I am one veiny fattie!

Man, that sounds gross! But, a pattern is a pattern and it's not time to break it yet.

The point is, I went to get some blood drawn today, and the nurse told me my veins were 'great' as opposed to 'terrible.' Great meaning 'not buried under ten layers of flab.'

I am one sore fattie.

Two days in a row at the gym? Wow! Yes, I went yesterday - 20 minutes of sheer aerobic joy on the treadmill, just me and Mr Green Jeans 2.0 listening to my "HARSH" (depressing/angry) mix and watching snippets of ESPN on the TV and poorly captioned news feeds on CNN. I have to ask people I know who have captioned - isn't one supposed to know the basics of what's going on in the world as they transcribe? I know transcription's a bitch, but Michelle Obama is newsworthy enough for her name not to be spelled "My Shell Obama" in the captioning. And why the hell doesn't the gym screen their TV programs better? I don't want to watch "30 Minute Meals" while I'm trying to drain the starch from my body.

Whew, that was a five calorie rant at least.

Unfortunately, I couldn't dodge Mavis. I actually ran into her at the gym shop where I was looking for a pair of shorts (I'd managed to pack four upper-body garments and no lower-body garments into my sweaty silver gym bag.) I was despairing over the (expected, to be fair) lack of big gal clothes, and found a pair of men's XL shorts among the tiny tanks and hoodies. Mavis stuck her face next to mine (why does she do that? Her neck appears to telescope like a goose-neck iMac) and gravelly make no sense to me:

"Oh I left ya here last night! Good, yer shoppin." And then she was gone. It looks like she had a haircut this weekend; she had a shorter, straighter more straw-like blond coating on her head.

Mavis, please go away. Maybe I'll get the counterman to feed her some slightly toxic Gatorade Tiger (which according to him, tastes slightly toxic anyway).

Good news - the shorts looked dandy, I got sweaty, took a lovely shower and had a delightful evening at the theatre, listening to men talk about what pathetic athletes they were.

I am one thirsty fattie.

Just got back from the gym about an hour ago, with a raging dehydration induced headache. I'm quaffing the delightful "G2" from Gatorade, which got high marks from the Asian gentleman who staffs the snack bar at Equinox. Gotta love a gym with a snack bar. He gave the thumbs-down to the other new Gatorate product, "Tiger." I slugged some G2 right there and totally agreed that it was a tasty treat (and less sugary/overtly salty than Gatorade which makes me gag.) However, due to my delicate system, I cannot chug without repercussions and so I am sipping it but suffering the headache.

I'm sweaty too. But sweaty kind of feels nice. I noticed the tshirt I'm wearing - the Johns Hopkins one I bought at the last Reunion - is actually fairly baggy. And my boobs are tiny. (I have been obsessing over them as of late - keep in mind, dear readers, that 'tiny' means 'may be able to purchase a mass-market bra in a regular store....maybe.')

I was parking it on a bench at the gym (a gym with benches and a snack bar? what the eff?) and I was, unfortunately, assailed by an elderly (well, probably fairly close to my age) trainer that I'll call "Mavis" - partly because I don't remember her name, and partly because she's just such a Mavis. Every time I see her, she tries to chat me up and induce me to get a 'fitness analysis' with her (I already had the best trainer ever and I'm not inclined to sign up again). I have actively ducked her at times, but this time I was vulnerable.

"Howareya?" (She has a death-grip Long Island accent; usually I will regress to mine, but I just get snooty around old Mavis)
I told her I was checking out a yoga class (which was about five minutes from ending).
"ohyagoinin?"
No, Mavis. Now shoo!
"I don't know about yoga, vinata and whatever. But there's a class you'd like...." Blah blah blah "And there's men in there!"
I was rescued by a lovely young lady trainer who sent Mavis on an appointment and we chatted pleasantly for a bit.

Look, folks I understand the need for trainers to be salespeople, but I think I may be forced to rat old Mavis out. Not because she's old. Because she's effing annoying.

The gym is waaay crowded at 630. This is the only reason I'm glad my boss generally forces me to idle until 7ish.

Mmmm....hydration. I may limp over to the Key Food, although they probably don't have anything as highfalutin' as orange flavor G2.

Now that's what I call fitness!

This morning I sweated out six whiskeys, freshly-fried chicken fingers, potato skins, frustration, rage and a pound of tears.

Look out for my new workout program, "Sweating to the Uglies" where I set a fast-paced, many-repped, heavy-lifting workout to hardcore death metal and Black Flag. Think Henry Rollins in a Richard Simmons violet tank-top.

Or don't.

Of course, it is now 3 PM and I have had 2 sugar cookies and some tofu for lunch.

Whoremoans (say it fast)

Things that have gotten me mildly choked up lately:

1 - The end of last week's "Big Love"
2 - Two or three songs from "Jacques Brel is alive and well and living in Paris" and "Jesus Christ Superstar"
3 - Half of Carole King's "Tapestry"
4 - Checking myself out in the locker room mirror in Danskin workout leggings and a tshirt from ninety or so pounds ago and now resembles a "Flashdance" shirt
5 - Shopping with my Mom today

Things that are puzzling:

1 - How I can buy obscure cookie ingredients at the supermarket and forget cat food
2 - Why I have a Palm Pilot at all and whether I should sell my laptop or not (that I am typing on right now)
3 - Why I am slightly fatter on one side of my body than the other (along the vertical axis not horizontal) and why working out makes that more prominent. Seriously what the eff is up with my arms?

I need to menstruate and soon. For real.

owwwww etc.

I did the AIDSWalk! I wanted to write lots and lots but of course was too achy to deal with it last night, and haven't put up the photos.

in the meantime here's a message from my quadriceps: