I couldn't resist. Since seeing the $9.99 ladybug costume at Target, I have not been able to get it out of my pathetic mind. Today, I finally decided. Enough! And off I zoomed to Target to turn the unsuspecting Cleo into a ladybug. Looking like a bird dog in search of a fallen pheasant, I eagerly roamed the aisles. I finally found a pitiful pile of on sale pet costumes. No ladybug. Then, buried at the bottom, I spotted the hot dog. Having learned my lesson, this time I didn't hesitate. And here is the result. Gotta love it!
An ongoing argument with myself about whether or not to drag my bones to the gym = gymnauseam. Why do I make regular gymming it difficult to the point of mental nausea? I dread it, put it off, finally drag myself to the car, and always discover that is is relatively painless-and I feel satisfied after that I have done something positive for myself. It is always an issue with me, a fact that I guess I attribute to my latent couch potato tendencies.
It is a nice enough place to go. The equipment, to get that ol' heart a-pumping, is state-of-the art. I mean, I can even watch tv while on the ho-hum treadmill, which certainly eases the boredom factor of the activity; but I'd much rather be sitting on a cushy couch sipping a drink and munching popcorn dripping with butter.
The weight room, staffed with trainers, is filled with machines to strengthen every muscle I could ever imagine...and some I can't. Groaning and grunting in time to the piped-in music is the activity du jour in this room, but it leaves me cold.
Yep, hitting the gym is even worse than trotting around my hilly neighborhood, a cardio activity right out my front door. Ah well, the truth is that I was never much in the jock department, and I suspect this is just my oxymoron approach to regular exercise. And so it goes. Ad. Nauseam.
Former roommates...we go years and years back, to our flight attendant days with the now defunct Pan Am. I am so used to being able to call her up and meet for a spontaneous lunch, movie, or shopping excursion; but those days are slowly winding down as she is moving to Washington. Soon.
Damn this economy anyway, since that is the reason she can no longer afford to live in California. However, sorting through the mounds of pictures taken of us over the years, I will be able to fondly look back upon all the fun outings and laughter we have shared. Consoling each other over injuries, family disputes,cancers, untimely deaths, husbands and aging parents were all part of this complex galpal package. Of course, our friendship will endure, though it won't be the same. Distance does that. Hello, Ms Change, you often unwelcome visitor. Well, I guess the corny adage applies here: "The road to a friend's home is never long", which puts a postive spin on this potentially boo-hooish situation. It's a minor glitch in my life path. That's all it is. But I don't have to like it.
I've already bemoaned the fact that it seems grossly unfair to me that, as my body ages semi-gracefully, I still retain some of the vestiges of my teenage years: ZITS, which I still get, while my ass is clearly falling. I accept that, though I don't like it, which leads me to a resolution. Just let it happen. In fact, treat it as a scientific experiment. I could even go so far as to chart on a regular basis what area of my bod has fallen apart on a given day. Today's chart would show no zits (yay!), ass no saggier than a week ago, the same old flat feet of several years past, and an achy knee that comes and goes. That sounds pretty good, and I am bloody happy that's all that is going on with me. So, let the ass fall; bring on the zits; throw the friggin' hypothetical chart out the window. Who cares? It's a glorious day, and I'm ready to let it happen.
Definitely not, but my toes are. I just felt like doing something totally different from my usual ho-hum pedicure polish choice, pink or red. Too bad it is a bit coolish for sandals, or I would be showing off my wild and crazy toes; but it is enough that I know their glittery blueness is lurking inside my shoes. What's next for me...purple hair?
Why am I a born-again single? I like weddings. Since I always have fun at parties and celebrations, I have always said I would love to have a wedding of my own...again. It's just the marriage I have very little interest in repeating. Too bad they have to go arm-in-arm. Loooooong ago I got over the syrupy illusion that marriage would equal bliss, and I happily cast aside the fallacious prince-on-the-white-horse syndrome that had been drummed into my young head. It's not that my marriage was awful; it just wasn't all I dreamily and unrealistically thought it would be as I contemplated my life as a wife, unfortunately one of the main goals of my generation of young women. The best I can say, in retrospect, was that my marriage was....satisfactory, which is not saying very much. Once the intense madness of being so in love began to slowly hit the post wedding skids, reality began to creep into my gradually awakening consciousness. I've never put a label on my marriage until just recently: satisfactory.
And so yesterday I watched a happy young couple take their forever and ever 'til death do us parts, and I couldn't help but wonder what the future holds for them. I hope it is happy and fulfilling. I believe such marriages do exist.
It has been a heavy theater weekend, which translates to lots of fun. First was the amazing South Pacific revival at the Golden Gate in SF. It was such a fun day: a raucous parade on Market Street, hot dogs/root beer for lunch, and then this great play. Sunday we hit Santa Rosa's 6th Street Playhouse for a lively performance of You Can't Take It With You. Very funny. Very well done. Great weekend.