It was brought to my attention by the one person that reads my shit that I made a promise last week to commit Monday blogs to my 8 week workout program. Well, there was no Monday blog last night, and I learned that no bad deed goes unpunished. Because I was tired last night, I didn't write a "workout blog" and EvilKate let me know about it. I didn't use floss before I brushed and I'm certain my dentist is going to be on me like a fat kid on a cupcake. That's the price I pay for cuttin' corners!
I got through Week 1 with no problems whatsoever. I didn't eat perfectly, but I got the workouts in and followed them to a tee. The Saturday workout was a breeze, but Week 8 is going to pay me back.
Current weight? 180.8 lbs.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Out with the old...
Those who say that art imitates life would be proud of their accurate proclamation tonight. For tonight, I watched "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" on my first date since the end of, well, you know. With that said, first dates aren't really first dates at all. As Van Wilder says, first dates are interviews. Yes, we went to a movie on our interview, which I know is a big faux, but I've known her for quite some time. Perhaps more on her some other day. Perhaps not.
Some would speculate that my purchase of those two tickets is an indicator that I relish the pain. Quite the contrary. It's therapeutic, though, to see someone in the same position as myself, be it a real person or a character in a movie. This character was a top flight wank for about 3 weeks after the mythical breakup. My mourning period was a bit shorter than that, but I was kind of a wank, too. There was a bit of internal concern that this movie would rehash a bit of whatever it was I was going through, but the truth is, it showed me that my reaction wasn't abnormal or dramatic. It was natural.
Losing "that" person is a tough one, especially when you're the only participant in the failed relationship that wasn't aware it wasn't the right one anymore. In a perfect setting, both people receive the signal in the sky at the same time telling them that the shit just ain't workin'. Well, this isn't perfect, nor is it easy. Relationships are difficult. The writing was on the wall for a while before the end day, but the emotional investment doesn't turn off like a light switch, although I wish it would. Everybody has been through this sometime in their life, and if they haven't, I hope they do. Not because I'm sinister or wish anyone harm, but because it makes the good times better.
Without the pain, the anxiety, the nausea experienced by an unforeseen, kick-to-the-stomach split, there's no yield sign in your brain to tell you to wait awhile before saying what you want to say. There's nothing to tell you that time is actually of your control and if you don't run towards a label, that same label will find you when it's supposed to. The thinkers die in this game and those with their heads in the clouds excel because they just don't know any better. I'm a thinker, but I'm trying real hard to look above the clouds.
You know what happens to the character trying to Forget Sarah Marshall? He burns all pictures, throws away all reminders, and completely drowns in his sorrows hysterically for three weeks. Then he mans up and finds something else, and he does it better the second time around. Will I do it better with this girl? Well, what I learned is that this wasn't a date at all. It was two friends enjoying some Thai food and a funny, strangely therapeutic movie about redemption. Before, well, you know, I would have wondered what the next step was. I would have overanalyzed every giggle and uncomfortable silence. I would have screwed it up before it started. Then I would have kicked myself for doing it. Times, they're a-changin'.
Some would speculate that my purchase of those two tickets is an indicator that I relish the pain. Quite the contrary. It's therapeutic, though, to see someone in the same position as myself, be it a real person or a character in a movie. This character was a top flight wank for about 3 weeks after the mythical breakup. My mourning period was a bit shorter than that, but I was kind of a wank, too. There was a bit of internal concern that this movie would rehash a bit of whatever it was I was going through, but the truth is, it showed me that my reaction wasn't abnormal or dramatic. It was natural.
Losing "that" person is a tough one, especially when you're the only participant in the failed relationship that wasn't aware it wasn't the right one anymore. In a perfect setting, both people receive the signal in the sky at the same time telling them that the shit just ain't workin'. Well, this isn't perfect, nor is it easy. Relationships are difficult. The writing was on the wall for a while before the end day, but the emotional investment doesn't turn off like a light switch, although I wish it would. Everybody has been through this sometime in their life, and if they haven't, I hope they do. Not because I'm sinister or wish anyone harm, but because it makes the good times better.
Without the pain, the anxiety, the nausea experienced by an unforeseen, kick-to-the-stomach split, there's no yield sign in your brain to tell you to wait awhile before saying what you want to say. There's nothing to tell you that time is actually of your control and if you don't run towards a label, that same label will find you when it's supposed to. The thinkers die in this game and those with their heads in the clouds excel because they just don't know any better. I'm a thinker, but I'm trying real hard to look above the clouds.
You know what happens to the character trying to Forget Sarah Marshall? He burns all pictures, throws away all reminders, and completely drowns in his sorrows hysterically for three weeks. Then he mans up and finds something else, and he does it better the second time around. Will I do it better with this girl? Well, what I learned is that this wasn't a date at all. It was two friends enjoying some Thai food and a funny, strangely therapeutic movie about redemption. Before, well, you know, I would have wondered what the next step was. I would have overanalyzed every giggle and uncomfortable silence. I would have screwed it up before it started. Then I would have kicked myself for doing it. Times, they're a-changin'.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
I just want to be miserable
You know, I always thought it was going to be different than this. When I was much younger (very early 20s), I had it right in front of me. I was working for a CPA firm in Manchester. I was going to be a very young CPA and I was going to start my own firm by the time I was 30. I was college educated, I was in good shape and I was successful, in career and socially. Long term relationships were going to come to me and I didn't have to worry about it.
So where am I? Yesterday, in an effort to grow and become more my age, I ripped apart my domicile and started all over again. I hung curtains, mirrors, and pictures. I strategically place new plants and candleholders. I stopped just short of hanging signs that read suck things as "A house is made of brick and stone. A home is made of love alone", but just barely stopped short. I placed mats inside the front door, in front of the toilet and the kitchen sink, and one greeting you when you reach the top of the stairs. I bought a smaller TV for my room (a 11 X 12 room does not need a 32" TV). I purchased matching lamps for my room, and I might even use them.
What's the point? The point is that this was all in an attempt to remind myself that I'm a grownup now. Evidently, I need that reminder from time to time. I'm 32 years old, I'm single, and I'm unsatisfied. It's as if I haven't been taught the proper way to handle a career. I have spent the last eight years doing nothing and being content. I woke up a few weeks ago and I was single and making much less money than nearly everyone that has known me thought I'd be making.
Now, I know what you're saying to yourself, my committed reader. Money isn't always the gauge of success. If anyone understands this, it's me. But it's not as if I'm a painter or a writer. They have something to show for their efforts. I bartended for a spell while trying, feebly, to figure out what every one of my friends had figured out, and that was how to build a family. Not all of them had built a family yet, but they knew what they were doing. Well, while I was bartending, I was building friendships. Those friendships are gone and I'm left here, in what feels like square one once again. How do I get out of it? Right now, I'm doing everything a grownup is supposed to. I'm righting my wrongs.
But I'm 32 and I don't feel as if I'm 32. Strangely, when I was 22, I felt like I was 25 because I was so ahead of the curve. When I was 29, I felt like I was 25 because I was so behind the curve. I'm 32 and I still feel as if I'm 25, and this ain't a good thing.
I want to have a family and vacations and a mortgage. I want to have to fix the sink and paint the bedroom. I want to have a problem with the drainpipes, and I want to get pissed off on a January Saturday morning because I have to buy an overpriced snowblower. I want to mow the lawn with a beer on the rider. I want to bitch about my real estate taxes.
And that's why I re-did my apartment. Because a 32 year old should be a 32 year old, with a third-life crisis and all. Do you think there are other 30 somethings out there who aren't concerned with their drainpipes just yet? I hope so.
So where am I? Yesterday, in an effort to grow and become more my age, I ripped apart my domicile and started all over again. I hung curtains, mirrors, and pictures. I strategically place new plants and candleholders. I stopped just short of hanging signs that read suck things as "A house is made of brick and stone. A home is made of love alone", but just barely stopped short. I placed mats inside the front door, in front of the toilet and the kitchen sink, and one greeting you when you reach the top of the stairs. I bought a smaller TV for my room (a 11 X 12 room does not need a 32" TV). I purchased matching lamps for my room, and I might even use them.
What's the point? The point is that this was all in an attempt to remind myself that I'm a grownup now. Evidently, I need that reminder from time to time. I'm 32 years old, I'm single, and I'm unsatisfied. It's as if I haven't been taught the proper way to handle a career. I have spent the last eight years doing nothing and being content. I woke up a few weeks ago and I was single and making much less money than nearly everyone that has known me thought I'd be making.
Now, I know what you're saying to yourself, my committed reader. Money isn't always the gauge of success. If anyone understands this, it's me. But it's not as if I'm a painter or a writer. They have something to show for their efforts. I bartended for a spell while trying, feebly, to figure out what every one of my friends had figured out, and that was how to build a family. Not all of them had built a family yet, but they knew what they were doing. Well, while I was bartending, I was building friendships. Those friendships are gone and I'm left here, in what feels like square one once again. How do I get out of it? Right now, I'm doing everything a grownup is supposed to. I'm righting my wrongs.
But I'm 32 and I don't feel as if I'm 32. Strangely, when I was 22, I felt like I was 25 because I was so ahead of the curve. When I was 29, I felt like I was 25 because I was so behind the curve. I'm 32 and I still feel as if I'm 25, and this ain't a good thing.
I want to have a family and vacations and a mortgage. I want to have to fix the sink and paint the bedroom. I want to have a problem with the drainpipes, and I want to get pissed off on a January Saturday morning because I have to buy an overpriced snowblower. I want to mow the lawn with a beer on the rider. I want to bitch about my real estate taxes.
And that's why I re-did my apartment. Because a 32 year old should be a 32 year old, with a third-life crisis and all. Do you think there are other 30 somethings out there who aren't concerned with their drainpipes just yet? I hope so.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
I sure am
There is so much to be said for traditions. There's safety. There's reliance. There's comfort.
There's dinner at Ryan and Pong's. There's a good appetizer, a stellar dinner, and a deliciously satisfying dessert (even if it's only an ice cream sandwich).
There's LOST. I can always rely on that show to screw me up for days. The writers have me twisted like a jumbo pretzel. Are we in a flashback or a flashforward? I thought Libby was dead! Is Locke a good guy or a bad guy? Is Michael brainwashed? Why doesn't Hurley lose any weight? Why has Walt aged 5 years in 100 days?
The only thing I know is that I know nothing. I'll watch now, collect my questions in my thoughts, then rent all seven seasons, pull a Howard Hughes, and watch it for nine days straight.
Sorry to pull a Doogie Howser-like post here, but I'm spent. That show wiped me out.
Until...
There's dinner at Ryan and Pong's. There's a good appetizer, a stellar dinner, and a deliciously satisfying dessert (even if it's only an ice cream sandwich).
There's LOST. I can always rely on that show to screw me up for days. The writers have me twisted like a jumbo pretzel. Are we in a flashback or a flashforward? I thought Libby was dead! Is Locke a good guy or a bad guy? Is Michael brainwashed? Why doesn't Hurley lose any weight? Why has Walt aged 5 years in 100 days?
The only thing I know is that I know nothing. I'll watch now, collect my questions in my thoughts, then rent all seven seasons, pull a Howard Hughes, and watch it for nine days straight.
Sorry to pull a Doogie Howser-like post here, but I'm spent. That show wiped me out.
Until...
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Soul rhymes with goal. Give one, get the other.
So, I just started in "the sales game" a few months ago. Well, that's not entirely true. I was a mortgage broker for 9 months of my life in 2005, but calling a broker a salesperson is like calling a lawyer a customer service representative. It did teach me, however, how to be a total douche to people that are just trying to eat their Salmon and brussel sprouts.
More accurately, I just started my first true sales job the first day of 2008. For the first couple of months, I have waded in the water hoping that something would come in the door of any substance even though the powers that be fully expect us to fail the first 6 months or so. Well, in the absence of any true sales, I have done everything that they've asked me to do. Need collections done? I'm your man. Got some paperwork hangin' around? Let me roll up my sleeves. Down a quart in your Volvo? Give me the keys. I'll take care of it. I've done everything over the past 3 1/2 months. Everything except sell, of course.
Until today. Today was one of those days when all of the frustrations are put aside and you remember why competition is so great and compelling in the first place. You could be the most uncompetitive, blase person in the Tri-State area and you can't tell me that the feeling of winning is the same as the feeling of losing. It's not even close. I have a sheet of paper in my cubicle of love that stares at me daily. It says "$1058" and it represents the amount of gross profit I need to generate a week to make my goal. To me, it's the score I need to beat to win the game. Well, there have been 15 games on the young season. I started out of the gate 0-11 but have gone 3-1 since. That, my friends, is progress. And I beat the hell out of the other team this week.
Until tomorrow...
More accurately, I just started my first true sales job the first day of 2008. For the first couple of months, I have waded in the water hoping that something would come in the door of any substance even though the powers that be fully expect us to fail the first 6 months or so. Well, in the absence of any true sales, I have done everything that they've asked me to do. Need collections done? I'm your man. Got some paperwork hangin' around? Let me roll up my sleeves. Down a quart in your Volvo? Give me the keys. I'll take care of it. I've done everything over the past 3 1/2 months. Everything except sell, of course.
Until today. Today was one of those days when all of the frustrations are put aside and you remember why competition is so great and compelling in the first place. You could be the most uncompetitive, blase person in the Tri-State area and you can't tell me that the feeling of winning is the same as the feeling of losing. It's not even close. I have a sheet of paper in my cubicle of love that stares at me daily. It says "$1058" and it represents the amount of gross profit I need to generate a week to make my goal. To me, it's the score I need to beat to win the game. Well, there have been 15 games on the young season. I started out of the gate 0-11 but have gone 3-1 since. That, my friends, is progress. And I beat the hell out of the other team this week.
Until tomorrow...
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
That stupid place with all the equipment
I am not a musclehead. I hate muscleheads. You know who they are. They spend more time talking to the other muscleheads than they do on the weights, but they feel like it's justified because they're talking about a recent article in I Have A Small Pecker So I'm Here Four Hours A Day magazine. I hate these guys. They grunt, they high five (fellas, the high five left with the air quotes), and they drop weights and scare the hell out of me. They never run, though. I mean, they NEVER run. So, if any of them get insulted by this blog and come after me, well, I'll just walk briskly. Stupid muscleheads.
I try to go to the gym 5-6 days a week, but this is a factor of me getting fat, fat, fatter over the course of 5 years or so. Not Orka fat, but the kind of fat a happy father gets after he has two or so kids. With that said, if I had never made a Sunday tradition of the Special C at Hong Kong Express, I probably wouldn't go to the gym now. Truth be told, I kinda hate the place.
So, I went today because I'm about 10 lbs away from where I want to be and I was actually excited to be there. As excited as I would have been to be sitting on the couch? No. But excited nonetheless. See, today was the first day of an 8 week "beat the shit out of yourself" program. It's the Belly Off program through Men's Health, and it looks a lot more tame on paper than it is in reality. There is not one second of this thing that's enjoyable to me. Not one, but if my boys over at the Mag tell me it works, then I'm in. Stay tuned. Moving forward, this will be my Monday blog, so if you don't give a shit what the progress is of my workout (and really, who could blame you), then don't chime in on Mondays. Deal? Deal.
Current weight? 182.
I try to go to the gym 5-6 days a week, but this is a factor of me getting fat, fat, fatter over the course of 5 years or so. Not Orka fat, but the kind of fat a happy father gets after he has two or so kids. With that said, if I had never made a Sunday tradition of the Special C at Hong Kong Express, I probably wouldn't go to the gym now. Truth be told, I kinda hate the place.
So, I went today because I'm about 10 lbs away from where I want to be and I was actually excited to be there. As excited as I would have been to be sitting on the couch? No. But excited nonetheless. See, today was the first day of an 8 week "beat the shit out of yourself" program. It's the Belly Off program through Men's Health, and it looks a lot more tame on paper than it is in reality. There is not one second of this thing that's enjoyable to me. Not one, but if my boys over at the Mag tell me it works, then I'm in. Stay tuned. Moving forward, this will be my Monday blog, so if you don't give a shit what the progress is of my workout (and really, who could blame you), then don't chime in on Mondays. Deal? Deal.
Current weight? 182.
Monday, April 21, 2008
The Inaugural Post
Hello all,
This is the first post of many. If you read long enough, you'll hear tales as light hearted as "How to Make a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich" to memorializing national tragedies. They might make you laugh, they might make you think. Maybe they'll make you cry. They might be lists, confessions, or letters. While I can't promise that they'll be anything more than connected words on a screen, I can promise that they will be honest, unabated, and uncensored.
I just got out of the only relationship that I ever gave a shit about. She was a little young and it came out at the end. That's what you get for dating a 12 year old. Just kidding, FCC. Them's just jokes. Anyway, every "Don't kill yourself" book and website tells you to write out your thoughts when they're happening, in part because it gives you a gauge of where you've been and where you're going, and in part because you'll drive your friends to kill you themselves if you keep going on about it (although the authors of "It's Not the End Yet" don't tell you that part). This is the LAST time you'll hear me speak about that subject, but now you know why I've taken to writing nearly daily. I don't intend to off myself, but if it's good for the suicidals, then dammit, it's good for me.
The Bruins, they were so close. Another Game 7 loss at the hands of the hated Habs. Me and three other people know that that happened tonight, but for me, I'm just glad to be interested again. Of course, there are 84 games in a regular season, so it will probably be 85 games before I see the black and gold again. I'm a bandwagon jumper like that. I'm a hockey fraud. I'm cool with it, and you should be, too.
Just a little light reading today. Easing into the blog world. I don't know if this is completely for self-indulgence or if anyone is going to chime in, but should you have something on your mind, I welcome all comments.
This is the first post of many. If you read long enough, you'll hear tales as light hearted as "How to Make a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich" to memorializing national tragedies. They might make you laugh, they might make you think. Maybe they'll make you cry. They might be lists, confessions, or letters. While I can't promise that they'll be anything more than connected words on a screen, I can promise that they will be honest, unabated, and uncensored.
I just got out of the only relationship that I ever gave a shit about. She was a little young and it came out at the end. That's what you get for dating a 12 year old. Just kidding, FCC. Them's just jokes. Anyway, every "Don't kill yourself" book and website tells you to write out your thoughts when they're happening, in part because it gives you a gauge of where you've been and where you're going, and in part because you'll drive your friends to kill you themselves if you keep going on about it (although the authors of "It's Not the End Yet" don't tell you that part). This is the LAST time you'll hear me speak about that subject, but now you know why I've taken to writing nearly daily. I don't intend to off myself, but if it's good for the suicidals, then dammit, it's good for me.
The Bruins, they were so close. Another Game 7 loss at the hands of the hated Habs. Me and three other people know that that happened tonight, but for me, I'm just glad to be interested again. Of course, there are 84 games in a regular season, so it will probably be 85 games before I see the black and gold again. I'm a bandwagon jumper like that. I'm a hockey fraud. I'm cool with it, and you should be, too.
Just a little light reading today. Easing into the blog world. I don't know if this is completely for self-indulgence or if anyone is going to chime in, but should you have something on your mind, I welcome all comments.
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