off when it’s at the threshold, and D: many words often left unsaid when they shouldn’t be). Finished felt great. But those triumphant and boundless minutes were interrupted by a phone call that would hurt and rent me from my new-found  solidarity. That call would have me immediately on an airplane to the bedside of my best friend as she delivered her baby boy who’s heart had stopped beating. In all the time that followed, I would learn all the more how important it is to keep hanging on and hanging on and hanging on and…teaching yourself and teaching others you love how to start breathing again. How to open your eyes at the start of each day, get crushed all over with the immediate recollection of everything that’s gone wrong, and still will yourself to not only keep moving, but also to make everything you do matter, because it has to. There has to be some tangible impression, some outward sign that goes beyond eyes wasted with grief, to justify and testify that you’ve lost big and that it changes everything, and that you promise to make it count. That he lived. That you loved him. That his brief life changed yours. And in time, I have faith 2011, that the perseverance will pay off.
6. To be grateful.  The really good friends are the ones who will drive a couple hundred miles to wish you happy birthday, leave chocolate, wine, or flowers at your door when they know you’re sad or just want to show some love. They will call/text/come over when you’ve told them to get lost, cuz they know you didn’t mean it and actually need them now more than ever. They will also cook carbs to comfort you, ply you with just the right amount of hooch, threaten to hurt people who’ve disappointed you, and will lend a laptop cuz you’ve just ruined yours. They will sometimes swap tops in a restaurant, cuz you like theirs better and asked nicely. These friends will give you a look when you’ve crossed a line, will let you know when they love something you’ve written, and will say, “Hey, babe- you’ve got a little something clinging to your left canine.”
7. Metabolisms are not forever. And I can’t continue standing on the shoulders of a triathlon I completed 3 years ago. The effects wear off, and slowly but surely, your clothes get uncomfortable. Thanks for the push (out of my jeans) at the end of the year to finally sign up for boot camp. Here’s hoping last year’s injury tally carries over, meaning I’m safe for a spell.
8. Strangers are worth listening to. Remember when we were cornered by a lady at that hotel in Sacramento? Standing in a black velour track suit that fit 20lbs ago, she talked for an hour straight about her husband, her kids, her divorcee nephew that I should date, and her business ventures. And I listened, since there was nothing much better happening at the moment. At one point, while she was gushing about her affection for her husband (even after 27 years of marriage, she had a crush), she interrupted herself to tell me that she had a strong feeling about me. Out of no apparent place, she received a sense and blurted to me that February 2012 was going to be a significant month for me. Life-changing. She couldn’t get specific about whether I should be excited or filled with dread. Despite the several ways you tried to wire me for cynicism, 2011, I choose the former…and now walk brusquely toward whatever is next. Filled with hope.
So, while I would happily punch you in your sensitives for some of the harsher moments of last year, 2011, until you can’t see color, I’ll concede that there were important moments that will likely carry me through the years to come. On the whole, thanks.
Gotta tell you though, I’m pretty psyched that I’m through. Take it personally.
(I love your comments, so fill me in on some of your lessons learned in 2011.)
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What to do with the New Year’s Resolutions Rotting in Your Fridge

It probably isn’t a stretch to say that many of you made some health-related resolution this New Years. Maybe you wanted to work out more regularly, perhaps you’re swearing off sugar and white flour because you know they’re of the devil, or it may be something like, “I will not get blinding-drunk at parties, so that I wake up the next day wondering where my shoes are, what that stuff is in my hair, and why there are branches and sand in my bed when I live in the city.” Whatever the case, bravo for wanting to make better choices for your body, and here’s a post on what to do with all of those vegetables that you thought you’d start loving overnight, but, let’s be serious,  are now rotting in your fridge.

An aside, I have been doing a ridiculous amount of domestic stuff since the holidays. I sewed an apron (the whole thing. With a POCKET!), crocheted (kinda), mended (3 garmets, 4hrs. tiny holes.), and made shoe clips, which scalded all but 2 fingertips. I feel that qualifies me to give you my recipe for:

Garbage Sauté

  1. Grab every vegetable turning wrinkly in the fridge-   if it’s slimy, slap yourself in the face for your oversight and laziness in letting things fully rot, be sad for a moment for the money you’ve wasted, let guilt creep in because there are children in a far off land that would maul you for that slimy wad, and then toss in the trash.
  2. Find the dullest knife possible to chop these veggies up, because a) the effort will make you burn more calories and b)you are less likely cut the tip of your finger off like last time.
  3. Put olive oil in a pan (If you think I know which pans are what, you’re crazy. Figure it out. The flat-ish one.) When it’s hot (med heat), toss in garlic (if you don’t have garlic on hand at all times, stop reading this now. GO away.) that you’ve minced. Go crazy. It’s competing with veggies that are at their most flavorful (since your non-committal ass has let them begin to wither), so any less than 5 cloves, and you shouldn’t even bother. Mincing, btw, involves smacking the side of the knife to each clove to separate from the skin, chopping, sprinkling salt, sliding your knife over the shards to help the salt pull the date-repelling (fact) oil out, chopping more, mushing more. Voila. You reek, but your dish will smell amazing. Only let it sizzle in that oil for 30 seconds to infuse.
  4. Pat yourself on the back for knowing how to mince garlic AND properly infuse an oil.
  5. Scour the fridge for a lemon and maybe leftover wine.
  6. Curse, and run back to the pan to stir and turn down the heat, bringing it back to medium, since you had turned it up in your impatience to heat the oil.
  7. Check your blackberry to see if you’ve missed anything important.
  8. Curse because you didn’t think to chop your veggies in advance, and now the oil is ready for you to throw in mushrooms, peppers, chick peas (or some other bean protein from the cupboard), onions, olives, broccoli, squash, and maybe that tofu you bought January 1st, knowing healthy people eat it, but had no clue how to prepare. Chop as quickly as you can with a dull knife, having moved your flat pan off the burner to avoid cooking the garlic.
  9. Once veggies are chopped, throw them into the pan with a loud, “BAM! Take THAT, Emeril!” and chug some of that old wine.
  10. The veggies need turned a couple of times, but should go soft  in about 10 minutes, which gives you time to boil water for the pasta/grain of your choosing.
  11. Curse and kick the wall when you realize you don’t have any pasta.
  12. Check Blackberry to see if you’ve missed anything at all.
  13. To cooked veggies, add any vulnerable veggies, like spinach, which would be a little gross if cooked for 10 mins, but now is a good time to put it in there. Add the juice of your lemon, and, if you’re feeling the bravado that comes from week-old wine, get some of that lemon zest in there without grating off the skin of 3 knuckles.
  14. Run for band aids when you’ve grated off the skin of 3 knuckles, and shake your aching fist in the general direction of whomever invented the damn microplane.
  15. Add a can of organic diced tomatoes, which you keep cases of in your cupboard. From Costco. Tu amor.
  16. Throw your favorite seasonings in. Oregano or Basil is always a good idea. Fresh pepper-der. Then taste to see if you need any more seasonings, or if some more salt is needed. This is personal.
  17. Spit taste test back into flat pan, because you forgot to blow on it to cool it off, and now your tongue is swelling and may scar. Stir.
  18. Throw whatever’s left of the wine in there, not to exceed ½ cup- give it a few minutes of simmering…but not too long. You’ve never understood this silly notion of chefs the world over to “Cook off the alcohol.” Waste not!
  19. Dump into a bowl, wish one last time that you had pasta, and plunk whatever cheese is in your fridge on top (ideally feta, goat, or parm)
  20. Carry bowl and any wine remnants to the table. Glass is optional. This is Garbage Sauté, after all. Feel good about having not totally wasted your money and dreams of becoming healthier.

Garbage Saute, ya'll

See? Anyone can cook. Now, go forth and purge the veg drawer in your fridge, if it isn’t stuck shut from not having been opened in over 2 weeks….

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“You’re braver than you believe and stronger than you seem and smarter than you think.” Christopher Robin

I’m nearing the end of week 1 of 2 weeks of Self’s October lower body workout. The routine was, I’m convinced, something that Satan cooked up in the eastern wing of hell, which he only occupies when he’s shaping his most wicked plans, and then communicated in an Ambien and vodka-induced dream that a trainer was having. But, as difficult as this routine is, my body is doing it, which is proving that thing people say about exercise being 90% mental and 10% physical (definition of “mental” is arbitrary, no?).  Sure, I have to pause after each set to weep and shake my fists at the heavens, but just when I think my quaking thighs will give, off they go again for the next set, which makes sense, since they are the largest muscle group and capable of a lot more than I typically ask of them (which is usually to prance about in heels, or lounge in comfy pants whilst re-watching season 3 of Mad Men).

When Lucifer breathed this routine into existence, he was engaging the scientific belief that strength training will maximize benefit if you fully exhaust one muscle before moving on to the next. This looks like doing 3 sets of 18 (54 reps) of 6 routines on the left leg before switching to the right. For those of us arithmetically-challenged, that’s 324 reps on one leg, then switch. To keep from injuring myself and because recovery from Monday’s version of the routine took 2 days, I had the bright idea of going for a brief bike ride before commencing the hours-worth of sheol.  I’m sure this did some sort of good, but right now my bottom-half feels like rubber, so there’s no telling.

My goal, and I’ll let you know how this goes, is to go from this:

 

 

To this:

 

Thank you, if you’ve sent a note about how this and other posts have gotten you motivated to move more, or if you’ve sent me encouragement.  I’m going to say the following, so that if you hurt yourself in the process I am not to blame.

DISCLAIMER:

Abigail is a professional, but not in relation to anything she talks about on this site. If you follow the footsteps that she reports on here, you may vomit, cry, break something, hate her, lay in a fetal position sucking your thumb, become discouraged, take up binge-drinking, take up watching Mad Men, and many other potential side effects. Use common sense, consult a doctor, or whatever your modus operandi is for decision making. Happy thigh-whittling!

P.S. The quote in the title is from my favorite Pooh and Christopher scene. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9tRepZdoRmY

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Missing Thor. Or, I Hate Squating Alone.

A year ago, when I was at the zenith of my unhappiness/verge of burning down my office if the stress and 13 hour work days did not cease, I employed a personal trainer. I needed someone who would kick my we-know-what into shape, which I had neither the time nor presence of mind to do.

I was asked at the gym if I wanted a male or female and I mentioned that I didn’t want a woman, because what out of shape gal wants that rubbed in their face every day? And, I didn’t want a guy, because I had worked out with one before, and I couldn’t climb into bed for a month, he had injured me so.

The solution? A gay trainer guy. He was perfect. I called him Thor, which was not his name. It made him giggle and it got me out of remembering his actual name. He was really tough with me, but diverted me with topics like fashion, celeb gossip, and boys.  I lost a few pounds every week that I worked with him. He took my iPod and loaded it with excellent booty-shaking playlists to maximize my calorie burn when I worked out without him, listened when I vented about work and dating, and then offered appropriate commentary.

Awww...this pic really reminds me of Thor and I. Except, I'm a brunette, and while short, not that small, or we wouldn't be having this post.

Instead of screaming, “I want to see 20 more, you fluffy nancy!” when I asked how many reps were left, Thor would calmly say, “Are you afraid of what doing too many more will do to your body? Now, let’s keep going and think about how we’re carving out that abdomen!”

Thor once asked me if I could work out during lunch, and I responded that I was a head-sweater who looked like trailer trash in a pony tail, and couldn’t shower at the gym because…ew. Thor replied,

“You should have it botoxed. To stop sweating.”

“Pardon?” I huffed while pumping out my 342nd Burpee .

“Your head,” he grinned his beefy, cosmetically bleached grin, “You should have your head botoxed. I do my back.”

“You (wheeze) are. Not. Right,” I shrieked, “My body (hack) obviously needs. To. Do. This.”

“And your chest,” he remarked.

I glanced down at that uni-thing sports bras create under your tank and looked up in confusion, still heaving.

“Push-ups?” I asked, already beginning to assume the position, “Botox?”.

“Ha, no. That won’t help. My mom had hers done. It was no biggie. Think about it,” he said the last part very seriously before marching his perky bottom over to a section of the gym I called the gorilla cage, because that was where men worked out with gallon jugs for water bottles, and arm holes cut out and down to the waist of their t-shirts because their muscles are just too big to contain.

It took me 2 days to understand what Thor was talking about.

So, for the past week, while the weather has been glorious, I’ve been recreating Thor’s workout in my backyard. It’s crippling, just like his were, and I am much more aware of how much work it is without his stories and veiled (not really) criticisms. I miss his placid, injected forehead and his high-pitched chuckles when I would attempt to crab walk for a minute, and his passive-agressive remarks on cosmetically altering myself. It’s his voice I hear in my head when my glutes are trembling in revolt and my head is shvitzing like a Fontana en Italia, cheering me on with encouraging words like, “Ohhhhhh, woman. We have got SO much work to do.” And, “I think you move more quickly at a Nordie’s shoe sale.” (fact).

Onward I trod. I am currently working on October’s issue of SELF, which has given me a workout for my lower half that promises to drop me down a jean size in 2 weeks. Have realized that anything that quick is going to hurt really, really badly. But, that’s how much I want it. Thank you, Thor, you oafy, chiseled, coach with sneakers a different color for every day of the week.

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Baffles of the week: Friday Round-up v.2

Alright, so I’m not going to be consistent with these Friday updates, obviously, but who’s surprised?

Here are a couple of my double takes from the week (last week- -when I didn’t write a darn thing).

1.       Hot Yoga Breather Cheaters

I was indulging in my weekly (as weekly as my posts…) hot yoga torture ritual, and hazarded a glance to between my knees and to the back of the room after striking a pathetic downward-dog pose. I always like to check out what other sorts of people, beside the svelte faux-chested ladies that can wear their thighs like a tiara, attend the class. In addition to myself, I take note of which thing is not like the other.

As I am lifting my derrier to the heavens, and sneaking a peek, I’m surprised to see a feeble and withered looking gent with a shocking amount of hair all over his chest and back, and then I notice a tube coming from somewhere and linking to a large bottle-ish thing on the floor beside his mat. For a moment, I thought he had himself intravenously hooked up to a Camelback to stay hydrated, which I thought was weirdly clever, and then I realized that it was running to his schnoz. The hose was seriously long. I wondered if he knew that we were not going to running laps around the room at any point.

Some of you may think, “Wow. Kudos to an emaciatedand clearly unwell man schlepping an oxygen tank with an extra long hose so as not to interrupt his extended warrior pose,” but not this girl. As I heaved and sopped my way through an hour of torture, inhaling stale, 115 degree air, I contemplated whether he would be offended if I asked,

“Namaste, good sir. Does that tank there blow cool air for you, and if so, does it come in colors other than black?”

2.       Foam Caesar’s and Minimum Wage Worker Enthusiasm

I was making my weekly run to the ABC store for tequila when   When driving to the store the other day, I drove past a shopping center where a Little Caesar’s had just opened. (I had no idea anyone still ate their food). Out by the road was, I assume, a Little Caesar’s employee, bedecked in a huge foam costume depicting that fat Caesar guy with the nose that blends straight into his mouth. He was rocking out to some inaudible tune, waving a sign about cheap pizza and guaranteeing its goodness.

 I thought for a moment about what circumstance I would need to be in to be convinced to put on a suit and dance in public with apparent excitement for dough, sauce and cheese, but came up with nothing beyond a cocaine habit that needed funding, and even that was only plausible because there was a costume involved that would ensure anonymity.

But, THEN…

I drove a few more feet and there, beside the road, in khaki pants and a polo with the pizza joint’s logo, was a second employee, ALSO rocking out to invisible tunage, for no apparent reason. No costume. Same side of the road, so it wasn’t like he was catching rush hour in the other direction. Just a man. Pop and locking his heart out on the Parkway. I could think of nothing a manager could have said to convince this guy to get crazy on the roadside for pizza with no mask when there was a similar fool 15 feet away. And yet, there he was.

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Thighs Like Sookie

Owing to over a year of severe stress and about a month of culinary debauchery in Europe, I made the decision about a month ago to detox my system and start from scratch. I was sure that the amount of cheese, kebabs, wine, curry, and cheese I consumed probably did my system no favors and had probably laid a formidable foundation for blockage in some important valve/organ/artery, so I best wipe the slate clean.  I do this, in some form or another, every year.

This year’s detox eliminated: caffeine, flour, sugar, dairy, eggs, grains/oats, peanuts, citrus, all sweeteners (corn syrup is in EVERYTHING), medicine, oils other than olive, and alcohol. If you are considering a detox, please realize that all of the following will likely occur. Some other things I have too much class to mention will happen as well. Count on it.

  • You will wake up in the middle of the afternoon curled in a fetal position on the kitchen floor, rocking yourself to a little tune you’ve spontaneously came up with called, “There’s nothing I want more right now than peanut butter with cheese and tequila. Ooo wooo ooo.”
  • By week two, I was following you may follow strangers with coffee, just to get a whiff…and for the off chance they set it down.
  • You will be on a short fuse, so warn anyone that you would like to remain in your life post-detox that some irrationality will occur (like biting off fingers that wander near your bean sprouts doused in flaxseed oil, or changing the channel during Glee). This is, however, a prime opportunity to rid yourself of pesky people who you haven’t had the heart to break-up with. Unexplained screeching and crying scares even the most well-meaning bloke far, far away.

After surviving 5 weeks of this, though, my tummy does not block my view of my feet (happy dance), I wake up without an alarm by 7am (ish) feeling refreshed and in no need of caffeine, and have gotten back into a 5 day/week exercise routine. I’ve actually continued once a week with hot yoga, and, while I stand by my original assessment, I’m pretty delighted with my newfound bendiness. I’m much less likely to get stuck in a weird pretzel-y position and need to call for help when painting my toes.

I was reading an interview with Anna Paquin in SELF recently (I feel more fit if I am subscribed to a fitness mag. Try it) who, if you didn’t know, is of Sookie Stackhouse fame on HBO’s True Blood, or sweet/scary Rogue from X-Men.

*Please note I am endorsing Sookie's thighs, only. Her show and her arm-toneage are "meh".

Paquin was honest about how much work she does to maintain her physique and mentioned the Bar Method as her go-to routine. I had purchased the Bar Method a couple of years ago, got freaked out by the instructor’s frozen smile and unblinking stare, and tucked it to the back of my dvd drawer with other things I knew were good, but didn’t watch more than once, like season 2 of Mad Men. Well, if Sookie managed dimple-free thighs using a dvd I already owned, then I figured I was just going to have to push past my fear of that frightening and overly injected face (just like I do clowns when I go to the circus because I dearly love cotton candy and trapeze artists) and wrestled myself into some leggings.

The horrific-to-look-at instructor is pretty great, if you just listen and don’t look at her. She lets you know what the agony you’re experiencing will yield.

For example, when I was on tippy toe and dipping deeply into a wobbly plié whilst groaning and cursing, Crazy Eyes says, “Be sure to hang in there! We are almost done carving out that bottom and making those thighs appear thinner when viewed from the front. Let those legs sizzle!”

Well. Hot damn. I am all for definition and creating optical illusions in my favor (Um, hello. Don’t judge. No self-respecting lady leaves the house without, at a minimum, mascara on), so I did hang in there. As did my thighs. And, oh, how they sizzled. Never mind that I have to slide on my stomach to go down stairs because my muscles are now jelly and cannot support me. I look narrower! (From the front).

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There are Movers Who Shake and Shakers Who Cannot Move

While conducting this personal social experiment (that could be an oxymoron), I have learned something very important about myself. I’ve had a sneaking suspicion of this self-factoid most of my life, like the fact that,  in middle school, I began keeping every birthday  card and letter I was given in a yellow cardboard Hecht’s box and only just sorted them and put them into something more permanent last year when the Hecht’s box disintegrated , or that in college I wrote all of my major term papers the hours before they were due. You are probably thinking that my personal epiphany was that I am lazy, and this is a popular conclusion with people I am close to, but no. My layers are more intricate than that. My revelation has been this: I tend to not do things, unless they are absolutely necessary.

While cleaning my bike* in my backyard on Friday, I was distracted by the conversation on the other side of the fence. My neighbors are 3 guys and a girl (or 4 guys– I’m not totally sure) who work together at Blockbuster. They are in their late 20’s, had no desire for higher education, and spend their days drinking and smoking something in the backyard to stave off the stress of becoming obsolete as soon as Netflix, Redbox, and Hoolu are finished taking over the world.

This is what I heard:

Guy #1: I would totally have an element in my blood that made me immune to pain.

Guy #2: That’s stupid. I would have the power to go invisible and would use darts with neuro toxins for weapons.

Guy #1 shouts: You are such an eff-tard! The gravity factor in the 9th Vortex would slow your damn darts down, so they wouldn’t be able to pierce paper! Dude. You’re an idiot.

Guy #3: Heh heh. *belch*

Guy #2 mutters: Oh. Yeah. Well, I’d still want to go invisible. And I would totally have an aircraft with a ring of blades around the outside that could cut through steel.

Oh. Now I get why this is so popular with guys. Yeesh. (fansitekits.com)

(They used words like “Stormcatcherising”, “Ugalgamoth”, and other crap I didn’t understand and find too foolish to recant here.)

I shook my REAL head and walked my REAL self, which could feel pain and was visible no matter what, back inside and shut the REAL door. Feeling validated as a totally normal person, I spent a moment classifying those fellas into a category reserved for people who collect thousands of baseball cards and have only been to a handful of games, or who spend hours playing Farmville and have never touched a vegetable attached to a plant in their life. Then, it sort of dawned on me that we all do something similar. That, while I don’t play World of Warcraft (or whatever), do not mend imaginary fences so the pigs don’t get out, nor get heated when discussing things that don’t exist, I do get passionate about the way I want things to be, which is probably the same thing. The things I want, the things this journal is about, are things that don’t exist yet, and it’s up to me to make them real, which is a huge challenge, since, as mentioned, I don’t always take on tasks until they’re imperative in some way.

So, that’s where I am. In need of 3 motives for being kinder, thinner, and published, since personal fulfillment doesn’t seem to turn me on. I’m opening the floor for comments, suggestions, and butt-kicks. Give it to me.

*I was cleaning my bike in the hopes that it’s readiness would get me back on it, since it is a favorite means for exercise and a huge stress-reliever for me. That was Friday. This is Monday. Get the picture?

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