||[Mar. 23rd, 2005|10:34 am]
Whole lotta labia.
|[||how ya feelin'?
I've been being mostly good. Eating mostly well and mostly exercising when I should. I skipped working out on Monday just because.. well.. because I fucking felt like it, I suppose. I also skipped over the weekend but spending all day Saturday cleaning the basement and then doing my class on Sunday should cover that. Yesterday I went to the gym near the office, reminding myself what a pit the place is and how shower curtains shouldn't be fuzzy. Back to my gym this morning for some time on the treadmill and some time on the elliptical. Good books make it go so much faster.
My weight is down, which is good. I've got my weigh-in tomorrow and unless I fellate a salt-lick or eat my weight in steak I should be ok for a loss. After dropping garlic shrimp on my favorite khakis at the catered lunch last week I've got a fat grease stain on them so my goal is to be into the smaller ones I bought on sale last year. I'm hping for the first weekend in April. We'll see.
So.. yeah.. Two hours of class on Sunday. And my second instructor finally hauled off and said "Why does the dance Nikki choreographed look so much better than the one I choreographed?" And none of us said "Because we hate yours, and so we don't practice it." Instead we came up with a number of other viable excuses including the amout of lateral movement her dance calls for and how you've got people trying to time themselves according to amorphous beats in an weird instrumental section. At eight different points in the song. Anyway. We went through from the beginning and we agreed to four extra hours of class this week. Two hours at a STUPID time on Thursday night, and an extra two hours on Sunday. And frankly when this thing is over in two weeks I'm going to be really fucking happy. I'm done with it. It's cost an arm and a leg for costumes I don't really have any future use for, it's hours practicing moves and choreography I'll never use anywhere else in my dancing life, and I have never had any desire to be a performer so the idea of wearing an outfit I don't like to do a dance I can't stand for 700 people? Not so much with the happy happy fun fun.
The only good news is that the ass-rapingly inconvenient time on Thursday leaves me enough time to catch about half of the tribal drop-in class so I won't feel quite so much like this thing is eating my life.
Plus, Saturday morning Caitlin and I are heading out a series of workshops, and that'll be fun. Mostly I'm just tired. And also? If I can whine for just one more second? My instructor on Sunday nights? Has cats. I'd bet on it. I'd also bet that when she gets home she drops her bag of veils by the door and just leaves it there until the next time she's heading out for class. I'd also bet that her cats sleep in the bag. Because three minutes into practicing her dance my eyes are puffy, my nose is running, and my head stuffs up. Grr.
I'm not much with the good mood today. A lot of it is the weather. It's rainy and cold and gross here and I'm feeling like when the clouds roll back it's going to be high summer and humid and I will have missed all the wonderful Spring of it all. The rest of it is just being in a funky mood. Matt got reprimanded at work today for a couple of somethings that I knew he eventually would and I'm having a hard time being sympathetic when my response is more like "Why are you surprised?" And a project at work is now 8 days overdue. So I'm a bit in a funk, but not an irreperable one.
I'll tell you this, though. I'd sell my left tit to be home, curled up on the couch with a bag of jellybeans, Captain Tightpantsm, and my fuzzy blanket. That's all I want for it. It's a nice tit. I think that's a fair trade. Couch, blanket, jellybeans, Tightpants. And.. y'know.. maybe a little cash. $3.50 sounds about right, doesn't it?