Monday, July 28, 2008

I love my mom

A couple weeks ago, my mom called me and told me that she had just gotten out of jail. I hadn't gotten this sort of call in years. I asked her what happened, and she told me she took two ambien, went to sleep, and woke up in jail. Today, mom went to her hearing where the police who put her in jail told the judge exactly what happened.

The police, hanging out in front of the station, were alerted to my mother's presence when they heard a loud crashing noise at five second intervals. My mother, in her huge boat of a car, was driving on the SIDEWALK across the street from the station, hitting the big cement flower pots as she went.

Let's hope she can keep her license.


Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Why I wish my knees were good enough to go running

I’d like to create a little word picture for the five people who read this blog. Picture me a class at 24 Hour Fitness, wearing a t-shirt and spandex shorts, bending over slightly, and attempting to mimic what the instructor has demonstrated. I’m holding a three-pound weight in each hand, trying to smoothly move them forward and back in a motion that is painfully similar to what I used to ignorantly do when seventh-grade perverts would ask me to try get my elbows to touch each other behind my back. My face is red and sweaty and my hair is sticking out in ways that would be impressive if only done intentionally. There is no denying it. I am a hot mess. But because everyone else in the room is a hot mess too, sweating like pigs and doing all sorts of ridiculous movements in pursuit of better bodies, I’m okay with that. I’m okay with it, that is, until the instructor, in an unfathomable attempt to get us more motivated, cries out into her little headset microphone: “Think about what you’re doing!”

Hmm, you want me to think about what I’m doing. What am I doing? I’m taking time out of my day (spending precious gas) to go to a place where I, along with ten others, will follow the instructions of somebody I don’t know. In front of all other members of the class as well as people looking in the ginormous window facing the parking lot, I squat down, jump, and turn directions, twenty times, trying to go as high as I can. I put a jump rope down on the floor and jump over it on one foot. I take some heavy things in my hands and lift up my arms in a Y shape while looking at myself in the mirror. I lie down on the floor and attempt to push my body up with my hands. All this makes me curse out in the instructor (in my head, but that doesn’t make it much better) and look like crap. And I’m paying money for it. I know what I’m doing. I’m acting insane.

In case any gym instructor ever stumbles on this blog, listen up: don’t let people think about what they’re really doing. Biking in place? That makes no sense. Punching at nothing while bouncing up and down? Are you serious? Lifting several pounds, only to put them right back down and lift them again? How did I convince myself that I needed to do this? If you need to motivate them, tell your students that their bodies will love them for working out. Tell them that they need to think about their muscles and flex them. Tell them that working out is incredibly useful because they’ll be in good shape for when they need to flee when the Basque army takes over. As long as you’re telling them what to think, you’re fine. Just don’t ever ask them to think for themselves. It inevitably leads to disaster.