I let October come and go without one single entry.
I said October would be better than September, and it was.
There were palpable differences I could see and taste and touch and feel, but there were emotional ties rebound and broken, too.
And now it's November and it's going to be my NaBloPoMo. (That is, National Blog Posting Month.) A post a day, for one month straight. Being that I haven't talked to y'all in awhile, I hope there's a lot to tell you.
Of course...there is a way you can help. If you're reading this, whether I've known you a month or all my life, whether you read this regularly or just wandered in this very minute, no matter what, comment and give me some inspiration. Perhaps it's a story you already know and want me to re-tell it. Perhaps it's a small idea you once heard me say in passing and would like me to explain in more detail. Perhaps you just really care about my thoughts on okra or sequins or Kevin Smith movies. Dunno. Just be my muse. Give me something.
November is going to be beautiful. Adrian comes home and New Moon hits theatres and I start rehearsals for my New York theatrical debut and I get to visit Charlotte and Atlanta and see the most important people in the world (and meet one of them) and the holiday season arrives and there's big things happening at work and there's always that possibility that around the corner, something crazy and exciting waits. Let's get started!
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Don't waste your heart on a wild thing
Earlier today, I wore an Anne Klein suit with pearls.
And here I sit now, in a Bama hoodie and no name jeans.
I'm busy flipping back and forth between the Alabama/Arkansas game and America's Next Top Model.
I realized earlier how much I whine about being tethered to work via my blackberry, yet I can't go more than 2 minutes without glancing at the thing.
I claim to be a literature snob, but somehow I'm currently re-reading the Twilight Saga, because once wasn't enough.
I'd like a boyfriend, but only if there's plenty of room for things like space and freedom.
I beg for down time, yet immediately become bored and restless after five minutes alone.
I can't go in public without styled hair and applied makeup, yet will be the first to whine about those who judge based on outward appearance.
My cat annoys me when she won't cuddle but irks me if she meows for attention.
I'll sleep with the windows open or AC on only so I can wear more layers and snuggle with the comforter.
There's no point to this entry. I just felt like punctuating the fact that I am indeed a little bit strange.
Now. I think I'll go order dinner. A quesadilla. And a salad.
And here I sit now, in a Bama hoodie and no name jeans.
I'm busy flipping back and forth between the Alabama/Arkansas game and America's Next Top Model.
I realized earlier how much I whine about being tethered to work via my blackberry, yet I can't go more than 2 minutes without glancing at the thing.
I claim to be a literature snob, but somehow I'm currently re-reading the Twilight Saga, because once wasn't enough.
I'd like a boyfriend, but only if there's plenty of room for things like space and freedom.
I beg for down time, yet immediately become bored and restless after five minutes alone.
I can't go in public without styled hair and applied makeup, yet will be the first to whine about those who judge based on outward appearance.
My cat annoys me when she won't cuddle but irks me if she meows for attention.
I'll sleep with the windows open or AC on only so I can wear more layers and snuggle with the comforter.
There's no point to this entry. I just felt like punctuating the fact that I am indeed a little bit strange.
Now. I think I'll go order dinner. A quesadilla. And a salad.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
I tried my best to be guarded, but I'm an open book instead
Happy Anniversary, Baby.
At this exact moment three years ago, I was crammed in a minivan with all my wordly belongings and two of my very best friends. There weren't as many tears as I'd anticipated, but there was a racing heart and a roving mind and a whole lot of "what ifs" on the wide open horizon that stretched up the road from North Carolina to New York.
We all thought I'd be back after one year. We all thought I'd have my fun, stick my foot in the proverbial pool of New York life, discover the icy reality and run straight back down yonder where I am still quite positive I belong. I don't really know what's come over me or understand the force that binds me to this city. But here I am, and here I'll stay, for the time being.
And it's a different New York than the one that initially greeted me. There's no longer a Crissie residing in the bedroom next to mine. I've walked in and out of 3 jobs, into a 4th and been promoted to a 5th. I now swear by my blackberry and own Prada, but no longer wear high heels. I weigh 30 pounds less and don't wheeze after a single flight of stairs...or even 2, 3 or 5. I can tell you how to get wherever you're going without ever looking at a subway map. I've seen well over 100 Broadway, off-Broadway and off-off Broadway productions and have even auditioned for a few. My heart has broken, healed and broken again and boy hidey, have there been some atrocious dates. I've moved out of Brooklyn and into Queens and discovered that closets really do exist in this city. I've kicked Joanna Gleason out of her rehearsal space, gawked at Will Smith, smashed into John Lithgow and Diana DeGarmo and been stalked by Seth Myers. And more importantly than anything, New York owns an independent Alison who's not entirely afraid of being alone. Which is weird, and also kind of huge.
Anyhoo. I've done hardly anything I set out to do, but a million and one other things I'd never have dreamed into my own reality. I've quit guessing what the future holds and stopped acting like I have any decision making rights on this crazy ride of mine. It's more than a little bit funny that one of the loudest, rudest, brightest, most chaotic places in the world taught me how to relax and stop trying to control silly little things like life, the human spirit and destiny.
I guess I can't help but wonder if we're going to make it to four years.
At this exact moment three years ago, I was crammed in a minivan with all my wordly belongings and two of my very best friends. There weren't as many tears as I'd anticipated, but there was a racing heart and a roving mind and a whole lot of "what ifs" on the wide open horizon that stretched up the road from North Carolina to New York.
We all thought I'd be back after one year. We all thought I'd have my fun, stick my foot in the proverbial pool of New York life, discover the icy reality and run straight back down yonder where I am still quite positive I belong. I don't really know what's come over me or understand the force that binds me to this city. But here I am, and here I'll stay, for the time being.
And it's a different New York than the one that initially greeted me. There's no longer a Crissie residing in the bedroom next to mine. I've walked in and out of 3 jobs, into a 4th and been promoted to a 5th. I now swear by my blackberry and own Prada, but no longer wear high heels. I weigh 30 pounds less and don't wheeze after a single flight of stairs...or even 2, 3 or 5. I can tell you how to get wherever you're going without ever looking at a subway map. I've seen well over 100 Broadway, off-Broadway and off-off Broadway productions and have even auditioned for a few. My heart has broken, healed and broken again and boy hidey, have there been some atrocious dates. I've moved out of Brooklyn and into Queens and discovered that closets really do exist in this city. I've kicked Joanna Gleason out of her rehearsal space, gawked at Will Smith, smashed into John Lithgow and Diana DeGarmo and been stalked by Seth Myers. And more importantly than anything, New York owns an independent Alison who's not entirely afraid of being alone. Which is weird, and also kind of huge.
Anyhoo. I've done hardly anything I set out to do, but a million and one other things I'd never have dreamed into my own reality. I've quit guessing what the future holds and stopped acting like I have any decision making rights on this crazy ride of mine. It's more than a little bit funny that one of the loudest, rudest, brightest, most chaotic places in the world taught me how to relax and stop trying to control silly little things like life, the human spirit and destiny.
I guess I can't help but wonder if we're going to make it to four years.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Allow me to exaggerate a memory or two...
Following a failed attempt at a cartwheel in a park, my glasses found themselves fastened together with superglue. I received a lot of crap for this but didn’t actually care because they still helped me to see, which is exactly the kind of thing glasses should do. And though I live in New York, I’m mostly still a hick from Alabama who cares more for functionality and comfort and overall look than labels.
Seriously. If I feel like splurging, you’ll find me at Macy’s, as opposed to Target or Old Navy. The only labels I own were purchased in Chinatown, so I’ll give you a couple guesses as to their level of authenticity.
And I had contacts anyhow, so this whole conversation was pointless. Until, of course, the seasons shifted and the allergies attacked and I found myself with chronic dry eye and non-existent desire to poke myself in said dry eyes, pre-mascara in the mornings. Fine. Time to make room in the monthly budget for something more important than wine and new shoes. (Ok, so perhaps New York is rubbing off on me afterall..) So I headed to Cohen’s Fashion Optical, lured in by the promise of $100 glasses. I gave myself a very strict talking to prior to my arrival. I was to seek aforementioned functionality and comfort and, if necessary, compromise style.
But then I saw the sad little $100 glasses case. I think, in actuality, this case is not where glasses come to find their new homes, but rather a glasses graveyard. This case is where ugly, outdated glasses come to die. I knew no mate for me waited inside that case, what, with their rhinestone embellishments and golden feathering. (I am NOT kidding.) And frankly, by the time they add in all the things you need to get the glasses out the door (you know, like lenses and an eye exam) it’s gonna go over $200. So I wandered to the next counter. And the next. Ah yes, and that display, too.
Oh, why hello Gucci, Armani. Hi Coach! What’s up, Calvin, Ralph? Heeeey Dior! Yves Saint Laurent, great to see you! You too, Fendi. And then I saw them. Purple and Prada. The saleslady sensed my weakness and had them ‘round my ears and perched on my nose before I could say “STOPITICANTAFFORDPRADAAREYOUCRAZYGETTHESEOFFME.” And you know that moment in a movie when something big happens and everything is in slow motion and everything is quiet but the manufactured sound of a heart beating? That happened, as I leaned forward to peer into the mirror. I gasped. Saleslady gasped. Other sales dude, who REALLY thought I belonged in Coach gasped. The lady with her ADHD 9 year old son gasped. These glasses had to be mine, y’all. So they are now. (Forgive the bad cell phone picture - it's all I got for the moment.)
And that is what I am up to. While my friends wander the world and prepare to be parents and attack academia and fantasize about farmland and lots of other very important things, I am here in New York, purchasing Prada.
Seriously. If I feel like splurging, you’ll find me at Macy’s, as opposed to Target or Old Navy. The only labels I own were purchased in Chinatown, so I’ll give you a couple guesses as to their level of authenticity.
And I had contacts anyhow, so this whole conversation was pointless. Until, of course, the seasons shifted and the allergies attacked and I found myself with chronic dry eye and non-existent desire to poke myself in said dry eyes, pre-mascara in the mornings. Fine. Time to make room in the monthly budget for something more important than wine and new shoes. (Ok, so perhaps New York is rubbing off on me afterall..) So I headed to Cohen’s Fashion Optical, lured in by the promise of $100 glasses. I gave myself a very strict talking to prior to my arrival. I was to seek aforementioned functionality and comfort and, if necessary, compromise style.
But then I saw the sad little $100 glasses case. I think, in actuality, this case is not where glasses come to find their new homes, but rather a glasses graveyard. This case is where ugly, outdated glasses come to die. I knew no mate for me waited inside that case, what, with their rhinestone embellishments and golden feathering. (I am NOT kidding.) And frankly, by the time they add in all the things you need to get the glasses out the door (you know, like lenses and an eye exam) it’s gonna go over $200. So I wandered to the next counter. And the next. Ah yes, and that display, too.
Oh, why hello Gucci, Armani. Hi Coach! What’s up, Calvin, Ralph? Heeeey Dior! Yves Saint Laurent, great to see you! You too, Fendi. And then I saw them. Purple and Prada. The saleslady sensed my weakness and had them ‘round my ears and perched on my nose before I could say “STOPITICANTAFFORDPRADAAREYOUCRAZYGETTHESEOFFME.” And you know that moment in a movie when something big happens and everything is in slow motion and everything is quiet but the manufactured sound of a heart beating? That happened, as I leaned forward to peer into the mirror. I gasped. Saleslady gasped. Other sales dude, who REALLY thought I belonged in Coach gasped. The lady with her ADHD 9 year old son gasped. These glasses had to be mine, y’all. So they are now. (Forgive the bad cell phone picture - it's all I got for the moment.)
And that is what I am up to. While my friends wander the world and prepare to be parents and attack academia and fantasize about farmland and lots of other very important things, I am here in New York, purchasing Prada.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Just because I'm losing doesn't mean I'm lost.
I may be jumping the gun...
It's too early to tell...
I really shouldn't be opening my mouth right now...
And truly, I should not count my chickens before they hatch...
Or say anything until I'm positive...
But I think I have a new obsession.
And it's kind of causing me to take back a statement I made a few entries ago. Remember when I told you I would submit to the need to workout, but probably never have the desire? Uh huh. Yup. Ok. Fine. Might have been wrong on that one. You see, I'd been dragging my ass to the gym and onto cardio equipment and frankly, that's just not all that fun.
So last night, I went to a MegaMix Aerobics class and sweated and giggled my ass off. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that this morning I awoke full of energy, checked the class schedule, and bolted out the door for Kickboxing. I enjoyed THAT so much that after class, I marched myself upstairs and requested a personal trainer to show me the weights and machines.
And now, there is not one room in that gym that I do not OWN.
And the mirrors I once feared are slowly becoming my friends. Because at the gym, the mirrors are not there to foster narcissism or elevate flaws. They're there to help you...to reflect body positioning and focus on improvement. Today, in the middle of my side kicks and jabs and hooks, roundhouses and upper cuts, I gazed into that mirror and saw an Alison drenched in sweat but somehow glowing, with shining eyes and a great big smile. And there, in that mirror, plain as day, was something I have never seen.
My neck.
To the population at large, neck sightings might not rank as breaking news, worthy of blog entries. But to this no-neck monster, it's exactly the kind of thing I need to see. As I stretched off the squats and rolled through the pain, my body made me aware of every muscle group, leaving me strong and capable.
Perhaps I've broken through a barrier. I feel like my life has kind of settled itself into some blase form of normalcy lately, and I'm thrilled for a new focus.
It's too early to tell...
I really shouldn't be opening my mouth right now...
And truly, I should not count my chickens before they hatch...
Or say anything until I'm positive...
But I think I have a new obsession.
And it's kind of causing me to take back a statement I made a few entries ago. Remember when I told you I would submit to the need to workout, but probably never have the desire? Uh huh. Yup. Ok. Fine. Might have been wrong on that one. You see, I'd been dragging my ass to the gym and onto cardio equipment and frankly, that's just not all that fun.
So last night, I went to a MegaMix Aerobics class and sweated and giggled my ass off. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that this morning I awoke full of energy, checked the class schedule, and bolted out the door for Kickboxing. I enjoyed THAT so much that after class, I marched myself upstairs and requested a personal trainer to show me the weights and machines.
And now, there is not one room in that gym that I do not OWN.
And the mirrors I once feared are slowly becoming my friends. Because at the gym, the mirrors are not there to foster narcissism or elevate flaws. They're there to help you...to reflect body positioning and focus on improvement. Today, in the middle of my side kicks and jabs and hooks, roundhouses and upper cuts, I gazed into that mirror and saw an Alison drenched in sweat but somehow glowing, with shining eyes and a great big smile. And there, in that mirror, plain as day, was something I have never seen.
My neck.
To the population at large, neck sightings might not rank as breaking news, worthy of blog entries. But to this no-neck monster, it's exactly the kind of thing I need to see. As I stretched off the squats and rolled through the pain, my body made me aware of every muscle group, leaving me strong and capable.
Perhaps I've broken through a barrier. I feel like my life has kind of settled itself into some blase form of normalcy lately, and I'm thrilled for a new focus.
Monday, August 10, 2009
All I want is to rock your soul
Dandelions.
I loves them.
Always have.
I mean, check out my computer background.
As a child, I formed some kind of unnatural obsession with plucking any in sight and scattering those petals on into the wind. I guess it's the dreamer in me. Any reason to wish is reason to get excited. (And as an adult, I still do it. And wish on the first star spotted on any given evening, too.)
I guess I just keep hoping that the wind is just going to blow that change I seek my way. Which I guess says a lot about my personality.
Dear Universe,
I bow down to you and acknowledge that you are fully capable of making wishes come true if I only bend to your necessary whims and allow you to do your thing.
Love,
Alison
Last week, I got a wild hair and organized - I mean, really organized - my room and the living room. Those who know me know this is a biiiiig deal. For a solid week, I have maintained a very un-Alison like level of continued organization. I hate to admit it but...I'm kind of happier this way. I waste less time and energy finding things so that I have more of both to do the actually important things. Novel concept, really. But even with all the now niche-i-ness, something was missing. Observe.
While perusing a cute little home goodies boutique, I came across some adorable wall decals. They were pretty pricey though, so I avoided the purchase and headed for the internet instead. (And besides, decals? Surely I could come up with something arty-er.) Initially, I looked for stencils, assuming it would be the most economical choice and lend a little more "look what I can do!" to my wall. Y'all. Stencils are both expensive, and hard to come by.
Back to decals.
So over to Etsy I headed, because Etsy never lets me down. And I found this.
Dishes are done, man. Dishes are done.
But to sweeten the deal, I also found this.
Which I ordered in light pink (not black) and will accompany the scattering seeds I will send sailing across my bright pink wall. And then I ordered a tiny set for my computer, too. It really shouldn't be left out of all the fun. There's a chance I may later order a bright pink set for my bland white wall later but I didn't want to go too overboard just yet.
So within the next week, my room will receive it's final touches. And every day, I will wake up and remember that I am a girl who never stops wishing.
I loves them.
Always have.
I mean, check out my computer background.
As a child, I formed some kind of unnatural obsession with plucking any in sight and scattering those petals on into the wind. I guess it's the dreamer in me. Any reason to wish is reason to get excited. (And as an adult, I still do it. And wish on the first star spotted on any given evening, too.)
I guess I just keep hoping that the wind is just going to blow that change I seek my way. Which I guess says a lot about my personality.
Dear Universe,
I bow down to you and acknowledge that you are fully capable of making wishes come true if I only bend to your necessary whims and allow you to do your thing.
Love,
Alison
Last week, I got a wild hair and organized - I mean, really organized - my room and the living room. Those who know me know this is a biiiiig deal. For a solid week, I have maintained a very un-Alison like level of continued organization. I hate to admit it but...I'm kind of happier this way. I waste less time and energy finding things so that I have more of both to do the actually important things. Novel concept, really. But even with all the now niche-i-ness, something was missing. Observe.
While perusing a cute little home goodies boutique, I came across some adorable wall decals. They were pretty pricey though, so I avoided the purchase and headed for the internet instead. (And besides, decals? Surely I could come up with something arty-er.) Initially, I looked for stencils, assuming it would be the most economical choice and lend a little more "look what I can do!" to my wall. Y'all. Stencils are both expensive, and hard to come by.
Back to decals.
So over to Etsy I headed, because Etsy never lets me down. And I found this.
Dishes are done, man. Dishes are done.
But to sweeten the deal, I also found this.
Which I ordered in light pink (not black) and will accompany the scattering seeds I will send sailing across my bright pink wall. And then I ordered a tiny set for my computer, too. It really shouldn't be left out of all the fun. There's a chance I may later order a bright pink set for my bland white wall later but I didn't want to go too overboard just yet.
So within the next week, my room will receive it's final touches. And every day, I will wake up and remember that I am a girl who never stops wishing.
Monday, July 27, 2009
It's impossible to you, not impossible to me.
And so the journey begins again. I've been stagnant and dormant too long.
On January 1st, 2005, I began Weight Watchers. Over the course of 11 months, I dropped 60 pounds.
For the year that followed, I maintained.
On September 22nd, 2006, I moved to New York. Over the course of the next year and a half, I dropped another 27 pounds. I wish I could tell you this was done entirely healthily, but I think we all know that my first 2 months in New York had me living on McDonald's Happy Meals, granola bars, and peanut butter. Ah, the life of a starving (hopeful) artist.
For the year that followed, I maintained within about a 5 pound fluxuation range.
87 pounds down, and sadly, about 50 more to go.
Somewhere in June, I joined a gym. (As you have already read.) I guess an eensy weensy part of me hoped my schedule would magically clear up, I would spend 2 hours there 4 times a week, and life would be magically healthy and the pounds would melt away. As we all know, that ain't so. After talking to Megan's parents about their success, I have decided to give South Beach a go. Frankly, my body needs a bit of a cleanse and I've got nothing on my plate (pun intended) for a couple weeks, so now is as good a time as any.
The good news is, Marielle and Megan are doing it with me which is going to make this sooooo much easier. And, Megan already had the books. Here we go.
No fruits, fewer carbs, and no alcohol for 2 weeks. If I'm crankly, I apologize. Here's hoping I emerge from Phase One at least 10 pounds thinner. From there, it will be onto Phase Two and the re-introduction of carbs, fruit, and (thank GOD) wine. The goal is 25 pounds by September 15th.
And after that? Only another 25 pounds until my FINAL GOAL. I finally feel close. Perhaps somewhere in early 2010, 5 years after I started, I will hit that "I've lost 127 pounds from my heaviest point" mark. I will slap it square across the face and remind it it is indeed my bitch. And I will never. EVER. Go back.
On January 1st, 2005, I began Weight Watchers. Over the course of 11 months, I dropped 60 pounds.
For the year that followed, I maintained.
On September 22nd, 2006, I moved to New York. Over the course of the next year and a half, I dropped another 27 pounds. I wish I could tell you this was done entirely healthily, but I think we all know that my first 2 months in New York had me living on McDonald's Happy Meals, granola bars, and peanut butter. Ah, the life of a starving (hopeful) artist.
For the year that followed, I maintained within about a 5 pound fluxuation range.
87 pounds down, and sadly, about 50 more to go.
Somewhere in June, I joined a gym. (As you have already read.) I guess an eensy weensy part of me hoped my schedule would magically clear up, I would spend 2 hours there 4 times a week, and life would be magically healthy and the pounds would melt away. As we all know, that ain't so. After talking to Megan's parents about their success, I have decided to give South Beach a go. Frankly, my body needs a bit of a cleanse and I've got nothing on my plate (pun intended) for a couple weeks, so now is as good a time as any.
The good news is, Marielle and Megan are doing it with me which is going to make this sooooo much easier. And, Megan already had the books. Here we go.
No fruits, fewer carbs, and no alcohol for 2 weeks. If I'm crankly, I apologize. Here's hoping I emerge from Phase One at least 10 pounds thinner. From there, it will be onto Phase Two and the re-introduction of carbs, fruit, and (thank GOD) wine. The goal is 25 pounds by September 15th.
And after that? Only another 25 pounds until my FINAL GOAL. I finally feel close. Perhaps somewhere in early 2010, 5 years after I started, I will hit that "I've lost 127 pounds from my heaviest point" mark. I will slap it square across the face and remind it it is indeed my bitch. And I will never. EVER. Go back.
Monday, July 6, 2009
It gets so bad, but I just keep coming back for more
I keep meaning to write you a long and wordy post about how I'm ok and flooded with love and realizing the difference between wants and needs.
Instead, tonight I will regale you with stories from the gym. Or as I playfully love to call it...well. Hell.
I keep hoping I'm going to wake up magically one day and be one of those people who just loooooooves to work out. Now check it. I have in fact lost 87 pounds from my highest point. Across those pounds, I have tried walking. Jogging. Running. Pilates. Yoga Booty Ballet. YMCA. Curves. Yoga. And lately...Lucille Roberts. Because it's 20 bucks a month, around the corner from my apartment, and yes, I am now at the point in which I need to be toning and doing cardio in addition to learning fries and pizza a well-rounded meal do not make.
And even though I love how I feel AFTER I work out, and occasionally I love that great warm spread in my chest that comes with breaking a truly remarkable stride...I do NOT love the act of working out. For me, I look to the gym how many people look at their ex-spouse. Specifically if a marriage shattered with kids in tact. Everything is done politely, but with gritted teeth and bruised egos. Y'know. For...the kids.
Only for me, the kids happen to be my multiple chins, my jiggling arms, my buddha belly, and my thunder thighs.
On my first morning at the gym, I was a solid 7 minutes into my QT with the elliptical when a very polite woman approached my machine, demanding it was her turn. An obvious rookie, I hadn't realized when I signed up for a machine, it would do me some good to make sure I got on the right one. The silly part of this story is that amidst her yelling, (all in Spanish, to boot) no less than 4 machines stood empty. The kind woman next to me finally relinquished control of her machine only after I screeched "IT'S MY FIRST DAY. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST DAY?!"
The past two weeks have been relatively uneventful. I'm learning the quieter times when I don't have to fight for machines and can steer clear of those directly in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors.
Yeah, can we talk about that for a second? There is NOTHING I look forward to more than planting myself in front of a mirror and watching the sweat pour and my face turn into a veritable Ally Tomato.
And then today rolled around. After a weekend of overindulging in birthday cake (for me! for America!) and beer and wine and burgers and cheese and sushi and pizza and gelato, I shimmied myself into my favorite pair of part lycra (aaaaallllll comfort) pants and headed to see good ole Lucille. 2 miles on a bike had me good and revved up for 40 minutes of "let's see what I can do!" on the treadmill. Well. 3.5 miles is apparently what I can do - 2.5 of them at an actual run. Go me, right?
Right.
Until it was time to get off the treadmill. My feet hit that nice and still and steady ground aaaaaand...I fell. Right on over. Yup. I did that. And I mean, I couldn't help but laugh because what else do you do when you appear drunk at a gym at 10 in the morning?
It's fine. I'm not bitching. I'm just aware I'm never going to love this modern torture chamber called the gym. But I'll keep on going.
Y'know. For the kids.
Instead, tonight I will regale you with stories from the gym. Or as I playfully love to call it...well. Hell.
I keep hoping I'm going to wake up magically one day and be one of those people who just loooooooves to work out. Now check it. I have in fact lost 87 pounds from my highest point. Across those pounds, I have tried walking. Jogging. Running. Pilates. Yoga Booty Ballet. YMCA. Curves. Yoga. And lately...Lucille Roberts. Because it's 20 bucks a month, around the corner from my apartment, and yes, I am now at the point in which I need to be toning and doing cardio in addition to learning fries and pizza a well-rounded meal do not make.
And even though I love how I feel AFTER I work out, and occasionally I love that great warm spread in my chest that comes with breaking a truly remarkable stride...I do NOT love the act of working out. For me, I look to the gym how many people look at their ex-spouse. Specifically if a marriage shattered with kids in tact. Everything is done politely, but with gritted teeth and bruised egos. Y'know. For...the kids.
Only for me, the kids happen to be my multiple chins, my jiggling arms, my buddha belly, and my thunder thighs.
On my first morning at the gym, I was a solid 7 minutes into my QT with the elliptical when a very polite woman approached my machine, demanding it was her turn. An obvious rookie, I hadn't realized when I signed up for a machine, it would do me some good to make sure I got on the right one. The silly part of this story is that amidst her yelling, (all in Spanish, to boot) no less than 4 machines stood empty. The kind woman next to me finally relinquished control of her machine only after I screeched "IT'S MY FIRST DAY. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST DAY?!"
The past two weeks have been relatively uneventful. I'm learning the quieter times when I don't have to fight for machines and can steer clear of those directly in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors.
Yeah, can we talk about that for a second? There is NOTHING I look forward to more than planting myself in front of a mirror and watching the sweat pour and my face turn into a veritable Ally Tomato.
And then today rolled around. After a weekend of overindulging in birthday cake (for me! for America!) and beer and wine and burgers and cheese and sushi and pizza and gelato, I shimmied myself into my favorite pair of part lycra (aaaaallllll comfort) pants and headed to see good ole Lucille. 2 miles on a bike had me good and revved up for 40 minutes of "let's see what I can do!" on the treadmill. Well. 3.5 miles is apparently what I can do - 2.5 of them at an actual run. Go me, right?
Right.
Until it was time to get off the treadmill. My feet hit that nice and still and steady ground aaaaaand...I fell. Right on over. Yup. I did that. And I mean, I couldn't help but laugh because what else do you do when you appear drunk at a gym at 10 in the morning?
It's fine. I'm not bitching. I'm just aware I'm never going to love this modern torture chamber called the gym. But I'll keep on going.
Y'know. For the kids.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
How many times can I break till I shatter?
Saturday Night. 8:45 PM. I’m sitting on my balcony, alone, with nothing but a six pack of Red Stripe to keep me company. It’s finally not raining and I’m thankful I can see the sky and feel a completely unseasonal cool breeze. I’m positive there are things I could be doing and friends I could be hanging out with, but somewhere in the chaos of New York it feels nice to be alone and not speak with anything but my fingertips.
I don’t regret much, but I do regret my mouth and my heart and the world of hurt they’ve both brought raining down upon me in the past month. If I could un-love him I would. If I could find a way to be happy just being his friend I would, too. It was a long hard fall, learning I’d once again misread the signs and given my full self to someone who neither wanted nor deserved it. So I’ll open up to you, Cyberspace, and apologize to the Universe for the tangled mess I’ve become. I have completely unraveled.
One year ago and a few days ago, Lori was here. (Lori is now pregnant and in Georgia – two things I both love for her and hate for me.) One year ago, I made the promise I make every year – that this was finally going to be my year and I’d finally conquer this whole love thing. One year ago, I honestly believed that by the time I reached the point I’m at right now, I would no longer be alone. Lori rolled her eyes and reminded me that I say that every year.
Birthdays stop being fun when you start to approach your scary age. 27 is my scary age. It now looms a short 5 days away, and Unraveled Alison must now step up to the plate and admit she is not where she wants to or thought she’d be. In all fairness, I am at least things I never thought I’d be and I won’t apologize for or doubt my successes, wherever they may lie.
When 27 arrives, I will make no promises. I will tell no one that this will finally be my year. I won’t open up my heart or gently place it on my sleeve for the universe to locate its partner. I am not going to let myself believe that I am actually any different than any of the other lost souls out there, hoping to figure it all out before it’s too late. My time will come when God is good and ready to give it to me, and no wishes placed on burning candles will ever change that.
This year I’ll only swear on the things I can deliver. I’ll be a better boss, a better daughter, a better neighbor, a better roommate, a better friend, and a better Alison. I won’t be selfish, but I will be self-aware. I’ll make the time anyone spends in my presence as pleasant, good-natured, and fun as possible. I may have done nothing wrong, but I sure don’t feel like I’ve done much right, either.
27 may be my scary year, but the world isn’t going to stop turning because I’m uncomfortable. And that’s all I have to say about that.
I don’t regret much, but I do regret my mouth and my heart and the world of hurt they’ve both brought raining down upon me in the past month. If I could un-love him I would. If I could find a way to be happy just being his friend I would, too. It was a long hard fall, learning I’d once again misread the signs and given my full self to someone who neither wanted nor deserved it. So I’ll open up to you, Cyberspace, and apologize to the Universe for the tangled mess I’ve become. I have completely unraveled.
One year ago and a few days ago, Lori was here. (Lori is now pregnant and in Georgia – two things I both love for her and hate for me.) One year ago, I made the promise I make every year – that this was finally going to be my year and I’d finally conquer this whole love thing. One year ago, I honestly believed that by the time I reached the point I’m at right now, I would no longer be alone. Lori rolled her eyes and reminded me that I say that every year.
Birthdays stop being fun when you start to approach your scary age. 27 is my scary age. It now looms a short 5 days away, and Unraveled Alison must now step up to the plate and admit she is not where she wants to or thought she’d be. In all fairness, I am at least things I never thought I’d be and I won’t apologize for or doubt my successes, wherever they may lie.
When 27 arrives, I will make no promises. I will tell no one that this will finally be my year. I won’t open up my heart or gently place it on my sleeve for the universe to locate its partner. I am not going to let myself believe that I am actually any different than any of the other lost souls out there, hoping to figure it all out before it’s too late. My time will come when God is good and ready to give it to me, and no wishes placed on burning candles will ever change that.
This year I’ll only swear on the things I can deliver. I’ll be a better boss, a better daughter, a better neighbor, a better roommate, a better friend, and a better Alison. I won’t be selfish, but I will be self-aware. I’ll make the time anyone spends in my presence as pleasant, good-natured, and fun as possible. I may have done nothing wrong, but I sure don’t feel like I’ve done much right, either.
27 may be my scary year, but the world isn’t going to stop turning because I’m uncomfortable. And that’s all I have to say about that.
Monday, June 22, 2009
This ain't no love that's guiding me
I couldn't make this up if I tried.
Today at work, an older gentleman approached my desk. We got to talkin', and I couldn't help myself from inquiring about his thick Southern drawl. (Afterall, a girl from Alabama must find her people in this world.)
"Where you from, sir?" I posed.
"Baby. I'm from Bowlin' Green, Kentucky!"
(And though I'm usually not a fan of being referred to as "baby," especially by complete strangers, he was at least charming about it.) This lead to a whole discussion of all things Southern, and therefore all things good. He looked down and noticed my empty left ring finger.
"Baby, you single!" (It was definitely more of a statement than a question, even though I kind of believe things like that should be approached a liiiiiiittle more cautiously.)
"Let me see your palm." A demand, this time. I held out my left palm and he shrugged it off, motioning for my right. After a brief once-over, his face lit up as he marked with pen on my hand.
"See this? It should be up here. It's not. This tells me you are a very positive person. People whose lines go all the way up are ho-hum and hum-drum. You are not. Even when you're sad, you still remain positive."
I think I may have had to blink back a couple tears. My clouded expression probably didn't help my case.
"See that? Even now, you're sad about something but it don't matter - you're still just as positive as you can be."
Another pen mark, this time in the bottom center.
"Oh, and you're a healthy girl."
I, of course, muttered something under my breath about that ending with my healthy appetite.
Mr. Kentucky then tried to bid me adieu.
"Wait!" I pleaded. "You asked to see my hand because you seemed interested in the love side of things. What does my palm say about that?"
(Really, Alison? An old man reads your palm, tells you you're healthy and positive and now you're going to seek love advice from him?)
Relunctantly, he gathered my hand in his once more.
"Baby. You ain't got no love."
There we have it. I ain't got no love.
"This here hand is always changin', just like you," he continued. "But I wouldn't really be lookin' for much of anything there for another 6 or so months."
Given the things that have gone down in the past 3 weeks, he's absolutely right. And for some bizarre reason, I actually feel better. I have a timeline. Six months. I can't even begin to understand why, but perhaps these things happen for a reason. Perhaps my heart is currently shattered for some just cause and perhaps God sent me Mr. Kentucky today as some kind of messenger of things to come.
Baby, you ain't got no love.
But I'm positive that someday, I will.
Today at work, an older gentleman approached my desk. We got to talkin', and I couldn't help myself from inquiring about his thick Southern drawl. (Afterall, a girl from Alabama must find her people in this world.)
"Where you from, sir?" I posed.
"Baby. I'm from Bowlin' Green, Kentucky!"
(And though I'm usually not a fan of being referred to as "baby," especially by complete strangers, he was at least charming about it.) This lead to a whole discussion of all things Southern, and therefore all things good. He looked down and noticed my empty left ring finger.
"Baby, you single!" (It was definitely more of a statement than a question, even though I kind of believe things like that should be approached a liiiiiiittle more cautiously.)
"Let me see your palm." A demand, this time. I held out my left palm and he shrugged it off, motioning for my right. After a brief once-over, his face lit up as he marked with pen on my hand.
"See this? It should be up here. It's not. This tells me you are a very positive person. People whose lines go all the way up are ho-hum and hum-drum. You are not. Even when you're sad, you still remain positive."
I think I may have had to blink back a couple tears. My clouded expression probably didn't help my case.
"See that? Even now, you're sad about something but it don't matter - you're still just as positive as you can be."
Another pen mark, this time in the bottom center.
"Oh, and you're a healthy girl."
I, of course, muttered something under my breath about that ending with my healthy appetite.
Mr. Kentucky then tried to bid me adieu.
"Wait!" I pleaded. "You asked to see my hand because you seemed interested in the love side of things. What does my palm say about that?"
(Really, Alison? An old man reads your palm, tells you you're healthy and positive and now you're going to seek love advice from him?)
Relunctantly, he gathered my hand in his once more.
"Baby. You ain't got no love."
There we have it. I ain't got no love.
"This here hand is always changin', just like you," he continued. "But I wouldn't really be lookin' for much of anything there for another 6 or so months."
Given the things that have gone down in the past 3 weeks, he's absolutely right. And for some bizarre reason, I actually feel better. I have a timeline. Six months. I can't even begin to understand why, but perhaps these things happen for a reason. Perhaps my heart is currently shattered for some just cause and perhaps God sent me Mr. Kentucky today as some kind of messenger of things to come.
Baby, you ain't got no love.
But I'm positive that someday, I will.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)