I'm three days late to the party, but
There are fat people with a thigh gap. There are malnourished African children whose thighs touch. A thigh gap says more about the side and shape of your pelvis than it does about your anything else. Of course, since like -4 insecure teenage girls read my blog this doesn't actually matter. But I made this stupid picture and wanted to post it. Forget the thigh gap. Do some weighted squats to work on your ass instead.
I have lots of work to do in that regard.
So, let's talk business. I got a check for $22 from BlogHer for the ads you have to tolerate. $22 is a lame number, so I'm bumping it up to $25. Amazon gift card. Anyone who comments gets entered. Random number. No bonus points for anything, just a "thank you" for tolerating my bullshit.
Yesterday in the gym my arms felt like I hadn't picked up anything heavier than a carrot in months. No clue what that was about, but it was frustrating to be doing shoulder presses with 15lb weights and have it feel like it was almost impossible. THAT IS LAME. I am stronger than that. Boo. Hiss. Also, planks can go fuck themselves. Though, the way they stretch out minutes reminds me of this:
“Dunbar loved shooting skeet because he hated every minute of it and the time passed so slowly. He had figured out that a single hour on the skeet-shooting range with people like Havermeyer and Appleby could be worth as much as eleven-times-seventeen years.
“I think you’re crazy,” was the way Clevinger had responded to Dunbar’s discovery.
“Who wants to know?” Dunbar answered.
“I mean it,” Clevinger insisted.
“Who cares?” Dunbar answered.
“I really do. I’ll even go as far as to concede that life seems longer i—“
“—is longer i—“
“—is longer—IS longer? All right, is longer if it’s filled with periods of boredom and discomfort, b—“
“Guess how fast?” Dunbar said suddenly.
“They go,” Dunbar explained.
“Years,” said Dunbar. “Years, years, years.”
“Do you know how long a year takes when it’s going away?” Dunbar asked Clevinger. “This long.” He snapped his fingers. “A second ago you were stepping into college with your lungs full of fresh air. Today you’re an old man.”
“Old?” asked Clevinger with surprise. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not old.”
“You’re inches away from death every time you go on a mission. How much older can you be at your age? A half minute before that you were stepping into high school, and an unhooked brassiere was as close as you ever hoped to get to Paradise. Only a fifth of a second before that you were a small kid with a ten-week summer vacation that lasted a hundred thousand years and still ended too soon. Zip! They go rocketing by so fast. How the hell else are you ever going to slow time down?” Dunbar was almost angry when he finished.
“Well, maybe it is true,” Clevinger conceded unwillingly in a subdued tone. Maybe a long life does have to be filled with many unpleasant conditions if it’s to seem long. But in that event, who wants one?”
“I do,” Dunbar told him.
“Why?” Clevinger asked.
“What else is there?”
And now I need to go back and read the book again. I've read Catch-22 dozens of times. It's fucking lovely. Everything about it. So maybe I should do more planks.
Ummmmmm......Still running with the dog. Haven't progressed beyond that. I'm officially in a curling league. The rest of the team emailed me to welcome me aboard and instruct me to purchase knee socks with a rooster on them so we could match. I think I'm going to like it.
We're tearing up our carpet this weekend and having someone refinish the floors on Monday. Yay homeownership and all the costs that come with it.
At some point I'm going to need to start run-training again. I'm scared to start, because I'm afraid I'll quit again, which is silly, because that would place me where I am right now, which is not really running. Blarg.