Smelly Elliptical Man

Most of the time I'm ok. Most of the time, I avoid what has, on a few occasions, forced my face into a look of disgust for an entire evening... or longer. But tonight, I had no choice. I had no other option. If I wanted to stay at the gym and complete the workout that I had looked forward to all day, I had to do the unthinkable. I had to... it's almost too painful to relive... I had to work out next to... dun dun DUN... smelly elliptical man!

I've done it before, one time. But that was before I knew the horror. And I kid you not, it's pretty frickin' horrible. I've been camping, I know what normal body odor should smell like. This is beyond that times a really high number.

I arrived at the gym, some good country music on my ipod, just about ready to switch over to the dance genre, and I spotted him from the corner of my eye. A short little hairy man. Actually kind of cute. But looks are deceiving!

So I do my ladies room routine, take off my fleece, all that stuff. And I return to the cardio area. Prime time at the gym. God damn it. Not a treadmill or elliptical in sight, except, of course, the one free machine next to... dun dun DUN... smelly elliptical man!

I waited 10 frickin' minutes. Nothing. Oh god, I thought. Not again. Please, god, no. I'll do anything. I'm sorry I curse. I'm sorry I'm not a good little Catholic girl anymore. And I'm really sorry I organized a family karaoke party on the day of your son's resurrection, the holiest of all holy days! But why this? Did I really deserve this?

Reluctantly, I boarded my machine for what was sure to be 30 minutes of grimacing. And it was, no doubt. I tried to distract myself with some Cher, a little Madonna, DJ Sammy. But I couldn't stop the waves of his god-awful scent from filling my nostrils. I thought, well maybe he's European. Perhaps. Maybe he can't afford deodorant.

But you know, after all my over-analysis of this incredibly smelly man, I took a closer look. And he was smiling. Very jolly guy. And despite the fact that he could clear a room after five minutes on a cardio machine, he was loving his life. And then I thought, good for him! Wouldn't want to share the sauna with you, but, smelly elliptical man, you keep smiling. Be proud of who you are. 'Cause you know what, even though I'd rather hang out in the elephant pen of the National Zoo in the dead of August than be next to you in the elliptical line on a cool spring day, you rock. Amen.

The Simple Life

I was speaking with my cousin the other day over instant messenger. For the sake of anonymity, let's call her "Lana."

We started reminiscing about the good 'ole days growing up on our grandparents' lake. Playing regular hide and seek. Then playing our suped up version of hide and seek (which was pretty intense) and inventing all kinds of things. As Lana recalled our genius idea to sell skipping rocks, I was reminded of how simple life had been.

We were probably between the ages of 8 and 15, collectively, at the time of these adventures. We created a club called the BDC (I will not reveal what those letters stood for as I took an oath). We had club colors, and a club song. We - my cousin, my sister (whom I shall call "Schmadri") and I - were the primary members. Occasionally, we'd let in an "honorary member" such as my grandfather or Sister Whatshername. Yes, there were nuns in my childhood. Lots of them.

We conducted intellectual experiments such as bug collection and classification. I don't remember what book we used to "classify" the bugs, but there was definitely a system, no doubt.

Our advanced version of hide and seek included a series of clues, each one leading to the next until you found the hiding BDC member. This took a great deal of patience on the part of the hidden person, believe me. Those games would last a loooooong time. I remember one game when my grandmother was a special "real life" clue. She got a kick out of it. And so did we.

We had planned to sell drinks at a slightly cheaper rate than my grandfather's restaurant. The concept of putting him out of business of course never crossed our minds. We were just proud that we thought of the idea.

And the skipping rocks? Apparently Lana had a bag full of them, which we individually tested for smooth and long-lasting skipping capabilities. Our slogan - "Pre-tested. Guaranteed to skip." Who in their right mind wouldn't buy something with that solid of a guarantee?

We had it made. Those summers were some of my most fun times ever. And then we grew up.

I've been thinking a lot about the complication of everyday life, now that I'm older. What changed? Was there a turning point? How did I go from selling rocks to paying rent? How did I go from feeling free and secure... to feeling free and really really worried?

Recently, I've come to realize that it is useless to stress about things out of my control. And that's really comforting. I've been able to let go of a lot. And my body feels calmer.

But I can't escape the fact that life is frickin' complicated now! Back in the day, there was no rent. There was no "life plan." There were no relationship issues, no long-distance friendships, no deadlines, no major heartaches...

I would eat Cookie Crisp for breakfast and mac n cheese mixed with Chef Boyardee for lunch. Diets? Never heard of 'em.

We would dive for golf balls in the lake, over by the golf course. The concept of tan lines wasn't even a thought. Just good clean fun. Oh, and an occasional angry man in pastel plaid.

I wish I had some great conclusion, but I don't. I guess life changes, and we change with it. Lana, Schmadri and I grew up, at least a little. :) We have a new bond now. We are the young women of the family. It's an exclusive membership. And we pretty much still rule. For real.

Love Notes? Or God Notes?

I write this post with some hesitation - not because of what I will say, but more because, in doing so, I will have to admit that I listen to "Love Notes" on the local soft rock station. Yes! It's true! I like soft rock! Please don't judge me.

Anyway, after rockin' out to some quality Bryan Adams, Delilah, who is the host of "Love Notes," interjects with an on-air interview. You all know Delilah, I know you do! I am NOT the only one. That soft, melodious, reassuring voice... haha. Little did I know that she had an agenda.

A woman calls in with, of course, a dedication. She wants to send a song to her husband because their marriage is falling apart. She says that her husband is never home. He's always out with the guys. He comes home very late and he's always drunk. He doesn't spend enough time with his wife and their young child.

Sad, right? You know what Delilah's advice is? Pray. Yep, pray. These are rough times, she says. But surround yourself with people who love you, see a counselor if you can, wait... and pray. He'll grow up. It'll get better. I'm like, what the f***?

Keep in mind I had just listened to Goodbye Earl on my way home, so I'm in a completely different frame of mind. Praying is great, don't get me wrong, but I think there are some other, possibly more effective, solutions. At least she got the word "counselor" in there.

During the same broadcast, in between some Shania Twain and some classic Phil Collins, she comments that she is here for us to find "our path" and our meaning in life. How do you wake up in the morning? What do you live for? Live for HIM. I'm thinking, for who, exactly?

Upon further research on her Website, I learn that she's not so much an outward religious fanatic, but rather somewhat closeted. A 16 year old girl wrote in, asking what do because she was pregnant and she was scared. Delilah's first tidbit of advice, "Take care of that baby!" Seek medical attention, and then decide if you want to consider an adoption service. I'm thinking, yes, adoption is wonderful, but there are other options - other "choices" - before that step. And this girl needs to at least be presented with them.

I have no problem with God. In fact, this past year, I've found great inspiration in the music of Yolanda Adams and Kirk Franklin, who, by the way, is a self-proclaimed Jesus freak. I'm not against spirituality. I'm just against the misrepresentation of choices, and the truth.

But I still support soft rock.

There She Is, Your Ideal

What does it mean to be a princess? Is it a good thing? Or a bad thing? Does it mean you are of a noble class, a lady? Or does it mean you are of the spoiled kind, a pompous brat? Why do little girls want to be princesses? Is it because they want to feel special and adored? Or is it because they just... want?

Odd questions, especially coming from me. I was a tomboy and a nerd (actually I prefer the term "dork" because there is, at least, some element of cuteness there). I played with legos and blocks. I liked the occasional stuffed animal. But Barbie? Ewwwwww. And princesses? Um, yeah, no.

So, 20 years later, I'm walking to work. It's a great spring morning. I get my coffee and yogurt loaf and I'm about to enter my building. Then I hear the popular DC sound of sirens. Police cars. The motorcade. Again. I'm a little curious, and not in a huge rush, so I stop. Is it Cheney? I hope not! I'm wearing my camouflage bag and I forgot my bullet proof vest today.

No! It's not Cheney! It's not Rumsfeld. It's not Dumbshit. It's... the Cherry Blossom Princesses? Holy crap, it's totally the Cherry Blossom Princesses. In a bus that says, appropriately, "United States Cherry Blossom Princesses."

FYI, according to the National Conference of State Societies Website, "the Cherry Blossom Princess Program is a weeklong cultural and educational opportunity for young women from across the U.S. and around the world. Women between the ages of 19 and 23 are chosen by the 50 state and 5 territory societies and the international embassy community for their leadership, academic achievements, interest in social, civic, community and world affairs... the Princess Program continues to spawn women of accomplishment."

Haha... spawn.

Anyway, it's like Miss America invades DC. Miss American dignitaries. Women "leaders" who are told to wear certain attire, certain colors. They all look the same. They all promote an image. They are our "role models." Role models in high heels and pastel gowns. Ha. The next Laura Bush? Condi Rice? Actually both of those women would be honored by the plastic hair styles.

Well, who am I to judge? I am friends with a former CBP, and she rocks. Shout out to Oregon.

But is this the image we really want to give our children?

I have a friend who is getting married and she refuses to be treated like a princess, even though we all insist she deserves it. No special treatment though. No silly crowns. No extra attention. Got it, ok. But in this case, I want to treat her like a princess. The good kind.

It's funny how we can accept something's good qualities and ignore the bad ones. I want to be a princess! But not in any bad way, of course. I will be a "good princess." A Princess Diana princess, if you will. But how do we separate? Maybe we just shouldn't judge at all. Who knows, maybe underneath all the hairspray and pastel there lies a princess who will change the world with a radical thought. Or maybe she'll just wave and make all the little girls smile. Or hurl. You know, whatever.