Archive: April 2007

I did it again. I left lip balm in my jeans pocket, which normally wouldn’t be a problem, but I washed my jeans and then melted the lip balm to oblivion in the dryer. The annoyance of replacing the lip balm aside, I knew that as soon as I found the empty tube, I would have dark spots of melted balminess on my clothing. And because I make this mistake so often, I also knew with dread certainty that those spots would never come out.

Argh.

A strange Spartan attitude took over my usual packrat mode and I tossed half a dozen shirts into the trash can after finding telltale lip balm spots. I wasn’t going to wear them because of the dark spots, so there was no use in keeping them. Then my thoughts wandered to my dresser, which was busting at the seams with clothing I know I pass by every morning. I only have so many outfits that I swap out for work, so there was no reason for me to be unable to shut the drawers on a regular basis. The latest episode of melted lip balm was the straw that broke the camel’s back: I was weeding out my wardrobe.

I splayed the contents of my bottom dresser drawers on the bed and dropped items into the Goodwill bag without a second thought. That tank top is too low, I don’t wear things with bows anymore, I shrunk that in the wash, etc. I added every button-down shirt I own because, by some strange phenomenon, my arms look like sausages in the sleeves, but I am pretty certain that my arms are not my biggest fat problem. Whatever – I didn’t wear them at all last season. I was emboldened by the growing stack of items in the bag. Look at me! I’m not being all sentimental about my clothing! I’m not like those loonies on What Not to Wear!

And then I saw that my real problem was not tank tops or bows or shrinkage. My real problem was Free T-shirts. Cue ominous music.

If such a thing existed, I would qualify for Free Stuff Anonymous. A radio commercial back in the day featured a commentator saying, “Free is my favorite price. It’s my favorite flavor. It’s my favorite color. It’s always my size.” Oh, how I related. My penchant for not paying for things resulted in an overwhelming collection of t-shirts in varying degrees of bagginess and requisite obnoxious logos. I separated the lot into four major categories:

• College: bright blue or gold, usually with a picture of a chicken
• Summer Camp: various campfire or mountainous silk-screened designs
• Rock Climbing: logo-covered prizes from competitions = human billboard
• Sentimental: gifts, inside jokes, or otherwise unexplainable to outside parties

I was aghast at the sight of the leaning tower of t-shirts. How many shirts does one person need, anyway?

Though it pained me, I slowly sorted through the stack with my newly-minted Spartan mindset. I only wear college shirts to football games, so three will suffice. I only wear camp shirts in the summer, so I only need two. Only one climbing shirt is small enough to wear in public, but I couldn’t give up any of the sentimental ones. Stacy and Clinton would be shaking their disapproving heads at me.

There is a bright side to all of this separation anxiety. After gazing at my beloved shirts forlornly, I hopped up to e-mail my mother-in-law, which I know is sort of a weird reflex. See, she made quilts for all three of her children out of childhood shirts and they had them for freshman year at college. JG’s quilt is in our living room and I use it all the time, so I asked if she would mind rescuing my shirts. She wrote back right away to say that she was “thrilled to do it,” as long as I didn’t impose a time constraint. JG snorted and said, “Yeah, I hope you don’t mind waiting for five years.”

It’s fine with me! I know I’ll get them back in quilt-form eventually, and in the meantime, I have more drawer space for new clothes…

After a summer of belaying for high-ropes courses, JG and I went climbing all the time in college. There was a tiny (but free!) gym made out of a converted racquetball court at the fitness center and we went at least twice a week. Slowly, we got better and became friends with the regulars and the staff. JG earned a nickname, “Gigantor,” and we were easily recognizable because of our extreme difference in height. It was a workout that didn’t feel like one and I loved it.

And then we graduated. Rock gyms cost money and getting to them cost time. After the demands on the daily routine, the climbing gear stayed in a dark closet, unused. Every so often, JG and I would look at each other and say, “We should really get out there.” But we never did.

Last week, a friend of ours called up. “They just opened a new gym in Coatesville! Come check it out with me!” JG took him up on it when I was in L.A. and brought home rave reviews, so we went together on Tuesday night.

It was the first time I’d gone climbing in more than two years and I could feel it. My hands were unaccustomed to the dryness of chalky hands and my forearms were confused about the sudden strain. I was pleased to find that my body still remembered the odd configurations that climbing demands, even if my strength was not up to par. I climbed several easy routes and reminded myself how to belay, but JG and our friend did most of the climbing. The fact that I tired so easily was just motivation to get back to my former self.

Unlike other gyms I’ve tried in the area, this one had other workout equipment. When my hands were too raw to hold on any longer, I surprised myself by walking on a treadmill for 20 minutes, and following it up with 7 minutes of running. Running! Which I normally view as cruel torture! I could barely walk down the steps without falling, but I felt like I had really done something good for myself. I heart endorphins! We both joined the gym that night.

One of our friends, a gym teacher and all-around healthy guy, always says that after a hard workout, the second day is the worst. Today is the second day and I believe him. My forearms hurt so much this morning that I had a hard time gripping my steering wheel. I could hardly jog up my one flight of stairs. It’s as though I can hear my body creak.

Tomorrow night, JG and I are hitting up the gym again. Wish me luck.

#38

Yesterday was just one of those days when everything started later than it should have and took longer than was reasonable. I was constantly behind, never catching my footing. JG was excited to fire up the grill for the first time of the season and I had the best of intentions to have tossed and pasta salads ready by the time JG got home from his night class. However, my plans were dashed to pieces when he called to say he was leaving school and I was still in the check-out line at the supermarket. Once home, my grocery bags broke in the kitchen, I couldn’t find a matching pair of flip-flops in my dark closet, and I dropped an egg while I tried to make brownies. JG found me making a ruckus as I washed dishes; I was not friendly at all. I know I get way too frustrated when small things go wrong, but when it seems like nothing goes right, it’s more than I can handle gracefully. I went on to burn the French fries and turn a pot of pasta into overcooked mush; much to my chagrin, I had to toss out all of that food. In what turned out to be slight consolation, JG accidentally over-parsleyed the pasta salad so that it tasted of burning. And then he made me a cosmo.

Good man.

Anyway.

From the department of More Interesting Things, I offer what I would have written upon my return home on Saturday had I not been A) so freaking exhausted, B) busy making chili and/or C) running the combo chili cook-off/square dance that evening. My chili tied for 2^nd place and then I proceeded to sleep for over twelve hours on Sunday.

- - -

On Tuesday, the staff of my small organization was set to meet for an all-hands dinner, but my immediate team met for happy hour a bit earlier. (I ordered a lemon drop before I realized that the special that day was 2-for-1 and I had two yummy martinis sitting in front of me without warning. Needless to say, I tried to avoid talking and standing up.) I looked up and saw a girl walking to the restaurant next door on the arm of a short-ish guy. “Hey,” I whispered to my neighbor, “That girl really looks like Hillary Swank.” She looked at me and said flatly, “That is Hillary Swank, RA.”

What!

The rest of my table craned and whispered, “Why didn’t you say anything?!” I didn’t even realize it was her until it was too late! Conveniently, we were sitting on the patio, so we staked out Hillary and her date (her agent, we wondered?) until they came out again. Cue more whispering and gasping.

Then, on Saturday morning, I was standing at baggage claim in Philly with a few of my officemates when I spied a small woman across the way with red hair. I looked once. Twice. I nudged my nearest co-worker and said dubiously, “Is that Kathy Griffin?”

“Oh, my gosh, yes. Let’s get a picture with her!”

“Uh, would you want your picture taken with random crazy people after a red-eye?”

“She’s probably used to it! She’d probably like it because she’s so D-list.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Fine. We’ll just stand here and stare, then.”

And we did. Not as glamorous as Hillary Swank, maybe, but it brought my celebrity sighting count up to a big TWO! I call that a successful L.A. trip!

- - -

I booked a shuttle to and from the airport for this trip and I relish the luxurious rides in town cars. The ground transportation person called my name and I walked out to meet the driver … who was standing next to a white stretch limo. What in the world!

And so, on my way home from my trip to Hollywood, I rode all alone in a limousine. I sat across from empty decanters, tiny television screens, and wine glasses in their own holders. I put my feet up on the seat stretched before me and watched where I had been through the back windshield. I saw people’s eyes linger on the car, just as mine usually do, and I realized that I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. It was very surreal. And very L.A.

• The conference is over.
• My feet hurt.
• My suitcase is packed.
• My flight back home leaves in six hours.
• I didn’t ever get to In-n-Out.
• I’ll get home at 7am.
• JG will be a sight for sore eyes.
• I’ll crash for two hours of sleep before getting up to run an event for my church.

And then sleep, sweet sleep.