With more coffee, this post might have been coherent
The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and the city is filled with handsome men looking distractingly sexy in their pinstriped suits and crisp white shirts. I'm not sure where they've all suddenly come from. Perhaps there's a convention on. So far I have resisted tugging any of them to me by the tie (as far as I'm concerned this is the primary purpose of ties; come-grab-me clothing if ever I saw some) and snogging them, but I can't make any promises for the future.
By the way, if it is a convention, and you organised it, and you happen to be reading this, please accept my heartfelt gratitude. However, if you wanted to ensure my lifelong heartfelt gratitude, which is obviously a better thing to have, then I would be happy to accept any invitation to the opening ceremony that you care to extend. Because there must be an opening ceremony of some sort, right? For the convention of delicious men? Maybe a parade of some sort, with streamers and topless men dancing and…you know, I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with this, and there went my last chance of getting anything done today.
I think there should be champagne, too, at this opening ceremony. Just, you know, in case you were taking notes.
The husband had to get up before dawn this morning, which in the middle of an Australian summer equates to Too Damn Early. Being a supportive and loving wife, I elected to ride into town with him rather than catch a later bus, and went to the gym before work.
There are people out there who think nothing of getting up at 5.15 in the morning, going for a refreshing five-mile jog before drinking a delicious freshly-squeezed jug of spinach-and-celery juice, nibbling a wholegrain cracker and bounding off for a fulfilling twelve hour day educating orphans. I know this because back in law school I was friends with one of them, a total freak of a girl who did all of the above (not the orphan bit), won about a trillion academic prizes and then ruined the few shreds of schadenfreude-esque* comfort I had left by gaining a good-looking, exotic, talented artist boyfriend. Last I heard they were in Paris together.
Anyway. Moving on. Totally not bitter and envious over here.
The problem is that I'm not the sort of person who gets up at 5.15 am. Under the persistent delusion that I am, in fact, a trust fund baby with a lucrative book deal, I insist on acting like the sort of person who rolls out of bed at about noon, removes the sunglasses at about 6 pm, and then spends the evening hosting a salon whilst intellectual men admire my wit. I think we all understand how far this is from the truth.
So this morning, when the alarm went off in the dark, I was still recovering from the sparkling red wine and…other things…** of the night before. I dragged myself out of bed. I dragged myself to the gym. I even spurred myself into a shambling jog. There were hardly any people there, and for some reason the gym hadn't turned any music on. Because I'm still confused about how to attach my IPod, all I could hear was the rhythmic squeak of the treadmill, and the purr of the motor when I ramped up the speed. I think it lulled me into a half-dozing state.
You know how when you're half-asleep, asinine ideas seem like strokes of genius? There I was, jogging, half-dozing, and through my muddled state I thought hey, I'm onto something here. If I can manage to stay half-asleep, I won't notice how much physical work I'm doing, and I'll be able to work harder. So I hopped off the treadmill and went to try this on some weight machines.
The problem was not that it didn't work. The problem was that it almost did. I woke up on the leg press, unable to work out how many repetitions I'd done. And I really hope that was sweat on the vinyl seatback, and not drool.
Don't worry. I wiped it off.
* There's something about sticking a French suffix on a German word that amuses the hell out of me. Look at it, it's like a teeny linguistic border dispute. So cute!
** Tips for young bloggers: do not give one's blog address out to one's husband's workmates.
By the way, if it is a convention, and you organised it, and you happen to be reading this, please accept my heartfelt gratitude. However, if you wanted to ensure my lifelong heartfelt gratitude, which is obviously a better thing to have, then I would be happy to accept any invitation to the opening ceremony that you care to extend. Because there must be an opening ceremony of some sort, right? For the convention of delicious men? Maybe a parade of some sort, with streamers and topless men dancing and…you know, I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with this, and there went my last chance of getting anything done today.
I think there should be champagne, too, at this opening ceremony. Just, you know, in case you were taking notes.
The husband had to get up before dawn this morning, which in the middle of an Australian summer equates to Too Damn Early. Being a supportive and loving wife, I elected to ride into town with him rather than catch a later bus, and went to the gym before work.
There are people out there who think nothing of getting up at 5.15 in the morning, going for a refreshing five-mile jog before drinking a delicious freshly-squeezed jug of spinach-and-celery juice, nibbling a wholegrain cracker and bounding off for a fulfilling twelve hour day educating orphans. I know this because back in law school I was friends with one of them, a total freak of a girl who did all of the above (not the orphan bit), won about a trillion academic prizes and then ruined the few shreds of schadenfreude-esque* comfort I had left by gaining a good-looking, exotic, talented artist boyfriend. Last I heard they were in Paris together.
Anyway. Moving on. Totally not bitter and envious over here.
The problem is that I'm not the sort of person who gets up at 5.15 am. Under the persistent delusion that I am, in fact, a trust fund baby with a lucrative book deal, I insist on acting like the sort of person who rolls out of bed at about noon, removes the sunglasses at about 6 pm, and then spends the evening hosting a salon whilst intellectual men admire my wit. I think we all understand how far this is from the truth.
So this morning, when the alarm went off in the dark, I was still recovering from the sparkling red wine and…other things…** of the night before. I dragged myself out of bed. I dragged myself to the gym. I even spurred myself into a shambling jog. There were hardly any people there, and for some reason the gym hadn't turned any music on. Because I'm still confused about how to attach my IPod, all I could hear was the rhythmic squeak of the treadmill, and the purr of the motor when I ramped up the speed. I think it lulled me into a half-dozing state.
You know how when you're half-asleep, asinine ideas seem like strokes of genius? There I was, jogging, half-dozing, and through my muddled state I thought hey, I'm onto something here. If I can manage to stay half-asleep, I won't notice how much physical work I'm doing, and I'll be able to work harder. So I hopped off the treadmill and went to try this on some weight machines.
The problem was not that it didn't work. The problem was that it almost did. I woke up on the leg press, unable to work out how many repetitions I'd done. And I really hope that was sweat on the vinyl seatback, and not drool.
Don't worry. I wiped it off.
* There's something about sticking a French suffix on a German word that amuses the hell out of me. Look at it, it's like a teeny linguistic border dispute. So cute!
** Tips for young bloggers: do not give one's blog address out to one's husband's workmates.
posted by tanya at 1:24 pm
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