Monthly Archives: May 2014

Are You One of “Those People”?

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I’m coming to the realization that there are just some people in this world who are beyond the point of social rehabilitation. When you encounter them, I recommend you bolt or at least avert your eyes. You have to understand that your time and energy are better served other places, like chipping old nail polish off your toes or alphabetizing your spice rack. These are folks who are beyond your help, and you must just let them be. No matter how painful that is. The list is extensive, but here are just a few of the major players.

People who play Sudoku. Be wary of these people. They play number games that can’t be solved, all by themselves, for fun. In any book, that’s suspicious. You’re probably wise to be cautious around anyone that deals extensively with numbers, including but not limited to engineers, accountants, and stock brokers. They can be shifty.

The Astros. Bless their hearts. They have all the fundamental characteristics of being a baseball team. There’s a stadium where they all gather together wearing the same type of clothing that other baseball teams wear. They have access to bats and gear. But somehow, that’s where the illusion seems to end. No amount of squinting or wishing or bartering first round draft picks with Satan can actually convince anyone that they’re really a baseball team. Not this year.

Anyone who doesn’t understand Texas. While I am a proponent of worldwide acceptance and love of all peoples, anyone who doesn’t “get” Texas should be scorned. I had to unfriend someone on Facebook because of something they said about Texas. I won’t repeat it here because my mother raised me better. Certainly a level of grace can be extended to those who might be unaware of all that is the Lone Star State, but it is merely short-term. Immediate conversion, proven by memorizing all the words to any George Strait song, must be forthcoming or they should be shunned. Texas isn’t just a state; it’s a state of mind.

Of course, it goes without saying that Justin Bieber fans, anyone who willingly owns a snake, people who pour ketchup all over their fries instead of dipping them, and the creepy kind of clowns that give you nightmares long into adulthood are on the list. Certainly this is just my opinion and in no way reflects the attitudes and beliefs of the management. Even if they do agree.

(Credit: Suspicion Drawing by Tim Ernst)

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When Muscles Fight Back

Soreness
I’m realizing that there comes a point when suddenly in the battle against your body the tables turn. You no longer have the upper hand that lets you do whatever you want, eat whatever you want and be completely neglectful without consequences. There comes a point when that all ends, and your body announces that it’s payback time. For me, that time is now. And paybacks are hell.

After being out of the gym for several weeks, I stormed back in and hit the weights with the enthusiasm reserved for killing snakes. My brain, that seems to be lagging about 20 years behind my chronological age, really didn’t see a problem with this strategy to make up those missed workouts with an extra effort now. I think it will take me about 20 years to recover, thank you very much. My body has let me know, in no uncertain terms, who is in control, and, yes, my brain is stupid.

I had soreness that rendered me just short of paraplegic status. By the time I got home from the gym on the second day, I was completely incapable of simple tasks requiring any participation from my muscles, like undressing. There is a horrifying moment when you realize you may be trapped in your sports bra because your triceps are too sore to pull it back over your head.

I found myself in my bathroom wondering if this situation warranted a 911 call, except I’d have to face some paramedic with the Jaws of Life or a volunteer fireman with an axe. That seemed extreme. Asking the nice Bangladeshi man who was mowing my yard to help me also seemed to peg out the Scale of Inappropriateness. I considered finding some scissors and just cutting myself out, but I paid $20 for that sports bra! There had to be another, more affordable answer! I thought about just showering in it. Kill two birds with one stone: I’m clean, the sports bra is clean. Of course, I’d then just be stuck in a clean and now dripping wet sports bra and that didn’t seem to be an improvement in my situation.

I ended up taking a couple of Advil and reverting back to the Lamaze Breathing I was taught to manage the pain of childbirth to finally get it off. I think I also learned my lesson that, at my age, it is NOT better to look good than to feel good!

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