Whoa, Almost Forgot Retrobruxist Friday 4/5/13
Three years ago, I did laughter yoga. It was real dumb, and I kind of loved it.
I was lamenting the need to go pants shopping two years ago, but I have come a long way, you guys. I went jeans shopping on Wednesday with Kate and Michelle (blog post surely to come), and I bought jeans, and I BOUGHT SKINNY JEANS WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA?
You heard me.
To blog about dating or not to blog about dating: that was the question I was asking myself a year ago. Clearly the answer is uh durrrrrr, of course.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Protected: You Guys, Good News
Too Fat for Toes-to-Bar
My sister-in-law is a gifted songwriter, and about ten years ago, she wrote a hilarious collar-tugger of a song called “Too Fat for Breakfast”, in which she (a normal-sized person) outlined some of the ways our society made her feel like a lumbering, jiggly mess (“Last-season Jennifer Aniston/You look like a lollipop”). Here’s my CrossFit-themed homage to that song.
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About half the time, I’m tremendously proud of my CrossFit accomplishments. And then something happens. It’s usually that I see photos of myself working out. In fact, in one of my Fat CrossFitter posts, I addressed my resemblance to a certain Martin Short character. And there are just no other words to capture what happens inside my chest when I look at these pictures except abject horror.
Recently, I had to ask for a Facebook courtesy-delete of a photo of me holding a medicine ball, taken at three-quarters view so my hips are wiiiiiiiide as Mother Ginger’s. Seriously, it looks as if, were I to pull out the bottom of my spandex, nobody would be surprised if some children ran out. In addition, I’m looking down, so my double-chin is in spectacular spectacle.
These photos make me want to close myself in my house and communicate with the outer world only via USPS.
But sometimes it’s not a photo. Sometimes it’s an exercise that’s standard to CrossFit that I’m incapable of doing, and I feel like a failure pile because I’ve been at it for two and half years now.
I’m not even talking muscle-ups or anything. People way stronger than I am can’t do muscle-ups. I’ll probably never do a muscle-up.
But I still can’t do a pull-up. And I’m still too fat for toes-to-bar.
Here’s that story.
A recent CrossFit WOD required as many reps as possible in 7 minutes of:
- three 95-lb clean & jerk
- three toes-to-bar
- six 95-lb clean & jerk
- six toes-to-bar
- nine, etc.
At this point, (it seems amazing but) a 95-lb clean & jerk is not difficult for me. My max is 129. So the first three clean & jerks were nothing. Then I stepped up to the pull-up rig, grabbed the bar, summoned every ounce of strength, and kipped as hard as I could. And my toes totally hit the bar.
I was like, OK, I’ll do another. I took a giant swinging swing of a swing, and my toes once again made contact. Then I had to rest. I missed the next one and had to rest. I think I got the one after that. Or maybe there was another missed rep in there.
Back on the barbell. Easy six reps.
Back on the rig. Missed the first rep. Efffffffffffffffff.
I managed to get through the six, interspersed with another three or four missed reps (which are the fucking worst because you’ve done all the work, just to get within an inch or two and have the rep not count).
And time was up. 18 reps. For comparison, the relatively fit people got 50ish reps, and the super-athletes got more than 90.
I wasn’t even winded because I had to spend all that time resting for my next toes-to-bar attempt so I did nine anger-clean-and-jerks after the buzzer.
I know, I know, I’ve made progress. When I started CrossFit, I would dangle tenuously from the bar and, with a great heave, pull my knees up to about navel level. Now, I can do nine singles. If you give me a few minutes.
But I still look like Jiminy Glick when I’m doing them.
Aaaaaaand now I’ll be closing myself in my house and communicating with you people only via USPS. Send your addresses.
Protected: No, How About We Pound a Few Natty Lites in Holly Fucking Springs
Retrobruxist Friday 3/29/13, or On Being “Desperate” (Now with Norovirus!)
Ugh. Norovirus. Or food poisoning, or something. When I wasn’t exploding from both ends, I was curled up on my pull-out couch with the dogs, moaning. Moaning! I literally moaned for, like, 15-minute stretches. Then I would watch two episodes of How I Met Your Mother, and then I would turn it off so I could moan some more.
Seems to be gone now (knock wood). I’m vertical today, and I’ve eaten a banana and some Rice Chex.
In other news, my dad swung through town earlier this week. :)
Talking to my sister on the phone: “Amy picked me up in the middle of the melee at RDU. I was nervous because of the guy on the goddamn lawn mower going back and forth.” (It was a cop on a Segway.)
Amid bon mots, he said something about how I seem, here on the blog, “almost desperate for a relationship”. Isn’t that the worst word to hear about yourself? Desperate? Wasn’t that the ultimate high school take-down? “God, she’s so… desperate.”
But he’s right. I do seem, here on the blog, almost desperate for a relationship. I’d even take out the ‘almost’.
That’s for two reasons. First, both ends of the spectrum, the one that goes from “Victorious Is What Happened” to “Cyclone of Despair”, are compelling, but the middle? Not really, right? The “I Got a Solid Eight Hours So My Day Wasn’t Too Exhausting” and the “Grocery Store, PetSmart, and Home Depot in One Outing—High-five, Me” that make up most of my life, I mean, I’m pretty excited about them, but they make for vanilla reading. So, I’m going to write about the times when I’m either feeling a sense of hope or one of catastrophe. And granted, the latter happens more often and is usually funnier.
So that’s the main thing. You hear about my being desperate to be in a relationship because that’s what’s interesting.
The second thing is that I’m desperate to be in a relationship.
Not desperate. But yeah, kinda desperate. Two reasons, I like companionship, and I want kids. In the post I just linked to, I said I wasn’t an extrovert. But I am. I’m an extrovert. Being around people energizes extroverts (and saps the energy of introverts). I definitely get energy from being with people.
However, I’m shy. People say, “Isn’t that the same as introverted?” No. Shy means I’m scared of people I don’t know. Like, all of them.
I’m scared of people, but I need people—ain’t that the worst?
Anyhow, it’s got me thinking, that’s probably why pretty much all my dating in the last four years has been online. Because I don’t make eye contact with people I don’t know (because I’m scared of them) when I’m out in the real world, so it’s hard to connect. Maybe I should try that? Eye contact? With people I don’t know? My hands are sweating.
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Three years ago, I wrote a POWM! I write POWTRY!
Two years ago, 70,000 people heard me tell a story.
A year ago, I was trying to control the controllables. Maybe making eye contact with strangers is controlling a controllable? Or maybe I try a different website. A friend recently sent me this one, which takes a sort of different approach to the whole online dating thing… I’m gonna go lie back down and moan some more.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, The End
Previously… (The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 9)
Day 1
As it’s ‘Nita’s last full day with me, we take a big walk and schedule extra snuggling sessions in the morning
and the evening.
Day 2
I drive to High Point to meet Lainey for the drop-off. ‘Nita’s very happy to see her new mom and her five-year-old human brother because she’s always happy to see everyone, but—and I’ma go ahead and anthropomorphize the shit out of her right now—she seems confused and concerned as I get in the car and drive off.
People comment that I can just change the name! and transfer admin rights! and that it’s easy!, and I know that but I don’t want to. I want to keep her page exactly as it is. It represents me and ‘Nita and our relationship, plus what do I know?, but I think it’s a good portfolio item for my new career.
Day 3
Redford and Violet are a little weirded out—they run to the spare room and check the crate when we come inside—but happy, I think, to have 100% of my attention.
I try to teach Violet how to snuggle belly to belly. She tolerates it for a few minutes before repositioning herself at my side and making it clear she prefers that I just rub her chest k that’s better thanx.
Day 4
Lainey makes a new page for ‘Nita. Except now she’s Ruca. And not nearly as funny.
Day 5
Friends keep asking if I’m going to foster again but with that oh-god-don’t-do-it tone.
And I get it. It’s difficult, and people who love you don’t wish you difficulty.
But really, fostering has given my life meaning. For a few months at a time I have a purpose. For a few months at a time there’s a reason that the world is better because I’m here.
And it is better. Better for the dogs, better for the people. Let’s not mince words: ‘Nita would be dead right now if I hadn’t fostered her. She was scheduled to be put to sleep the day volunteers from CCB walked into a shelter in Wake County, pulled her, and delivered her to me.
And what a tragedy that would’ve been. ‘Nita made me happy. She made her 300 Facebook fans very happy. And from what I gather, she’s making her new family very, very happy.
So no, I’m not going to foster again right now, but I probably will again in the future, and let’s not pretend that’s not a good thing.
Retrobruxist Friday 3/22/13, or a Decree
Two things happened. A month ago, a friend got a job at a small marketing firm in Durham. About a week later, an acquaintance who was thinking about adopting ‘Nita left me a voicemail. In it, he said, “You’re doing a great job marketing her on Facebook.”
Something happened in my head, something like: marketing job –> me marketing –> marketing job for me
I’ve been wanting to make a career change for a while now. My desire was shorn up by reading this essay a student wrote three years ago. Wow. I’m not that teacher anymore. I’m not “happy almost all the time”. I don’t “laugh a LOT”. I’m definitely not the “BEST TEACHER EVER”. I’m glad I used to be, or at least that I was for that kid, that year.
But I’m burnt out. (I hear that’s a thing that happens to teachers.)
So now I’m looking for a new job/career. Possibly in marketing. And it’s going to inspire me and challenge me and play to my strengths. I hereby decree it, and the Universe will make it so.
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Two years ago, I asked you Avid Bruxistists about the ratio and content of similarities/differences in a partnership, and you guys totally fucking brought it in the comments section.
My readership is small, but it is full of smarty-pants. Smarty-pantses? What the plural of smarty-pants? Is it like attorneys general? Smarties-pant?
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A year ago, I was struggling. Seems to be a pattern here—late winter suuuuuuuucks. However, I am tapering my amino acids again, and I’m not freaking out. Yet. Plus, Daylight Savings Time loves me and wants me to be happy.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Fayshun! Amy Goes Rogue, and It Doesn’t Go That Well
We’ve gotten to the point in Amy’s Fantastic Fashion Voyage when you’ll be seeing some of the same items as before but in different combinations. As I mentioned, after our excursion to the outlets, we put all my purchases on Kate’s bed, she laid out ensembles, and I took pictures of them with my phone. I never would’ve put the following items together, but I have photographic evidence in my stream that it’s a legit outfit, so don’t fight with me.
I liked this outfit OK. I mean, it’s a skirt, so I was uncomfortable as hell all day. Also, I feel like I look real hippy (wide-below-the-waist, not peace-love-drugs) in this skirt, but Kate said. Kate said.
Next up is an item you haven’t seen yet. Kate fell in love with this stripey blazer from Ann Taylor Loft, and she promised I could pair the polka-dotted cami with it (even though it looked real trippy to me), so I did.
But I also messed things up with an unfortunate choice of pantaloons.
Also not ATL, trouser jeans from <hangs head> Coldwater Creek. Stop laughing! I swear they looked good when I bought them a year ago! They’ve just gotten all weird and squeezy in the wrong places from the laundry. I showed this photo to Kate, and she said, “Oh. They have side pockets?” I admitted as much. She said side pockets were a no-no.
So, Take 2: Same blazer, white tank, grey Gap slacks, schmutz on mirror.
Kate gave this outfit the stamp of approval. Feeling like Matlock [let the record reflect that the Avid Bruxist has never seen Matlock], I said, “But, Kate, these pants that you made me buy have (dun dun DUN) side pockets! Ha!”
She said it didn’t matter because they weren’t jeans.
But… jeans are pants.
Aren’t they?
So confused.
That wasn’t the only time I tried to slip an item from my old wardrobe into the mix. This attempt was a little more successful, I think.
I showed Kate and our friend Lindsay this picture and asked, “Would this outfit be a good candidate for a statement belt?” Kate said yes, a skinny belt right at the smallest part of the waist (so high!), and I could get one cheap at Target. When I asked what color, they both started shouting,
PURPLE.
YELLOW.
RED.
PINK.
ORANGE.
They basically named all the colors. I went to Target yesterday.
So far, a hit and a miss, but then I realized it was Skirt Week. I didn’t want to wear the navy one again (it’s so short!), and I didn’t want to wear the pencil skirt again (it’s so tight!), so I pulled out a skirt from the back of my closet.
That evening, Kate was lifting on one side of the gym, and I was lifting on the other. Between sets, I mouthed, “I wore a skirt today,” and pantomimed to illustrate.
She made all kinds of sexy gestures back at me.
At the end of the strength segment, I went and got my phone with the picture on it. Before I showed it to her, I said, “Listen, it was a skirt I’ve had for awhile.”
Kate cocked her head and frowned. “Yeah?”
“It was a hand-me-down from a friend…” She started to shake her head.
“…in maybe 2004?” I said. Kate coughed.
I said, “It’s paisley. Is that bad?”
And Kate took a lap around the gym to compose herself.
Now I was proud of myself, as usual, for just putting the damn thing on. (I also wore my TALL BOOTS, which [sadly] are super-uncomfortable because I’m a short person, so they kept jamming into the fat part of my inner-knee-thigh area. They also rubbed pills into my motherfucking tights.) Whether Kate had a problem with the skirt’s pattern was unclear, but she did say, “It’s too long for you. It doesn’t hit you in the right spot.”
Wah. I don’t get this “right spot” business. The paisley one hits me just about where the pencil skirt does, and Kate said the pencil skirt is “made of magic”. Harrumph.
She said if I want to keep the skirt, I need to get it hemmed. Nope. To Goodwill it goes.
Back to Kate-sanctioned articles of clothing:
Those orange pants. I like them. I do. It’s just, my lower half kinda draws the eye all on its own just with its… volume, you know? It’s hard to come around to the idea of adding the sartorial equivalent of a neon sign.
Speaking of strapless bra, ready yourselves, steady yourselves, hold onto your nuts for the I’m-here-for-sex outfit: dark Gap jeans, Banana Republic top, pointy Nine West flats, and purple pleather jacket (not pictured, but you’ve seen it).
I didn’t feel like I was there for sex. At best, I felt like I was there for a poorly-timed kiss next to my car after an awkward second date.
In actuality, I was there for an evening with my friends after which I went home alone to my dogs. As per uszh.
Coming soon: JEANS.
(Anybody want to go jeans shopping?)
The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 9
Previously… (The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 8)
Day 1
Except that I stay up too late writing the last CrossFit post, so it’s after midnight by the time we hit the couch. No! Bad Amy!
Day 2
Lainey writes to say she got word that they’re approved! We exchange celebratory messages. Her 7-year-old wants to let me know, since I’ll be sad, that I can visit her any time and that they’ll send lots of pictures.
You’d think CCB would’ve let me know first. :/ I email the president to make sure it’s true before I announce ‘Nita announces on Facebook.
We head to class. ‘Nita really is tremendously smart. She learns so fast, and her behavior has improved exponentially. The instructor doesn’t even have to put up the screen. ‘Nita makes one or two aws—like “Aw man, I’m not even going to get to say hi to the other dogs?”—at the beginning, but that’s it.
Day 3
Because I have a 3:30 appointment in Chapel Hill after work, ‘Nita’s in her crate for 10 hours. I desperately want to go to the gym, so we do a quick 20-minute walk. The dogs are like, What even was that?, because we always do the 2.5-mile loop. I put her back in her crate and feel guilty as hell. About going to the gym. Is this what parenthood feels like?
Day 4
It’s a nice afternoon, so people are out and about in the neighborhood. Just as I open the screen door to let ‘Nita go potty, I notice three girls on bicycles pedaling in slow circles 100 yards away. ‘Nita tenses. I’m almost able to grab her but miss by this much as she flings herself over the rail and jets toward the bicycle girls. I yell, “SHE’S FRIENDLY,” and by the time I reach them, all three girls are cooing and petting her. But I’m peeved. I can’t trust her to be out there by herself for one second. I snatch her collar, hitch the leash to it, and fuss at her all the way home.
Once we’re inside she won’t stop wigging out—jamming her nose against the windows and barking—about the bicycle girls. I have to put her in her crate for a time-out. Eventually, she calms herself.
This caption is my favorite ‘Nita-ism that I’ve come up with.
Day 5
Fun with iPhone apps.
Day 6
Gorgeous day. After the gym, because I like to torture myself, we do our usual long walk, and then I mow the lawn. I can hear ‘Nita’s protests from inside the house. (She’s in her crate though because I learned the lawn mower lesson the hard way with Tulip.)
Day 7
Lainey and I finalize plans. Mid-day Tuesday, I’ll meet her in High Point for the handoff.
It’ll be a huge relief not to have to rotate ‘Nita and Violet anymore. Of course it’ll be a huge relief. And Redford and Violet deserve the attention I’ll be able to pay them once ‘Nita’s gone. Of course they deserve it.
But damn. I’ll miss that snuggly dog.