2005-09-09
Watch out for Falling Flab
I'm breathing in.
I'm breathing out.
I'm breathing in.
I'm breathing out.
HHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIII!
Oh Jesus, that voice needs to lower about nine levels. Tolerance Level: Yellow. Expect a Small Snark.
So I'm in the car on the way to work this morning and listening to the Indigo Girls because I'm a dork like that.
And of course it's that 1,200 Curfews album, which is live. I have no idea why it's called 1,200 Curfews. If I was asked, I would hypothesize that since it's a live album, the curfews part is a reference to 1,200 cities or tour dates, right? And that the curfews part is you know, the curfew in each town. But here's what's messing with me: There are not 1,200 different curfews. Some of those 1,200 cities have to have the same curfew because there are only a limited amount of time zones, right?
So Curfews, 1,200, live album. I don't get it. There's maybe like a lesbian code in there, or an Inside Indigo joke or maybe it's something in Georgia.
I don't know.
But I do love that album and I especially love to roll down my car windows and, wearing my sunglasses, pretend that I am in a band and we are playing at an outdoor festival and that my hair is blowing around me while I am standing at a microphone in front of 45,000 people. This little fantasy has been refined over the years, refined to the point that I have band-mates, and a drummer, and even commentary related to the song I'm about to sing. "This one is, uh, funny sometimes. Because it's about love and that's, um... always funny." The 'uh's and 'um's are there because I get distracted while I'm watching Amanda tune her guitar. I'm in a trio, you know, so when I have to cough or pipe down because I'm at a stop sign, those are the times when my band-mates are singing their parts and I am watching them and listening and smiling because I am supportive.
Once I hit the open boulevard, I can chime back in on my part of the song.
Now, sometimes, there are songs that I don't particularly know every word to so again, this is where my imaginary band-mates spring into action and I only sing backup on the chorus or something.
It's a band, you know?
It's not just ME.
I don't drive very much but man, I love being in the band in my car, you know. It's way better than some of the other place I have to be in.
Para exampla: Work. I am in all kinds of trouble and this time, it's not all kinds of my fault. And I can prove that, beyond a reasonable doubt. But right now, I am laying low because honestly, nobody wants to be shown where they went wrong when there is a perfectly useable underling on which to pin the blame during the moment of need.
It'll clear up by Monday but still, sitting right outside of your boss' office is less than ideal in terms of the best possible scenario for writing tv recaps, Googling people you hated in high school, and yelling at a credit card company who incorrectly reported a late payment (I have an auto-draft payment and the money left the account). That's the ONLY blemish on an otherwise perfect record so having it removed is a primary goal.
But hearing your boss slow down or stop typing when your conversation with the credit card company starts to get juicy is so many ways of wrong that I'm not sure I'd be able to list them all.
And yet here I sit, at the epicenter of Executive Command Central, so often getting sniped at because of the ease of proximity and the generally guarded, gritted look that's in my eyes.
From getting drive-by swipes.
"Would someone PLEASE deal with all of the papers over at the printing area."
"Do you know where Tammy is? She needs to deal with this yesterday."
Never mind the parade of departmenteers who are upset or in trouble or dumb enough to walk into an Executive's office and shut the door by her own volition.
Then who gets snarked at when the door opens and one party is basically running in one direction and the other is frustrated.
"Sarah, do you have a second?"
No. I don't.
Unless during that second, you have a big fat raise to announce to me. Otherwise, I am REALLY busy over here with a stapling project. Can we talk tomorrow?
It's a the perfect response. It makes them cool off and nine times out of ten, when I say, "Did you need to talk to me yesterday?", they reply, "Oh, I just wanted to know if you were finished with that thing and since it's here on my desk, I know that you are. Thanks!"
No, thank you.
I would normally pat myself on the back after an evasion/exchange like that but where I had 4 inches of movement yesterday, I have about 1.5 today.
I'm totally laying out all weekend, of I can manage to not injure myself on my plastic 1990s flip chaise chair.
I have a gash and a bruise that takes up my entire right knee and if you have ever seen my knees, they make my J-Lo butt look like a Nichole Richie butt. So the gash, it is huge. The bruise, it is huger.
Until recently, I wasn't really in a position to do any bruising or gashing. I stuck to a safe places, like my couch and my bed. Now that I am in a phase of active, healthyish lifestyle, I am at risk for all kinds of injuries. Blisters, bruises, and dehydration are just some of the hazards around me. So, I've been riding my bike on the weekends, and I'm probably going to head back to the yoga studio with a serious practice. I've been going to the gym about three times a week and where do I get the biggest bruise I've had in years?
Hmmmm?
From a lawn chair.
I guess all my fat caused me to lose my balance a little last Sunday and I was turning over, rolling onto my left side. My flab got ahead of me and as I turned, it spilled over the chair and forced the chair to pop a chaise wheelie, which in turn caused my real body to follow the flab and my knee to make contact with one of the metal hinges, the one that didn't fly into the air under the weight of my gigantic sausage arms and tent-like boobs.
Hopefully, I will manage to avoid injury from falling flab this weekend.
Hopefully, you will too.
arizonasarah at 11:03 a.m.