Why I'm in the Gym Bathroom Stall Eating a Creme-Filled Donut

Woman, 20s.

WOMAN: (TALKING TO DONUT.) You're probably wondering what I'm doing here, aren't you? I can feel your judgement. Or worse, your sympathy. You're thinking, "Oh, what's that poor girl doing?! Standing here, practically swallowing me whole when she should be out there sweating out the calories, burning the fat, building the endorphins! Sure, she may never look like those women in the cellulite cream commercials (you know, the ones who pretend to be shocked when their skinny jeans fit their size 2 asses) but she still has a chance to feel good about herself!" (SHOUTS AT DONUT.) Well, I won't take your judgment! And I won't let you look at me like that anymore! (BITES DONUT.) HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW, BAVARIAN CREME?!!! (REACTS LIKE SOMEONE HAS ENTERED THE BATHROOM, RECOVERS TO A WHISPER.)

I'll tell you why I'm here right now. You see, it all started with my mom. I had colic as a baby so she took me to these classes called Baby Fart Aerobics. (PAUSE.) You'd think they could have assigned another name to it. Something cheesy like "Lickin' Away the Colic" or "Bouncing out the Bubbles." But noooo, I'll carry the shame of Baby Fart Aerobics forever. Anyway, since the class worked so well for me and I made so many new friends (or at least that's what my mom tells me since I was only 3 months old), mom's been on me to join another social exercise class. So, today I took the plunge and I signed up for step aerobics. I thought, "Hey, how hard could this be? I just have to keep in time with the music and step."

WRONG. I knew that it was going to be bad as soon as I entered the classroom. All of the women in their tight spandex and triple-stacked steps. I tried to find a good spot so as to see the instructor when a blonde chic with legs up to here (GESTURES.) told me that I was "in her spot." So, I quickly moved just as class started, and of course I was in the back of the room. The music began pumping at an alarming speed and immediately the teacher started using terms I didn't understand. She was just like, (IMITATES.) "Now Round the World and Grapevine for two, and Alternating V Step with a Straddle Down!" Hell, I didn't know if I was turning right or stepping left or spinning around. I was trying so hard to keep up that I tripped over my step and landed on the CD player cord, which of course ripped it out of the wall. Everyone turned to stare at me. As I quickly rushed out of the room in a swirl of apologies, I realized something: STEP AEROBICS IS THE SORORITY OF AEROBICS. I mean, c'mon, think about it! You're either in or your out. Everyone who's in knows what they are doing and most of them come from a line of women who also did it. They don't like newcomers, especially if you're awkward and sweaty. Really, stepping has to be in your blood. And you know what I discovered, oh great Long John of mine, the only thing in my blood is sugar. And I plan to keep it that way. (STUFFS ENTIRE DONUT INTO MOUTH AND SIGHS WITH BLISS.)

I LOVE RICKY GERVAIS

This is a teaser for a Ricky Gervais movie called Cemetery Junction. Gervais is the creative genius behind BBC's The Office and Extras (both written, directed, and starring him). He has also played roles in several American movies like Night at the Museum, Ghost Town, Stardust, and a film coming out in October called The Invention of Lying. He has won 18 awards, including a few Emmys and Golden Globes. If you do not know who he is, you should check him out. He is seriously one of the funniest comedians I have ever seen. Watching the Bonus Features on The Office and Extras is a must.

ADRENALINE'S A FUNNY THING

During my college years, I returned home to my parents' house once every couple of months to visit. Since my parents installed a pool AFTER I MOVED AWAY, I enjoyed going back home for visits (though I still rue the days I had to run through a sprinkler in the backyard). Since my parents lived in a developing area in the suburbs of Houston, every time I voyaged home the streets, buildings, and landscaping in the area were different, which confused me and caught me off-guard sometimes.

One day, I was driving with my mother through the back of her neighborhood, which at the time was a very winding and narrow set of streets. I was probably driving a little too fast, but I like to think of it as practicing for an emergency in case any one ever slips lead into my shoes. Anyway, I was rounding a bend a little too quickly, when (out of no where, in my opinion) a man appeared. He was talking a walk, probably enjoying the sunshine, when my red car came flashing around the corner. To save his own life, the man jumped, no LEAPED, onto the grass nearby. It all happened so quickly that I really didn't have time to slam on the breaks. It just happened, and then, I was like, "Whew, okay, well I didn't hit him!"

THIS IS THE BEST PART OF THE STORY. Then, one of the strangest things happened. I preface this by saying that when someone has a rush of adrenaline, and then the exciting or scary moment passes, it must be expressed in some manner. Screaming, crying, or sighing might all be ways to do this. What did I do, you ask? I laughed. Hard. The kind of cachinnation where I couldn't catch my breath. The bust-a-rib, tears-in-the-eyes, I-almost-killed-a-man-but-didn't laughing. It just bubbled up and I couldn't contain it. My mother thought that I had lost my mind. Scott still believes that I'm certifiable and he's a little terrified of me behind the wheel.

All I know is that the man who lived to tell the tale today is probably terrified of red Pontiac Grand Ams. Someone probably should warn him that I have a different car now.

Whirr Whirr Whirr Goes the Loom

Women, we have a giant loom in our heads that is constantly going, whether we're taking a shower, eating dinner, going for a jog, or simply enjoying a popsicle. Whirr, Whirr, Whirr. I like to picture our looms like the giant one used in the movie WANTED. Only we aren't twisting our threads to discover future assinations, we are weaving every element, encounter, or event of our lives together to make sense of the world. We women, in general, are ALWAYS thinking about something, whether inane or important, that may or may not be related to the task at hand. We are making to-do lists, reminding ourselves to call people back, pondering what exactly our boss meant when she laughed, smiling at the wonderous plot of the book we're reading, cursing ourselves for eating that chocolate cake last night. Whirr. We are constructing snarky retorts incase our co-workers bother us again, we are planning how to drop 15 pounds in a month, we are sighing at the loads of laundry waiting to be done. Whirr. We are thinking of ways to show our love to our families, brainstorming ideas of how to get that new job, and worst of all, pressuring ourselves to be superwomen. Whirr. Our looms are what make us women. There is something, however, that I have discovered: I AM THE MASTER OF MY LOOM.

A few months ago, I decided in the constant whirr to commit to working out three days a week at 5 am. I was faithful to go most every time, but I started noticing something as I hit the alarm at 4:50... my mind would instantly race into action. My loom weaved around things that I needed to accomplish in the day, foods that I needed to avoid, people that I needed to contact, etc. I became like an instant pressure cooker. I decided that this was unhealthy, and I began to do something I have noticed men can do: become a like a waffle full of empty squares and think about nothing. This was a magical new land filled with nothing. I loved it. I didn't have to plan anything or think about the gloriously skinny women working out around me. I could just enjoy working out.

Ladies everywhere, I invite you to be the masters of your looms today. Grab that shuttle like the delicious James McAvoy does in WANTED and then kick everyone else's asses. Ok, you don't have to really do that, just go into waffle-land and savor the sweet stillness of nothing.

EsChewing Snickers

I have been noting Snickers' latest ad campaign, which generally involves the word "chewing" in a not-t0-subtle manner. There's one particular advertisement within the campaign that makes ABSOLUTELY no sense to me. First, I saw the sign: "Get dunked on by Patrick Chewing." Although I am a basketball fan, I could not understand what Patrick Ewing had to do with Snickers. Did he eat Snickers before playing with the big leather pumpkin? Can he dunk because he eats Snickers? Would eating Snickers bring Patrick Ewing into my life? Why would I want a seven-foot sweaty giant dunking on me??? How did this relate to eating Snickers?

Then, I saw the commercial. I thought, "Finally, I'm going to get some answers! Now it will all make sense!" As I watched the commercial, fearing to blink that I may miss the one bit that would bring the campaign together, I realized the harsh reality: there IS no point. Basically, the advertisers are saying that if I eat a snickers, Patrick Ewing will dunk on me, which will undoubtedly throw me to the floor in an oozing puddle of his sweat. How does this make me want to eat Snickers?? Friends, all of you must run away in fear of all Snickers bars. If you must ingest them, try doing it in your closet. Stuff them in your mouth while in the bathroom stall. Better yet, gorge yourself on them in Saddam's old hiding place. Whatever you do, DO NOT eat them standing under a basketball hoop raised to standard height. Otherwise, you may end up eating sweaty nougat with a slight concussion. Be chewsy.

New Blog!

Greetings! I am starting a new blog here. I have to be honest: I hate writing. It is one of my least favorite things to do, which is funny considering that I just finished three grueling years working on my master's degree that ended in a 120+ page thesis. I figure, however, that now I can write my musings in a laid-back manner, and that hopefully no one is going to grade them! I want this blog to be a place where I can be honest, ridiculous, and painfully random. Come join me on this farcical journey. I promise that you will always be amused and that in general you will feel better about yourself like when you watch Jerry Springer shows. It will be like Candyland on acid dipped in sprinkles filled with sass rolled in confusion with a dash of intellectualism. On fire.