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My workout last night started off well. I got on the elliptical and a few minutes later I felt a tap on my arm. I looked over to see my friend Ashley on the next machine. We both laughed at the fact that we were working out right next to each other and hadn’t even noticed. I suppose we were both following typical gym courtesy where you work out and mind your own business. I hate it when the person next to you is constantly looking over at your machine. I can tell they’re comparing our distances and my speed against theirs. No thank you.
After chatting with Ashley, I finished my cardio and moved over to do weights. I was resting in between sets and scanning the machines to see which one I wanted to do next. My eyes stopped on one directly across from me. Sitting on the machine was a guy in his early 20s, obviously oblivious to everyone around him. Why?
He was picking his nose.
Not just picking, DIGGING. We’re talking up to the knuckle, face contorted, must have been hitting his brain, digging. He wasn’t even trying to hide it! Talk about gym courtesy. I almost threw up.
This went on for a least a few minutes. I didn’t stick around to see if he cleaned the machine after he was done. I moved far away to another machine and vowed not to step near his until at least the next day.
At least he didn’t eat it. At least, I don’t think he did. I wouldn’t be surprised, though.
Know what’s funny? Having your picture end up on a band’s website. The band that was playing at the bar this past weekend. Moving on…
My friend is getting married in May and has asked me to sing during her sand ceremony. When I told my family this they were surprised. Actually, I think the exact words were, “Really? You? Why did she ask you to sing?” Not quite the encouraging words I was hoping for.
The truth is, I can sing. Not like my sister who is incredible, but pretty well. But my family has never really heard me sing, so I guess I can’t really blame them for the lack of support. They’ve heard me a little in the car or around the house, but never singing singing. I guess I just didn’t see the point. My sister is the singer in the family and I’m the dancer. We fell into those roles and made them our own. So while my sister is still a great dancer, she knows it’s more my thing.
I sang an a cappella solo during Greek Week my senior year. At first I refused, but Elle and my sisters convinced me that I was good enough to do it. When the day came I was so nervous. I barely remember it happening…all I remember is that Michael was standing in the back of the room and I stared at the exit sign above his head the whole time. It wasn’t until afterwards when I watched the video that I realized, huh, I’m not too bad.
When my friend asked me to sing at her wedding I was shocked, but flattered. At first I wavered, but knowing that it meant enough to her to ask, I accepted. That was a couple months ago and the wedding seemed far enough away not to freak out.
I just realized the wedding is in exactly three months. That is not far away. At all.
It’s a short folk song that she picked out and the sand ceremony only lasts what, a couple minutes? I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll. Be. Fine.
No one will be looking at me anyway. Right?
I hope the room has an exit sign.
Saturday night I went to a bar with some friends. Jen’s cousin’s band was playing and we figured it would be a good time.
We found parking somewhat easily for a weekend in Newport and managed to snag two seats both at the bar and near the stage. We ordered our drinks and started to catch up. The band started–playing covers ranging from the Killers to 80s hits and everyone was dancing. It was loud so we had to scream at each other to be heard.
All of the sudden I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a guy, late 20s, saying something.
“WHAT?” I yelled.
“Can I buy you girls a drink?!” he yelled back.
Oh yeah, sure. I like free drinks. Of course with free drinks comes chit-chat, but I’m good at that and didn’t mind. He was in the Marines, in from California for a few weeks meeting up with his friend from college. When the conversation lulled I tipped my drink at him, said thanks and turned back to Jen.
A little while later her cousin bought us drinks. As soon as he left a round of shots appeared in front of us. “From those guys,” the bartender said, pointing at California Marine.
Again, I like free drinks.
A little while later CM appeared at my side again asking if we wanted to join him and his friend at another bar. I declined, saying we were meeting up with more friends. And then the inevitable:
“Can I get your number? I’d love to take you out sometime.”
So the real question was, am I a dick now or a dick later? I can be that girl that clearly talked to him for the sole reason of free booze, or be the girl that lets him think he’ll see me again and then never calls.
“Give me your number,” I replied. He punched the numbers into my phone and when he turned to say something to his friend I shut my phone without saving it. We waved goodbye and CM disappeared, unaware that he would never hear from me.
I know it’s mean. But I obviously had no interest in this guy (Hello, hot boyfriend.) And I never asked for the drinks, they just appeared.
Part of me felt a little bad as he walked out the door thinking he did well.
But after being in a relationship for so long and not being the flirtatious vixen I once was, the other part of me was like, oh yeah, I still got it!
Nice to be reminded.
Thank goodness it’s only once a month that I deal with this serious dilemma: do I eat the donut, the gummy bears or the crunchy cheetos? Because I? Want all of them. Any other week I would be dry heaving at the thought of consuming all of that and would really rather eat an apple. But not this week.
Calorie-wise the gummy bears are the way to go. But my hormones do not care about calories. My thighs may protest, but my hormones? They’re saying donut. With sprinkles.
I probably shouldn’t tell you I’ve already had chinese food today.
I’m not going to tell you if I choose the donut or the gummy bears.
Because there is a chance I may have already eaten the gummy bears.
I was expecting some interesting searches that would lead people here yesterday. You have to expect it when you write about boobs. A look at my stats revealed that people were searching for, among others, “boobs”, “big boobs”, “little boobs”, “my sister’s big boobs” (um, ew), “breast milk” (did I write about breast milk? No.), “small boobies”, “boobs get bigger”, “blog girl boobs” and “milk maids”.
I was also very surprised to see how many readers are in the same boat. It’s nice to know I’m not alone in my frustration.
The weather was so nice yesterday that I decided to take a break from the office and go for a long walk. What I wasn’t anticipating was that the warm weather had made the once frozen ground turn into a squishy, muddy mess. This caused me to step awkwardly around puddles and completely coat the heels and sides of my not-so-appropriate-for-walking-in-the-mud shoes.
As I started to head back to my office I felt pain on the bottom of my feet. Crap. Blisters. Just what I needed. Now the following is kind of gross, I’m not going to lie. But you’ve read about my bathroom habits, embarrassing moments and my issues with Things That Smell Bad. I think you can handle it.
The blisters had to be popped. There was no way around it because by the end of the walk I was hobbling up the stairs on tip toe. I’m no stranger to blisters. I was a dancer, after all. Blisters were a weekly thing. Once one healed, another formed. I was also on the crew team in high school. I once had a blister that took over the width of my hand. So gross. If they hurt, oh well. You danced on them, you rowed with them, you dealt with it. Pop, drain, repeat.
Apparently my tolerance has worn off because these new blisters? They HURT. Seriously, how am I ever going to give birth?
On a completely unrelated topic, some things that have been bothering me lately: men driving VW Bugs (it just seems weird), a house near work that still has headless scarecrows propped up on a bench that have been there since October, and the realization that with spring on the way, Mandals will once again make an appearance. You know, Man Sandals, those leather sandals with the open toes made for men?
1. I cannot watch a movie unless I see it from the very beginning. Even if it’s a movie I’ve seen 1,000 times, know all the words to and own the dvd. If it’s not the beginning, I can’t watch it. And if it’s one I haven’t seen? Forget it. I tried doing that when TNT plays movies back to back…watch the second half first and then the first half. It sucks.
2. I hate it when people shorten my name. My name is Molly, not Mol. I mean, come on. It’s only five letters. How lazy are you that you have to shorten it to three? There are only a select few who are allowed to call me Mol and they had to earn it. Big time. The worst was when a professor would call me Mol on the first day of class or when a coworker did it the first week at a new job. And then you’re stuck with it because you can’t really say, “actually, DON’T.” When I hear Mol, I think mall or maul. Ugh.
3. It’s no secret I want to got engaged. It’s also no secret that I browse the Knot, look at rings and dresses and think about reception sites. What may be kind of weird is that I already have a list. A big list. Full of everything from photographers to bakeries to florists. A list I’ve complied by reading message boards on the Knot. So that when it does happen, I’m ready to go. I am aware how sick this is. I am also aware that maybe I need to get out more on the weekends.
4. I was never into naming my cars, but in high school my first car was a Volvo and it was super cute. So my friend Abby and I named her the Molvo. And Abby had a Saab. Which, you guessed it, we named Saabby.
5. I call cats Moosies. I’m not entirely sure why I do this or where it started, but it stuck. And it has to be said in a high pitched, squealy voice. The sad thing is my friends and family are all aware of this and some of them even call them moosies now.
6. I had one of those allergy tests done years ago and I’m allergic to dust mites, ash trees and cockroaches. I don’t know what an ash tree looks like and I’ve only seen a cockroach once, but whenever my allergies flare up I blame it on ash trees and cockroaches. Because, clearly, what else could it be.
An hour massage, an evening of bad TV with no one around to complain about it, indulging in bad-for-me food because I can, then working out on the new elliptical to make up for it, staying up late, sleeping in the next morning, going to a birthday party for a kid I just adore, shopping with Sass, drinking good wine, snuggling with Michael, reading light hearted novels, new magazines, avoiding the cold by curling up under a big warm blanket, soy chai lattes, a trip to Marshalls, catching up on phone calls, making yummy dinners and no work on Monday.
Have a nice weekend!
It’s no secret that I love shoes. I am a firm believer that shoes can represent your personality, dress up any outfit and make a statement. I can also relate shoes to big moments in my life. And you thought I was weird before…
The first time I put on my toe shoes I felt so grown up. For years I had watched the older girls in the dance studio balance on their big toes, legs long and straight, back arched. I longed to dance like them, to be like them. I was nine, a little on the young side, but ready. The toe shoes were baby pink satin with long ribbons my mom had sewn on. I remember the feel of the lambswool on my toes, the look of the ribbons tied around my tights and the smell of the rosin as I crushed it under my toe. For years after that I defined myself as a dancer. As if putting on those shoes represented who I was.
In fifth grade I wore the red Tweety Bird sneakers. As hideous as they were, I didn’t think so at the time. In fact, they were the first pair of sneakers I ever had that my mom didn’t have any say over. Before going shopping she assured me that I would be allowed to pick out my own shoes. And boy did I. She hated them. Tacky, she said. And I was going through that awkward, lanky stage where my feet were huge. What’s the best way to deal with that? Emphasize their size with big red sneakers. Awesome. But despite how ugly they were, I loved them. And I picked them out all by myself.
Eight grade brought the clear platform jellies. Another great choice, I know. But this one wasn’t all about me. This one was about boys. Because the minute I put on those shoes I felt adult and attractive. I was 13, after all. In my wide leg Limited jeans, velour top and clear jellies, I felt ready to talk to any boy. And I did. Got my first real boyfriend that year.
High school brought high heeled mary janes and Nine West boots, a new boyfriend and attention from guys as I walked down the hall. I knew they were checking me out as my heels clicked down the hall. And I liked it.
I went to Europe the summer after graduation and this is where the addiction began. My first pair of “real” heels, gorgeous, unique, expensive heels came from a boutique in Austria. Things were never the same after that.
I was wearing knee-high black boots the night I realized I was in love with Michael. I wore those boots until the heels broke.
The day I walked across the stage and accepted my college diploma I was wearing pink heels with a little bow. I was so happy, I think I might have strutted. Just a little.
One day I will buy the perfect, elegant shoes to wear with my wedding gown, the first pair of tiny shoes for my baby and eventually shoes to wear to my children’s graduations and weddings.
My shoes will always have a story to tell.
This time last year I was working in a preschool and was miserable. As much as I love kids, it’s not where I wanted to be or what I wanted to be doing. But the job market was bad and the benefits were good. So I stayed.
On the morning of Valentine’s Day I sorted through my closet trying to find something pink to wear. Ordinarily I don’t color coordinate my clothes to the holiday and for some reason I never buy anything pink. But when you work with a whole bunch of 18 month-3 year olds, you have to dress the part. So I put on the only pink I have, a Juicy Couture baby pink sweater that I really didn’t want to wear in the vicinity of finger paint, and headed off to work.
Holidays at a preschool are the best days to work there. Well, great for the taste buds, not so great for the waistline. I was greeted by trays of brownies and cupcakes, baskets of cookies and boxes of chocolate. One parent was a pastry chef and her Valentine’s Day treat baskets were to die for. I think I ate all day. All. Day.
Know who else ate sugar all day? The children. Know how many children were in my room? Fifteen. All on sugar highs. For eight hours. Yeah, that was fun.
I saw on the news this morning that the preschool had closed for a snow day. I can’t help but think there was more than just snow behind that decision.
Apparently, I am 80. I don’t know if I slept weird or what, but my back is killing me. Especially my entire right side from my head to my hips. And I couldn’t get a massage appointment until Friday. I’m dying. No, really. Tonight it’s a hot shower and a muscle relaxer. Stat.
My fingers are crossed for a snow today tomorrow, but it’s not looking too good. As much as I don’t really enjoy winter, I was looking forward to one good snowy day. And you can’t get more romantic than snow for Valentine’s Day. Michael and I once got snowed in at a beautiful bed and breakfast in Chatham, MA for Valentine’s Day. It was gorgeous.
Speaking of Valentine’s Day, I was pleasantly surprised to hear from Michael seeing if I could leave work a little early tomorrow. He made reservations at my favorite restaurant. I wasn’t expecting dinner since we usually just do cards, but it’s very sweet and made my day.
For some reason my blog traffic has been especially heavy today. I think it must be because I wrote about religion yesterday. And people have been reading from all over the world. Which is actually very cool.