If there was ever a Miss Klutzy USA pageant, I would being the reigning queen. Then I’d probably trip during my acceptance speech, a la Miss USA Rachel Smith. (Full disclosure: I watched this live and totally felt a kindred spirits thing for her. Sure, I laughed, but she still looks smokin’ hot after suffering the worst embarrassment known to beauty queens. I would have stayed on the ground and just bawled.)
So last night at running class, Coach S pulled me aside to discuss the workout and warned me about the lousy pavement conditions where we were running. She told me to alert the runners of any particularly bad spots and be careful. Sirens should have gone off in my head at that point. I’m already working with a peripheral vision deficit because I have to wear my glasses in preparation for the laser surgery. Well sure enough, in the middle of our third interval I turned my ankle on broken pavement in a dark spot where a street lamp was out. My students asked if I was okay and I responded, “Fuck! No! Keep running!” Somehow we stayed on pace but as soon as we stopped I knew I was done for the night. Coach S sent me limping back to school (a lovely mile south of where I got hurt) and Coach JC drove me home.
Cycling friend QZ came over and cheered me up with a pint of Haagen-Dazs raspberry sorbet and an ice pack, and then I started to feel a little better. Also helpful: copious amounts of ibuprofen or as I like to call it, ibooze. “Sports injuries are so cool, they make you seem tough!” he said, but I just laughed. He obviously hasn’t spent enough time with me during a NO RUNNING sentence to know that I’m not exactly one to suffer in silence when I can’t work out. Let’s just hope, for everyone’s sake, that this is just a quick little injury and I’m back to running on Monday. My ankle is sore and stiff but only a tiny bit swollen and I still have a decent (albeit painful) range of rotation. I’ll be fiiiine. Especially because there is some of that sorbet still left in the freezer.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
The Year of Yes: Lasers
The next stop along the Year of Yes national tour will be…LASIK! Hooray, no more glasses or contacts! I’ll be able to wake up and see perfectly!
You know, so long as there isn’t some freak surgical accident and I end up going blind.
Gulp.
I went to my pre-screening exam yesterday, and the surgery is scheduled for March 10. That's so soon! I’m a perfect candidate, and there’s a 98% chance that I’ll have better than 20/20 vision. So the nurse poked, prodded, and dilated my pupils until I was blind and squinty, then gave me all the important paperwork to read and sign. Brilliant! I probably handed over my first born son and a pound of flesh to the doctor but wheee they’re going to shoot lasers into my eyes!
Or maybe there WILL be a freak surgical accident and the laser power will get trapped in my cornea, allowing me to shoot laser beams from my eyeballs at my enemies! How badass would that be?
Nice Hedge Fund pays for most of the surgery so as nervous as I am, it’s really a no-brainer. And they give patients a teddy bear to clutch during the ten-minute procedure, so that should be enough to take my mind off my pried-open eyelids, A Clockwork Orange style. I can’t wait!
You know, so long as there isn’t some freak surgical accident and I end up going blind.
Gulp.
I went to my pre-screening exam yesterday, and the surgery is scheduled for March 10. That's so soon! I’m a perfect candidate, and there’s a 98% chance that I’ll have better than 20/20 vision. So the nurse poked, prodded, and dilated my pupils until I was blind and squinty, then gave me all the important paperwork to read and sign. Brilliant! I probably handed over my first born son and a pound of flesh to the doctor but wheee they’re going to shoot lasers into my eyes!
Or maybe there WILL be a freak surgical accident and the laser power will get trapped in my cornea, allowing me to shoot laser beams from my eyeballs at my enemies! How badass would that be?
Nice Hedge Fund pays for most of the surgery so as nervous as I am, it’s really a no-brainer. And they give patients a teddy bear to clutch during the ten-minute procedure, so that should be enough to take my mind off my pried-open eyelids, A Clockwork Orange style. I can’t wait!
Monday, February 25, 2008
Math is Easy but History is Tough
Bad news, potential lovers: I canceled my fitness dating site membership today. Gone baby gone. They make you check off a reason for cancellation and one’s options read like some poor break up excuses: “I met someone on the site,” “I met someone off the site,” “I’m getting back together with a past boyfriend/girlfriend,” “I’m too busy for dating right now.” I went with “I want to avoid automatic update,” so I’m not sure what that says about my break-up style. That I’m a liar? There wasn’t a “This site sucks because 98% of the dudes who email me are undateable and if I want to see a lot of shirtless boys I’ll just cruise the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog” option. Ok, so lesson learned. If I ever start thinking that internet dating is a good idea, please someone redirect me to these posts. Kthxbai!
Coach G gave me a ton of (deserved) crap for being on the site, naturally. Through our joking around, we’ve theorized a formula that all dating sites should employ to some extent. It looks something like this:
(Compatibility/Distance)^Alcoholic Beverages Consumed = Quality of Date
Then, if you make it past a few dates and find yourself teetering on Relationship Territory (dun dun dunnnn), the formula to use morphs into:
(Compatibility/Distance)^Salary of Partner = Quality of Relationship
Clearly, distance is a key quotient in the dating world, especially when we’re talking about new beginnings.
Anyway. My weekend was fun and busy with running and hanging out with friends. R and I had a slightly awkward but overall okay post-breakup hang out on Saturday afternoon at The Met. I felt the urge neither to smack him nor kiss him – he was just a guy I used to know hidden behind an ill-advised I Work In the IT Department goatee. Note to self: have all future reunions with ex-boyfriends in museums. No eating is involved. You don’t have to talk much. You don’t even have to be in the same room at all times! And when you get bored you can convince yourself that you’re bored by him, not the huge building full of old stuff and European tourists. It’s genius for this not-quite-ready-to-be-friends stage.
Now, as some of you may have gleaned, I hate my job. It's boring. I have four bosses and zero responsibilities. I'm in it for the free lunch, health insurance and inflated salary but my tolerance level is waning. Oh wait! Remember how sucky my life was when I worked for ARM? I think I've blocked that entire year from my memory. Good thing I wrote all about it so I can remind myself that no matter how bad this job is, that one was worse!
And so...
On This Day In ARM History:
On Fridays I try to look nice. I have two reasons: one, I frequently go out right after work for drinks and/or dinner, and two, The Coffee Email.
From: ARM
Sent: Friday, February 23, 2007 8:43 AM
To: ARMAssistant
Subject: French roast decaf
----------------------
He sends this from his BlackBerry during the staff meeting, which he leads. Some weeks he will type out the entire phrase including verbs. Sometimes he writes “please” or “thanks” (rarely) and occasionally he writes it in the body text rather than the subject line. There are rhetorical variations on a theme, but the gist remains the same: bring me coffee, woman.
Now I’m no shrinking violet. Walking into a room full of men and having all eyes turn to me doesn’t faze me. Maybe it's my inherent Gen Y pseudo-feminism that makes me hate doing this. I just…I can feel the sympathy in their gazes when I interrupt the meeting each week. I know what they're all thinking, and it's something between "Man, her job sucks" and "I wish I had an assistant to bring me coffee right about now because this meeting sucks." The second I turn the door handle The Redness takes hold and I instantly regret that my idea of “looking nice” generally involves V-neck sweaters that clearly accentuate my splotchiness. One day I’m going to bring in two coffees, and deliver the second unsolicited cup to one of The Analysts. (I’m calling you out, Analyst N. You still have time to get back on my good side.) Then I’ll wait outside the door to listen for ARM to explode. I think I’ll save this Brilliant Plan for my last day at Private Equity Firm and really go out with a bang.
Coach G gave me a ton of (deserved) crap for being on the site, naturally. Through our joking around, we’ve theorized a formula that all dating sites should employ to some extent. It looks something like this:
(Compatibility/Distance)^Alcoholic Beverages Consumed = Quality of Date
Then, if you make it past a few dates and find yourself teetering on Relationship Territory (dun dun dunnnn), the formula to use morphs into:
(Compatibility/Distance)^Salary of Partner = Quality of Relationship
Clearly, distance is a key quotient in the dating world, especially when we’re talking about new beginnings.
Anyway. My weekend was fun and busy with running and hanging out with friends. R and I had a slightly awkward but overall okay post-breakup hang out on Saturday afternoon at The Met. I felt the urge neither to smack him nor kiss him – he was just a guy I used to know hidden behind an ill-advised I Work In the IT Department goatee. Note to self: have all future reunions with ex-boyfriends in museums. No eating is involved. You don’t have to talk much. You don’t even have to be in the same room at all times! And when you get bored you can convince yourself that you’re bored by him, not the huge building full of old stuff and European tourists. It’s genius for this not-quite-ready-to-be-friends stage.
Now, as some of you may have gleaned, I hate my job. It's boring. I have four bosses and zero responsibilities. I'm in it for the free lunch, health insurance and inflated salary but my tolerance level is waning. Oh wait! Remember how sucky my life was when I worked for ARM? I think I've blocked that entire year from my memory. Good thing I wrote all about it so I can remind myself that no matter how bad this job is, that one was worse!
And so...
On This Day In ARM History:
On Fridays I try to look nice. I have two reasons: one, I frequently go out right after work for drinks and/or dinner, and two, The Coffee Email.
From: ARM
Sent: Friday, February 23, 2007 8:43 AM
To: ARMAssistant
Subject: French roast decaf
----------------------
He sends this from his BlackBerry during the staff meeting, which he leads. Some weeks he will type out the entire phrase including verbs. Sometimes he writes “please” or “thanks” (rarely) and occasionally he writes it in the body text rather than the subject line. There are rhetorical variations on a theme, but the gist remains the same: bring me coffee, woman.
Now I’m no shrinking violet. Walking into a room full of men and having all eyes turn to me doesn’t faze me. Maybe it's my inherent Gen Y pseudo-feminism that makes me hate doing this. I just…I can feel the sympathy in their gazes when I interrupt the meeting each week. I know what they're all thinking, and it's something between "Man, her job sucks" and "I wish I had an assistant to bring me coffee right about now because this meeting sucks." The second I turn the door handle The Redness takes hold and I instantly regret that my idea of “looking nice” generally involves V-neck sweaters that clearly accentuate my splotchiness. One day I’m going to bring in two coffees, and deliver the second unsolicited cup to one of The Analysts. (I’m calling you out, Analyst N. You still have time to get back on my good side.) Then I’ll wait outside the door to listen for ARM to explode. I think I’ll save this Brilliant Plan for my last day at Private Equity Firm and really go out with a bang.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Advantage, Admin
I caved.
It might be too late for me to escape with my dignity. I gave in to the last bastion of occupational indifference.
It doesn’t matter how much I resent my job “responsibilities,” or how many times I remind myself that this is just temporary until I get into grad school (fingers crossed!), there’s simply no denying anymore that I’m a full-fledged Admin.
You see, I got one of those under-desk portable heaters.
In reality, I grudgingly accepted the traditional tenets of Admin World ages ago. I walk to work in sneakers and carry my heels in my oversized purse. Before the days of free lunch, I’d pack my daily PBJ in Tupperware. I keep a nail file in my pen cup, lip gloss in my desk drawer, and extra panty hose in my filing cabinet. But the heater thing struck me as so Slow-Moving-Gray-Haired-Knee-Sock-Wearing-Receptionist and I’d like desperately to think I’m anything but, so I resisted. All of the Lifers have them, and I suspect the decision to become a career assistant requires a certain level of warmth and comfort at one's desk. When C left she bestowed upon me her heater and until today it sat under my desk unused. Well it snowed over night and I was freezing my nips off at my desk, so I cranked that baby up to see what I've been missing. Oh, it’s glorious. Now, I know I'll never be a career assistant because I'm never truly comfortable sitting still at my desk all day, but at least now I'll be warm for these last few weeks of winter. I'm still holding out from keeping an extra cardigan draped over my chair. Admins, it seems, are defined by their methods to cope with frigid office temperatures set by men wearing wool suits.
Easier just had a conversation near my desk with one of Nice Hedge Fund's Big Shots. They were comparing footwear for the snowy/rainy/icy weather outside and I tuned in just in time to hear Easier say with the perfect mix of incredulous and accusatory, "Do they actually make Ugg boots for men?!" I nearly fell out of my uncomfortable chair laughing. TGIF.
It might be too late for me to escape with my dignity. I gave in to the last bastion of occupational indifference.
It doesn’t matter how much I resent my job “responsibilities,” or how many times I remind myself that this is just temporary until I get into grad school (fingers crossed!), there’s simply no denying anymore that I’m a full-fledged Admin.
You see, I got one of those under-desk portable heaters.
In reality, I grudgingly accepted the traditional tenets of Admin World ages ago. I walk to work in sneakers and carry my heels in my oversized purse. Before the days of free lunch, I’d pack my daily PBJ in Tupperware. I keep a nail file in my pen cup, lip gloss in my desk drawer, and extra panty hose in my filing cabinet. But the heater thing struck me as so Slow-Moving-Gray-Haired-Knee-Sock-Wearing-Receptionist and I’d like desperately to think I’m anything but, so I resisted. All of the Lifers have them, and I suspect the decision to become a career assistant requires a certain level of warmth and comfort at one's desk. When C left she bestowed upon me her heater and until today it sat under my desk unused. Well it snowed over night and I was freezing my nips off at my desk, so I cranked that baby up to see what I've been missing. Oh, it’s glorious. Now, I know I'll never be a career assistant because I'm never truly comfortable sitting still at my desk all day, but at least now I'll be warm for these last few weeks of winter. I'm still holding out from keeping an extra cardigan draped over my chair. Admins, it seems, are defined by their methods to cope with frigid office temperatures set by men wearing wool suits.
Easier just had a conversation near my desk with one of Nice Hedge Fund's Big Shots. They were comparing footwear for the snowy/rainy/icy weather outside and I tuned in just in time to hear Easier say with the perfect mix of incredulous and accusatory, "Do they actually make Ugg boots for men?!" I nearly fell out of my uncomfortable chair laughing. TGIF.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
The Year of Yes: Polar Bear Plunge
Happy Tuesday that feels like Monday, lovers! Easy, Easiest and JDate are all out today, extending their long weekend a bit more I guess, which means I’m doing even less than normal. I’m occupying my time with boredom eating (I maybe had two donuts earlier) and registering for triathlons (an interesting combination).
This past weekend, NewNew Roommate M came with me to the shore. Sure, I know it’s February and not exactly prime beach weather…well that didn’t quite stop us from tying on our bikinis and jumping into the Atlantic Ocean!
Sea Isle’s 14th annual Polar Bear Plunge took place on Saturday, and we were among the thousands who thought running into the 35 degree ocean was a good idea. It was insanity. People wore outrageous costumes and marched in a parade that was led by the newly-crowned Polar Bear Queen on her throne of ice. The retiring queen was over eighty! The new queen looks at least seventy! And now I have to add “Becoming Polar Bear Queen” to my list of life goals. My sights are set.
Anyway. With my cousin J’s help we convinced SisterOh to join us – she was not a happy camper, but we all had a blast. We stripped down to our bathing suits and made a mad dash into the ocean screaming all the way, then turned right around and bolted for the warmth of MomOh’s minivan. My legs and feet were entirely numb – I had a burr caught in my foot from climbing over the dunes and I didn’t even realize it! A shower has never felt so good. After we warmed up M and I went back down to the party that was still raging on under the tent at LaCosta. We drank a few beers, rocked out to the cover band and took pictures with all the goofy people there until it was time to go home for dinner with my family.
[Sidebar: I totally won the Craigslist Roommate Raffle yet again. M is the perfect houseguest AND she’s a good sport about my Year of Yes craziness. Anyone who responds to my “Let’s do this silly thing!” email with “I’m in!” is good in my book.]
The shore in the off-season is a different kind of wonderful. The town was packed to the gills for Saturday’s event, but it cleared out for the rest of the weekend and I kind of like having the place to ourselves. The Acme isn’t crowded, there was no wait for a table at Uncle Bill’s Pancake House, and our post-dinner activity of choice was a cutthroat game of family Scategories. We’re really that freakin’ cute. I love it.
My cell phone, not wanting to be left out of the polar bear fun, took a little plunge this weekend, too - I accidentally sent it through the spin cycle along with the sheets from my bed. Whoops. I dried it out and it’s mostly working again but it was temperamental before and machine washing it on warm with like colors doesn’t seem to help the situation. Brilliant, Jack.
This past weekend, NewNew Roommate M came with me to the shore. Sure, I know it’s February and not exactly prime beach weather…well that didn’t quite stop us from tying on our bikinis and jumping into the Atlantic Ocean!
Sea Isle’s 14th annual Polar Bear Plunge took place on Saturday, and we were among the thousands who thought running into the 35 degree ocean was a good idea. It was insanity. People wore outrageous costumes and marched in a parade that was led by the newly-crowned Polar Bear Queen on her throne of ice. The retiring queen was over eighty! The new queen looks at least seventy! And now I have to add “Becoming Polar Bear Queen” to my list of life goals. My sights are set.
Anyway. With my cousin J’s help we convinced SisterOh to join us – she was not a happy camper, but we all had a blast. We stripped down to our bathing suits and made a mad dash into the ocean screaming all the way, then turned right around and bolted for the warmth of MomOh’s minivan. My legs and feet were entirely numb – I had a burr caught in my foot from climbing over the dunes and I didn’t even realize it! A shower has never felt so good. After we warmed up M and I went back down to the party that was still raging on under the tent at LaCosta. We drank a few beers, rocked out to the cover band and took pictures with all the goofy people there until it was time to go home for dinner with my family.
[Sidebar: I totally won the Craigslist Roommate Raffle yet again. M is the perfect houseguest AND she’s a good sport about my Year of Yes craziness. Anyone who responds to my “Let’s do this silly thing!” email with “I’m in!” is good in my book.]
The shore in the off-season is a different kind of wonderful. The town was packed to the gills for Saturday’s event, but it cleared out for the rest of the weekend and I kind of like having the place to ourselves. The Acme isn’t crowded, there was no wait for a table at Uncle Bill’s Pancake House, and our post-dinner activity of choice was a cutthroat game of family Scategories. We’re really that freakin’ cute. I love it.
My cell phone, not wanting to be left out of the polar bear fun, took a little plunge this weekend, too - I accidentally sent it through the spin cycle along with the sheets from my bed. Whoops. I dried it out and it’s mostly working again but it was temperamental before and machine washing it on warm with like colors doesn’t seem to help the situation. Brilliant, Jack.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Love Letters from Meatheads
Happy Valentine’s Day, lovers!
I’m wearing a pink sweater and pink bracelets from SisterOh’s jewelry line. I have my heart earrings in, my heart ring on my finger, and two heart necklaces around my neck. Perhaps I’ve gone too far…whatever, I love any holiday punctuated with food, pretty stationary, and the color red. My sugar cookies have been a big hit in the office so far, though if this were Private Equity Firm they’d be gone by now, those guys were vultures. The guy from whom I order Easy’s breakfast every morning sent me a long-stemmed red rose along with Easy’s usual egg white omelet and coffee, and I can’t decide if that’s adorable or sad. Let’s just go with adorable.
We’re bored like crazy over here at Nice Hedge Fund. I’m folding red paper into origami hearts, Receptionist C is making a cute Valentine card for her boyfriend, and D is finishing her fashion school homework. Silly creative-type Admins, why are we toiling away at a finance company? But since it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m in a loving mood, I thought I’d share with you a sampler of messages that I’ve received from the fitness dating site. As you may have gathered, I lost interest in it after about a week. Sure, I’ve exchanged messages with a few seemingly cute and charming dudes, but sifting through the crazies, olds, and weirdos to find them is pretty tiring. For your webular entertainment, I’d like to introduce you to one of my biggest fans, my most determined would-be suitor. Brief bio: he’s a divorced 43-year-old "advanced weight lifter" who lives in Nevada, he considers himself an “extremely outgoing, optimistic, and passionate guy,” keeps to a high-protein diet (read: bad breath), and takes home a salary of over $100,000. Such a keeper! Oh, and he’s on the prowl for ladies between the ages of 28 (which I am not) and 36 – what’s the male version of a cougar?
So the following are excerpts from emails he’s sent me, with no response. The increasing desperation level is fascinating to observe. The first email starts out normal enough. He opens with a compliment, then turns it back to himself – very smooth. But a quick look at his profile and pictures sends him straight to the “no” bin:
I’m wearing a pink sweater and pink bracelets from SisterOh’s jewelry line. I have my heart earrings in, my heart ring on my finger, and two heart necklaces around my neck. Perhaps I’ve gone too far…whatever, I love any holiday punctuated with food, pretty stationary, and the color red. My sugar cookies have been a big hit in the office so far, though if this were Private Equity Firm they’d be gone by now, those guys were vultures. The guy from whom I order Easy’s breakfast every morning sent me a long-stemmed red rose along with Easy’s usual egg white omelet and coffee, and I can’t decide if that’s adorable or sad. Let’s just go with adorable.
We’re bored like crazy over here at Nice Hedge Fund. I’m folding red paper into origami hearts, Receptionist C is making a cute Valentine card for her boyfriend, and D is finishing her fashion school homework. Silly creative-type Admins, why are we toiling away at a finance company? But since it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m in a loving mood, I thought I’d share with you a sampler of messages that I’ve received from the fitness dating site. As you may have gathered, I lost interest in it after about a week. Sure, I’ve exchanged messages with a few seemingly cute and charming dudes, but sifting through the crazies, olds, and weirdos to find them is pretty tiring. For your webular entertainment, I’d like to introduce you to one of my biggest fans, my most determined would-be suitor. Brief bio: he’s a divorced 43-year-old "advanced weight lifter" who lives in Nevada, he considers himself an “extremely outgoing, optimistic, and passionate guy,” keeps to a high-protein diet (read: bad breath), and takes home a salary of over $100,000. Such a keeper! Oh, and he’s on the prowl for ladies between the ages of 28 (which I am not) and 36 – what’s the male version of a cougar?
So the following are excerpts from emails he’s sent me, with no response. The increasing desperation level is fascinating to observe. The first email starts out normal enough. He opens with a compliment, then turns it back to himself – very smooth. But a quick look at his profile and pictures sends him straight to the “no” bin:
“You definitely seem like one of the more exceptional women on this entire website. Your great smile tells me you're a lot of fun to be around and that you could probably appreciate my great sense of humor.”He tries again:
“As you may know, I just tried to IM you and didn't get through. Now just in case you thought you needed some extra time to prepare long and loving IM responses for me, it's not necessary....I'm actually a pretty laid back, easy going guy.........Hmmm.......perhaps you're getting a lot of IM requests all at once and it's probably kind of hard trying to figure out who to respond to first ....that's ok, I can wait...I'm also very patient.”Ooh, patient and dense, just how I like ‘em. I’m wise to the “decline instant message request” option by now.
“Hi Miss Fitness Singles 2008 "Catch of the Year" Candidate…And by the way, if there really were such a contest going on right now it wouldn't really be very fair to the other female candidates ya know......seems like they just might not have much of a chance competing with you.”I’m not even on the top 25 viewed profiles list (yes, such a distinction exists!) because I am unfortunately lacking in the fake tits category.
“Well I've been trying to figure out what's wrong with those NY guys to let you slip right past them like this and I came up with a couple of theories. Could it possibly be that all the guys who happen to have a secret “crush” on you are just afraid to approach you because they’re too intimidated by you, thinking you’re probably just a little too picky? Orrrr maybe they’re afraid they’ll find themselves suddenly captivated by your charms, helplessly trapped head over heels in the web of your magical spell?”He’s not done yet.
“Hey, just because you can be pretty stubborn that doesn't mean I'm going to stop pursuing you..... [Ed note: Creepy!] Listen, I know that you're pretty young and all age-wise but as far as I can tell most girls your age would prefer to go to a bar or club, do drugs, and drink a lot and I get the impression you're not like that (now if you're really a devil in disguise just be sure to let me know now, okay?) The thought of meeting a great "quality" guy for something special doesn't even seem to enter their heads. And there's something else too....and I really mean what I'm about to say. I have this uncanny ability to be able to just look into someone's eyes and read a lot about one's character (I hope this doesn't sound too cliche but it's totally true). The very first moment I saw your photos I saw something that I really liked about you, whether it was your adorable smile or the sincerity in your eyes, but there definitely was no doubt in my mind that we could have some incredibly great chemistry together......I'm thinking sparks constantly flying, earth shaking, once in a lifetime "off the chart" chemistry!A rather fitting use of that word “insane,” I’d say. Well hello there, “block member” option. Pleasure to meet you.
“You'd have to be insane not to see what I'm talking about here!!!!!!!!!!”
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Purple Monkey Dishwasher, Running Class Edition
Snow!
Yesterday in the late morning snow started falling pretty heavily by New York City standards. But it was Tuesday, and that meant one thing for certain: Running Class. It feels good to be back coaching after that unfortunate NO RUNNING hiatus of the fall. Even when I’m assigned to a slower group that doesn't give me such a hard workout, I love leading that running class more than anything else I do. And Coach B, the ruler supreme of running class, doesn’t cancel for anything short of a national incident. What's a teeny bit of driving snow and sleet and below-freezing temperatures?
My runners were skeptical in the beginning that we could even get through our Cat Hill repeats, but I tried as hard as I could to keep their spirits and energy level high with lots of “You guys are doing great!” cheers. Despite the treacherous weather we had a good workout and it was one of my favorite practices ever, but then again I’m just crazy enough to enjoy running in tough conditions. Thursday’s class falls on Valentine’s Day (and right during prime dinner time), so I joked to the group that class will be like a singles' night because only people without dates will show up. Another runner joked back that the proportions won’t work for the girls' favor because there are far more women than men in the class. Hear that, boys? Forget fitness dating sites – try fitness classes instead!
Well. Through a rather impressive feat of rumor mongering, my “singles' night at running class” comment got misconstrued into “Jackie is recruiting students for a singles' mixer at Tavern on the Green after running class on Thursday.”
Yesterday in the late morning snow started falling pretty heavily by New York City standards. But it was Tuesday, and that meant one thing for certain: Running Class. It feels good to be back coaching after that unfortunate NO RUNNING hiatus of the fall. Even when I’m assigned to a slower group that doesn't give me such a hard workout, I love leading that running class more than anything else I do. And Coach B, the ruler supreme of running class, doesn’t cancel for anything short of a national incident. What's a teeny bit of driving snow and sleet and below-freezing temperatures?
My runners were skeptical in the beginning that we could even get through our Cat Hill repeats, but I tried as hard as I could to keep their spirits and energy level high with lots of “You guys are doing great!” cheers. Despite the treacherous weather we had a good workout and it was one of my favorite practices ever, but then again I’m just crazy enough to enjoy running in tough conditions. Thursday’s class falls on Valentine’s Day (and right during prime dinner time), so I joked to the group that class will be like a singles' night because only people without dates will show up. Another runner joked back that the proportions won’t work for the girls' favor because there are far more women than men in the class. Hear that, boys? Forget fitness dating sites – try fitness classes instead!
Well. Through a rather impressive feat of rumor mongering, my “singles' night at running class” comment got misconstrued into “Jackie is recruiting students for a singles' mixer at Tavern on the Green after running class on Thursday.”
Um, WTF?
I don’t even know how that happened. I only know about the rumor because someone felt that I excluded him or her from this fabricated singles' mixer and reported it to Coach B, who sent me an admonishing email. It’s against class policy to promote personal events without clearing it with the head coaches first, and I know that. We got it straightened out after a couple messages back and forth – it was just a bizarre game of telephone until someone thought they weren’t invited and complained – but I was really upset by the ordeal. The actual miscommunication is pretty funny – it’s ridiculous that my joke (and not even a good joke at that, but it was cold and we were running and I was trying to be positive, okay?) morphed into a specific, exclusive party of which I was the unwitting host! And it kind of sounds like a fun idea, right? Tavern is so pretty! But! I felt hurt because there I was busting my ASS in the snow and sleet to encourage the class and keep things happy and still some sour puss reported me as a singles-recruiting-elitist to my boss! And he believed him/her, although he admitted that it sounded strange! That’s messed up.
It left a sour taste in my mouth. I’m afraid to have any fun in class on Thursday for fear that the same idiot will report me for only talking to the runners who are near me and thus excluding those in the back or some moronic shit like that. You know that line in that weird Baz Luhrman spoken word song that was all the rage in like, 1999? About how you should live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard? This is one of those moments when that lyric, however prosaic it seems now or then, rings clear and true. Sure, I could go into class on Thursday and be all business – no funny storytelling, no cheering, no friendly banter, but where’s the fun in that?
Instead of giving in, I'm baking five dozen heart-shaped sugar cookies for my co-workers and picking out which of my many red or pink clothing items to wear tomorrow. I know, I know, commericialized holiday of obligatory, over-priced romantic expression blah blah...I still love Valentine's Day. I am nostalgic for the Valentine's Day of my childhood when every kid in class exchanged cards and you ended the day with a whole shoebox full of hearts and cards and candy.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Year of Stupid: American Gladiators
This is a cry for help. I’m terminally bored at work. I’m not going to make it to the summer, guys.
Easy has been out sick since Friday. Apparently he doesn’t feel any compulsion to TELL HIS ASSISTANT this. No phone call, not even one of his classic emails with all of the info in the subject line and every word spelled incorrectly. Nada. Was I supposed to just GUESS that when he didn’t show up to work today and Friday that he wasn’t coming in at all? At this point I almost prefer ARM and his egomaniacal micromanaging ways – at least then I knew what was going on and what I needed to do. You know, almost. There has to be a happy medium.
Loud Guy has spent the better part of his day calling moving companies to get price quotes and C isn’t here to pass Post-it notes back and forth making fun of him and his ridiculous demands. Her absence really exacerbates the pain of boredom here – and I’m feeling extra stabby today because IT updated my computer over the weekend and Gchat is disabled until one of them can take a moment from their busy sitting around schedule to reinstall my Flash player. Stupid administrative access. Gah.
So, this past Saturday I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. If you know me (and I assume you all know me if you’re reading this) you know that’s a tough judgment call to make, but I feel pretty confident in this statement. At 8am on Saturday morning walked down to 38th and Broadway and stood in line to try out as a contender for American Gladiators. Cycling girl friend C was thinking of joining me for the tryouts, but she bailed and boy did she have the right idea.
Let me take a step back here. Actually trying out for American Gladiators wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Filling out the TWENTY-EIGHT page application form – pretty dumb, but still not quite there. No, the stupidest thing I’ve ever done was to stand in that line and advance a few feet every hour around a single city block in the hellhole just south of Times Square called the Fashion District for nearly TEN HOURS. By 6pm, with stiffened leg muscles, a sore lower back, frozen feet, a ton of new line friends, broken morale, and no end in sight, I gave up. My friend T brought me hot chocolate, and maybe that was all I needed to restore my senses and recognize the futility of reality television auditions. They didn’t care about how tough or fit you were – the active part of the audition was a Phys Ed joke involving suicide drills and squat thrusts. Don’t get me wrong, American Gladiators is compelling, high-quality entertainment and I’m certain I could kick ass on the Eliminator, but I’m simply not batshit crazy (enough) for reality shows. Oh well. It’s the Year of Yes, I had to at least check it out. In the end, T and I got huge, delicious cheeseburgers from Island Burger in my neighborhood and somehow that made everything better.
Easy has been out sick since Friday. Apparently he doesn’t feel any compulsion to TELL HIS ASSISTANT this. No phone call, not even one of his classic emails with all of the info in the subject line and every word spelled incorrectly. Nada. Was I supposed to just GUESS that when he didn’t show up to work today and Friday that he wasn’t coming in at all? At this point I almost prefer ARM and his egomaniacal micromanaging ways – at least then I knew what was going on and what I needed to do. You know, almost. There has to be a happy medium.
Loud Guy has spent the better part of his day calling moving companies to get price quotes and C isn’t here to pass Post-it notes back and forth making fun of him and his ridiculous demands. Her absence really exacerbates the pain of boredom here – and I’m feeling extra stabby today because IT updated my computer over the weekend and Gchat is disabled until one of them can take a moment from their busy sitting around schedule to reinstall my Flash player. Stupid administrative access. Gah.
So, this past Saturday I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. If you know me (and I assume you all know me if you’re reading this) you know that’s a tough judgment call to make, but I feel pretty confident in this statement. At 8am on Saturday morning walked down to 38th and Broadway and stood in line to try out as a contender for American Gladiators. Cycling girl friend C was thinking of joining me for the tryouts, but she bailed and boy did she have the right idea.
Let me take a step back here. Actually trying out for American Gladiators wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Filling out the TWENTY-EIGHT page application form – pretty dumb, but still not quite there. No, the stupidest thing I’ve ever done was to stand in that line and advance a few feet every hour around a single city block in the hellhole just south of Times Square called the Fashion District for nearly TEN HOURS. By 6pm, with stiffened leg muscles, a sore lower back, frozen feet, a ton of new line friends, broken morale, and no end in sight, I gave up. My friend T brought me hot chocolate, and maybe that was all I needed to restore my senses and recognize the futility of reality television auditions. They didn’t care about how tough or fit you were – the active part of the audition was a Phys Ed joke involving suicide drills and squat thrusts. Don’t get me wrong, American Gladiators is compelling, high-quality entertainment and I’m certain I could kick ass on the Eliminator, but I’m simply not batshit crazy (enough) for reality shows. Oh well. It’s the Year of Yes, I had to at least check it out. In the end, T and I got huge, delicious cheeseburgers from Island Burger in my neighborhood and somehow that made everything better.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
The Year of Yes: Mardi Gras
I’m sitting in my cubicle wearing my favorite Mardi Gras beads and feeling rather stunned, like I just got off a rollercoaster. I keep scrolling through my camera to remind myself that it’s really me in the pictures a thousand miles away from home, smiling ear to ear, and decked out in beads and feather boa.This past weekend, the Year of Yes took me to New Orleans for Mardi Gras festivities with Former Roommate L. I feel like I cheated on New York – the Big Apple will always be my first love, but the Big Easy is one heck of a temptress. A city with a nuanced history, deeply-rooted culture, beautiful architecture AND an open container law – what’s not to love?
Despite all the drinking and not sleeping, the trip was really healthy for me. On a lark I went somewhere I’d never been before without any sort of Plan beyond a text message from L saying a guy in a maroon baseball cap would pick me up from the airport. It was a total adventure and I loved every minute of it. I watched parades, ate jambalaya, explored the French Quarter, went running along the levees, partied on Bourbon Street and of course, collected a bajillion beads. The beads thing was so funny to me – I went there with a misconception that the only way to acquire beads is to, well, earn them, Girls Gone Wild style. Now, with a few drinks in me I loosen up a bit and sometimes I drink enough so I think I can dance, but exhibitionism isn’t quite my style and I doubt my small runner boobs would garner much attention anyway. As it turns out, you don’t have to flash any skin to get beads – the masked people on the parade floats just throw handfuls of them at the crowd. And sure, they’re just silly strands of shiny plastic, but when the floats go by group mentality takes over and you just have to catch them! There was plenty of craziness on Bourbon Street – girls flashing on balconies, beads flying overhead, guys that grab you as you walk past, huge frozen drinks with plastic alligators floating in the cup (a personal favorite of mine), and topless women sporting nothing but intricate butterflies painted on their chests. It’s like a week-long Halloween Parade in the Village if you replace fishnets with beads and change the color palette from black and red to purple green and gold.
L’s friends were all so much fun and I had a great time getting to know them. I’ve never felt so distinctly like a Yankee as I did when I was partying in the South with eight Texans! At the parades we made friends with the people around us including a group of Air Force pilots, one of whom shares my birthday. Naturally, I consulted Numerology Expert Receptionist about this phenomenon. Her response: same birthday means you’re soul mates. Then she reminded me that I’m supposed to be getting married this year. Oh, great, thanks. I think for now I’ll stick with my trusty astrology, which tells me today to “Turn on my charm, but don’t try to overdo it.” Now that I can handle.
Friday, February 1, 2008
And Now It's Burned on Your Brain, Too
Sweet Jesus, as C would say.
Today is a very sad day around Nice Hedge Fund: C’s last day. She’s leaving me, and I have no idea how I’m going to survive the increasingly painful workday without her. Who is going to throw stuff at me and D when we’re being to0 quiet? Who will encourage terrible lunch decisions usually involving massive quantities of bread and cheese products? Who will tell me about her ridiculous sex dreams with a particularly hot Nice Hedge Fund executive? The Temp filling in for her is pretty cool, but she’s no C. I might cry.
Her going away drinks were yesterday after work, but I couldn’t make it because of running class. I got home around 8:45 and was all set to heat up some leftovers and watch a movie with NewNew Roommate M when I got a message from C that they were still out drinking and had relocated to a bar two blocks from my apartment. Being the Year of Yes, my choice was clear. So we changed out of our pajamas and joined the very drunken party for pitcher upon pitcher of margaritas. C was out of her mind, Loud Guy was even louder than usual (but a lot of fun, he’s kind of growing on me), and NewNew Roommate M proved herself to be a kickass partner in crime. Around 11:30 a man on his way out of the restaurant stopped over to our table and said sarcastically, “I hope you all feel GREAT tomorrow.” Maybe we were a little rowdy? C retorted with something really ladylike about his old balls, but that guy might have gotten the last laugh because we were all a little hurty this morning. Nothing a burger, some ibuprofen and an IV drip of Vitamin Water can’t fix! Oh, I’m really going to miss C.
Ok, enough sappiness. Flirting! Ego boosting! Creepy old men! Internet Dating!
So once you’ve struck the perfect balance between informative and intriguing on your profile, Fitness Dating Site prompts you to upload up to 16 photographs of yourself. The profile picture is a crucial element to internet dating, obviously, so a well-chosen shot goes a long way. There are four areas to cover in your photo album: Headshot, Action, Dressed Up, and of course, Sexy. None of these should be professional photographs unless you are, in fact, a professional photographer. Crop out others, especially if they are better looking than you, and avoid cell phone pictures that you take of yourself in the mirror because that just looks stupid. And dudes, everyone has been to Hooters so save the shots of you with a hot chick on each arm for your personal collection. My primary picture is my Sexy shot – smiling, tan, wearing a bikini on the beach. I used a picture of me running the Sea Isle City 10 Miler for Action shot because this is Fitness Dating Site and you have to prove that you are as athletic as you claim to be. I added my Dressed Up picture a little later than the others (wearing a black dress AND makeup!), but I think it’s helpful to show your potential dates that you clean up well after you sweat like a maniac. Four photos should cover you, a few more won’t hurt, but at least upload one, guys. None of this “Email me to see my photos” bullshit. This isn’t a game show, I don’t want to see what’s behind door number one. This is internet dating, and I want instant gratification. Uploading 16 photographs makes you seem narcissistic and desperate, and frankly, I’m concerned about someone who actually has sixteen flattering photographs of himself. Quality over quantity here, folks.
And, if I may invoke C yet again today, SWEET JESUS don’t send this to someone with the note, “Trading bikini shots – hehe!!!"
Today is a very sad day around Nice Hedge Fund: C’s last day. She’s leaving me, and I have no idea how I’m going to survive the increasingly painful workday without her. Who is going to throw stuff at me and D when we’re being to0 quiet? Who will encourage terrible lunch decisions usually involving massive quantities of bread and cheese products? Who will tell me about her ridiculous sex dreams with a particularly hot Nice Hedge Fund executive? The Temp filling in for her is pretty cool, but she’s no C. I might cry.
Her going away drinks were yesterday after work, but I couldn’t make it because of running class. I got home around 8:45 and was all set to heat up some leftovers and watch a movie with NewNew Roommate M when I got a message from C that they were still out drinking and had relocated to a bar two blocks from my apartment. Being the Year of Yes, my choice was clear. So we changed out of our pajamas and joined the very drunken party for pitcher upon pitcher of margaritas. C was out of her mind, Loud Guy was even louder than usual (but a lot of fun, he’s kind of growing on me), and NewNew Roommate M proved herself to be a kickass partner in crime. Around 11:30 a man on his way out of the restaurant stopped over to our table and said sarcastically, “I hope you all feel GREAT tomorrow.” Maybe we were a little rowdy? C retorted with something really ladylike about his old balls, but that guy might have gotten the last laugh because we were all a little hurty this morning. Nothing a burger, some ibuprofen and an IV drip of Vitamin Water can’t fix! Oh, I’m really going to miss C.
Ok, enough sappiness. Flirting! Ego boosting! Creepy old men! Internet Dating!
So once you’ve struck the perfect balance between informative and intriguing on your profile, Fitness Dating Site prompts you to upload up to 16 photographs of yourself. The profile picture is a crucial element to internet dating, obviously, so a well-chosen shot goes a long way. There are four areas to cover in your photo album: Headshot, Action, Dressed Up, and of course, Sexy. None of these should be professional photographs unless you are, in fact, a professional photographer. Crop out others, especially if they are better looking than you, and avoid cell phone pictures that you take of yourself in the mirror because that just looks stupid. And dudes, everyone has been to Hooters so save the shots of you with a hot chick on each arm for your personal collection. My primary picture is my Sexy shot – smiling, tan, wearing a bikini on the beach. I used a picture of me running the Sea Isle City 10 Miler for Action shot because this is Fitness Dating Site and you have to prove that you are as athletic as you claim to be. I added my Dressed Up picture a little later than the others (wearing a black dress AND makeup!), but I think it’s helpful to show your potential dates that you clean up well after you sweat like a maniac. Four photos should cover you, a few more won’t hurt, but at least upload one, guys. None of this “Email me to see my photos” bullshit. This isn’t a game show, I don’t want to see what’s behind door number one. This is internet dating, and I want instant gratification. Uploading 16 photographs makes you seem narcissistic and desperate, and frankly, I’m concerned about someone who actually has sixteen flattering photographs of himself. Quality over quantity here, folks.
And, if I may invoke C yet again today, SWEET JESUS don’t send this to someone with the note, “Trading bikini shots – hehe!!!"
Did...did he photoshop the Speedo on? I can't quite tell, it looks a lot darker than the rest of the contrast, but I can't look at this picture for more than two seconds before I simultaneously laugh and die a little inside. Internet dating - not for the faint of heart. Or the dignified, apparently.
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