Wednesday, February 19, 2014

If you're obsessive-compulsive, don't read this (or read it over and over).

  When I started dating a Russian, I had no idea they'd be so superstitious. The problem with me is that I'm already obsessive-compulsive. Meaning, I've got my own weird superstitions. If you don't have this problem, then, you're fortunate. Imagine feeling like you have to do something a certain amount of times in a row just so you don't have bad luck. That's what it's like. It's something I moderately control, so it doesn't interfere with my life so much. However, now, thanks to my boyfriend, I now have new superstitions to follow.
  There's one similar to our "knock on wood" superstition, except you lightly spit over your shoulder three times instead of knocking. If you are talking about a physical injury that happened to someone and you show it on yourself, you have to grab the imaginary injury and blow it away from your hand. I was talking about my roommate's cat having a tumor in it's throat and I touched my own throat while describing it. My boyfriend interrupts me very seriously "No, babe, don't do that. Now you have to do this." He touches his throat, and blows this imaginary ailment from his hand like it was an eyelash. I was like, what the fuck is going on? I guess you do this to keep this injury from happening to you, too. He proceeded to tell me all the Russian superstitions he could think of in one night. Mentally, I took notes but they were hard to remember. There was something about meeting a woman carrying a bucket, but I let that one slip. Honestly, how many times could that occur in life? I was once again talking about the cat's tumor to a co-worker. I accidentally touched my throat as I was describing it and freaked. Confused about what to do, I blew from my hand AND spit over my shoulder three times. I must have looked like I was having an epileptic seizure. Dammit, I didn't want to have bad luck. When I told my boyfriend about the confusion, he just laughed and shook his head. "Babe, you just grab it and blow with your hand. You don't spit. That's for when you want something to happen." Silly me.
  I started taking these Russian superstitions so seriously. Apparently, you can't whistle inside or you'll become poor. Is that what's been going wrong all these years? I love to whistle, but screw that. It's humming from here on out. One night while we were eating, I dropped my fork. "Oh, a man is coming to see you", he said. "Or, maybe it's a woman. I forget." Which is it? He told me he'd research it. Exactly where does one find out this information? Does he skype with a grandmother in the motherland? You can't just lightly throw this information out to someone like me. It's gospel from this point on. If me dropping a fork means a man is coming to see me, then a man is coming to see me. These new rules are cemented in my brain. I just hope I never come across a woman carrying an empty bucket or I'm screwed.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

OMG, I just exercised

  I just experienced ten minutes of cursing, pain and sweat. Yes, I finally exercised. Big deal, you say? Imagine someone with the willpower and motivation of Homer Simpson. I don't have any angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other; I have a devil and a fatter, lazier devil on the other. "Stay under the electric blanket watching Ancient Aliens" one says. "Eat something and then take a nap" says the other. There's motivation in my head, but it occurs when I'm at work. I get inspired to eat something healthy and exercise when I get home. The problem is that I'm on my feet for eight hours. After I get home, I'm emotionally and physically spent. You know how Mr. Rogers would change into his sweater and shoes when he came in the door? I throw on sweatpants and a thermal shirt the same way. That shit is on in less than a minute. If I could motivate myself to exercise like I motivate myself to get ready to relax, then I'd get somewhere. How can I harness this misspent energy? One answer-disgust with myself. I'm not talking about my laziness. I'm talking about my flab. This winter, I've definitely gained weight. Sad, but true.  I was wrestling with Viggo the other day and he pointed at my protruding stomach being held back with spanx and asked "What's that?" It must have looked like the walls of a dam before the water bursts through. Finally, tonight, I couldn't take looking down at that belly pouch. Lady, get a grip, I thought. Granted, I only did ten minutes of pilates, but in my world, it's like running a marathon. For now, I'll take baby steps. Maybe, or if, warmer weather arrives, I'll be able to take some walks. I have to do something. I feel like Brando when he was in Apocalypse Now. They had to change the fight scene with Martin Sheen because he was so out of shape. He should have looked at himself and said "Fuck, Marlon, get it together. " I'm going to try now before I'm past the point of no return.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Winter blows

  Like most people on the east coast, this winter is killing me. It's been a bombardment of snow, ice and bitter cold. This is the worst winter I can remember since '93. Geez, I sound really old making a statement like that. I only recall that winter because I lived with my grandparents at the time. My grandpap wanted me to shovel a tunnel from the back porch to the shed. He totally did one of those man things by telling me I was shoveling the snow wrong. Regardless, two days after I accomplished this task, I could barely move. I was a tiny lady back then. The winter now is miserable in so many ways. Walking is precarious. Tonight I slipped on ice and almost fell, twisting my back in a so not right way. My steps have become my daily Mt. Everest. When I make it to the front door, I feel like I should plant a flag by the door as a sign of accomplishment. Driving in this is even worse. My tires have been as bald as Patrick Stewart's head. My mom, bless her soul, lent me money for new tires. I can finally make it out of the space on my street without struggling. My apartment is pretty warm. That's because my roommate jams the heat. I half expect to see him walking around in Bermuda shorts with a Mai Tai drink, he keeps it so toasty. I miserly turn the heat back constantly. I grew up poor. You learn to layer your clothing and huddle under blankets, not rock the heat. But, I do keep my fingers crossed that the heat doesn't go out. It's happened twice this winter, which is always delightful.
  On the days when I grumble most, I get excited texts from my Russian boyfriend marveling over the snowfall. "Isn't it beautiful?", he'll declare. I'm glad someone can find the beauty. I can only worry about making it safely back and forth to work. These winters are probably nothing to my bf. I'm sure he's thinking we should suck it up. I should, at least. Maybe I shouldn't swear immediately upon exiting my front door in the morning. Sweltering summer will be here before we know it and we'll be whining about the heat. I'll just be happy when walking isn't like some high-wire circus act. Having the grace of a rhinoceros, it's only a matter of time before I fall down.