my annual guinness

For our book club this month, we chose Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. I read a few of her books in college so I was excited to revisit her again without the distraction of other required class reading. However, I didn't realize this is a book about grief. (It begins with her husband's death and tracks her experiences in the following year.) And I didn't think about the fact that I'd be reading it during my personal, annual "re-grieving period." (March and April are infected by a constant playback of those months in 2008 when my dad became especially sick and then died). Let's just say, it's been a tough read.

As difficult as it was to get through, I thought it was really interesting to see how much of her experience with grief mirrored my own, in relation to losing my dad. Of course hers was by far more awful, but considering your relationship with a parent is completely different from the one you have with your spouse, you'd think the losses would feel worlds apart. But she gives a strikingly honest account of the regret, self-pity, confusion, doubt, and helplessness that marked her grief, my grief, and I suspect, many other people's...all for completely different reasons.

It's now been three years since he passed away. I hardly ever blog about it because no one needs to read my own Didion-esque account, but it's still very much a presence in my mind. Today would have been his 63rd birthday, and as sad as this makes me, it also concludes "that period" for another year. Brian and I have shared a Guinness on April 25th every year in his memory - it's a nice little tradition that I look forward to. (Although this go-around I'll have to stomach an entire one by myself, and when you're alone, I hear it's unacceptable to take this down in Irish Car Bomb form). I'm definitely happy to gain a little forward momentum now that I've finished the book and am closing out the month as well. Onward and upward, right friends?

the day I became a Jehovah's witness

So about that "blog storm"....as you can see, it's been more of a slight trickle, due to slight insanity at work. Since Brian left, I've yet to have one day where I didn't have to do something related to work (I know, woe is me). Point being: you can imagine how excited I was on Friday when I rolled in for a day of catching up which was to be followed by a weekend of literally no work at all!

And then at 10 a.m. my boss uttered the words no one wants to hear. You know the ones.

What are you doing this weekend?

As it turns out, I would be not eating or sleeping well between that moment and now because I was dreading the assignment that had cropped up Friday morning - find people on the street and videotape them talking about one of our clients' products.

Like most of you, I don't really like stopping random people on the street. There's a social norm that suggests this is stalkerish, and that nothing good comes from people who have to ask you for a moment of your time. Because as much as you love panda bears, you can't commit to a $20/month donation.

Not having business cards, company-embroidered shirts, or anything at all legit looking, we decided we'd have more success pretending to be graduate students. While a little deceptive, we still had people sign release forms and paid them an incentive ($20!), so I didn't feel bad about it. I had approximately three heart palpitations when someone started asking questions about our school, major, program, assignment, etc etc. JUST SHUT UP AND TAKE THE MONEY.

Part of the day was successful but the worst was standing outside of Bed Bath & Beyond...the perfect place for our target demographic. Also the perfect place to look like major creepers who, despite the blond hair, are very interested in mugging you and/or stealing your baby.

Brian - who sold haircuts on the streets on London one year - coached me the night before saying "every no brings you closer to a yes!" And although he told me not to take it personally, I couldn't help but wonder why every single person I asked said no. You'd be shocked at how many people are not willing to talk to you for 5 minutes in exchange for $20. My bad, I didn't realize your going rate was more than $240 an hour. All I can say is thank the good Lord I was paired up with my friend/colleague who happens to be much less of a chicken than I am and isn't afraid to make the "ask." Over the course of 5 hours, we managed to find 12 people who were willing to talk to us, which isn't terrible considering the amount of time we wasted trolling for wallets and crackpipes at BBB.

Sigh.

equal opportunity sweating

I joined Women’s Workout World (W3) several months ago for a few reasons. First, my friend Kim has a membership at a different branch, which meant that we would be able to work out together on occasion. Second, I can access it by train, foot, and bike. Third, the price was right. After some upfront fees, I only have to pay $23/month. The only other gyms that can compete with that aren’t easy to access from my neighborhood. I was unemployed, so the choice was pretty much made for me!


My love/hate relationship with W3 has expanded beyond my expectations. To start, it is of course a women’s workout world, so no men are allowed. In fact, they’re announced over the loudspeaker if they have to come inside for maintenance reasons. In the absence of penises, you can instead find an abundance of camel toe. Because at W3, we don’t give a F*#K!

(But seriously, it is nice to not constantly wonder if you’re nipping or egregiously sweating in weird places. Those things are perfectly acceptable here.)

Another standout of W3 (Where Wedgies are Welcome) is that every time I go, I feel like I’ve just walked on the set of "Muslims, Ellipticals, and Other Things That Look Weird Together." In a row of crappy outdated machines, you will find anyone from a triathlete to someone you want to high-five just for showing up. Some people are in track suits and others are in slacks. Some people are grandmas and most are minorities. It is a strange combination of race, socioeconomic status, religion, age, and fitness level.


To be honest, it’s pretty uplifting to see people that don’t look like they belong in a gym, persay, who are trying to improve their lifestyles and get out of their comfort zones. Isn’t that the kind of place you want to be a part of? Where people don’t have to feel like they can’t show up because they don’t have the right clothes or have no idea how to operate a treadmill? Because that’s totally the kind of place I want to support. I did a few hot yoga classes at a shi-shi-poo-poo studio downtown and honestly, the plethora of whiteness and Lululemon made me uncomfortable. It was like we’d all come to the same place because it felt “right” and we knew we’d make friends and have a really great workout that we totally couldn’t get anywhere else. I’m not saying I wouldn’t go there again (in fact, I’m thinking about getting a month-long pass), but in terms of diversifying my experiences, going there is a backwards step.

That being said.

There is a “room” for group classes at W3 (Who Wants Walls?). It’s a carpeted square riiiiight in the middle of all the machines. So 2-3 times a night, the rest of us get the absolute pleasure of watching, listening to, and generally being subjected to the music/instructions. I guess this wouldn’t be so bad if the volume wasn’t permanently set on DIE EARDRUMS.

Listening to your own playlist during a class is a complete joke. Speakers rattle and the bass reverbs as they pump it, they move it, they shake it, they push it! The best I can hope for is that I will channel my hatred into my own workout.

I’ve asked a few times why it’s so loud and if other people complain, and I never get a straight answer. I have no clue why the instructor can’t tell that she’s screaming, or why anyone in the classes…and thus closer to the speakers…don’t say anything. I feel like I’m the only person in the whole frigging gym who is even tuned into this planet, because WHY DOES NO ONE FIND THIS HORRIBLY DISRUPTIVE.

Yes, I’ve tried to schedule my workouts for when there are no classes. But since they close at 9 p.m. on weekdays and FOUR P.M. (count it) on weekends, I’m lucky to even make it there in the first place.

The elliptical-pedaling Muslims are not leaving me much choice. No matter how cheap it is, I can’t go to a gym for a stress relief and leave so mad I’d kick a puppy.
(JK I’d never kick a puppy)
(Unless it was leading a group class at W3)

I sort of love my gym. I don’t want to resign myself to a more mainstream place where everyone looks like they belong and men freely walk around without announcements over the loudspeaker (although I’ll obviously suggest this). I don’t really want to switch gyms at all, but what’s a girl to do? Last week I tried out the closest one to my house. It’s small, local, new, quiet, and it has TVs, men, whiteys, and acceptable hours. It’s twice as expensive as half as interesting, but I walked away without an aural assault, and these days, that’s a win.

Future membership: TBD!