My computer at work is on the blitz. My crappy iMac decided it didn't want to share itself with me anymore. I'm not sad. I don't mind sitting at my desk staring at it with rage. Nevermind that I have no work to do at my wonderful and quite stylish job in which I have finally decided I will now do my crocheting projects. I already have a response prepared for any person/boss who complains:
Christen sits in her stylish and hip clothes from J. Crew, J. Jill and Ralph Lauren (all friends) crocheting a super-I-wish-it-were-mine-because-it's-so-Martha-Stewart-will-look-fabulous-anywhere afghan.
Enter Boss
BOSS: Christen, I don't think it's appropriate for you to be knitting at work.
Christen rolls eyes [it's CROCHETING]
CHRISTEN: indignantly Without crocheting, this job wouldn't be worth it. I either do something, or quit and be more productive with my day/life at another location. So there!
Christen sticks out tongue
Dramatic Pause
Christen Gets Fired.
The End of Dramatic Play.
Yesterday, I did a silly thing. I was writing in my journal at home about how awful I felt in general (I have a depression thing going that I refuse to take medication for. I am afraid I will ignore the foundation of the problem because I feel so "fine" with the pills). Through writing, I convinced myself to go *egad/gasp* exercise. (The blasphemic word has been spoken.)
I like only two forms of exercise: running and aerobics. I had my running glory days. I was fast around the track and I loved it (until I was a senior and the competition just made me angry. I hated competition). My favorite practice was the foliage run: a 6-mile run down Vermont roads--in the spring, this is fantastic. My fastest 6-mile time was 45 minutes (Brandi helped me immensely. She was a great runner). However, running outdoors has become more and more difficult for me, especially without a friend to act as a good pacer. In fact, I get halfway around the block and want to call a cab. Sometimes, I run around the whole block and realize that it only took five minutes, but I couldn't take another step for fear of collapsing.
So I go to the gym on the treadmill, but I bring along a towel or t-shirt to drape over the computerized display. I up the speed without looking until I feel pretty comfortable and hope beyond hope the time will go by fast. I can't watch TV because I really want to feel that I'm exercising (and don't quite understand why they put them in there anyway...doesn't anybody care about their eyes? Focussing on one point while you're body is convulsing doesn't seem like it's all that healthy for your poor pupils), so I stare at the wall, or people below me using weights.
I look ridiculous. But really, to me and people who really care and are intelligent and worthy of my friendship, I look like I'm buff and concentrating and doing a fantastic job of improving myself! (I'm actually trying to attract the heavenly men working out below me with "those look so heavy!" weights and "boy, aren't you tired?" benches. My voluptuous (droopy) buns, thighs, and as luck would have it, lip dragging deliciously on the bed of the treadmill are sure to lure them in. Their fantastic bodies would make me drool if my mouth weren't so pasty. Good thing I have Jon around to keep me interested/-ing).
Unfortunately, aerobics tend to cost money and are not available at convenient times or places. I therefore must endure the so-called "distraction" of the buffsters on the lower level while I sip dirt and try to convince myself that the aching in my chest is good for me.
A rhythm starts in my head with each step: one two three four five six seven eight dub dub one two three four five six seven eight. These are drawn out sounds, spelled, not sounded. That is, I say them in my head as slow as they are long when written out. Slowly. I used to do this in high school to lengthen my stride (I started out doing cross country [24:22 3.1 miles; but average of 25-26 mins; I was particularly driven on that ONE under 25 min day]). See? This is why Jon refers to my high school adventures as "Ah! The glory days." He makes me laugh.
I went last night to the gym. I started out okay. Now previously when I went about four times a week for approximately four weeks (tops), I could end up running at 7.6 mph for ten minutes straight. That felt pretty okay; granted, it wasn't enough running, but then I would move to the bikes for 20 minutes. Well, in the back of my mind, I knew that doing that again would do me no good. So I set it for twenty minutes and said: seriously. We gotta feel good!
I covered the screen and started running. I peeked and was going 7.2 for a good three or four minutes before I dropped it to six, then five, then started walking at four. I sped it up and ran some more, then slowed it down and walked, faster walk, a little faster, a jog, a run then slow it down again. After running a total of three times but walking in less time (or so it seemed), I peeked. Only seven minutes to go!!! I was ecstatic. So I took off the t-shirt and just tried to run the rest of it. 6.0 was working pretty good for me. I think that next time, however, I'll do it at 5.5 and really try to stick to it for the full time. I already felt sexy again. I had that going for me.
Just between you and me, I am sexy.
*wink, wink*
But the stretching mat follows the workout and I hate the stretching mat. Why? Because I'm on a university campus with women about who care more about impressing others than impressing themselves. This annoys me to no end. I plopped down among about four girls who each plop with huge sighs that seep with "I worked out so hard today, just like I do everyday in order to maintain my hot ass which I let every strange frat brother grab with wanton abandon," except without actually saying all that stuff. To make it worse, they started doing crunches and actually GRUNTED. Man. I was not impressed. I know how dangerous some things are, but even more, I know how to do them correctly and those girls are going to damage their necks if they don't watch it. Not to mention that because they refused to exhale (most likely to appear as if they aren't out of breath), they are going to be even more sore tomorrow. I did about a hundred crunches and I'm doing swell! Well, these girls also spoke spanish the entire time. I don't know about you, but when I'm in an elevator or a room with people who look at me (just looking) and speak in another language and there are laughs about, I get uncomfortable. So when it's women who run beside me on the treadmill for the full twenty minutes at 6.5 mph--it's far worse. I wish I knew spanish. Just to stick it to em. Grrr.
But I'm strong! I will go back! I will run! I will make those girls wish they were as smart as me! Cause looks aren't important! Dammit, I wanted them to know I was there to lose depression, not weight. I like how I look. Not how I feel. I am worth it! They just have nice butts.
puhshaw.
Does anybody here think I should have a notify list? E-mail what you think. And if you haven't, I'd love to read anybody else's journal out there who visits mine. Please sign the guestbook so I can check you out!
P.S.: I'm updating my food log with my favorite snack and a smoothie idea that tastes excellent! For you vegetarians, vegans, or thinking-about-its, I'm going to provide some Thanksgiving dinner/recipe ideas on my Food Log page and add a link to it on my Politics/Vegetarian page.
Do give thanks!
beam me up, scotty
back up : : index : : moving on
