"We're going live in 3.... 2 ..... 1"
(Thump thump) "Is this thing on?"
...
"Thanks. Thank you! Great to be here. Really."
It's been 2 years. Two.Years. My last blog post was post-Trumpocalypse and - whoa - has a lot changed since then, huh? So, how you doin'?
Me? I waiver between 1) utter despair, constant dread and dreams of a life in Canada married to Justin Trudeau leading our country to Be Best and 2) a boot camp level of Extreme Self-Improvement. I've been studying Zen Buddhism, meditating, keeping a gratitude journal and being my personal version of "best." I've also been focusing a bit more on my physical state, working out again and trying to be mindful of what I put in my body. I'd like to think that all the self-improvement is inspired by the ol' "if you can't beat 'em, lead 'em" attitude, but the fact is that the current administration has turned life into a bit of a drinking game for me. I needed to find a healthier escape than 3 gin and tonics before breakfast and all that consumption caused me to grow very, very fat (for me anyway).
The ultimate goal is to have the body of Rachel Brosnahan, but I am fairly certain that I'd have to rearrange internal organs and remove a few ribs to accomplish that. Also I hate pain. I don't like to 'feel the burn;' I hate to be sore the next day; and I really don't like to put effort into things in general. I also love carbs. And wine. And cocktails. And appetizers. And dessert. Also cheese and crackers. Plus, I am nothing short of genius at inventing 3 to 4 thousand different reasons not to work out. Leading the pack are my conflicting responsibilities, of course: work, laundry, cooking, cleaning, Driving Miss Dia, eating, watching TV, staring out the window at a lizard and, of course, who has the time it'll take afterward to shower, dress and deal with hair and make-up?
There are days when my willpower does prevail, however. Today, in fact, was one. I was walking to the bathroom with an armful of clean clothes preparing to shower and start my day while that nagging little voice followed me all the way in there, poking at me and telling me to "turn right around, young lady, and get that workout done." Fine. I turned on my heels and went to change. Brilliant will power! I win! Until...
The worst deterrent to my exercise routine struck: The sports bra.
Today I chose one of those back closure deals that still has to go over your head due to the permanent criss-cross back (why???). Just to get it that far, I dislocated my shoulders one by one all the while considering if I should audition for "So You Think You Can Dance."
Finally, I get this thing over my head and in the general vicinity of my back. I reach around, grab a hold of the left and the riyyy... Wait..... What's this?
Start again. I grab a hold of the left closure and .... reaching... Where?? Grab hold of the right closure? No...what the...?
It appeared that the right side - the one with the hooks - was deeply hooked into itself up in and among the mesh of that criss-crossy bit and I can't ... quite ... get... it.... Are you kidding me?
So off comes the bra, thrown with the force an MLB pitcher only wishes he has, directly into the cat who is innocently grooming himself on my bed. This sends him soaring into the air as only cats who have been pummeled by sports bras are known to do.
As I watch my bra, still attached to the cat, run out of the room and around the corner, I feel simultaneously defeated and justified in scrapping the workout for the day. Still - remembering that Trudeau is already married and I must carry on with Plan B - I begrudgingly open my lingerie drawer, choose another somewhat less complicated version, sqwiggle my way into it and readjust every external body part I own.
Yup. This thing is on.
But it ain't comin' off.
