You're The Grapes of Wrath!



by John Steinbeck



You're mired in a deep depression that encompasses you and everyone

you know. You're trying to get out of the depression, but your idea of help is, in

itself, pretty sad. While some are convinced that this all has a deeper meaning, you're

really just dull and tedious. And utterly obsessed with dust. You really need to focus

on something other than dust. Your best moments center around turtles.





Take the Book Quiz

at the Blue Pyramid.

I don't know if anyone else has ever experienced this, but do you ever work with a non-negligible amount of focus and energy to get one particular little portion of your life in order, only to realize that while you were sweeping in that corner a couple of the others magically cleaned themselves?



I've made a concerted effort to go to the gym more. Every(work)day during lunch in fact. I'd been going three times a week (lifting M/W and Pilates on F), but I'd been avoiding the T/Th classes (cardio) because of the instructor.



Let me tell you about my instructor, provided you allow me to preface his description with the BOLDFACE DISCLAIMER THAT I AM NOT HOMO-PHOBIC. I HAVE MANY GAY FRIENDS. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH SAME-SEX ANYTHING except when it's in a matched work-out outfit complete with coordinating visor and is sitting on a stationary bike in the front of a spinning class batting its eyelashes and flirting coquettishly with the gentleman to my left. NOT MOTIVATING ME TO "climb that hill" OR "feel the BUUUURN". Sorry. And it's not because he's gay. If It was a female instructor flirting with the guy next to me why I sweat balls and try to re-establish friendly channels of negotiation with my quads (which have been staging a revolt for the last 20 minutes and just REFUSE. TO. FUNCTION.), I would be just as irritated.



ALSO. I've taken his "Body Attack" class (Gold's Gym code for aerobics) several times. It's a great class. One of those get-out-of-it-what-you-put-into-it kind of classes. If I kick my ass, I kick my ass. I normally don't ask a lot from an instructor unless it's a class requiring specialized expertise: if it's a hip-hop class, don't just tell me to "drop it like it's hot", show me. If it's a breakdance class, help me figure out how to top rock. But if it's just an aerobics class (albeit one with an "intense" name), just tell me what's coming next. Tell me how many of them we're doing. Tell me when to switch sides. Tell me how many we have left. You are NOT required to tell me that "it feels so good to sweat like this" while leering lasciviously at the spandex clad queen in the front row. "Is it hot in here, or is it just me?", "Work those tight buns, yeah!", and "Come on baby, give me some!" are similarly unacceptable. It wouldn't be so bad if he was ALSO doing the things a good instructor should do (see above and add supportive comments on posture/technique appropriate to the exercise in question for extra points).



COUNTING TO EIGHT OVER AND OVER AGAIN FOR 50 MINUTES IS NOT THAT HARD!



Since I've been going to the gym regularly I've been inspired to start eating better (Trader Joes' is much better for my bank account too).

I've quit smoking (again).

I've finally gone back to the dentist after 5 wonderful years only to discover that I need SIX fillings! Okay, two of them are repairs to previous fillings and the other four are minor, but still. Six.

I've been getting facials (I love Miss Karen!) and my non-smoker skin is dewy and bright.



My shit is coming together.

The quarter-inch-thick plate glass in my office windows are flexing. Noticeably.



There are plastic bags floating fifteen stories above the street.



!

It is a VERY blustery day. The birds are freaking out, there are bits of leaves and things swirling around outside my office window (on the 7th floor), and the entire building is creaking as it gives with the wind. Looking north out my window I see a low ceiling of dark clouds. Looking south I see the leading edge of that ceiling inexorably advancing over the harbor.



I took some photos of it with my phone. When I get home and can bluetooth them to my machine I'll post, unless I can figure out some way to text them to my email account or something...

The Ms. Pac-Man-dining-room-table mod is almost complete. I anticipate that by Saturday evening we will be fully operational.



Consider this notification of an impending Ms. Pac-Man Tournament.



You have been warned.



V