Ugh. This new "up at 5am" schedule of Jason's is killing me. Well, actually, it feels good to have a semi-normal schedule, I'm actually sleeping, seeing daylight, and believe it or not, I have so much accomplished by 7am that I actually feel a little less slothlike. But I imagine that this kind of lifestyle is surely killing me softly, and one day soon I'll wake up dead, at 5am.
This morning I barely rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and I was on the treadmill, pounding out a few miles (damn sticker says made in Canada, but then why does it not measure in kilometres?) to the tune of crappy "Hits!" radio stations filled with insipid DJ talk, and I thought to myself: Jay, you are retarded.
Reason #27 why I don't go to the gym:
My workout ensemble this morning consisted of
1-pink plaid pants
2-yellow tweety bird socks, with orange pompoms
3-purple sketchers...well more like lavender
Clearly no other human should have to see me in this getup.
Reason #94 why I don't go to the gym:
I curled my bottom lip upward, so that I could blow up towards my own face in an order to dry the sweat on my brow before it fell into my eyes. It didn't work. I looked like an arse.
Reason #568 why I don't go to the gym:
I find it impossible to run normally when I am listening to music. My movements turn into some sort of demented dance, which complicates matters since I am atop a moving surface (and I know from previous experience that you do get "road burn" on your face when you fall on your treadmill). But alas, I ain't no holla back girl.
So anyway, I had a good workout, and look Ma, no shin splints! Woohoo! And I also made a funny discovery: the new Will Smith song Switch (I didn't even know he had a new song, but anyway...) is great for doing bicep curls. Oddly so. I was mastering my triceps and bopping all over the place, quite a sight I'm sure, but whateva. No, I am not too cute to dance!
And all of this before 7am. It's criminal.
And then I hung out the laundry, which means I am playing chicken with mother nature. It's supposed to rain today. "Scattered thundershowers", in fact. Hah. I laugh in the face of weather. That's right, bitch. Wanna rain on my laundry? Come on, I dare you.
Oh, and I had the privilege of being the 29 999th visitor to my blog. That was exciting for about half a second, and then the Will Smith song came on again, and I grabbed my dumbbells to knock myself down a few pegs.
Now I just have a pain in my ovaries. I think I sprained them. It feels like when you overwork your abs and end up with that ouchy crampy feeling...only it's lower than my abs, it's down in my abdomen, so with my rudimentary knowledge of anatomy, I have labeled it my ovaries. Perhaps I have just been kicked in my invisi-balls, and am feeling the pain. I could be wrong about that, but that's the fun of self-diagnosis. You just never know.
All I have to do now is steer clear of Phizz because he has an innate talent for spoiling the Gilmore Girls for me. He watches it on Tuesday, I don't see it until Wednesday, and somehow he finds a way to ruin it every time. He's like the Polkaroo. Except not really.
So I went for a walk. And ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to tell you all the 3 most beautiful words in the English language (or any language), said in my sultriest, most knock-em-dead voice:
WINTER IS OVER!
And screw you spring, this is summer weather we're having! Of course this means that all the old people are out washing their driveways and watering their laws... which in turn poses an awkward situation for pedestrians like me. Invariably, I come across a patch of sidewalk in the direct path of a sprinkler. I can either try to dart under the water's spray, or walk around it, in the sodden grass thereby muddying my shoes. I choose to chance it on the sidewalk. I get wet. Ah well. That's still 2 straight days of gorgeous weather, for which I am eternally grateful. I keep meaning to just get out for 30 minutes and end up awol for an hour and a half. Today I snaked up and down streets because I figured it would give my shoulders the opportunity to sunburn more evenly that way. Ingenious, yes?
I reentered the house with some reluctance, only to remember that I still had clothes on the line. I took them down in a hurry, and noticed my arms were getting sore. I felt quite out of shape if the mere act of hanging laundry could deplete the strength in my arms...and then I remembered the vigorous dumbbell dancing to Will Smith, which I have heard half a dozen times so far today. What is it with radio? There are more than 14 songs in the world you know!!!! But no, let's hear that crappy J-Lo song one more time! Don't you know it by heart yet? Everybody now!!!! Gawd, I wish I was a good radio tuner. Usually it's on The Bear, a much more palatable choice.
Anyhoo, sore arms and ovaries aside, I was having a pretty good day until THE DREADED ZIPPER INCIDENT. Notice the capital letters here.
So a few months ago, I bought these pants, cute I thought, light gray, with a pink and white pinstripe, and a pink velvet ribbon around the waist. I wore them once. And then the pull of the zipper broke off. Crap.
Jason "fixed" them for me, by attaching a keyring. I wore them once more. Could not manipulate said zipper to save my life. Almost pissed myself. It was bad.
In the closet they went, and stayed, until this morning, when in the optimistic sunlight, I thought they would look adorable with my pink knit tank top. So I pry off the stupid keyring (only a boy would put a keyring on pants), and came up with my own "fix": a paperclip. Don't worry, it was coated in pink plastic, totally cute! Fast forward several hours, and I'm on the verge of pissing myself yet again in these pants because the damn paperclip would not go down! Not for anything! Finally, in an act so frantic you would have laughed to see it (and quite possibly will laugh just imagining it), I poked a hole in my pants with my tweezers, then I reached inside and ripped the whole zipper right off my pants. It was as intense as it sounds. Stupid pants. I blame Jason of course. He's the one that said "Your ass looks hot in those pants", so of course I had to pay an exorbitant amount of money for them, which hurtled me down the conflicted lifecourse that has led me to this day. Damn him.
So now I've got my breasts marinating in a Greek concoction (my chicken breasts, you perv). Tune in tomorrow to find out what can possibly go wrong with that.