So, its absolutely GORGEOUS out and Dakota had been staring at me all afternoon begging for a little paw-to-pavement time. So I conceded.
We were happily trotting along, she had a stick in her mouth, I had the new Lily Allen piping through my ears. Usually Dakota likes to stop and sniff a squirrel or two and a quick tug on the leash is enough to redirect her attention. So when she was lagging behind longer than usual, I decided to stop and see what the big deal was.
The big deal was a little girl dressed like a pink fairy. We stopped and chatted a bit. She pet Dakota, then asked if she could walk with us. I looked around for her adult and didn't see anyone, upon asking her where her adult was, she said that her mom was working on her car and that she said she could walk around the block. Fair enough.
Halfway down the block, I heard what I believed for a brief moment to be the first waves of the Apocalypse. Mind you, we live 2 miles from the airport so loud noises are not unfamiliar. This noise trumped any jetliner. It was a crazed mother screaming her child's name. When she saw me and the little trixie gallavanting about, she ran up, swooped her offspring off the sidewalk, and walked briskly away yelling "This is MY DAUGHTER, MY DAUGHTER!!!", while the little wand in her hand waved back at me as if to say "I'm sorry, lady, my mother is crazy and will one day set up a nanny cam in my room"
She departed before I had time to pause my ipod but had I gotten a word in, I probably just would have said, "Thank you for reminding me why I work so hard to ensure that women have access to birth control and reproductive rights, you can keep your kid".
Friday, November 6, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Sometimes I just want to answer "yes" to see what happens...
So, let's just ignore the fact that it's been many moons since I've written, I have gone to Europe, gotten the swine flu, all of which is irrelevant except for this one fact; every time I go to Europe....or anywhere for that matter...I return to good ol MN and am reminded of our incredible passive aggressiveness. It's commendable, really.
Today at the diner, for my first shift back after 2 weeks in Europe and 1 week on my couch, I was reminded of one of the oddest Minnesotanisms I bear witness to daily. The problem comes when people have issues with their food. Take it from a server, having a problem with your food is not the issue, it's how you HANDLE your problem with your food. For goddsakes it's going in your body, I would hope you have an opinion about it. The correct way to complain is to state your issue, state whether you would like new food or the item removed from your bill, and don't ever apologize and say that you "neeeever do this" because it doesn't matter to us. We just want you to be satisfied so we can move along.
There are deviations from this model that make me outright mad in dealing with passive aggressivity, like throwing a mini tantrum and pushing your plate to the edge while scouring and refusing new food or a smaller bill, as if you're just so upset you can't even imagine how you should be presented with an adult decision. Or expanding on excatly why you are so upset with your food. When I start to feel like I should be getting practice hours towards my counseling degree because I'm staging relational interventions between you and your plate, you've gone too far. "I know you're not happy with it, but it told you everything that it was going to be on the menu...you knew what you were getting into". Please.
But the laughable deviation from the correct method tickles my smart ass side and urges me to follow their lead. I absolutely love it when I bring something to the table that they did not order, say rye bread instead of white (yes, it was my fault) and they look at me and say, "Ummm....is this WHITE bread?" It takes every restraint within me not to just say "yep!" and walk away.
This would be particularly entertaining if say a Cheesburger was brought instead of a Tuna melt or a Chardonnay instead of Cabernet. Minnesotans of the world, stop tempting me with your passive aggressiveness, I've been working at the same restaurant for years and I am going to start to make things much more exciting. Just to see what you will do and see the look on your face when I walk away.
Today at the diner, for my first shift back after 2 weeks in Europe and 1 week on my couch, I was reminded of one of the oddest Minnesotanisms I bear witness to daily. The problem comes when people have issues with their food. Take it from a server, having a problem with your food is not the issue, it's how you HANDLE your problem with your food. For goddsakes it's going in your body, I would hope you have an opinion about it. The correct way to complain is to state your issue, state whether you would like new food or the item removed from your bill, and don't ever apologize and say that you "neeeever do this" because it doesn't matter to us. We just want you to be satisfied so we can move along.
There are deviations from this model that make me outright mad in dealing with passive aggressivity, like throwing a mini tantrum and pushing your plate to the edge while scouring and refusing new food or a smaller bill, as if you're just so upset you can't even imagine how you should be presented with an adult decision. Or expanding on excatly why you are so upset with your food. When I start to feel like I should be getting practice hours towards my counseling degree because I'm staging relational interventions between you and your plate, you've gone too far. "I know you're not happy with it, but it told you everything that it was going to be on the menu...you knew what you were getting into". Please.
But the laughable deviation from the correct method tickles my smart ass side and urges me to follow their lead. I absolutely love it when I bring something to the table that they did not order, say rye bread instead of white (yes, it was my fault) and they look at me and say, "Ummm....is this WHITE bread?" It takes every restraint within me not to just say "yep!" and walk away.
This would be particularly entertaining if say a Cheesburger was brought instead of a Tuna melt or a Chardonnay instead of Cabernet. Minnesotans of the world, stop tempting me with your passive aggressiveness, I've been working at the same restaurant for years and I am going to start to make things much more exciting. Just to see what you will do and see the look on your face when I walk away.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Deep-Fried Bitterness on a Stick
When you're in counseling school and you spend a lot of time thinking and talking about feelings you begin to be hyper-aware of emotions in others, what is normal emotional response and what qualifies as "inappropriate" or "unhealthy" (as we say in 'the biz').
Allow me to provide you with an example of an unhealthy emotional response.
This emotional response took place in a charter bus after leaving the Minnesota State Fair. Normally this is a happy time when fair patrons are full of fried food and joyful camaraderie. With the exception being, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Bittersworth seated halfway down the bus rows and picking a fight with whomever struck an unlucky position in their path of fire. My friends and I were the unlucky ones.
Upon arriving to our destinational parking area, we looked around to nitice that no one else needed to get off at the stop (so we thought), so we quickly got up and moved towards the front.
Eventually, people started coming out of their food comas and realized that it was also their stop. Thus began the fire breathing as we found ourselves at Mr. and Mrs. Bittersworth's row of doom. I shall dialogue the rest for you so you can get a true mental picture.
Mrs. B - "Dont you think we should be unloading from the FRONT of the bus!!!?? Why are these girls leaving from the back!?! They're doing it wrong, they should have waited for us to leave!!!"
My friend Molly - "Well, we didn't. Sorry"
Me - "We're all gonna get off the bus...don't worry, lady, it's gonna be fine"
Mrs. B - "You're VERY RUDE!!! Honey, (to Mr. B) just stand up in front of her! Just get up and push her out of the way!!"
They then proceeded to put Molly into what I'd like to call the "hate sandwich" in which they forced her in between them as they exited the bus, they repeatedly told her how rude she was, asked her how old she was, and generally harassed her for the seemingly endless journey to the front of the bus.
Their temperatures flared with every nonchalant "Whatever", "Ok, great thank you", "You're stupid" reaction from Molly. One would have thought that, given such an adverse reaction to the thought of someone else getting off the bus BEFORE them (gasp!) that they were in some kind of hurry. However, the behavior of Mr. B contradicted this assumption when he waited for Molly to get off the bus to continue his fire breathing.
The rest of the incident is a blur of phrases in my head. There were some "F*** you"s, "Go F*** yourself"s, Molly interjected a "My god, you're SO unhappy", another friend of ours added a "You should have stood up quicker!". It was a fine display of adult maturity by this adult couple who all the while failed to realize that we all got into our cars at the same exact time and their childish efforts were futile.
Molly (also a budding counselor) and I began to dissect the marital dischord in their lives but instead came up with a list of things we wished we would have said. I'll show you a few:
"I'm sorry you haven't had sex for decades"
"I'm sorry your kids hate you and never call"
"Is this the most exciting thing that's happened to you in a while?"
"Maybe if you hadn't had that last Pronto Pup, you would have been able to get up faster, Tubby"
"Is this what AGEing is like!? No wonder people are afraid of it!"
....and the list went on for the six mile drive home
In the end we decided that we had given them a gift. The gift of allowing them to argue with someone else for once instead of each other. Maybe we sparked the flame that had long been extinguised in their love life. Maybe they will self assess and realize that instead of fighting on the street with two therapists, a paid visit to one may be more beneficial.
I can speculate till my freckles fall off but, in the end I have but one thing to say...
"REALLY?"
Allow me to provide you with an example of an unhealthy emotional response.
This emotional response took place in a charter bus after leaving the Minnesota State Fair. Normally this is a happy time when fair patrons are full of fried food and joyful camaraderie. With the exception being, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Bittersworth seated halfway down the bus rows and picking a fight with whomever struck an unlucky position in their path of fire. My friends and I were the unlucky ones.
Upon arriving to our destinational parking area, we looked around to nitice that no one else needed to get off at the stop (so we thought), so we quickly got up and moved towards the front.
Eventually, people started coming out of their food comas and realized that it was also their stop. Thus began the fire breathing as we found ourselves at Mr. and Mrs. Bittersworth's row of doom. I shall dialogue the rest for you so you can get a true mental picture.
Mrs. B - "Dont you think we should be unloading from the FRONT of the bus!!!?? Why are these girls leaving from the back!?! They're doing it wrong, they should have waited for us to leave!!!"
My friend Molly - "Well, we didn't. Sorry"
Me - "We're all gonna get off the bus...don't worry, lady, it's gonna be fine"
Mrs. B - "You're VERY RUDE!!! Honey, (to Mr. B) just stand up in front of her! Just get up and push her out of the way!!"
They then proceeded to put Molly into what I'd like to call the "hate sandwich" in which they forced her in between them as they exited the bus, they repeatedly told her how rude she was, asked her how old she was, and generally harassed her for the seemingly endless journey to the front of the bus.
Their temperatures flared with every nonchalant "Whatever", "Ok, great thank you", "You're stupid" reaction from Molly. One would have thought that, given such an adverse reaction to the thought of someone else getting off the bus BEFORE them (gasp!) that they were in some kind of hurry. However, the behavior of Mr. B contradicted this assumption when he waited for Molly to get off the bus to continue his fire breathing.
The rest of the incident is a blur of phrases in my head. There were some "F*** you"s, "Go F*** yourself"s, Molly interjected a "My god, you're SO unhappy", another friend of ours added a "You should have stood up quicker!". It was a fine display of adult maturity by this adult couple who all the while failed to realize that we all got into our cars at the same exact time and their childish efforts were futile.
Molly (also a budding counselor) and I began to dissect the marital dischord in their lives but instead came up with a list of things we wished we would have said. I'll show you a few:
"I'm sorry you haven't had sex for decades"
"I'm sorry your kids hate you and never call"
"Is this the most exciting thing that's happened to you in a while?"
"Maybe if you hadn't had that last Pronto Pup, you would have been able to get up faster, Tubby"
"Is this what AGEing is like!? No wonder people are afraid of it!"
....and the list went on for the six mile drive home
In the end we decided that we had given them a gift. The gift of allowing them to argue with someone else for once instead of each other. Maybe we sparked the flame that had long been extinguised in their love life. Maybe they will self assess and realize that instead of fighting on the street with two therapists, a paid visit to one may be more beneficial.
I can speculate till my freckles fall off but, in the end I have but one thing to say...
"REALLY?"
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Swass-Drop
I am about to add a new phrase to your vocabulary. Get excited. It originated from working long hours at the diner and looking for ways to entertain myself.
First, allow me to define "Swass". If you aren't familiar with this hybrid word I will try to be as clear as possible. It's the words "sweaty" and "ass" put together. Once you get comfortable using this word, you can apply it to different sweaty body parts i.e. Swack (sweaty back), Swands (sweaty hands), Swees (sweaty knees, yeah, I get em)...you can see where this has the potential of going too far so I'll stop with the education portion of this blog.
So, the Swass-Drop. This is a phenomenon that occurs when a swass makes connection to a toilet seat for a somewhat extended period of time. When the swass attempts to disconnect from the toilet seat and the seat chooses to hang on for a while, resulting in a dramatic separation and crash landing back on it's porcelain home base, it is then, my friend, you have experienced the swass-drop.
When the days drone on at the diner, we entertain oursevles by listening for the swass drop and then looking at people awkwardly when they exit the restroom as if to say, "That was a mighty loud swass-drop, you musta been sittin there a long time, did you bring a book?"
After this blog, you will begin to notice the Swass-drop much more. It's like when you get braces the first time and all of the sudden notice everyone else who has braces. I just expanded your world. You can thank me later.
On a completely unrelated note: Many well wishes to my baby bro who sent off on his first solo voyage to a semester in Europe. We will miss you but are geeky about the experiences you'll have. I meant to sit you down and read you "Oh, the Places You'll Go" but dammit, there just wasn't time. Love you.
First, allow me to define "Swass". If you aren't familiar with this hybrid word I will try to be as clear as possible. It's the words "sweaty" and "ass" put together. Once you get comfortable using this word, you can apply it to different sweaty body parts i.e. Swack (sweaty back), Swands (sweaty hands), Swees (sweaty knees, yeah, I get em)...you can see where this has the potential of going too far so I'll stop with the education portion of this blog.
So, the Swass-Drop. This is a phenomenon that occurs when a swass makes connection to a toilet seat for a somewhat extended period of time. When the swass attempts to disconnect from the toilet seat and the seat chooses to hang on for a while, resulting in a dramatic separation and crash landing back on it's porcelain home base, it is then, my friend, you have experienced the swass-drop.
When the days drone on at the diner, we entertain oursevles by listening for the swass drop and then looking at people awkwardly when they exit the restroom as if to say, "That was a mighty loud swass-drop, you musta been sittin there a long time, did you bring a book?"
After this blog, you will begin to notice the Swass-drop much more. It's like when you get braces the first time and all of the sudden notice everyone else who has braces. I just expanded your world. You can thank me later.
On a completely unrelated note: Many well wishes to my baby bro who sent off on his first solo voyage to a semester in Europe. We will miss you but are geeky about the experiences you'll have. I meant to sit you down and read you "Oh, the Places You'll Go" but dammit, there just wasn't time. Love you.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Al Fresco
How many times did you pee in the woods this week? I'm guessing slim to few.
For a non-camping situation, my average was pretty high this week. It struck me as an oddity ad that is why I'm sharing it with you.
It only happened twice but, come on, the average city-dwelling person shouldn't be forced to pee in the woods ever. However, it has allowed me to perfect my craft and have confidence in my ability to avoid forming rogue rivers below me.
The first time was before I embarked on a high ropes course with 12 teenagers. Yeah, I was supposed to be the first one and be the "leader" who 1) knew what I was doing and 2) felt confident enough to help with their safety. I could picture it all; I would get up there, do my best to find my peaceful center and then the diaper harness would hit the wrong spot and I would pee on all the people cheering me on. So, I slipped to the back of the shed, dropped trou and prevented catastrophe.
The second time is what I like to call a "suprise attack" in the middle of the dog park, in the middle of a field. The dogs around me knew, too. They would come up close to me, pop a squat or a tri-pod and just rub it in. My own dog marked her territory 5 times while I was trying to find a secret spot to mark my own territory. I found one and giggled when I thought of dogs coming up and sniffing my "territory" while being somewhat perplexed regarding the origin.
So, twice. Yep, twice. And here's the method, girls, if you're interested:
I like to call it the "phantom throne". You put your back up against a tree, engage your thighs into a "sitting motion", drop the drawers and pull the ripcord. This allows for proper relaxation of muscles, and least risk of urinary misfortue.
You'll thank me someday. Also, if you see a 5'9'' curly brown-haired young woman perched up against a tree in what you think is an innapropriate place to relieve thyself, don't judge. And don't assume I'm drunk. Timing has just never been my forte.
For a non-camping situation, my average was pretty high this week. It struck me as an oddity ad that is why I'm sharing it with you.
It only happened twice but, come on, the average city-dwelling person shouldn't be forced to pee in the woods ever. However, it has allowed me to perfect my craft and have confidence in my ability to avoid forming rogue rivers below me.
The first time was before I embarked on a high ropes course with 12 teenagers. Yeah, I was supposed to be the first one and be the "leader" who 1) knew what I was doing and 2) felt confident enough to help with their safety. I could picture it all; I would get up there, do my best to find my peaceful center and then the diaper harness would hit the wrong spot and I would pee on all the people cheering me on. So, I slipped to the back of the shed, dropped trou and prevented catastrophe.
The second time is what I like to call a "suprise attack" in the middle of the dog park, in the middle of a field. The dogs around me knew, too. They would come up close to me, pop a squat or a tri-pod and just rub it in. My own dog marked her territory 5 times while I was trying to find a secret spot to mark my own territory. I found one and giggled when I thought of dogs coming up and sniffing my "territory" while being somewhat perplexed regarding the origin.
So, twice. Yep, twice. And here's the method, girls, if you're interested:
I like to call it the "phantom throne". You put your back up against a tree, engage your thighs into a "sitting motion", drop the drawers and pull the ripcord. This allows for proper relaxation of muscles, and least risk of urinary misfortue.
You'll thank me someday. Also, if you see a 5'9'' curly brown-haired young woman perched up against a tree in what you think is an innapropriate place to relieve thyself, don't judge. And don't assume I'm drunk. Timing has just never been my forte.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Russel Crowe aint' got nuthin on this
The costumes look a bit different. The arenas are a bit smaller. And instead of screaming townspeople, there's usually giggles and lite rock playing in the background. But don't be fooled by their cheery dispositions; There are many comparisons to be had between ancient Roman gladiator games at the Colosseum and finding a bridal gown in a bridal boutique.
Why do you think gladiator heels are hot this season? People are catching on. The spectators are ruthless because it's either a bride's entourage of hyper-verbal women or boutique workers telling the gladiators lies about their hip size to win the financial glory.
I thought I would be able to avoid this phenomenon by visiting a bridal boutique in a small suburb in the middle of the workday. No spectators, few workers, and the whole arena to myself. Wrong.
It was my second time going to the shop. The first time I had made up my mind 98% but wanted to be absolutely sure. When I slipped on the dress I felt as if the angels themselves and wrapped their deity around me. It was perfect. Perfect without alterations. Perfect without fuss. I summoned the worker to check with her master if I could by the exact garment I was currently wearing, at 20% off nonetheless since it was the sample dress. I was ready to walk out of the arena with my prize and without a scratch on my body.
Then, the music changed. Literally, I think I heard violins in a minor chord playing mezzo forte in the background. She walked in. Our eyes met. Her entourage in short succession behind. She took a lap around me and my Maggie Sotterro as if I were the David. She then uttered the battle cry that all of the spectators were waiting to hear:
"OH..MY...GAWD...That dress is BEAUTIFUL. Are you going to try on other ones after that?"
"Thank you...um, no...this is actually my second time trying it on. I think I'm set."
Round one; no injuries yet. But all were hungry for more.
"Well, whenever you're done can you just put it in my room so I can try it on too"
"(killing time)...Um, well, its' a...it's just so beautiful I don't want to take it off" (Thought process; "Will this damn worker hurry her plebian ass up and tell me if I can buy this dress or not!")
Round two: It's on.
Enter worker who informs me that I can in fact purchase this dress. She tells me this in clear audible distance of my competitor. In my glee I prepare to purchase the dress by handing over my parent's credit card (don't judge me, I'm not ashamed).
"Well, can I just TRY it on before you leave to see if I like it"
"No, actually, this is the exact dress I'm buying right now and I'm kind of in a hurry so, um, I think I'll just pay for it and go"
Round three: I'm clearly in the upper position.
She popped her hip out and her face turned to utter disgust and began to mutter verbal daggers intended for me but were deflected by my white satin armor. The music stopped. I picked up my prize from dragging on the dirt of the arena and walked by her, chest and held high (much higher than hers, naturally) and wished her the best in her next battle.
I win.
You had no idea this world was so cut-throat did you? I'm glad I've educated you.
Why do you think gladiator heels are hot this season? People are catching on. The spectators are ruthless because it's either a bride's entourage of hyper-verbal women or boutique workers telling the gladiators lies about their hip size to win the financial glory.
I thought I would be able to avoid this phenomenon by visiting a bridal boutique in a small suburb in the middle of the workday. No spectators, few workers, and the whole arena to myself. Wrong.
It was my second time going to the shop. The first time I had made up my mind 98% but wanted to be absolutely sure. When I slipped on the dress I felt as if the angels themselves and wrapped their deity around me. It was perfect. Perfect without alterations. Perfect without fuss. I summoned the worker to check with her master if I could by the exact garment I was currently wearing, at 20% off nonetheless since it was the sample dress. I was ready to walk out of the arena with my prize and without a scratch on my body.
Then, the music changed. Literally, I think I heard violins in a minor chord playing mezzo forte in the background. She walked in. Our eyes met. Her entourage in short succession behind. She took a lap around me and my Maggie Sotterro as if I were the David. She then uttered the battle cry that all of the spectators were waiting to hear:
"OH..MY...GAWD...That dress is BEAUTIFUL. Are you going to try on other ones after that?"
"Thank you...um, no...this is actually my second time trying it on. I think I'm set."
Round one; no injuries yet. But all were hungry for more.
"Well, whenever you're done can you just put it in my room so I can try it on too"
"(killing time)...Um, well, its' a...it's just so beautiful I don't want to take it off" (Thought process; "Will this damn worker hurry her plebian ass up and tell me if I can buy this dress or not!")
Round two: It's on.
Enter worker who informs me that I can in fact purchase this dress. She tells me this in clear audible distance of my competitor. In my glee I prepare to purchase the dress by handing over my parent's credit card (don't judge me, I'm not ashamed).
"Well, can I just TRY it on before you leave to see if I like it"
"No, actually, this is the exact dress I'm buying right now and I'm kind of in a hurry so, um, I think I'll just pay for it and go"
Round three: I'm clearly in the upper position.
She popped her hip out and her face turned to utter disgust and began to mutter verbal daggers intended for me but were deflected by my white satin armor. The music stopped. I picked up my prize from dragging on the dirt of the arena and walked by her, chest and held high (much higher than hers, naturally) and wished her the best in her next battle.
I win.
You had no idea this world was so cut-throat did you? I'm glad I've educated you.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Sometimes Karma's a bitch
I've been a member of over 9 different gyms throughout my lifetime. Speaking of Lifetime...yeah I was a member there too.
Typically I will come in, stretch, do some cardio, look at the weight machines and then decide that cardio is enough for today and leave. What I live for, and secretly hope for every time I go to the gym is watching someone biff it on the cardio machines. That brings a spring to my step and reminds me why I join public gyms in the first place.
Biffing it can come in many different forms. There's a minor biff like dropping your magazine; mildly entertaining, especially if pages fall out and get blown around by fans.
A moderate and much more entertaining biff generally occurred back in the day when people used to have CD players and they dropped them or they fell off of the holder and spewed it's contents. Extra points if the Discman flew at rapid speeds off of the treadmill conveyer belt and the CD landed laterally and rolled across the floor. iPod's took away this blissful drama.
But the best biff, and I admit, most fun to laugh about is a misstep that turns into a full on chest drop onto the treadmill. I've only seen two of those in my life and they kept me going to the gym for months.
Today, however....I set a new record for World's Smartest Person.
Things were going swimmingly halfway into my hour-long elliptical session. I had three trashy magazines and was enjoying reading about the new reality show scheduled for the Octa-mom. It was a slow day so I figured that taking 3 mags wasn't greedy. I finished one and attempted to place it nicely on the middle console.
Fail. It dropped, knocking my keys, wallet, and water onto the ground in between the elliptical pedals. But wait...it gets better.
I decided, in a stroke of genius, that I should try to pick everything up but not stop pedaling. Cause it's really damn frustrating when you have to stop your program halfway through and you lose all your data. A better idea would be to try to reach between my legs while still standing and pedaling and defy bodily limitations that tell me I can't reach the ground.
Turns out your knees don't stop moving upward when you don't stop pedaling. Then if you move your face towards your knees and you're not focusing on anything but your fallen soldiers, your knees make contact with your nose.
Thankfully, the bleeding stopped after a few minutes and it doesn't seem to be permanently damaged. And the attendant in the cardio room was nice enough to tell me that not EVERYone saw it.
Next time I'll just get off the damn machine and respectfully retrieve my belongings.
Serves me right for making fun of people and taking 3 magazines.
Typically I will come in, stretch, do some cardio, look at the weight machines and then decide that cardio is enough for today and leave. What I live for, and secretly hope for every time I go to the gym is watching someone biff it on the cardio machines. That brings a spring to my step and reminds me why I join public gyms in the first place.
Biffing it can come in many different forms. There's a minor biff like dropping your magazine; mildly entertaining, especially if pages fall out and get blown around by fans.
A moderate and much more entertaining biff generally occurred back in the day when people used to have CD players and they dropped them or they fell off of the holder and spewed it's contents. Extra points if the Discman flew at rapid speeds off of the treadmill conveyer belt and the CD landed laterally and rolled across the floor. iPod's took away this blissful drama.
But the best biff, and I admit, most fun to laugh about is a misstep that turns into a full on chest drop onto the treadmill. I've only seen two of those in my life and they kept me going to the gym for months.
Today, however....I set a new record for World's Smartest Person.
Things were going swimmingly halfway into my hour-long elliptical session. I had three trashy magazines and was enjoying reading about the new reality show scheduled for the Octa-mom. It was a slow day so I figured that taking 3 mags wasn't greedy. I finished one and attempted to place it nicely on the middle console.
Fail. It dropped, knocking my keys, wallet, and water onto the ground in between the elliptical pedals. But wait...it gets better.
I decided, in a stroke of genius, that I should try to pick everything up but not stop pedaling. Cause it's really damn frustrating when you have to stop your program halfway through and you lose all your data. A better idea would be to try to reach between my legs while still standing and pedaling and defy bodily limitations that tell me I can't reach the ground.
Turns out your knees don't stop moving upward when you don't stop pedaling. Then if you move your face towards your knees and you're not focusing on anything but your fallen soldiers, your knees make contact with your nose.
Thankfully, the bleeding stopped after a few minutes and it doesn't seem to be permanently damaged. And the attendant in the cardio room was nice enough to tell me that not EVERYone saw it.
Next time I'll just get off the damn machine and respectfully retrieve my belongings.
Serves me right for making fun of people and taking 3 magazines.
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