Lip-Huggers

Hey, everyone! My friend Kate has a hi-LAR-i-ous essay in Salon today. I'm not sure which serves as better evidence of her truly inspired writing: calling ultra-low-rise jeans "lip-huggers" or comparing her belly to the infamously corrupt and pock-marked General Noriega. Regardless, Kate's essay is a must-read for any woman who's got a bone to pick with the retail fashion industry...

...which reminds me: this rant on Tomato Nation, aimed at the likes of Old Navy, The Gap, Banana Republic, Limited Express, and J. Crew, is funny as hell.

TomKat Repels Me

I'm so grossed out by Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Seriously. There's just something so unnatural about their weird-ass, sped-up, overly publicized, creepily intense relationship. I found this on Fametracker, and really, I couldn't have said it better.

Sigh.

"TomKat." Please.


Did you know I was once an extra on Dawson's Creek? This was back in the day, when S was interning for the show down in Wilmington, NC. S did an excellent and hilarious job of placing me oh-so-conspicuously in nearly every scene; if you were to see the episode (I should find out which number it is), you would laugh at the Where's Waldo quality of my frequent appearances. "Hey, there she is walking on the sidewalk! And now she's at a table in the restaurant! Oh, here she comes out the door of the university classroom!" etc. I'm everywhere in that episode, and it's a damn funny sight. And the thing is, this was years ago, maybe six or seven years, even, and I remember thinking the cast and most of the crew were really cool and friendly (with the exception of the props woman who gave me the ol' Evil Eye when I accidentally walked off a set with the notebook or whatever it was I had been holding), Katie Holmes included. I think maybe they're being in laid-back, small-townish Wilmington rather than dog-eat-dog LA had something to do with it. But I think it was also a matter of Dawson's Creek being this cool, kind of smart WB show starring a bunch of fresh unknowns. And now, here we are bunches of years later, and we've got a raw, chapped kissy-mouthed, overexposed "Kate" Holmes devoting herself both to Tom Freaking Cruise and his crazy Scientology. And he's so effing weird and manic, and she's sixteen years his junior, and it's all just unsettling. I don't like it.

I know I shouldn't care. But, tragically, I find myself irresistibly drawn to celebrity goings-on. More so now that I live in LA, where I actually see big-time celebs out and about fairly often. (Most recent sighting: James Spader at Westside Pavilion mall, with a woman (his wife?) and a child (theirs?). He was wearing a Panama hat, and he was short and a bit stocky.)

OK then. Later.

8 in 8: Day 2

Hi there. So, today is Day 2 of my goal to drop eight pounds in eight weeks, so that I might embrace my thirtieth birthday feeling healthier, fitter, and less mopey than I would otherwise. Good idea, no?

As promised, here's what the scale at my new gym said I weighed yesterday:

130.5

Yeah, that seemed low to me, too. The last few times I went to the doctor's office, it was more like 134-ish. Hell, even S (cautiously) guessed "138" last night, when I decided to come clean with the number. (I'd never told him my weight, ever. It's just not something I normally go around broadcasting. Naturally, he was frightened to hazard a guess. I think he expected some sort of tearful overreaction on my part...and wondered aloud whether I'd be more offended by a too-high guess or a too-low one. I wasn't sure, but I was impressed that his number, while high, was more or less "in the ballpark," so to speak. And I didn't have any emotional response whatsoever to his guess.) Maybe the low number was a result of my not having eaten since lunch, which, by the time I weighed myself, had come and gone six hours ago. Maybe I was also dehydrated? Working in an over-air-conditioned office will do that to you.

I'm about to head out to the drugstore, and while I'm there I might pick up a scale. If I do, I'll weigh myself again and report any discrepancy in numbers between the new and old scales.

I hope I'm not displaying tacky exhibitionist tendencies, here, by sharing my numbers with you. I hope it's not unseemly. I'm normally sort of modest to a fault about this type of thing, I think. This feels a little grotesque, to tell you the truth.

Oh! Another thing. Each time I go to the gym, I deposit five bucks into my new online savings account, set up specifically for this purpose. (I recommend the ING Direct Orange Savings Account, by the way. It's currently paying 3.00% interest. Not too shabby!) Anyway, each time I work out I get five bucks, until I have enough dough saved to buy an MP3 player. It sucks not having music to listen to in the gym. I think this little incentive plan just might work! As S will quickly confirm if you ask him, I've been lusting after MP3 players for some time now. I want one SO BAD.

Eight Pounds, Eight Weeks

Guess what today is? Guess! Guess! Can you? Can you? Huh? Can you?

You can't?

Oh.

OK, well, it is exactly two months before my thirtieth birthday. Thirty. THIR-TEE. Unbelievable, really. I'm really sort of suddenly surprised that the blur that was my Twenties is about to vanish for good. I'm not ready to reflect on that first decade of my (supposed) adulthood just yet, but stay tuned. A long-winded, self-centered, self-indulgent, self-pitying post on What I've Decided My Twenties Were All About is eminent, I'm sure. Lucky you, Mr. or Ms. Beleaguered reader! Good times.

So, I have re-joined a gym. But not just any old gym, mind you. I have left the overcrowded, noisy, utterly undercleaned Bally's behind in my quest for more exercise. I have joined Spectrum Health Club, people. And so far, so good.

I'd taken a hiatus from the gym after finding myself just plain sick of it. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I became so very tired of Bally's, of which I'd been a member for five sweaty years. And it's not that Bally's has disgusting horrible gyms all around; on the contrary, the Culver City and West L. A. and Hollywood branches are all large, decently equipped facilities. It's that they're just not well maintained. Equipment is always broken, the air is always fetid, the locker-room floors are coated with grime and curly hairs. And oh, the crowding. It was never, "What cardio machine do I want to use today?" but rather, "Well, which machine is free?" Or worse yet, "OK, all the machines are taken. I'll wait here in this line and adopt the vigilance of a Buckingham Palace guard to ensure no one snags a treadmill out of turn."

But now, Spectrum Health Club. For starters, membership is month to month, so I'm not trapped in any kind of labyrinthine multi-year contract like I was with Bally's. I can honest to god quit AT ANY TIME. And good thing, too, because the dues are expensive! This is how they keep from overcrowding the facility, it seems. It's elitist, it's snooty, it goes against my vaguely Socialist ideals, and it makes me feel slightly fraudulent, since I'm not rich like many of the members ... but I do appreciate being able to show up at 5:45, during peak after-work hours, and have my pick of cardio machines, no waiting. I should mention here that my work reimburses me forty bucks' worth of my dues each month, which makes membership doable for me. Otherwise? No way in hell.

So. Eight weeks, eight pounds. I realized on the elliptical trainer yesterday that today, June 17th, marks the beginning of my Eight-Week Countdown to 30. And I thought, Oh, that's funny, I happen to be eight pounds overweight. And then I recalled that a pound-a-week weight loss is supposed to be healthy and feasible, and then I thought, Hey! Why don't I try to lose one pound per week, every week, 'til my thirtieth birthday? That works out to eight pounds in eight weeks, see? So. That's the plan. I'm not really going to diet, per se, since clearly I ain't the dieting type. But I am going to work out regularly, which I need to do anyway, to lower my cholesterol (189) and increase my muscle strength and cardiovascular capacity. And I'm going to forego many of my usual foodie treats: cookies, cake, tortilla chips, huge burritos full of cheese, that type of thing. Basically, I'm going to eat and workout the way I know I should, for eight weeks. It would be nice to welcome The Big Three-Oh feeling healthier and more fit. I think it would help me feel better about getting older.

As for the DVD home workouts that I love so much: I'm not doing away with those. I love 10-Minute Solution Pilates! I'm going to do my home workouts every so often, for variety, when I need a reprieve from the gym. Maybe once a week or so.

So, today before I work out, I'll weigh myself. Then, this weekend, I'll gather up all my little scraps of pride, work them into a tight ball, punt that ball out my living-room window, and post the number here, on this blog. And I'll update my progress each week. Probably a bit boring and tedious for you, but strangely motivating for me. OK?

Three Months to Three Years

Last night I met a couple of friends at a tapas bar in Los Feliz for drinks and superfluous food. Superfluous because all three of us had eaten dinner already and were full, but we had to order something to justify our sitting at a table while other would-be diners waited to be seated. Nothing like putting the contents of "Six-Piece Cheese Plate" and "Flourless Chocolate Cake" on top of a belly full of Italian food...yeesh. Anyway, at one point in the evening Friend 1 mentioned someone she knew who is "dying of cancer," specifically mouth cancer, and has a prognosis of "three months to three years" to live. This startled me right out of my food coma because, presumably, the woman is around my age: late twenties, early thirties.

At the time Friend 1 mentioned this woman, I felt alarmed and very sad. Then the conversation turned to other things and I lightened up again. On the long drive back home, however, I was caught in a traffic jam on Vermont and found myself pondering the stark bleakness of people dying young. I wondered what I would do if I were terminally, gravely ill and given a prognosis of "three months to three years" to live---a range of time which, incidentally, strikes me as grotesquely cutesy and tidy, and weirdly meaningless. People sometimes talk hypothetically on long car trips and during late-night conversations about what they'd do if they knew they had only a limited time left to live, and it's kind of a game and an amusing way to pass the time. "I'd have sex with as many people as possible," someone might say, or "I'd travel to China" or what have you. But in the isolation of my dark car last night, when I tried to imagine what I'd do, I became panicky and a bit hysterical. I also despaired at the huge number of mundane details that would require my attention were I to prepare for my own death. Never mind bungee-jumping off The Great Wall---what would become of my 401(k), and to what extent would I clean out my closet, my end table, and my overstuffed Box of Important Papers? I wouldn't want to leave a mess behind. But would I have the physical and emotional energy to do these chores? I can barely face them right now.

I decided I would quit my job---I wouldn't want to waste a single second of my dwindling remaining days trapped in a gray cubicle doing unimportant work. But then, without benefits, would I get on S's health insurance so I could continue receiving whatever treatment I was prescribed? Would that be financially burdensome? Would the subtraction of my income force S and I to move to a smaller apartment? Would the stress of moving further ruin my poor health? Would I even stay in Los Angeles? One thing I knew was that I'd want to be with my family as much as possible. Part of me immediately concluded I'd move back to NY to live with my parents in the home I grew up in. But then, would S be stuck in LA without me? He'd miss me, and I'd miss him. Maybe I'd stay out here but fly home often. Would I eventually become too sick and frail to travel? In that case, would my family fly out to spend time with me? I wondered, too, about getting pregnant. Would that still be feasible? Would it be irresponsible to knowingly conceive a child under the circumstances? But I think S would want a child---our child---anyway, if it were possible.

I think I'd have to sit down and make a list of Things to Do, People to See, and Places to Go in my remaining days. I'd have to brainstorm, then I'd have to narrow down and prioritize and consider what was practical and possible. Would I wish for trips to exotic places? I've wanted to go to Australia since I was eight. Or would I simply want to return to favorite, comfortable spots that define who I am...like my grandma's front porch, or childhood vacation spots like Cape Cod? I'd definitely want to spend lots of time with good friends, old friends, and my parents, brother, aunt, uncles, and grandmothers. And then, of course, there's S's family, too. I'd want to be with them as well.

I feel as though I wouldn't be interested in being online a whole lot...sitting in front of a computer making my way around the Internet is a nice way to pass the time but also confining and sometimes depressing. I think I'd feel differently about movies, though. I might rewatch old favorites and keep seeing whatever interested me in the theater. No bars, no clubs---well, maybe somewhere with dancing.

And that's about as far as I got, thinking it all through in the car last night. The whole exercise of imagining this situation was upsetting, certainly. But mostly it was inconceivable. I mean, try as I might, I of course could not truly put myself in the place, mentally, of someone who is dying. It's impossible, and futile, and foolish, really, to try to imagine you're living in a way that you're not. But I tend to always try: What would being in a major car crash feel like? What if S died? What will it be like when Mom and Dad are in their eighties? And then I concentrate on trying to summon these things in my imagination such that I can "rehearse" living through them. I read somewhere that this is actually a thing certain people do as sort of a defense mechanism---we don't like the feeling of being unprepared, so we try to imagine, in detail, what some event would be like, so that if or when it ever happens, we can say, "Come on now, Self. We've mentally prepared for this! We can handle it."

Strange.