I deserve abs for this.

I'm always looking for ways to postpone working out. I just hate it that much. If results were instantaneous, things would be different. Alas, no, these things take time. So for the last several hours, instead of paying my dues, I've rearranged the rooms of our apartment and re-hung pictures. It looks good and all of you should visit us this instant. But now that everything is in its place, I would just like to lay down in the pajamas I've been wearing since last night. Give me a little popcorn, a little Breaking Bad, and I'll be fine.

If only.

One of the worst parts about moving away from my girlfriends is that I am so far from everyone/anyone who appreciated my attitude towards working out. There was a time in my life when an ever-softer body was, if not a group goal, an amusing issue. With my work friends and roommates, I would laugh and laugh, pleased as PUNCH to eat a pile of oreos instead of baby carrots; to wear the same pair of pants day after day because they fit; to have endless conversations about what we were eating and what we wanted to eat.

Me, caressing a shake, at my bachelorette party. 

Steven doesn't think it's as funny as my girlfriends when I would rather inhale pasta than expel calories. I know, I don't get it either. But yesterday, I promised him that I would work out every day from now until February 15th, and work out I must.

Now if you'll excuuuuse me...

Happy Saturday!

A song to send you on your weekend!

Willy Wonka knows what's up

Great news, everyone! Steven's bike was stolen.

Wait, scratch that, reverse it.

Steven's bike was stolen! Great news, everyone... we got it back.

A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from Steven saying that his bike was gone and he needed me to pick him up. At some point in the several hours that his bike was locked up at the metro station while he was at his evening class, some wacka-doo broke the lock and rolled his bike away.

Steven kept his cool and started filing a claim with metro security while I drove down the road in my pajamas, fuming, imagining that I would come across the thief on the way and run him off the road.

The claim was filed, security said they'd look for it, and Steven and I were pretty sure we would never see the bike again. Let's be honest.

Chicken BUT!, exactly one week later, we get a phone call saying that the bike was found at a pawn shop, just down the road from us. After a little negotiating between the coppers and the pawners and a lot of patience from Steven, the bike was taken to the station, where we were able to pick it up last night. No scratches or changes, even the KSU sticker required to park bikes on campus was still there.

As I was waiting in the car for Steven to get his bike, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw him rolling it down the sidewalk, the happiest, goofiest grin on his face, skipping! To all of you who prayed for the search, for all of the well-wishers and sympathisers, THANK YOU. The bike is home, double locked to our patio and the image of Steven skipping will forever be firmly planted in my memory.

Win-win.

Think about what you've done!

I miss something every day. Yesterday, I missed walking to class at KSU, the most beautiful campus in the world. The day before that, I missed getting sent to my room by my parents when I was naughty and lippy. Now I have to send myself, and that's way less effective. Who's going to save me from myself?

There are some things that I miss that I will never get back and some things that aren't gone, but aren't the same as they used to be (ahem, my thighs). But what I really want you to know is that some things I think I miss, I don't actually miss*. Just like you never know a good thing until it's gone, sometimes you don't know a bad thing until it's gone. Sometimes, we miss the idea of what we thought we had, which could be a person or a shirt or a job or a pet*, but really we're better of because of the loss.

Good riddance and thankyouverymuch.

The other night, I sent myself to my room because, bless my heart, I was just too tired to be nice and mature. I climbed into bed, covered myself up, and asked myself what was going on... I'm going to end this scene where I talk to myself now, but basically what I told myself is that I struggle with spreading myself too thinly, trying to do too much, and explaining myself all of the time*.

I've also been reassessing what I do and have found that a lot of what I spend my time on doesn't have any meaning or doesn't mean anything to me. I'm working on changing that, letting go of some things that are already gone and nurturing the things that are really important.

*I have not ever missed my parakeets.
*Honest! I only struggle with three things.
*If You're wondering how many times I used miss/missed in this post, it's seven. You're welcome.
*I'm so vague, you probably think this post is about you. It's not.

It was beautiful.

In the middle of his twenty-seven months with the Peace Corps, Steven came home for a few weeks. It was a summer visit, July, the first time we'd seen each other in over a year. With all the holidays we'd missed together behind us and all the holidays to come before us, we decided to take a day to celebrate Christmas.

I think I've talked about this before.

I made waffles in my parents' kitchen, standing barefoot in the Jasmine pants I bought at a market in Spain. My friends thought they looked ridiculous, but I liked the feel of scarves on my bare legs, my only complaint was the elastic at the ankles, which cut in to my skin.

I set the table with speckled blue and white plates and blended Orange Julius. I played Bing Crosby's Christmas album and warmed the syrup which, it turns out, Steven doesn't really like.

He walked into the house without knocking, and hugged me withe one arm, the other arm behind his back. He surprised me with a soft green hydrangea, the first flower he'd ever handed me himself.

I cut the stem and put the flower in water, in a cup on the table. We ate breakfast, me with my waffle dripping in melted butter and syrup and him with butter only.

He went back to West Africa a few days later, got sick with mono and spent a couple weeks in bed.

That hydrangea, hardier than any I've ever seen, lasted almost a month, long enough for Steven to get better and return to his village.

Maybe it borrowed his health, pulling it from his hand as he carried it to me on our Christmas morning.
Maybe it was just mimicking our patience, lasting longer than anybody thought it could.

Get it any way you can.

I would have liked to take a nap in a hammock today, the slight sway, the weight of a blanket tucked around my shoulders, the cool air cradling the sag of my back... I settled for my car, instead, parked at the back of the lot. With an hour for lunch, it was enough time to fall asleep in a patch of sun.

I woke up sweaty and sore, which made stepping out into the cool air all the more refreshing. The short walk from the car to the building was perfect. It was hard to come back inside, sad to sit for hours at a desk, staring at a screen, facing away from the window.

The square of sunlight on the floor does not even reach the wheels of my chair.