But they don't align for us
Excuse me, for I am the ocean
And I will stop for you
Will you know how to stay brave
Search for fragile moments we share
And you are my everything
Even with nothing to say...
-DG
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
The Girl Code
There is a code among girls. Girls' girls, that is. If a friend:
a) dates a fella;
b) is in unrequited love and/or lust with a fella; or
c) even expresses a remote interest in a fella,
if you are a girl's girl, you back off. Even if she protests, says she's no longer interested, that "oh, you'd make a great couple and honestly, I don't even CARE about him anymore," you back. the fuck. off. It's the Girl Code.
I feel very blessed in the girls I have in my life. They are, without exception, girl's girls.
Or so I thought.
There is a man that I've been circling around for awhile now. I more than like him, but, as Facebook would say, "It's complicated." He's married, for one. But there's just something. At the very least, it's a very close friendship. If I get my way, it will be a very close more-than-friendship. The line has already wavered, and continues to, in one form or another. Suffice it to say, he's been marked for some time as mine. I take comfort in the "complicated" status of whatever-it-is we're doing together because universally, those that know both of us get that we're working through something, even if it comes to naught, give quiet encouragement where needed, and basically stay out of it.
My co-worker Paige has been one of these people. She was the first person I confessed the real depth of my feelings to, and she was encouraging and empathetic. She was the first person I texted when I woke up in bed one morning after a night of partying to find Complicated Man right beside me. She's seen us together, and dissected every detail with me later. She's agreed with my analysis of Complicated Man's attractive qualities, and given independent third party observer confirmation that yes, he definitely is into me. She's been, in short, a girlfriend.
Last night a group of us, excluding Complicated Man but including many mutual friends (Paige among them) gathered at our local pub, the Shakespeare, getting drunk on someone else's tab, which is always good fun. The drinks were slightly tinged with hysteria, as all of us had found out a day earlier that we were all potentially on the chopping block at work, victims of the credit crunch and the recession crippling the City, and our double G & T's turned into double-doubles. I hadn't seen Paige in awhile, and in fact, someone had pointed out earlier in the week that they thought Paige and I had "fallen out" (for reasons I'll explain in a minute), which had been a surprise to me.
After a few double-doubles, Paige came up to give me a hug, drunkenly crooning "I miss you, it's been so loooong." I hugged her back and filled her in on the fall-out theory. Paige looked truly perplexed, widening her eyes to emphasize her shock at such an outrageous statement (perhaps more than she needed to, I thought, but I blamed that on the G & T's).
"But what do they think we fell out about?" she asked incredulously. That's when I took a deep breath, and raised the issue of the Girl Code.
"About Complicated Man," I said, and sat back, stirring my G & T anxiously and waiting for her reply. "They think that you got together with Complicated Man, and I found out. This was the first time I heard any of this, so I said it must not be true." To my horror, she calmly took a sip of her drink, and nodded knowingly.
"Ohhhhhhh, there's NOTHING going on with Complicated Man AT THE MOMENT," she said airily. "We've gotten to know each other very well, and I know he fancies me, but you know, he's happily married. So nothing will happen."
I stared at her in shock. It was like we were talking about someone else. She couldn't be talking about MY Complicated Man. WHEN did they have time to get to know each other very well, I asked, swallowing down my fear with a swig of gin. She gave a vague answer and I only half-listened. My mind was racing. Why was she acting like the fact that he was happily married (and my wounded ego begged to differ on that observation) was the only obstacle to them acting on the unbridled lust she was implying had grown between them? And where the hell had I been when all this was going on? When had they seen each other without me, and what was he doing when he wasn't with his wife or with me, or talking to me, or texting me, or writing me emails? In short, whataboutmewhataboutmewhataboutme?
My first reaction was to hope against hope that she had just been misled into believing that whatever heat was generating between me and Complicated Man had cooled. While carrying on with him in these circumstances was still a technical breach of the Girl Code, it was one I could live with.
"You know," I said, "CM and I are still kind of...well, I don't know what we're doing, but we're still doing it."
It was like she didn't hear me. There was no immediate gasp of horror and reassurance that, whatever there was between them, it was nothing to what he and I had. Or that all they had done was talk about me and how crazy about me he was. No. She responded with some comment about how fit he was and what a nice guy he was. I tried to suppress my panic. I tried to pin her down once again on when exactly they had had time to get to know each other, when they had last seen each other, and how this had all transpired. Once again, I didn't really get an answer. I felt sick to my stomach.
Oblivious to my discomfort, she repeated that while he was fit and she definitely fancied him, "nothing would happen between them." She said this with such ingenuine reassurance, as if they had already held a summit on this matter, had nobly resisted the irresistible animal attraction between them, and declared it closed...for now. My insecurities now overcame my pride. Whatever cards I still held to my chest were thrown to the table.
"You know Paige," I said. "If something happened between you and CM...well, that would make me really upset."
"Well," she said, just as ingenuously as she had before, "then nothing will happen."
At this point, I smiled feebly, stood up, and walked like a zombie over to where another group of our friends were standing just out of Paige's earshot.
"If she mentions CM again," I said, smiling sweetly for Paige's benefit, my teeth gritted, "I'll fucking punch her." And I meant it.
Immediately my friends sprang into action. My friend Chris walked me into another side of the pub, and earnestly told me that Paige was just drunk, that she was insecure and fragile, and that I should a) trust what I had with CM, or b) realize that maybe he was happily married, despite whatever was going on between us, and let it go. I responded by reminding Chris (a married man himself) of the Girl Code. That every word that had just come out of Paige's mouth had been in flagrant violation of the Code. Meanwhile, our friend Karen wheeled Paige out of the pub, out onto the patio, to remind her that CM was a no-fly zone. I learned later that Paige again intimated to Karen that something could have happened with CM, but wouldn't, for now. Karen didn't get any better a hold on the details than I had.
After a few deep breaths, I was calmed, but not calm. Chris was right. I couldn't trust CM because we were clearly doing something a man in his position shouldn't be doing anyway. I couldn't tune out Paige because she was playing on my biggest insecurity, that I am not a girl that stands up well to competition. Complicated Man was, perhaps, Too Complicated Man, although my heart told me I couldn't let him go yet. I rejoined our friends, my mind a thousand miles away. I couldn't face another drink.
As the night progressed, Paige continued with the double-doubles, studiously avoiding my gaze, until just before last call. I watched, teeth gritted, as she tried it on with several of our other guy friends. It poured salt in the wound, really: if she could be interested in any of our other guy friends, then why did she need to meddle with CM? Why did she need to help him break my heart? She stumbled over to me, threw her arms around me, and buried her head in my shoulder.
"Sorreeee," she mumbled. "Looooooove you."
I stroked her hair. There was nothing else to do. She was maybe about to lose her job. We all were. Did that make up for the sad realisation that Paige was a Girl Code Breaker? No. But I tried to be understanding. I tried to blame it on the double-doubles.
"Love you too," I sighed. "Do you want to get a cab?"
Paige nodded, silent, head still buried in my hair, arms wrapped around my neck. I led her to the door, and realised at that moment just how drunk she was. She could barely walk, lurching from side to side. I needed to use all of my strength to steer her in the right direction. As we stood outside the Shakespeare, I let go of her for an instant to hail a cab, and she fell with a thud to the sidewalk, bumping her head, and skinning her shin, which began to bleed. Cabs whizzed by us, reluctant to pick up a girl who was obviously very drunk. Finally, one came along. I got Paige inside and buckled her in, and started to give the driver her address, but Paige had already passed out. The driver wouldn't take her home without me. Home for Paige was in the opposite direction from me.
Sighing heavily, I gave the cab driver my address, and climbed in. There was nothing to do but take her home with me. We drove in silence, the driver annoyed that Paige might "soil his cab" at any moment, me lost in hurt, panicked thoughts that I had lost CM forever, and Paige...well, she was out.
We arrived home, and I somehow managed to get her to the door and up the stairs to my third floor flat. I opened the door and she stumbled onto my couch and immediately passed out. Her leg was still bleeding from where she had fallen. All over my couch. I cleaned up her cut, and went to the spare room to begin making up the bed for her. I placed the expensive pillows and the beautiful suede throw from my brother on one side of the bed, and pulled back the duvet.
I got Paige to the loo, and tried to get her to change into a t-shirt of mine, but she was belligerent, and so I let her climb into bed in her clothes. Tucking the duvet around her, I placed a glass of water and an empty bucket (just in case) on the bedside table, and turned out the light. I got into my own bed down the hall, feeling nauseous, unable to sleep. Paige was the last person I wanted sleeping over tonight, given I'd publicly threatened physical harm to her several hours earlier, but I couldn't have left her.
I had just drifted off to sleep when I heard her stirring in the next bedroom. "Paige?" I called out in the darkness. No response.
I got out of bed and padded down the hall to find a very drunk Paige crouched in the corner of the spare bedroom, PEEING on my expensive throw and pillows.
"Nooo, Paige!" I cried. "You have to use the loo! Stop it!" She grunted incoherently, half-asleep and fully drunk, and continued peeing. "Noooo," I wailed at her. She stood up, and fell across the bed, which I noticed was already covered in puke. I knew she was drunk, more drunk than I had ever seen her, but it was hard to be charitable. If only CM could see her now, I thought grimly. There was nothing to do but return to my own room, and lie awake fretting until dawn.
When I got up in the early morning light, I tried not to make much noise. I wanted to get to work, have Paige wake up surrounded by her own pee and puke, and save her the embarassment of having ME find it. I thought if she found it, she might, in her horror, do the cleaning, to spare herself the absolute mortification. No such luck. As I carried my bowl of cereal from the kitchen to the living room, she woke up and made a beeline for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. I grimly sat in the living room, intently focused on the breakfast television I was watching.
Within 5 minutes, Paige was out of the bathroom, and out of the flat. Muttering that she needed to go home and change before work (no kidding, I thought dryly), clearly embarassed, she made her exit. I went into the spare bedroom and surveyed the damage. There was no way she could have missed the puke and piss fest. She had also knocked the glass of water off the bedside table, breaking the glass and leaving a pool of water on the floor. I felt like crying, but I was too tired. I stripped the bed, picked up the soiled things between two fingers, threw them all in the laundry basket, and immediately started putting them through the laundry. I mopped and scrubbed the floor with antibacterial soap. All before 8 am.
Paige was already at work when I arrived, showered and in a black dress, looking much more put-together than I could have believed possible. She thrust a potted orchid at me, muttered her thanks for my hospitality, and made her exit. I didn't hear from her for the rest of the day.
Now, some would say Paige's breach and subsequent pissing and puking on the Girl Code, would entitle me to some revenge. To casually mention the event to CM, for example. But I find that I can't. I want to be better than her. It's sad to have come to the realisation that I can't trust her as far as I can throw her, but I want to do right by Paige. So the worst punishment she'll get is being written about anonymously, on this blog.
But please god, don't let it be true. Paige may have already broken the Girl Code, but don't let CM break what we have between us. It's too precious to me. I'm not ready for it, whatever it is, to be over.
Back to the laundry. I have bloodstains to scrub out of the couch tonight, too. Unbelievable.
a) dates a fella;
b) is in unrequited love and/or lust with a fella; or
c) even expresses a remote interest in a fella,
if you are a girl's girl, you back off. Even if she protests, says she's no longer interested, that "oh, you'd make a great couple and honestly, I don't even CARE about him anymore," you back. the fuck. off. It's the Girl Code.
I feel very blessed in the girls I have in my life. They are, without exception, girl's girls.
Or so I thought.
There is a man that I've been circling around for awhile now. I more than like him, but, as Facebook would say, "It's complicated." He's married, for one. But there's just something. At the very least, it's a very close friendship. If I get my way, it will be a very close more-than-friendship. The line has already wavered, and continues to, in one form or another. Suffice it to say, he's been marked for some time as mine. I take comfort in the "complicated" status of whatever-it-is we're doing together because universally, those that know both of us get that we're working through something, even if it comes to naught, give quiet encouragement where needed, and basically stay out of it.
My co-worker Paige has been one of these people. She was the first person I confessed the real depth of my feelings to, and she was encouraging and empathetic. She was the first person I texted when I woke up in bed one morning after a night of partying to find Complicated Man right beside me. She's seen us together, and dissected every detail with me later. She's agreed with my analysis of Complicated Man's attractive qualities, and given independent third party observer confirmation that yes, he definitely is into me. She's been, in short, a girlfriend.
Last night a group of us, excluding Complicated Man but including many mutual friends (Paige among them) gathered at our local pub, the Shakespeare, getting drunk on someone else's tab, which is always good fun. The drinks were slightly tinged with hysteria, as all of us had found out a day earlier that we were all potentially on the chopping block at work, victims of the credit crunch and the recession crippling the City, and our double G & T's turned into double-doubles. I hadn't seen Paige in awhile, and in fact, someone had pointed out earlier in the week that they thought Paige and I had "fallen out" (for reasons I'll explain in a minute), which had been a surprise to me.
After a few double-doubles, Paige came up to give me a hug, drunkenly crooning "I miss you, it's been so loooong." I hugged her back and filled her in on the fall-out theory. Paige looked truly perplexed, widening her eyes to emphasize her shock at such an outrageous statement (perhaps more than she needed to, I thought, but I blamed that on the G & T's).
"But what do they think we fell out about?" she asked incredulously. That's when I took a deep breath, and raised the issue of the Girl Code.
"About Complicated Man," I said, and sat back, stirring my G & T anxiously and waiting for her reply. "They think that you got together with Complicated Man, and I found out. This was the first time I heard any of this, so I said it must not be true." To my horror, she calmly took a sip of her drink, and nodded knowingly.
"Ohhhhhhh, there's NOTHING going on with Complicated Man AT THE MOMENT," she said airily. "We've gotten to know each other very well, and I know he fancies me, but you know, he's happily married. So nothing will happen."
I stared at her in shock. It was like we were talking about someone else. She couldn't be talking about MY Complicated Man. WHEN did they have time to get to know each other very well, I asked, swallowing down my fear with a swig of gin. She gave a vague answer and I only half-listened. My mind was racing. Why was she acting like the fact that he was happily married (and my wounded ego begged to differ on that observation) was the only obstacle to them acting on the unbridled lust she was implying had grown between them? And where the hell had I been when all this was going on? When had they seen each other without me, and what was he doing when he wasn't with his wife or with me, or talking to me, or texting me, or writing me emails? In short, whataboutmewhataboutmewhataboutme?
My first reaction was to hope against hope that she had just been misled into believing that whatever heat was generating between me and Complicated Man had cooled. While carrying on with him in these circumstances was still a technical breach of the Girl Code, it was one I could live with.
"You know," I said, "CM and I are still kind of...well, I don't know what we're doing, but we're still doing it."
It was like she didn't hear me. There was no immediate gasp of horror and reassurance that, whatever there was between them, it was nothing to what he and I had. Or that all they had done was talk about me and how crazy about me he was. No. She responded with some comment about how fit he was and what a nice guy he was. I tried to suppress my panic. I tried to pin her down once again on when exactly they had had time to get to know each other, when they had last seen each other, and how this had all transpired. Once again, I didn't really get an answer. I felt sick to my stomach.
Oblivious to my discomfort, she repeated that while he was fit and she definitely fancied him, "nothing would happen between them." She said this with such ingenuine reassurance, as if they had already held a summit on this matter, had nobly resisted the irresistible animal attraction between them, and declared it closed...for now. My insecurities now overcame my pride. Whatever cards I still held to my chest were thrown to the table.
"You know Paige," I said. "If something happened between you and CM...well, that would make me really upset."
"Well," she said, just as ingenuously as she had before, "then nothing will happen."
At this point, I smiled feebly, stood up, and walked like a zombie over to where another group of our friends were standing just out of Paige's earshot.
"If she mentions CM again," I said, smiling sweetly for Paige's benefit, my teeth gritted, "I'll fucking punch her." And I meant it.
Immediately my friends sprang into action. My friend Chris walked me into another side of the pub, and earnestly told me that Paige was just drunk, that she was insecure and fragile, and that I should a) trust what I had with CM, or b) realize that maybe he was happily married, despite whatever was going on between us, and let it go. I responded by reminding Chris (a married man himself) of the Girl Code. That every word that had just come out of Paige's mouth had been in flagrant violation of the Code. Meanwhile, our friend Karen wheeled Paige out of the pub, out onto the patio, to remind her that CM was a no-fly zone. I learned later that Paige again intimated to Karen that something could have happened with CM, but wouldn't, for now. Karen didn't get any better a hold on the details than I had.
After a few deep breaths, I was calmed, but not calm. Chris was right. I couldn't trust CM because we were clearly doing something a man in his position shouldn't be doing anyway. I couldn't tune out Paige because she was playing on my biggest insecurity, that I am not a girl that stands up well to competition. Complicated Man was, perhaps, Too Complicated Man, although my heart told me I couldn't let him go yet. I rejoined our friends, my mind a thousand miles away. I couldn't face another drink.
As the night progressed, Paige continued with the double-doubles, studiously avoiding my gaze, until just before last call. I watched, teeth gritted, as she tried it on with several of our other guy friends. It poured salt in the wound, really: if she could be interested in any of our other guy friends, then why did she need to meddle with CM? Why did she need to help him break my heart? She stumbled over to me, threw her arms around me, and buried her head in my shoulder.
"Sorreeee," she mumbled. "Looooooove you."
I stroked her hair. There was nothing else to do. She was maybe about to lose her job. We all were. Did that make up for the sad realisation that Paige was a Girl Code Breaker? No. But I tried to be understanding. I tried to blame it on the double-doubles.
"Love you too," I sighed. "Do you want to get a cab?"
Paige nodded, silent, head still buried in my hair, arms wrapped around my neck. I led her to the door, and realised at that moment just how drunk she was. She could barely walk, lurching from side to side. I needed to use all of my strength to steer her in the right direction. As we stood outside the Shakespeare, I let go of her for an instant to hail a cab, and she fell with a thud to the sidewalk, bumping her head, and skinning her shin, which began to bleed. Cabs whizzed by us, reluctant to pick up a girl who was obviously very drunk. Finally, one came along. I got Paige inside and buckled her in, and started to give the driver her address, but Paige had already passed out. The driver wouldn't take her home without me. Home for Paige was in the opposite direction from me.
Sighing heavily, I gave the cab driver my address, and climbed in. There was nothing to do but take her home with me. We drove in silence, the driver annoyed that Paige might "soil his cab" at any moment, me lost in hurt, panicked thoughts that I had lost CM forever, and Paige...well, she was out.
We arrived home, and I somehow managed to get her to the door and up the stairs to my third floor flat. I opened the door and she stumbled onto my couch and immediately passed out. Her leg was still bleeding from where she had fallen. All over my couch. I cleaned up her cut, and went to the spare room to begin making up the bed for her. I placed the expensive pillows and the beautiful suede throw from my brother on one side of the bed, and pulled back the duvet.
I got Paige to the loo, and tried to get her to change into a t-shirt of mine, but she was belligerent, and so I let her climb into bed in her clothes. Tucking the duvet around her, I placed a glass of water and an empty bucket (just in case) on the bedside table, and turned out the light. I got into my own bed down the hall, feeling nauseous, unable to sleep. Paige was the last person I wanted sleeping over tonight, given I'd publicly threatened physical harm to her several hours earlier, but I couldn't have left her.
I had just drifted off to sleep when I heard her stirring in the next bedroom. "Paige?" I called out in the darkness. No response.
I got out of bed and padded down the hall to find a very drunk Paige crouched in the corner of the spare bedroom, PEEING on my expensive throw and pillows.
"Nooo, Paige!" I cried. "You have to use the loo! Stop it!" She grunted incoherently, half-asleep and fully drunk, and continued peeing. "Noooo," I wailed at her. She stood up, and fell across the bed, which I noticed was already covered in puke. I knew she was drunk, more drunk than I had ever seen her, but it was hard to be charitable. If only CM could see her now, I thought grimly. There was nothing to do but return to my own room, and lie awake fretting until dawn.
When I got up in the early morning light, I tried not to make much noise. I wanted to get to work, have Paige wake up surrounded by her own pee and puke, and save her the embarassment of having ME find it. I thought if she found it, she might, in her horror, do the cleaning, to spare herself the absolute mortification. No such luck. As I carried my bowl of cereal from the kitchen to the living room, she woke up and made a beeline for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. I grimly sat in the living room, intently focused on the breakfast television I was watching.
Within 5 minutes, Paige was out of the bathroom, and out of the flat. Muttering that she needed to go home and change before work (no kidding, I thought dryly), clearly embarassed, she made her exit. I went into the spare bedroom and surveyed the damage. There was no way she could have missed the puke and piss fest. She had also knocked the glass of water off the bedside table, breaking the glass and leaving a pool of water on the floor. I felt like crying, but I was too tired. I stripped the bed, picked up the soiled things between two fingers, threw them all in the laundry basket, and immediately started putting them through the laundry. I mopped and scrubbed the floor with antibacterial soap. All before 8 am.
Paige was already at work when I arrived, showered and in a black dress, looking much more put-together than I could have believed possible. She thrust a potted orchid at me, muttered her thanks for my hospitality, and made her exit. I didn't hear from her for the rest of the day.
Now, some would say Paige's breach and subsequent pissing and puking on the Girl Code, would entitle me to some revenge. To casually mention the event to CM, for example. But I find that I can't. I want to be better than her. It's sad to have come to the realisation that I can't trust her as far as I can throw her, but I want to do right by Paige. So the worst punishment she'll get is being written about anonymously, on this blog.
But please god, don't let it be true. Paige may have already broken the Girl Code, but don't let CM break what we have between us. It's too precious to me. I'm not ready for it, whatever it is, to be over.
Back to the laundry. I have bloodstains to scrub out of the couch tonight, too. Unbelievable.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Words to Live By
My friends and I seem to have our romantic crises in sync with each other. A dear friend of mine-we'll call her Juno-has found herself very unexpectedly knocked up following a romp (well, several romps but I'm assuming one in particular did the job) with an intriguing but oh-so-unavailable man. She's still in the denial stage, I think, and therefore slightly giddy and unwilling to face up to any of the options before her. Meanwhile, I am besotted with a married work colleague whose wit keeps me in stitches. Our flirting is definitely the (sad) highlight of my day at the moment when I have too much work on my plate and not enough men.
I only truly admitted the obsession today. Now, it's not that I'm averse to having a thing with a married guy-I've been there and done that, a few times, with varying results-but this married guy-well, I don't want just a thing. He's quality. Therefore, nothing will happen due to any machinations on my part. I will pine away at my desk and wait for the next email. I confessed my deep dark thoughts to Juno today and sent her "sample" email exchanges from Quality Guy to get her opinion. Her opinion was, "Oh, my! You're in trouble, dear! This could be fun, though." Our exchange continued a little along these lines:
To: Juno
From: RCC
Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:09
Subject: I TOLE YOU SO
He makes me laugh like no one has in a really long time...sigh...
To: RCC
From: Juno
Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:11
Subject: Re: I TOLE YOU SO
Then keep him around...nothing wrong with an innocent giggle...kee hee
J.
To: Juno
From: RCC
Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:12
Subject: RE: RE: I TOLE YOU SO
Like I'm going to take advice from YOU on this subject at this particular moment in time. LOL. And, you know if I had my way it would hardly be innocent. I'm the homewrecker, 'member?
To: RCC
From: Juno
Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:15
Subject: RE: RE: RE: I TOLE YOU SO
Oh I 'member... OK, so it's not so innocent...nothing wrong with testing the strength of a marriage (ed's note: sez you)...you're doing them a favour. Just don't get preggers (hee hee). At least not yet.
To: Juno
From: RCC
Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:17
SUBJECT: I RUVE HIM
I can't believe you just hee hee'd at that. Your hormones must really be doing a number...
To: RCC
From: Juno
Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:19
Subject: RE: I RUVE HIM
Maybe...or maybe I'm a freak of nature...both very plausible explanations.
To: Juno
From: RCC
Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21: 22
Subject: RE: RE: I RUVE HIM
True dat sista.
PS. I REALLY RUVE HIM.
PPS. I think it would be really funny if, for the rest of our lives, every bit of life guidance you give me ends with the proviso, "Just don't get preggers!"
To: RCC
From: Juno
Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:26
Subject: RE: RE: RE: I RUVE HIM
Done, done and done. I think it is good sound advice...in ALL SITUATIONS. There are no exceptions (unless you are trying to get preggers but even then I think my advice would be not get preggers).
Monday, June 2, 2008
Westside Workout Woes
So I've just moved to the West Side. I don't know the area that well, and when I left the house tonight to go for my nightly run, it was a little too dark for me to be venturing down unfamiliar streets without feeling uncomfortable. So, I opted to do a little Crossfit workout called "The Susan" (all Crossfit workouts are named after chicks): Run 300 metres, 10 squats, 10 pushups, 10 rounds. I sprinted to the end of my block and back to my lawn for the squats and pushups.
I had just finished a round of squats and was basically on all fours on the grass about to do my pushups when a cute guy, about my age, approached, with a box of cider under his arm.
"Those are some good squats," he observed. I laughed uncomfortably, and he hastily added, "No, no-I'm a Certified Personal Trainer. Those really are good squats! You didn't let your knees get over your toes, that's good! Most people do squats wrong." I tried to be polite, and got up from all fours. He introduced himself and I begrudgingly shook his hand. I don't usually introduce myself to people while working out and clad from head to toe in running gear, with no makeup on and my hair pulled back, so I was a little reluctant to continue the conversation, but Trainer Guy would not be deterred.
"Err, thanks," I said. "I really have been working on them" (Which is true. I have). "I'm doing a Crossfit workout at the moment," I added, hoping he'd get the metaphorical "do not disturb" sign I was hanging and vamoose.
"Oh yeah, like interval training? So what's next?" He shifted his cider box under his other arm.
I gave up at that point. He wasn't going away.
"Ummm, pushups," I said.
Trainer Guy then proceeded to get down on the grass beside me and give me a lesson in keeping my wrists in the "neutral" position. He also said that, as a recently certified trainer, he really wanted to "practice his client interaction" and would I be interested in doing a workout with him, no charge of course. He just needed to practice with "real" clients. Of course. He just needed my phone number. So he could call me. To set up the workout time. Of course.
After winkling my number out of me, Trainer Guy insisted I do a couple of pushups for him before he left so he could comment on my technique. At this point I was giggling uncontrollably out of sheer discomfort. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did.
ANOTHER guy, cute, mid 30's, who had just parked his car and was walking into my building, stopped to see what all the laughing was about.
"I just met this guy and he wants me to do pushups for him," I muttered.
"Oh really?" said the Friendly Neighbour, intrigued. "Well, let's see you do one!"
Hope makes us do crazy things. And I fervently hoped that if I did a couple of pushups, both Trainer Guy and the Friendly Neighbour would be satisfied. I really, deep down, in the bottom of my heart, wished for this. So I got down on all fours again to attempt another few pushups, Trainer Guy barking instructions on wrist placement at me and lecturing on the perils of stress fractures. Friendly Neighbour stood and watched and said, "Oh, good for you! Way to go!" After about three pushups, I snapped.
"This is really weird, guys, I don't know you and you're sitting here watching me do pushups! I need you to let me get back to my workout now!" Trainer Guy backed off immediately, but not before handing me a cold cider from his case, for "after the workout."
Friendly Neighbour continued to be friendly.
"I'm going to work out now," he said. "At Fitness World. You should come with me. We should workout together. If your boyfriend or husband doesn't mind. Did you just move into the building? What's your name? What floor are you living on? How do you like it so far?"
At this point, I'd really had enough.
"I have to get back to my workout," I said firmly, and ran down the block. I literally ran away from the man.
It's don't know whether it's alarming or satisfying to say I actually had to run away to fend off gentleman callers. All I know is maybe I should do pushups in public more often.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The Adventures of Tall & Short
On Saturday night I attended a very spiffy black tie event, for which I cracked out my very tiny gold sequined dress and my shiniest black patent leather high heels. My friends and I, after a long night of canapes and cocktails, found ourselves dancing at a club, along with several of my colleagues, including the office's new interns. Fuelled with vodka and confidence, I felt it was my duty to take advantage of the situation and assert my seniority over two particularly cute interns.
"Which one should I go for," I remember shouting over the music to a friend. I was squinty-eyed with drink at this point. "The Tall One," she shouted back. Thus, the interns were christened Tall & Short.
Luckily I got too drunk to do much more than criticize Short's shoes and do a lil' dirty dancing with Tall. The night ended alone, at home, thank god.
However, on Monday morning, I got an email from Short:
Subject: Hey
Some of us are organizing a boat cruise this weekend. Five hours or so, we'll have some drinks, listen to some music, enjoy the sunshine. You in?
-Short
Re: Hey
Sure, that sounds good, I'd definitely be into that? Who's coming?
-RCC
Re: Re: Hey
Um, so far it's me, you, and Tall.
-S
Re: Re: Re: Hey
Um, actually, I think I'm busy this weekend.
-RCC.
I mean, I'm up for alot of things, but on a boat, alone, for several hours, with Tall AND Short, who both clearly read the very obvious "I'm easy AND drunk" signs on Saturday night? I just don't think it looks or sounds good. Although Ginger, who is RCC's new roommate, remarked, without batting an eyelash:
"Well, I won't be home late that night, so feel free to bring both of them home."
That might be a little more seniority than I'm willing to exert.
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