life in gondwana and the caring hands of dominatrixes
450 million years ago, there weren't any plants. All life on Earth still resided in the oceans and continents--including the Gondwana supercontinent in the sounthern hemisphere--remained dry and barren. Even plants were just getting around to evolving. This is called the Ordovician period. Evidence of this primordial time can be found here, in the confines of my Never Never Land-style college town home where, on Sundays, the streets are bare and it's impossible to find an open restaurant. At least in the dear old Ordovician, you could wrangle yourself some seafood, if you had a taste for sea scorpion.
I promise to go food shopping when I get back from my friend's wedding in New York, assuming I have the money to do so. I don't want to eat out so much anymore, mostly because I'm bored with my choice of dining establishments and because my stomach can no longer be held hostage by the whims of narrowminded businesspeople who don't realize the foolishness of closing their eateries ON A WEEKEND DAY. I was unable to score two of my favorite sandwiches in town (the wasabi-lime tuna melt and the California chicken) because the establishment that offered the former was closed, and the home of the latter was opened but doesn't serve lunch items on Sunday (which is perhaps even more preposterous). I had to settle for Subway. Later, my dreams of a good sushi dinner were met with another locked door, sending me down the path of a burger and a salad, both of which were quite good. I understand that a person can have worse problems, but please remember it's all relative and since a good meal is just about the only enjoyment I get out of life, I take that shit pretty fucking personally.
When I moved out to California, I was a somewhat slim chap with a thick head of hair. It was my first time living out of my parents house and I was some 3000 miles away in a college town that has a ratio of two nubile young females to every hormone-juiced dude. Of course, as luck would have it, I almost instantly became chubby and bald, which was a big boost to my already flimsy confidence. I joined a gym for a little while with my already-athletic female roommates, and though they were very, very supportive of my efforts, I just couldn't get comfortable working out in front of all those people. I think I went about four or five times before I decided the gym wasn't for me.
Since I don't have a car, I do a lot of walking. I really like walking, and even when I don't have to go to work, I go for walks, either just downtown to grab a video or a bite to eat, or longer walks out to the batting cages or the park. It's good. It keeps me active physically, but it also keeps my mind pretty active, and it could use all the help it can get with all the shitty television shows I watch. Still, and this is embarassing me as I type almost to the level of having someone walk in on you while you're masturbating, I've been feeling the desire to exercise more (I think I'm blushing), but I'd be completely mortified if anyone caught me, so, like masturbating, I do it in my room with the door locked.
It's been going good so far. It's been a whole week. For motivational purposes, I've employed the help of Minna Lessig and Julie Upton, who are fitness gurus of Exercise TV, which is available On Demand. They're in ridiculously good shape, and they're kinda good with the motivation stuff, even though I get really embarassed when Julie asks of Minna and their third female cohort, "Ready girls?" I've only ever followed a workout video once before when my "friend" (you know who you are) asked me to do yoga with her. The instructor was Rodney Yee, no doubt an impressive specimen, but an unnervingly bendy and hairless man who comes up with mindboggling instructions like "strong eyes, soft throat," as he implores you to contort your body into impossible poses. Fuck you, Rodney. I settled on Minna and Julie because I think they're kinda hot, and I foolishly tried to convince myself that since they were "chicks" I'd be able to take whatever they threw at me. Real foolish. I've been in a constant state of sore for days now, but I can't let on because I don't want anyone to know what I've been doing. My biggest fear is that someone will walk in on me mid-crunch or knock on the door because I'm huffing and puffing and I'll have to make up some obvious lie. Maybe I'll just tell them I'm jerking off.
I promise to go food shopping when I get back from my friend's wedding in New York, assuming I have the money to do so. I don't want to eat out so much anymore, mostly because I'm bored with my choice of dining establishments and because my stomach can no longer be held hostage by the whims of narrowminded businesspeople who don't realize the foolishness of closing their eateries ON A WEEKEND DAY. I was unable to score two of my favorite sandwiches in town (the wasabi-lime tuna melt and the California chicken) because the establishment that offered the former was closed, and the home of the latter was opened but doesn't serve lunch items on Sunday (which is perhaps even more preposterous). I had to settle for Subway. Later, my dreams of a good sushi dinner were met with another locked door, sending me down the path of a burger and a salad, both of which were quite good. I understand that a person can have worse problems, but please remember it's all relative and since a good meal is just about the only enjoyment I get out of life, I take that shit pretty fucking personally.
When I moved out to California, I was a somewhat slim chap with a thick head of hair. It was my first time living out of my parents house and I was some 3000 miles away in a college town that has a ratio of two nubile young females to every hormone-juiced dude. Of course, as luck would have it, I almost instantly became chubby and bald, which was a big boost to my already flimsy confidence. I joined a gym for a little while with my already-athletic female roommates, and though they were very, very supportive of my efforts, I just couldn't get comfortable working out in front of all those people. I think I went about four or five times before I decided the gym wasn't for me.
Since I don't have a car, I do a lot of walking. I really like walking, and even when I don't have to go to work, I go for walks, either just downtown to grab a video or a bite to eat, or longer walks out to the batting cages or the park. It's good. It keeps me active physically, but it also keeps my mind pretty active, and it could use all the help it can get with all the shitty television shows I watch. Still, and this is embarassing me as I type almost to the level of having someone walk in on you while you're masturbating, I've been feeling the desire to exercise more (I think I'm blushing), but I'd be completely mortified if anyone caught me, so, like masturbating, I do it in my room with the door locked.
It's been going good so far. It's been a whole week. For motivational purposes, I've employed the help of Minna Lessig and Julie Upton, who are fitness gurus of Exercise TV, which is available On Demand. They're in ridiculously good shape, and they're kinda good with the motivation stuff, even though I get really embarassed when Julie asks of Minna and their third female cohort, "Ready girls?" I've only ever followed a workout video once before when my "friend" (you know who you are) asked me to do yoga with her. The instructor was Rodney Yee, no doubt an impressive specimen, but an unnervingly bendy and hairless man who comes up with mindboggling instructions like "strong eyes, soft throat," as he implores you to contort your body into impossible poses. Fuck you, Rodney. I settled on Minna and Julie because I think they're kinda hot, and I foolishly tried to convince myself that since they were "chicks" I'd be able to take whatever they threw at me. Real foolish. I've been in a constant state of sore for days now, but I can't let on because I don't want anyone to know what I've been doing. My biggest fear is that someone will walk in on me mid-crunch or knock on the door because I'm huffing and puffing and I'll have to make up some obvious lie. Maybe I'll just tell them I'm jerking off.
3 comments:
Oh, god, Rodney. He's evil. Even when I was in excellently bendy shape, he nearly killed me. I wound up screaming at the tv "I'll soften your fucking throat, Rodney!" countless times.
I can't workout in public, either. I can't help but feel vain and shallow and absurdly pathetic.
Even when I'm just walking, I think, "all these people are assuming I have no car or even a bicycle, or that I have multiple DUIs."
R: HEE! Rodney Yee needs a reality check. perhaps only Shakira can bend in such a manner.
Steve: I hear ya on all fronts. The other day I went for a long walk that took me down the road next to the freeway and I was sure everyone thought I was homeless or a male prostitute or both. When I'm rich, I'll get a personal trainer. A blind one.
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