Category Archives: classy

Many of you won’t like this

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Dear President Obama,

I got a favor to ask of you. Give me a day off from work every month when my lady ish starts. Please.

I know. You’re going to face a lot of opposition when you go to pass this into law. Cronies, congressmen, everyone. Lot of people gonna hate on this. Please just hear me out.

But first, don’t worry. I won’t get too graphic. I know it’s tough for you and your fellow males to reconcile the messy reality of menstruation with your expectations of women. I promise, no blood talk.

(Just kidding, mofo. Of course There Will Be Blood. I’ll try to keep it to a minimum, though.)

Periods suck. With them come cramps, nausea, backaches, sore boobs, diarrhea, bloating, fatigue, trouble sleeping, headaches, acne, constipation, and more. Lot of times, I get cold sores and sore throats. It’s like having a cold and a flu concurrently, but worse because it happens every month. Oh and don’t forget, there’s also that blood-seeping-from-vagina business, too.

Does that gross you out? Get over it, ya baby. You wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for periods! Not a damn one of us would. So while I get that it’s a little narsty, it’s also something 50% of us deal with on the regular. Ladies have to pull blood-soaked tampons out of their bodies — usually with dark, congealed masses of uterus clung to them. We have to actually physically handle them. You should be able to handle just hearing about it.

(Hahahaha. “Masses of uterus.” So sorry. Swear to keep my promise about not getting too graphic from here on out.)

Anyway, as you might imagine, it’s hard to go to work when you feel that terrible. I can only speak from my experience, but the first day of my period is hella painful. I pop Advil like Tic Tacs and still it feels like a professional rock climber is using my womb as a stress ball. It’s not debilitating, but it sure is unpleasant. I’m sure it’s much worse for some people and much better for others. Don’t matter. We should all get a day off. We should all, at least, get the opportunity to get a day off.

Lot of people are going to disagree with that. Haters are going to say things like:

“Ew.”

“Periods aren’t that bad. There are worse pains in the world.”

“Women do not need special treatment.”

“This justifies unequal pay between genders.”

When you get that kind of feedback, I’ve got some canned responses you can use.

“Ew yourself, you damn lady sheep.”

“You’re right — there are worse pains in the world. Still, it’s better to not have diarrhea thirteen times at the office.”

“Women absolutely need special treatment. They are special as hell. They have wombs, which though excellent for baby purposes, are not excellent for much else.”

“Wrong. Women would get more days off than men, but it’s because their bodies can grow humans. Can a man’s body grow humans? No? Men’s bodies don’t spend a week every month of every fertile year of their life painfully shedding uterine lining? Ah, guess equal pay is still fair, then.”

Here is my official proposal, Mr. President: You give lady workers 10 extra sick days a year, or something. I’m saying 10 instead of 12 because surely at least a couple periods are going to start on weekends, or maybe some aren’t as severe as others and don’t require time off at all. I don’t know. I know some people are going to take advantage of it — taking menstrual leave when they aren’t menstruating — so I’m trying to make it as fair as possible. It’s a little complicated.

In truth, it’s a lot complicated — lot of logistics that’ll have to be figured out. You know, pregnant ladies who don’t have periods, menopausal ladies who don’t have periods, ladies who just don’t have periods at all, ladies who really do have debilitating periods, etc. I don’t know what to do about all that. You and your friends can figure that out though, I imagine. Y’all smart.

Anyway, cool. Thanks for reading. If you could have this passed and signed into law in about 28 days, I’d appreciate it.

Sincerely,
Allie

I know that was a little weird and gross. I don’t care. Periods drive me crazy. Actually — it’s not periods that drive me crazy. I’ve already said they suck, but I’ve accepted them as necessary, unavoidable, and — ultimately — helpful for baby-growing. What drives me crazy is that everyone thinks they’re so embarrassing. Something to hide.

Why! I want to sing from the rooftops when I’m on my period! I want everyone to know — particularly dudes — that I’m bleeding, and that it hurts like a mofo, and that I need a goddamn heating pad and a bed.

I’m worried people reading this will think I’m saying women are the weaker sex — that we’re delicate and can’t work because of our periods. That’s not at all what I’m arguing. I’m arguing that a lot of women are guaranteed to feel shitty at least once a month strictly because of the nature of their anatomy, and yet we still get the same amount of sick days as men. How is that fair?

A male coworker once left work early because he was burping a lot. The following day I got my period and, within the first two hours at work, pooped five times. And I didn’t take a sick day because there’s a chance — next month or the month after — I’m going to poop six times and need that sick day more. Or I’m going to get a stomach bug, or a respiratory infection, or some other illness and need the sick day then.

Ain’t that some shit?! I should be able to say to my boss, without embarrassment, “Yo, I’m menstruating up a storm over here. I’mma go home.” But I can’t, because that’s rude. She’s a lady, even, and it’s still rude. What kind of misanthropic ass society is ashamed and disgusted by something so crucial to its continued existence? That’s like being appalled by sex. Or by boobs.

OH, WAIT.

Anyway, as you might have guessed, this wasn’t that serious a proposal. I’m not totally sure menstrual leave would work, but it’s good to think about. (They have it in Asia, FYI.) What we need more, probably, is open acknowledgement and acceptance that women get periods and it’s OK to feel like garbage.

I thought I had Alzheimer’s Disease

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My friend Dori got married a couple weeks ago. I’m not one to use phrases like “beautiful ceremony,” but it was a beautiful ceremony. Dori looked like a beaming beach dream, and so did her groom, and so did everyone there. The sun set and the blue moon rose, and we drank and danced and celebrated yung luv. It was wonderful.

You never would have known, not even an hour before that beautiful ceremony, I was crying. It happened while I was applying makeup, in front of my mom and Curtis.

See if you can guess what made me cry.

A. The wonder of yung luv.
B. The looks of pride/joy on Dori’s parents’ faces.
C. My mom disowned me and Curtis dumped me, simultaneously.
D. I thought I had Alzheimer’s.
E. I picked the wart on my nose and it hurt a lot.

If you chose D, congratulations! You’re clearly very bright/good at picking up on context clues (like the title of this post). If you chose B or E, you get partial credit. Parental pride/joy on wedding days and nose warts also make me cry.

Why did I think I had Alzheimer’s?

As I got ready for Dori’s beautiful ceremony, my mom, Curtis, and I started talking about the time my dog pooped in front of the trainer at obedience school. Excuse me—the two times he pooped in front of the trainer at obedience school. We talk about this more often than we should, and as a result, I have a fairly good grasp of how it went down. Also I was present for both occasions so, again, I grasp it fairly good.

The first time, Dizzy sneakily pooped next to a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy. I blamed it on the puppy. The second time, Dizzy pooped in the middle of the floor, in front of everyone, even though I’d stayed outside in the cold for 20 minutes before class trying to get him to go. For both poopcidents, I remember feeling ashamed and lonely. Ashamed because my dog’s a goddamn poop bandit sociopath, lonely because I was in dog school by myself and had no friends nor family to commiserate with.

Except, while putting on makeup for Dori’s wedding, I learned I wasn’t alone. My mom claimed she was also there when Dizzy pooped in class. 

Jackée, courtesy of essence.com.

Jackée

“No way, Jackée. You never came to dog class with me.”

“Yes I did,” said my mom.

“I remember that. That she went,” said Curtis.

“Y’ALL TRIFLIN. If you was there, tell me about it. Where’d it happen?”

“In that room!” my mom said. “That big room, with walls. See. I remember it exactly.”

“HA! You just described every big room in America, YOU FOOL! Are you having another Janet Jackson moment?” 

My mom chuckled and shook her head. The chuckle and head-shake of someone who knows she’s right. “No, Allie. I really went with you. I saw my old horse friends, remember?”

“I don’t remember. You lying, you wrong. Momma, I love you, but you losing it. Go ahead, name a dog that was there.”

“That Bernese Mountain Dog! The puppy!”

That’s when I welled up. Your girl started crying real instantaneous-like. My mom proved it—she did go to class with me, and I didn’t remember. I decided then that I had Alzheimer’s.

I know, that’s terrible and kind of self-indulgent, and also annoying and ridiculous. I’m 26 and I forgot one thing—that doesn’t mean I have Alzheimer’s. But it wasn’t the only thing I’d forgotten. A couple weeks before the wedding, I’d also found a T-shirt in my bed and I didn’t know how it got there.

It was far more mysterious than it sounds, I promise. I had slept in the bed all night and the T-shirt wasn’t there, and it wasn’t there when I woke up, but it was there after I showered and went back to my room to change. And, beyond its mysterious appearance, I had a very clear memory of seeing it—and leaving it—in my dresser the day before.

So, there was dog training class and the T-shirt—two checks for Alzheimer’s. Plus, my paternal grandmother had Alzheimer’s and my maternal grandmother had dementia. I’m not entirely sure how genetics work, but I know it has something to do with getting what your momma (and poppa, and their mommas and poppas) give you.

My grandmothers were in their 80s when they were diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and dementia, but young people can get it, too. Anne Hathaway had early on-set Alzheimers in Love and Other Drugs, remember? You probably do remember, because you don’t have Alzheimer’s.*

Fortunately, it turns out I don’t have Alzheimer’s either. One of Dori’s other bridesmaids is a physician’s assistant—I asked her if I had Alzheimer’s, and she said no, so now I don’t have it. Also, my mom admitted that, while she did come to dog class with me once (and I can kind of remember it), she wasn’t present for Dizzy’s poopcidents. I’m also happy to report that nothing mysterious has shown up in my bed lately—just some some dog doo on my sheets yesterday morning, but that was from the poop stuck on the fur around Dizzy’s B-hole. MOM I KNOW YOU WASN’T THERE FOR THAT. I HAD TO DEAL WITH THAT SHIT ON MY OWN.

*I really hope you don’t have Alzheimer’s, and I hope one day soon that no one has Alzheimer’s. If you hope that too, and you feel like donating to the Alzheimer’s Association, you can do that here.

Buying Bicycles

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Note: This blog contains some DRAMA and HYSTERIA.

A year ago, my friend Sarah let me borrow her mountain bike. I only rode it for three to five minutes, but during those three to five minutes I popped wheelies, skidded out, and learned that a mountain biking life was the life for me. When the three to five minutes were up, I gave Sarah her bike back, shook her hand, and vowed to buy one of my own.

I spent the next two weeks researching bikes and telling everyone I met that I was going to get one. Truly everyone. When my work computer broke and an I.T. man—a man I’d never spoken to before—came to fix it, I asked him about mountain bikes.

“I.T. people like doing fun activities, right?” I asked. “You ever done the fun activity of mountain biking before? I did it for a few minutes the other day. I’m into it.”

The I.T. man had mountain biked before, and he endorsed it as a fun activity, too. Ready to commit, I went to a bike shop the next day and tested out a couple. The day after, I forced Curtis to come with me to the bike shop to check out my favorite—a Haro with 27-inch wheels. Day after that, I forced my friend Josh—a biking sort of man—to go and check it out. Day after that, I made my purchase.

The bike shop people were damn fine at what they did, and they upsold the eff out of me. When I first started thinking about getting a bike, I looked at bikes on Craigslist listed for $200 or less. By the time the bike shop people were done with me, I had dropped more than half a G on one. Yet like the tires on my expensive ass new mountain bike, I was pumped up. Pumped up, at least, until the bike shop people made me sign a waiver.

“All right, we just need you to read this, initial here, here, and here, sign here, and you’ll be all set,” a bike shop person said.

“Pass it heah now,” I said, taking the waiver from him and beginning to read it over. “Let’s see … ‘When you fall down, it’s not our fault.’ I could fall down on this thing, you say?” I asked the bike man. “I do not care for falling.”

I kept reading. “‘We recommend you wear a helmet, so you don’t hurt your head when you fall down.’ Again with the falling! Bike man, are you saying that I will fall while biking down mountains on this mountain bike?”

He nodded. The rest of the waiver read much of the same way: You are going to get hurt, and we are not responsible. I’d already paid for the bike, so I sighed, signed the waiver, and wheeled it out. It was the most immediate case of buyer’s remorse I’ve ever had. I instantly regretted my purchase and hated the bike.

Still, I knew I had to give it a chance. (Actually, I called the bike shop and asked about their return policy. When I learned they didn’t have one, I was forced to give it a chance.) I took the bike to some trails near my house. It was a little bit fun, but mostly it was tiring and scary. Later that day, I listed it on Craigslist.

I found a buyer in Massachusetts. We did a trade—$400 and his older mountain bike for my new Haro. I figured it was a good deal, and I’d still have a mountain bike. Remember, I told everyone about it. It’d be embarrassing to admit defeat that quickly. It took at least a month or two more for that—to admit defeat

HERE’S WHERE THE DRAMA STARTS

Remember just a few moments ago when I told you about mountain biking on the trails near my house? And how it was a little bit fun, but mostly it was tiring and scary? Well, with the mountain bike I got from the Craigslist man, I decided to give trail riding another chance. Seemed like a good way to get exercise for myself and for my dog, Dizzy.

On October 26, 2014, I took Dizzy to those trails. I let him off his leash and rode my bike alongside. We faced adversity. I texted the story of this adversity to my friend the same evening it happened. I’m going to include those texts here, so the raw emotion is as strong as it was that October day.

Texts

The day

Screen Shot 2015-08-08 at 3.29.30 PM Screen Shot 2015-08-08 at 3.29.42 PM

 

I’ve since sold the second mountain bike, too.

(But I just bought another one for one million dollars because I CAN’T HELP MYSELF.)

Employed again #IDGT

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A couple years ago, I made a Facebook page for this blog. It required me to write a short description, so—after four hundred and seven attempts—I settled on, “My favorite hobby is listening to rap lyrics and figuring out how to apply them to my life. classygallie.com.” Look, here’s a screenshot of it.

I didn't need that "classygallie.com" shout-out in there.

That “classygallie.com” shout-out in there is unnecessary. Sorry.

That short Facebook description wasn’t at all relevant to my blog… UNTIL NOW. NOW I WILL SHARE THE RAP LYRICS THAT DEFINE MY LIFE.

“I got no passion. I got no patience. And I hate waiting. Ho get your ass in here and let’s ride.” Jay-Z – Big Pimpin’

This was my motto back when I used to take the school bus a lot. I could have ridden with my sister, but she always had the heat too high and the punk rock too loud. Also, she was always late to school. Also, she made me ride in the backseat of her two-door VW Beetle, even though I’m 75% torso and the front seat was empty. Curved Beetle roofs and 6-foot-tall torsos ain’t friends.

“You gon’ make them eggs cheesy with them grits or nah?” Ty Dolla $ign – Or Nah

This one works with my life because I still live with my parents, and I often ask my dad to make me omelets. He’s against putting cheese on western omelets, for some astonishing reason, and we once had a falling out over it.

“I’m spoiled, and I don’t like to work that hard.” Petey Pablo – Freek-A-Leek

This one works because I’m spoiled and I don’t like to work that hard.

Lately, I’ve been really into a song called “I Don’t Get Tired (#IDGT)” by Kevin Gates.

In it, Kevin raps, “Get it get fly. I got six jobs, I don’t get tired.”

Last month, I wrote about my fun unemployment. I am no longer funly unemployed. Now I have a full-time job and two, maybe three part-time jobs. One of those part-time jobs is being a longshoreman. I’m not 100% positive what longshoremen do, but I know my dad’s one and he once squished off the tip of a finger while on the job. I played softball for a week in first grade and then quit because I wasn’t allowed to wear shorts and it was hot out. I will probably find it very hard to be a longshoreman.

GET IT GET FLY I GOT SIX JOBS I DON’T GET TIRED. #IDGT

(That’s a joke though. I get so tired.)

Jurassic World Review

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I saw Jurassic World last Friday. Since then, a lot of people have asked me what I thought about it. They plan to see it, and they want to know what to expect. Every time I’m asked, I say, “Good dinosaurs.” I tell them that: 1) Because it’s true—the dinosaurs are pretty good, and 2) I have nothing else positive to say, and I don’t want to ruin it for them.

Jurassic World is garbage, and the fact that it’s made a billion dollars and has a 71% rating on Rotten Tomatoes appalls me.

photo 1

I’m going to tell you why it’s garbage. Now would probably be the time to give a spoiler alert, but I refuse to do that—you cannot spoil garbage. Plus, if you’ve seen the trailer then you know the entire plot: An extra mean dinosaur stomps around and murders some people. There you go.

Why Jurassic World is garbage

Subplots: There are 1,000 of them, and none support the actual story. For instance, the kids’ parents are getting a divorce. There are only three references to this.

1. After dropping their kids off at the airport, the dad says, “So much for a family breakfast.” The mom gives him the stank eye and responds with something like, “Why did you have to say that?” Clearly, they hate each other. (Also, let’s ignore that this exchange MAKES ZERO SENSE IN THE CONTEXT OF THE SCENE. The kids got dropped off at the airport. Didn’t you know they were going on a trip, dad? Why are you so upset you didn’t get to eat breakfast with them? You could have stopped at McDonald’s or something, you B-hole.)

2. When they’re at Jurassic World, the little brother tells the big brother that their parents are getting mail from divorce lawyers. Little brother cries a bunch, big brother says IDGAF.

3. At the end, after lots of people died but their kids didn’t, the parents arrive at the park holding hands and looking relieved. Divorce averted!

That’s just one example, but there are lots more. The older brother, Zach, is jerky to his girlfriend and creepily stares at pretty girls. Claire, the main character girl, gets pressured to have babies. She’s also a crappy aunt. None of the subplots are developed, interesting, or at all significant to the main story. THEY’RE DUMB AND THEY SUCK.

Romance: I already mentioned the marital troubles between the kids’ parents and the older brother’s hornidogginess, but those fools aren’t even the worst offenders. The two main characters—Claire and Owen—are the worst.

will-claire-and-owen-have-a-romance-in-the

Look at these fools.

Apparently Claire and Owen had gone on a date before and hated each other. She was too uptight, he was too laid back, and neither was down to clown. After a couple minutes fighting dinosaurs together, though, they fall deeply in love. Nobody falls in love that quickly, especially under that much stress. Do you know how stressful it must be, getting hunted by dinosaurs!?! Claire works at Jurassic World—her customers are getting pecked to death by dinosaur birds—and she and Owen are just chilling, ogling each other and making out.

Dinosaur behavior: I said the dinosaurs are good because they look good. They do not act good. They are irrational as eff.

They got beef.

Stupid assholes.

Here’s the dilly: In order to attract more people to the park, geneticists spliced the DNA of a bunch of dinosaurs (and non-dinosaurs) to create the baddest bitch dinosaur of all time. Her name’s Indominus Rex, and she a mothereffer. Such a mothereffer, in fact, that she escapes her cage to go on a killing spree. Everyone tries to stop her but can’t because, like I said, she a mothereffer.

Owen is an ex-Navy man who takes the lead on the Indominus Rex hunt. Before that, though, he trained Velociraptors. He had a pretty good handle over them, even claimed to be their alpha.

Some dude named Hoskins at the training place—whose title and authority were never disclosed, I don’t think—believes raptors would make A1 soldiers. Owen disagrees, but Hoskins doesn’t care and decides to send the raptors out, alongside humans, to fight Indominus anyway. Turns out Indominus is part raptor, so the other, full-blooded raptors immediately change allegiance from Owen to Indominus. They start trying to kill humans ASAP. They eat Hoskins.

Then Owen looks his favorite raptor, Blue, in the eye in a meaningful way and just like that regains his trust. All raptors are back on board, ready to fight Indominus.

BUT the raptors are weak compared to her, and are getting their asses kicked. Claire says, “Hey, maybe T. Rex will be down to join the cause.” She makes someone open T. Rex’s gate. Even though he’s a mean mofo too, he immediately starts fighting Indominus. She kicks his ass, so the raptors pitch in to help T. Rex take her down. Then the water-dwelling Mosasaur says, “Yeah I’ll help too” and he eats Indominus. At the end of the scene, T. Rex looks at the raptor like, “Should I eat you now?” Raptor looks scared and T. Rex shrugs and walks away.

WOULD DINOSAURS REALLY BE THAT SWEET AND HELPFUL? I think not. Dinosaurs are cool as hell, but I’m pretty sure they’re not particularly sweet or helpful. I’ve never met any, so I don’t know. Maybe the herbivores are—Brachiosauruses seem chill—but T. Rexes and Velociraptors do not.

To everyone who wants to know if Jurassic World is any good: It is not.

Chris Pratt is pretty dreamy, though.

Room Raiders 2015

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Remember Room Raiders? The dating/reality show on MTV that ran from 2004 to 2009? The dumbest show ever created? If not, let me remind you.

Room Raiders, the show that gives three unsuspecting singles the surprise of their lives when they find out they’re being picked for a date, not by their looks or charm, but by what’s inside their bedrooms. The girls watch helplessly as their dirtiest secrets are revealed.

Basically, one eligible contestant would raid the bedrooms of three other eligible contestants. Eligible contestant number one would rifle through the others’ things, judge them by the posters on their walls and the underpants in their drawers, and then—without ever meeting any of them—choose a winner to date.

I had two problems with this show. First, I hated that the people who had their rooms raided—the raidees—pretended to not know what was going on. They’d be in their house, taking naps or dropping deuces, and suddenly a stranger in sunglasses and a jumpsuit would run in, kidnap them, and throw them in the back of a van. The raidees would pretend to be a little confused, but otherwise went along it. THAT DON’T MAKE NO SENSE. IF A STRANGER CAME INTO MY CRIB TO STEAL ME I’D BE THROWING BOWS AND KNEEING B-SACKS. THAT CAN STAND FOR BALLSACKS OR BOOBSACKS, DEPENDING ON MY CAPTOR’S GENDER AND HEIGHT. I WOULD WILD OUT.

The absurdity of the premise was my first problem with Room Raiders. My second was that I was never on it.

I never signed up or auditioned for it or anything, I just always thought it’d be cool to have a stranger paw through my business and evaluate me as a love interest based on their findings. And I mean that sincerely—I truly did dream of being on Room Raiders. I think the show’s been canceled (or if it hasn’t, I’m too old and booed up now), so I’ve got to raid my own room. And since I’m the one doing the raiding, I’m going to feel free to explain the things that need explaining.

Things in my bed

  • 9 pillows (one for emotional purposes, one for sleeping, and 7 because I’m too nice to kick them out)
  • 1 green blanket with holes in it
  • 1 fitted sheet, with both mud and blood stains (from tiny dog paws and picked scabs, respectively)
  • 0 top sheets
  • Several dead or dying ticks, of both Wood and Deer varieties (result of the tiny dogs that co-sleep wit me)
  • 1 plastic dog bone
  • 1 piece of a deer antler

Things on top of my bedside table

unnamed

Look at how impressively smooth those tinfoil balls are!

  • 1 brand new, beautiful Nalliegene bottle
  • 1 pair of tweezers for late-night belly tweezing
  • 1 tube of Abreva
  • Many bottles of lotion
  • Many never-to-be-read library books
  • 1 Bart Simpson thumb drive
  • 2 impressively smooth balls of tinfoil
  • Couple dead ticks

Things inside of my bedside table

  • 1 tube of Abreva
  • 1 baby tub of Vaseline
  • 1 baby Etch a Sketch
  • 1 empty box pet deodorizer for when my dog pees on my bed

Things in my closet

Photo on 5-12-15 at 9.42 PM

Look how lovingly Chico is looking at me. He think I look fly.

  • 1 pair Spanish sag pants
  • 1 Angora orange turtleneck sleeveless sweater
  • 1 shirt with sleeves but no shoulders
  • 39 shirts that need to be retired
  • 2 freakum dresses that will never be worn
unnamed-2

Look at that d-bag kid. Nice tie, loser. Pay attention to your damn girl.

Miscellaneous things

  • 2 sets pink frill curtains
  • 1 pink carpet
  • 1 additional twin-sized bed in the corner where my mom sleeps when it gets too hot in the rest of the house
  • 1 creepy picture of adult children in a relationship that is most likely abusive
  • 6 glow-in-the-dark stars
  • 1 broken clock
  • 1 broken vacuum cleaner
  • 1 broken drafting table
  • 2 TVs

I’ve been living in it for the past two years, but I’d like to point out this is technically my sister’s bedroom, even though she moved out the house in ’01. So, really, this has been a raid of my sister’s room, not mine. Sorry, Chris.

P.S. What things would someone find if they raided your room?

Exercising at work

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Ready for some scary news? Are you sitting down?

THEN BETTER STAND UP FOOL UNLESS YOU TRYNA DIE.

Because people who sit die.

That is a fact. Every single person who has ever sat will die. And people who spend six or more hours a day sitting are 78% more likely to die earlier than they maybe would have—of cancer, diabetes, heart disease, and other bad sitting-induced diseases. They’re also 109% more likely to be overweight.

Those are made up statistics, but they’re based in some fact. Google “sitting all day” and you will find millions—for real, millions—of results about how bad sitting is for you. From reputable sources, too: NPR, CNN, Today, etc.

The dramatic headlines say it all. It’s confirmed, he who sits the most dies the soonest.

flames

I sit a butt ton. I sit on my butt a butt ton. I once traded design services for a standing desk, but it was a portable one and it wiggle waggled around like crazy and gave me a migraine, so I sold it on Craigslist for a quick hundo.

So, like millions of other office workers, I sit on a cushy computer chair for seven hours a day. And I drive for at least an hour a day. Then I go home, walk the dogs for thirty minutes, and then sit down to eat dinner, watch TV, read, or whatever. I sit enough to die.

Since I very dearly would like to minimize the risk sitting puts me at, I try to incorporate fitness and movement into my everyday office routine. Here is how.

Water

I drink mad water. Probably 32 ounces every hour or two. When my Nalgene’s empty, I have to stand up, walk downstairs, fill up my bottle, and walk back upstairs to my office. And with water, of course, comes whizzing. I go pee about once an hour. It’s very healthy. Actually, once I had a water-drinking contest with a co-worker and got water poisoning and had to go home early. Normally, though, drinking water is healthy. I just had to learn to keep it under eight Nalgenes per five hours. That is not healthy. That is drowning.

Coffee runs

By coffee runs I mean getting up and walking across campus to a little market. I guess it works the other way too though, because I get super poopy from coffee. I take a sip and immediately got to rush to the bathroom. That’s TMI but it’s also standing up, and that’s good news.

I run for more than coffee. I’ll walk across campus for a single York peppermint patty. I’ll accompany co-workers to the library, or the mail center, or anywhere. If anyone invites me for a bit of walking, I accept their offer. Walking’s not sitting, and you know what that is? That’s good news.

Chatting

If a co-worker comes into my office to ask me something, I stand up. They’re standing anyway, so I look like a gentleman. A gentlelady. People at work find me very polite and agreeable.

Exercising

Although I am polite and agreeable, I also get bored extra quick when someone’s talking to me about worky stuff. So, while they talk, I drop down and do a few push-ups. Or I do calf raises, or a plank, or squats, or stretches, or other body weight exercises. Everyone in my department knows I’m passionate about not getting diseases from sitting too much, so they’re cool with it. Sometimes they even join in.

I also have a pull-up bar in my office—I try to do at least two pull-ups a day (pull-ups are hard). I get in some air crunches on the bar, too. I also do about five handstands against the wall per day. Doing those got more difficult when my boss moved into my office, but he knows to look away now.

Quick note: Squats are the trickiest, because girls wear tight pants sometimes. Squats and tight pants aren’t a good team. For example, a couple weeks ago I got up during a meeting to get water, go pee, and pop a few squats in the bathroom. I was wearing an old pair of semi-tight pants and, about three squats in, I blew out the B-hole. Ripped the crack seam right in half. It wasn’t huge, so I didn’t have to go home to change or anything, but that’s something I generally try to avoid—ripping my pants in the middle of a meeting.

All right, now you know how I get up from my chair. How do you get up from yours? We might not be the real Slim Shady, but let’s all still please stand up.

Self-Confidence and Social Media

3 Replies

My friend Katie and I went for a hike over the weekend. We brought skis and dogs to a small mountain where the snow came down through the pines on the hillside, muffling the groans of branches when it gusted and the creaks our feet made in the packed powder of the trail. At the peak we slid into ski boots and clicked into bindings, skiing down through falling snow while the dogs padded alongside—quiet and cold, the type of day that changes your life.

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BARF.

Holy moly writing that was terrible. I plagiarized half that diarrhea from a Hemingway book and still it’s making my insides burn with shatred. That’s a combo of shame and hatred and sharts, and it barely describes the amount of discomfort that paragraph makes me feel. “The type of day that changes your life.” Again:

BARF.

But after you’re done throwing up, you can admit it sounded a little bit dope, right? Not the trying-too-hard paragraph, but the hiking experience itself. Katie and I really did hike up a mountain and ski down it with our dogs in tow. Doesn’t it make us sound like a couple of cool Maine ladies who spend their days backcountrying around the backcountry, chilling with four-legged creatures, and adventuring?

Imagine if I posted about our hike on Instagram. That picture of me with the skis and the dogs, with a Walden filter, and some caption about winter and Maine and snow. Maybe I tag L.L.Bean in it. Maybe I quote Robert Frost.

“You can’t get too much winter in the winter.” –Robert Frost, Snow
#winter #maine #llbean #mansbestfriend #rescuepups #alwaysadopt

If I posted that on Instagram, you might think I was pretentious, but you also might think I was a lil bit cool. Quoting poets, rescuing dogs, hiking snowy mountains. You’d have no idea that I had to Google “Robert Frost quotes” to find that Robert Frost quote. Or that my dog didn’t come from a shelter—he came from a breeder, and I had to barter away months of my life in order to afford that tiny, expensive bed-whizzer. Or that my snowy hike last weekend was not at all life-changing, that in fact it sucked 100% balls.

It was less than two miles to the top but Katie and I each almost had true mental breakdowns on that hike. Our backs hurt, our feet froze, and snowmobilers kept trying to murder us. It took half an hour to get into our ski boots, I was convinced I shattered my Achilles tendon, and when we finally succeeded in putting our skis on, we learned the way back down was not down at all. That shady ass mountain was actually a field in disguise—we had to trek it cross-country style the whole way back. That hike was made of snot rockets and swear words, and it effin blew. But you wouldn’t know it from that picture.

I try to remember that every time I go on Instagram. I’m following lots of people who do cool things, and sometimes I get a little down on myself. My feed’s full of people’s pictures of their houses and vacations and brand new cars. Meanwhile, I’m living with my parents and starting collection jars for candy bars.* Every time I see a cool picture and I feel myself getting jealous, I think of all the ways it could actually suck.

  • Photo of someone’s new house: They have rats living in their walls.
  • Photo of a nice gift from a boyfriend: Their boyfriend is their cousin and also a thief.
  • Photo out of an airplane window: The person in the seat next to them has measles. And is also their boyfriend, the cousin/thief.
  • Photo at the gym, post-workout: They have rats at home, remember, so they like to get out the crib and Planet Fitness is open 24 hours.
  • Photo of their feet near water, someplace warm: The rest of their body is covered in rats. And hickeys from their cousin.

Really, all you have to do is add in rats and incest. Nobody’s life sounds good when you add in rats and incest.

*I’m up to 45 cents, if anyone would like to contribute.

Better Off Home

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I took a shower last Saturday night. I put on mascara, perfume, and a T-shirt I’d only worn one other time without washing. I also seriously considered wearing earrings (but pierced ear holes smell like straight booty and idfwt). I was ready for a night out on the town in New England’s 29th biggest city. Curtis and I had plans to get dinner and drinks with a friend in Portland.

But on the way into town, we remembered PLANS ARE FOR FOOLS and instead got pizza and went back to my house to eat cheesecake and watch The Office on Netflix. I was asleep by 9 damn 30, and I couldn’t have been happier. (Also, our friend had furniture troubles and couldn’t make it, so it was just Curtis and me. Hells if we’re gonna spend a Saturday night socializing when we don’t have to.)

The thing is: going out blows. Sometimes I feel bad for thinking it blows so much, and that I don’t do more of it. I’m 25 now—when I’m 80, will I look back at my twenties and regret not going out to the club more often? Will I regret never learning how to twerk or jerk or yeet? (Those are all dances, by the way—not gross things.)

The answer is no. I won’t regret any of that. Because I did learn how to yeet. In my living room, in an old pair of my sister’s friend’s sweatpants, in front of my parents while they watched The Weather Channel. And then I went to bed and was asleep by 9 damn 30, and I couldn’t have been happier. I’m the type of person who’s better off in the crib.

To go out is to spend several hours interacting with others. I have nothing against others—some of my best friends are others—I’d just rather not have to interact with them in loud, dimly lit places when I’m sleepy. Plus I’m self-conscious in groups greater than two, so if I don’t drink I get bad social anxiety. But if I do drink, then I’m not self-conscious, which is even worse. My unself-conscious self is weirdly aggressive and … athletic, maybe. Or just competitive. And awful.

Por ejemplo, last year, I went to a strangers’ party in New York City. I was with friends who were related to these strangers, but I ain’t know them like that. I didn’t want to be socially anxious so I brought a bottle of Cîroc. At the same time I didn’t want to act like my uninhibited self and embarrass my friends, so I made a list of the things to avoid doing. The list included:

  • Speaking Spanish
  • Asking about food
  • Asking about candy
  • Doing push-ups
  • Talking about how getting into a fight could be cool
  • Drooling
  • Doing a southern accent
  • Talking about Patrick Stump
  • Talking about rappers
  • Rapping

This was a real list written in earnest days prior to going to New York. I even brought it along to make sure I didn’t forget about it.

It worked for a while, too. I went to the strangers’ party in New York, ate Hawaiian pizza, and had a sugary boozy drink. I laughed at people’s stories and spoke without stumbling and, in general, acted like a normal person. Until I met a girl from St. Louis.

You know who’s from St. Louis? The St. Lunatics. Nelly and Murphy Lee and their St. Louis-born rapping friends.

Me: Oh, St. Louis! Do you like Murphy Lee?
Girl from St. Louis: Murphy Lee?
Me: Yeah! You know, Baby Houie. One of the best in the Louie … “I’m so St. Louis, ask my tattooist. I was like the waterboy now they sayin’ you can do it.” You two related or anything?

Not only did I talk about rappers, I rapped. With that, all was lost. I started speaking terrible Spanish. Instead of push-ups I did fake pull-ups. I took a shot of white vinegar. Those strangers? I gave them all the suck-it sign and challenged them to dance battles.

That’s why I stay in the crib. We’re all better off because of it.