Cologne

It's no secret that men like cologne. It's also no secret that South American men, in particular, really like cologne. What baffles me is that a South American man, from my neighborhood, could be dressed in clothes as if he's going to build a house, or perhaps paint a house. He could be dressed in these clothes, yet he will apply more cologne than any man I've ever met at a black tie function.

One such man approached me on the 42 today. I was sitting down in a window seat, listening to some Counting Crows song on my ipod, and I got the whiff - the whiff of the South American hombre. I realize I'm playing into a stereotype, but, at least within the confines of the 42 world, it's true more often than not.

I know some people are bothered by this, but I'm not. To me, it's a very pleasant smell. And you know what it says? It says, I'm proud of myself. I'm proud of my life. I'm proud of my body. And I'm going to dress it up with a little fragrance. I don't care if I'm on my way to build a house. I care about how I smell today.

It's really a beautiful thing.

So this man approached me, and I said hello. He was very nice. We had a little chat. He got off at Dupont Circle. And his pride left me feeling proud to have met him. I also sneezed a few times, but that's ok.

Cab... or Lunch

Yesterday, I was running so late. Mom was in town and she had successfully distracted me with freshly brewed coffee, cereal and lots of hugging.

Even though I believe in the power of the 42 to decrease my commute by half (on a good day, no rain or snow, and provided the driver is not completely apathetic), there was no way I was making it on time. So I opted for the cab. Two zones, a gas price hike and a rush hour surcharge later, I was there. In New York, I bet that trip would cost maybe five or six bucks. In DC, try $10.80, a nice even $12 with tip. Jesus. Even a Cosi salad would not set me back quite that much. Good thing I got a delicious free lunch at work yesterday. I might have starved otherwise. Lesson of the day, being late in DC is expensive. Time is money, people. Time is money.

Top Gun Guy

Finally aboard the third bus that passed my stop (apparently everyone and their mother was riding the 42 today), I chose a seat next to a man who, at first glance, appeared fairly normal. He was in his 20s or 30s, dress shirt, decent pantalones.

Anyway, he had a briefcase. And he had an ipod. He was like every other guy who ever rode the bus. Until! All of a sudden I realized what song he was playing on his nano. It was the theme song from Top Gun. And it was loud. So loud that I instantly recognized it. Yep, without a doubt, he was totally rocking out to the Top Gun theme music. His leg was moving to the beat. He loved it. He was inspired. He was ready for another day.

So now, when life gets me down, and I have trouble motivating myself to get to work, I too will rock out to Top Gun. I live in Washington, DC, baby. And I have the NEED for SPEED. Ok, that's totally not me, but I appreciate the creativity in song choice. Thank you, Top Gun Guy. You go get 'em!

Smelly Bus

This morning was the haziest morning of the year, so far that is. I was all comfortable in my apartment, even with the small amount of AC I allow myself to use (it's frickin expensive). And then I stepped outside. Jesus Christ. It was like walking into a sauna. I decided to take the good 'ole 42 to avoid looking like a drowned rat by the time I got to work. You know I love the 42. It is a glorious bus. But when it's hot and sticky out, and it's crowded, let's see... how do I say this. People smell.

I was convinced that deodorant was invented by a passenger on public transportation in the summertime. He saw the need, and he addressed it. But, of course, I had to confirm. Turns out that deodorant was invented by someone from Philadelphia in 1888. It stopped odor by inhibiting the growth of bacteria. Sweat is not normally smelly - it's the bacteria under your arms that makes it rank. Ew.

Of course, it was the city of brotherly love that gave us this wonderful creation. Less smelly people = more brotherly love. People on the 42, please ponder.

Psychic Street Lady

Deep in thought (i.e., not paying attention) I took a different route home. I passed a psychic woman on 18th street, selling her palm reading services. I stopped. She said, in an accent I could not recognize, "I see something deep inside you. Come here! Let me talk to you." The pushy directive was not convincing, so I kept walking, although I did take her little printed advertisement.

FOR OVER 20 YEARS HAS SUCCEEDED IN HELPING SO MANY OVERCOME ALL OBSTACLES IN LIFE, LOVE, CAREER, HEALTH, STRESS, SUBSTANCE ABUSE, DEPRESSION, AND MORE. DON'T LIVE IN FEAR OR DESPAIR AND TAKE CONTROL OF YOUR FUTURE NOW.

Overcome "all obstacles in life?" That is quite the claim. Apparently street psychics have all the answers. And she sees something "deep inside me?" What, the Cosi salad I had for lunch? My inner soul? Blah.

Street psychic lady, you have nothing more to offer me than I can offer myself. Except for some entertainment I guess. Followed by a piece of jumbo slice.

And so it begins...

Today starts a new chapter in my blog. I've realized that what makes life truly interesting are the little things. Moments. Some funny, some sad and some poignant. Today begins a chronicle, a chronicle of observations. A listing of things that happen every day - to people like you and me.

Blank Space

-










-








-








-








-








-








-








-








-








-








-








-








-








-








-

Super Intense Gym Guy

When you don't have to go to work, your life slows down a little. And it's wonderful. I find myself walking more slowly, looking around, thinking, observing.

I went to the gym this morning for a spin class, as is my Thursday routine, and I decided to hang out afterwards for some quick ab work. I found my spot and my favorite bouncy ab ball thingie (that is the technical term, FYI). As I stretched my back over the ball and took a calming deep breath, I noticed a familiar face walk into the room. Oh shit, I thought. Not today! Not on my relaxing no-work day! It was... DUN DUN DUN... Super Intense Gym Guy!

He found his spot directly behind me. Super Intense Gym Guy does not need personal space. And apparently he has no need to recognize mine. He had a jump rope. And a super large barbell. He jumped up and down as if he hated this jump rope. He had a look on his face like, "I hate you, you mother f***ing jump rope. And I'm gonna slam you into the floor every god damn time. You're not that heavy, but I'm gonna make it seem like it's really hard to lift you. Because I'm that strong. I'll show you what's up. God damn mother f***ing jump rope."

So while this scene is happening behind me, I'm trying to achieve my zen on the bouncy ball. Not so much.

He was doing intervals. So, after a few rounds on super intense jump roping, he picked up the barbell. Let me note that Super Intense Gym Guy is not that big. He's puny. A little guy, if I can be blunt. Anyway, he picked up this weight that was probably too heavy for him, and he proceeded to do curls. With every lift, I got to hear a, "Ahhhh! Oh!!!!," followed by super intense heavy breathing. He lifted that barbell about, say, seven times? May not seem like that much to the seasoned gym-goer, but to Super Intense Gym Guy, that is all you need.

And so it progressed. A round of super intense (and violent) jump roping followed by some super intense, although ridiculous, lifting.

After his interval training was over (a solid 10 minutes), he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror for a while. His breathing was heavy. He seemed satisfied with his morning workout. He looked at his strained muscles with such adoration, I wondered if he forgot to wear his contacts. I'm thinking, "What is he looking at exactly?"

Super Intense Gym Guy, I salute you. You are completely ridiculous and vain. But you have passion, and for that, you deserve some respect. Just stay away from my personal space. I'm not that impressed.

Tomorrow

My head hurts. It's been hurting all day and, out loud, I say I don't know why, but I do. Tomorrow things will change. For the better, I think. But something inside me is breaking. Have you ever made a big decision and although, deep down, you know that it's right for you, you feel like it's letting someone else down? Like you've let yourself down too? That is how I feel.

I got a letter from her yesterday. She expressed gratitude to me. She said I was there for her. But in the back of mind, I thought, I've let her down. I promised - and I swore - to myself that I would fight for her. I wanted to make it go away. I wanted to end it. I wanted to make a difference. Right now, looking back on the past year or so, I don't know if I've done anything at all.

I wanted to be stronger. I know things weren't exactly ideal, but when did I become selfish? When did I stop pushing? When did I decide, it's not worth it, or, I am worth more than this?

I know I'll be happier. But I'll always look back and, on a very personal level, regret quitting. I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I let you down. I wanted so badly to fight to the end. And I chose another path. I will volunteer, but it won't be the same. I won't face it everyday. I won't speak it everyday. I won't be hurt everyday thinking of it. For the longest time, I needed that pain. Sounds messed up, I know. But I needed to feel like I was doing something about it. Even if it hurt.

Now I feel another kind of hurt. The hurt of giving up on a mission. The hurt of choosing to better my own life. Who knew the possibility of choosing a better path could be painful. But it is to me. I'm sorry.

I know I was a speck in the grand scheme. And I know that my own contribution was small, if anything. So in that way I can rationalize it. But my head still hurts. A lot. And I will go to bed tonight with tears in my eyes, thinking of you. And thinking of tomorrow.

And there you have it.

I’m Outdoorsy, I Swear

I’m having a hard time typing. Why, you ask? Because I fell. And my left hand is in a splint.

I wish I could say it was a tragic incident. Like, for example, I risked my own life scaling the side of a building trying to save an old lady from certain death. But no. It comes down to a simple tale of inappropriate footwear.

It was a gorgeous day. We were walking to the zoo. There was a trail. Oh fun! A trail, I said. I’m outdoorsy. Not a problem.

About five steps into this “trail,” my flip-flops decided that they no longer needed to carry me upright. And down I went. Right on my hand. Sunglasses and pride shattered, I sat for a good two minutes, trying to conceal the tears. And the nausea.

Now, I’ve experienced a good deal of trails. Hell, I’ve bouldered the sides of mountains. I’ve waded through flooded valleys. I’ve even hiked Tasmania. And this is the “trail” that defeats me?

If I was with my mother or my best friend, I think I might have milked it a little more. Or been more realistic. But I was with a guy. The guy I’m dating. Who, I might add, is very athletic. So what did I do? I gave myself those two minutes, and then I said, on to the zoo! I’m fine! What? There is blood streaming down my leg? Whatever. It’s fine! I'm an independent and strong woman, who, despite a possible broken wrist and a small gash on my leg, is totally and completely FINE.

I toughed it out for more than four hours. That is how “tough” I am.

Despite the throbbing pain, it was a great four hours.

However, the next day, after a precautionary trip to the ER, I realized both the silliness of pride… and the importance of ice packs.