I'm sat here, curled up on my bed in my room with my laptop. For just a moment things seemed ok and movie-esque. Then I remembered I'm quitting my job in a month and a half.
I have to keep reminding myself that I have no children, no husband, not even a boyfriend. I don't own a house and have no car payments. I have me and only me to worry about and it's not always going to be this way. Might as well make the most of my independence. Because that's what it is; independence, not lonliness.
Ok, it's a little bit of lonliness, but that is easily numbed by doing things like burlesque classes (tonight), rehearsal (tomorrow), and being "seen" at the theater (Thursday). I might even tell a story at a story slam in December if I can gather the courage to do so.
This is me trying to cultivate a life that I love, Blog. How am I doing? I feel like I'm failing at every turn. But then again, I'm here on my comfy bed, in my comfy clothes, nervous for a future that I can't quite picture. I'm totally out of my comfort zone. This has got to pay off in the long run. It usually does when I'm taken out of my safe and predictable routine. It's just been a really long time since I've stepped outside of a regular job with regular hours occupied by regular people. Time for something new. I guess not knowing exactly which day will be my last at work is a nice problem to have. Should I call it quits early on December 21st? Or push through until the very beginning of January? Either way, it's a great reminder that I am the one running my life, not the silly online school that has dominated it for the past five years.
Showing posts with label Exercise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Exercise. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Thursday, May 24, 2012
The Back Stairwell of Doom and Adventure
You know what I don't do enough, Blog? Tell you stories of the shit that happens to me. So here is one for you before I forget.
A couple weeks ago I got back from my trip to the Azores and Boston and, like always, had a bunch of dirty clothes. Laundry is a tricky thing to do when traveling after all. I came back to Minneapolis with a renewed sense of purpose that lasted about five hours. But during those five hours I made a point to revamp my day to day living with a run around the lake, a trip to the grocery store that ended with vegetables, and the purchase of two, count 'em, two pairs of sunglasses since I'm totally one of those people who goes through about 15 pairs a summer due to my carelessness towards protective eye-wear. It's bad.
Because of my new found motivation and productivity, I was in and out of my apartment building by use of the back stairwell that leads right out into the alleyway; half a block from Hennepin Avenue where everything that is good and holy in Minneapolis lies. This is also the stairwell I use to access the laundry room that is in the basement of my building. After the exercise and the shopping and the general life clean-up that I had so dutifully taken joy in doing over the course of the afternoon and evening, I piled my clothes into a basket and headed down to the laundry room to do even more awesomeness that is known as keeping my shit together.
Things were going great as I made my way down the first flight of stairs. I had a sense of productivity. I was happy to be home. I had just eaten some vegetables. Life was great! I hit the landing and turned to make my way down towards the firsts floor, eager to keep this momentum going. That's when I saw something fall out of the corner of my eye. It was obvious enough to make me stop for a moment and assess the situation. It could have just been part of the building. It's an old building after all. Things fall in old buildings right? But there was something in my gut that was telling me it wasn't inanimate; that it was alive. I didn't have to wait long for the proof because just as I was about to take another productive step forward, it silently flew out at me. A bat! It was a bat Blog! It was a bat that for some reason fell from its little vampire hangy place next to the door on the first floor and freaked its shit out at me.
I'm not going to lie. I screamed. I screamed like I was being murdered because, oh my God, there was a bat flying around at me and I was on stairs and holding a heavy basket of clothes. I was completely defenseless! It clipped my hair flying up the stairs (CLIPPED MY HAIR) only to turn around and swoop back down at me on its way towards the basement. I don't know if you realize how cramped stairwells are Blog, but they are. And when you combine a bat, a basket of laundry, and me in the confines of one, things get crazy fast. All I could think of between my screams was the Jungle's artistic director Bain and how he met a vampire once (the story involved an encounter with a bat, naturally). He had a stick to defend himself, I had... clothes? It was fight or flight, but I had no way to fight, so I dropped my clothes on the landing and ran up to my floor, slamming the door behind me.
Silence. I stood at the door immediately regretting my uninhibited response to my potentially rabid neighbor. I had to go back in there. My laundry and a whopping three dollars in quarters was sitting on the landing. I cracked the door to eye the distance between me and my belongings and listened with my now heightened senses. I waited to hear both the bat and neighbors emerging from their apartments to wonder what the F all that screaming was about. Nothing. Nothing, but the soft echo of its wings hitting its body and the walls that surrounded it.
I finally worked up the courage to swing the door open and run down the stairs to grab my laundry. Who knew something so simple as scrambling down a few steps to retrieve a basket of clothes would be such a horrifying experience. Though when I arrived at the second floor unscathed, I managed to enjoy the adrenaline high that had just shot through my body. I had done it. I had just been attacked by a flying rodent had made it out with my dirty wardrobe and life intact. I was spent. It had been a day full of traveling halfway across the country, exercise, and healthy eating; not to mention the winged and potentially rabid wild animal that made its presence known, mainly in my hair. Sure it would make sense to call my landlord after such a thing, but I took a shower instead. Then I called my mom and left her a message because it was Mother's Day. Then I went to bed because, if you re-read this paragraph, you'll see it was a busy day.
There are a few things that unnerve me about this whole scenario. Obviously attack by bat is at the top of the list. But there is also the whole me-screaming-as-if-I-was-being-murdered thing. I wasn't allowing the air to escape my vocal chords in a pleasant feminine breath. I was top-of-my-lungs screaming. And it wasn't just one scream. It was a series of horrified and pitchy sounds that not only were loud, but also echoed throughout the entire stairway. And when I was waiting for the courage to take me back into the stairwell to retrieve my clothes I was also waiting for someone to come out of their apartment and say "what the hell is going on?". No one did.
Fine. No one wanted to investigate the screams coming from the stairwell. But I surely couldn't have been the only person who had been attacked by bat. I was going in and out of this stairwell all day long. Others must have been doing the same thing long before I had returned from my trip. Maybe my landlord already knew?
The next day at work, after it had finally sunk in that post-vacation productivity is extremely short-lived, I emailed my landlord with a subject line of "Bat" letting him know about the incident that had occurred not even 24 hours before. He responded with a phone call right away saying he'd have animal control over there within the hour to take care of it. I can't help but imagine that I was the only one who reported bat. Bat had gone undetected and potentially ignored for who knows how long and it took me being viciously attacked and almost losing my life to rabies to bring the whole thing to light. No pun intended, bat (bats hate puns).
Anyway, I will chalk this whole thing up to more experience with rodents. This was a short-lived one that I think I would take over the whole mice in my car debacle that happened a couple summers ago. Sure I almost had a heart attack, but it was only one and I wasn't barreling down the highway at 60 mph when it happened.
RIP bat. I know you are dead now because that's how animal control rolls. Unless you've turned into a vampire who I will inevitably fall in love with. I'd be down as long as I get a good entry for Blog going. Bring it on.
A couple weeks ago I got back from my trip to the Azores and Boston and, like always, had a bunch of dirty clothes. Laundry is a tricky thing to do when traveling after all. I came back to Minneapolis with a renewed sense of purpose that lasted about five hours. But during those five hours I made a point to revamp my day to day living with a run around the lake, a trip to the grocery store that ended with vegetables, and the purchase of two, count 'em, two pairs of sunglasses since I'm totally one of those people who goes through about 15 pairs a summer due to my carelessness towards protective eye-wear. It's bad.
Because of my new found motivation and productivity, I was in and out of my apartment building by use of the back stairwell that leads right out into the alleyway; half a block from Hennepin Avenue where everything that is good and holy in Minneapolis lies. This is also the stairwell I use to access the laundry room that is in the basement of my building. After the exercise and the shopping and the general life clean-up that I had so dutifully taken joy in doing over the course of the afternoon and evening, I piled my clothes into a basket and headed down to the laundry room to do even more awesomeness that is known as keeping my shit together.
Things were going great as I made my way down the first flight of stairs. I had a sense of productivity. I was happy to be home. I had just eaten some vegetables. Life was great! I hit the landing and turned to make my way down towards the firsts floor, eager to keep this momentum going. That's when I saw something fall out of the corner of my eye. It was obvious enough to make me stop for a moment and assess the situation. It could have just been part of the building. It's an old building after all. Things fall in old buildings right? But there was something in my gut that was telling me it wasn't inanimate; that it was alive. I didn't have to wait long for the proof because just as I was about to take another productive step forward, it silently flew out at me. A bat! It was a bat Blog! It was a bat that for some reason fell from its little vampire hangy place next to the door on the first floor and freaked its shit out at me.
I'm not going to lie. I screamed. I screamed like I was being murdered because, oh my God, there was a bat flying around at me and I was on stairs and holding a heavy basket of clothes. I was completely defenseless! It clipped my hair flying up the stairs (CLIPPED MY HAIR) only to turn around and swoop back down at me on its way towards the basement. I don't know if you realize how cramped stairwells are Blog, but they are. And when you combine a bat, a basket of laundry, and me in the confines of one, things get crazy fast. All I could think of between my screams was the Jungle's artistic director Bain and how he met a vampire once (the story involved an encounter with a bat, naturally). He had a stick to defend himself, I had... clothes? It was fight or flight, but I had no way to fight, so I dropped my clothes on the landing and ran up to my floor, slamming the door behind me.
Silence. I stood at the door immediately regretting my uninhibited response to my potentially rabid neighbor. I had to go back in there. My laundry and a whopping three dollars in quarters was sitting on the landing. I cracked the door to eye the distance between me and my belongings and listened with my now heightened senses. I waited to hear both the bat and neighbors emerging from their apartments to wonder what the F all that screaming was about. Nothing. Nothing, but the soft echo of its wings hitting its body and the walls that surrounded it.
I finally worked up the courage to swing the door open and run down the stairs to grab my laundry. Who knew something so simple as scrambling down a few steps to retrieve a basket of clothes would be such a horrifying experience. Though when I arrived at the second floor unscathed, I managed to enjoy the adrenaline high that had just shot through my body. I had done it. I had just been attacked by a flying rodent had made it out with my dirty wardrobe and life intact. I was spent. It had been a day full of traveling halfway across the country, exercise, and healthy eating; not to mention the winged and potentially rabid wild animal that made its presence known, mainly in my hair. Sure it would make sense to call my landlord after such a thing, but I took a shower instead. Then I called my mom and left her a message because it was Mother's Day. Then I went to bed because, if you re-read this paragraph, you'll see it was a busy day.
There are a few things that unnerve me about this whole scenario. Obviously attack by bat is at the top of the list. But there is also the whole me-screaming-as-if-I-was-being-murdered thing. I wasn't allowing the air to escape my vocal chords in a pleasant feminine breath. I was top-of-my-lungs screaming. And it wasn't just one scream. It was a series of horrified and pitchy sounds that not only were loud, but also echoed throughout the entire stairway. And when I was waiting for the courage to take me back into the stairwell to retrieve my clothes I was also waiting for someone to come out of their apartment and say "what the hell is going on?". No one did.
Fine. No one wanted to investigate the screams coming from the stairwell. But I surely couldn't have been the only person who had been attacked by bat. I was going in and out of this stairwell all day long. Others must have been doing the same thing long before I had returned from my trip. Maybe my landlord already knew?
The next day at work, after it had finally sunk in that post-vacation productivity is extremely short-lived, I emailed my landlord with a subject line of "Bat" letting him know about the incident that had occurred not even 24 hours before. He responded with a phone call right away saying he'd have animal control over there within the hour to take care of it. I can't help but imagine that I was the only one who reported bat. Bat had gone undetected and potentially ignored for who knows how long and it took me being viciously attacked and almost losing my life to rabies to bring the whole thing to light. No pun intended, bat (bats hate puns).
 |
| F you puns! |
RIP bat. I know you are dead now because that's how animal control rolls. Unless you've turned into a vampire who I will inevitably fall in love with. I'd be down as long as I get a good entry for Blog going. Bring it on.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
It's Not That Great
Blog, I've been MIA for the latter half of April. I'm aware of this. I'm also aware of my reverting to the typical blogger tendency to acknowledge a rather lengthy absence. Luckily I had four posts in April. That's keeping up with my average, I do believe. I just got all of it out of the way during the first week of the month.
Ok. Enough with the posting about how I haven't posting. That's no fun to read.
Tonight I realized I could make my life sound fucking awesome if I wanted to. I have a cushy office job that pays me pretty well for the work I do and has regular hours. I love the people I spend my 40 hours a week with; they both challenge me and make me laugh every single day. I have this really great second job that not only brings in extra cash, but also is a gateway to free theater and fun parties with food and wine and chocolates and actors and crew and paper lanterns lighting up warm spring nights on a city balcony.
I have a quaint little apartment that has french windows decorated with paisley curtains. There's a fireplace filled with books and a gallery of friends' art on my walls. I have a cabinet stocked with wine and a fridge stocked with food. I take the train to visit my brother. I always have music in my ears. I can sing and play the guitar. I find myself sporadically going on auditions or performing in front of paying audiences. I'm asked to be a part of films here and there and every once in awhile I'll see someone I know on TV.
I live walking distance from a plethora of bars, restaurants and theaters; not to mention a grocery store. Half a block from the bus stop. Half a mile from a lake surrounded by multi-million dollar homes. I can walk down the street and not be surprised in the least to run into someone I know from some circle I'm a part of.
I'm like fucking Carrie Bradshaw sometimes with how I sip wine and sit in front of my computer in nothing but a towel, fresh out of the shower; save my image from riding around on the side of a bus all day long.
I've settled in the suburbs with a two car garage, dog, and fenced in yard. I've traipsed around the bars lending my mouth to any boy who was accepting of my drunken offers. I've gone on dates where doors were held and chairs were pulled out. Checks were taken care of and checks were split. I've been nervous, confident, cocky, and disinterested. I've felt beautiful more than I've felt unattractive and I think my wardrobe is alright; maybe even slightly above the fashionable average on a good day.
Sometimes I'll get into a routine where I do yoga and run on a regular basis. Other times I'll pass my evenings trying new recipes or eating ice cream while perusing the internet. I have close friends who are far away and because of this I'm starting to need my toes when it comes to keeping track of how many times I've flown across the Atlantic. My passport is filled with stamps from Europe and Mexico. I've been to Canada and both coasts. I've seen the northern lights and a meteor shower and the Swiss Alps...
Twenty four hours from now I'll be on yet another flight hanging over the Atlantic, preparing to land in a new country for me; Portugal. More accurately, the Portuguese islands known as The Azores. I've somehow managed to travel more than I ever thought I would. Make more money than I ever thought I would. Know more talented, amazing, inspiring people than I ever thought I would. I have a cute apartment, good health, and a glass of wine right in front of me. My bags are packed and I'm ready to get yet another stamp in that passport I got at a time when the only place I had ever been outside of the US was Canada.
And here I am barely holding in the tears because despite all of that "cool" shit I've just listed, at the end of the day I come home to an empty apartment and no one to share myself with. Reading through the self-involved vomit I've just spilled to you Blog makes me realize I'm an alright gal. I'm a catch. I've got a lot going for me. But that good feeling goes away when I know that those friends of mine have someone they love by their side every night. They have valid relationships and it makes me just want to throw all the parties and circles and performances and travel to the side because it's not important. It doesn't matter. It's just busy work until someone meaningful comes along.
The twelve year-old me would be blown away by who I've become. Sixth grade Samantha wanted nothing more than to travel and work in a skyscraper and live in a city doing important business with important people. Well Little Samantha, what you didn't know was that laying low and having a meaningful relationship with someone could have been just as, if not more fulfilling.
Of course, there's always the potential of a stay at home mom or settled down wife coming across this post and thinking that this life I lead is a fabulous one. You always want what you can't have, I guess.
To Portugal then.
Ok. Enough with the posting about how I haven't posting. That's no fun to read.
Tonight I realized I could make my life sound fucking awesome if I wanted to. I have a cushy office job that pays me pretty well for the work I do and has regular hours. I love the people I spend my 40 hours a week with; they both challenge me and make me laugh every single day. I have this really great second job that not only brings in extra cash, but also is a gateway to free theater and fun parties with food and wine and chocolates and actors and crew and paper lanterns lighting up warm spring nights on a city balcony.
I have a quaint little apartment that has french windows decorated with paisley curtains. There's a fireplace filled with books and a gallery of friends' art on my walls. I have a cabinet stocked with wine and a fridge stocked with food. I take the train to visit my brother. I always have music in my ears. I can sing and play the guitar. I find myself sporadically going on auditions or performing in front of paying audiences. I'm asked to be a part of films here and there and every once in awhile I'll see someone I know on TV.
I live walking distance from a plethora of bars, restaurants and theaters; not to mention a grocery store. Half a block from the bus stop. Half a mile from a lake surrounded by multi-million dollar homes. I can walk down the street and not be surprised in the least to run into someone I know from some circle I'm a part of.
I'm like fucking Carrie Bradshaw sometimes with how I sip wine and sit in front of my computer in nothing but a towel, fresh out of the shower; save my image from riding around on the side of a bus all day long.
I've settled in the suburbs with a two car garage, dog, and fenced in yard. I've traipsed around the bars lending my mouth to any boy who was accepting of my drunken offers. I've gone on dates where doors were held and chairs were pulled out. Checks were taken care of and checks were split. I've been nervous, confident, cocky, and disinterested. I've felt beautiful more than I've felt unattractive and I think my wardrobe is alright; maybe even slightly above the fashionable average on a good day.
Sometimes I'll get into a routine where I do yoga and run on a regular basis. Other times I'll pass my evenings trying new recipes or eating ice cream while perusing the internet. I have close friends who are far away and because of this I'm starting to need my toes when it comes to keeping track of how many times I've flown across the Atlantic. My passport is filled with stamps from Europe and Mexico. I've been to Canada and both coasts. I've seen the northern lights and a meteor shower and the Swiss Alps...
Twenty four hours from now I'll be on yet another flight hanging over the Atlantic, preparing to land in a new country for me; Portugal. More accurately, the Portuguese islands known as The Azores. I've somehow managed to travel more than I ever thought I would. Make more money than I ever thought I would. Know more talented, amazing, inspiring people than I ever thought I would. I have a cute apartment, good health, and a glass of wine right in front of me. My bags are packed and I'm ready to get yet another stamp in that passport I got at a time when the only place I had ever been outside of the US was Canada.
And here I am barely holding in the tears because despite all of that "cool" shit I've just listed, at the end of the day I come home to an empty apartment and no one to share myself with. Reading through the self-involved vomit I've just spilled to you Blog makes me realize I'm an alright gal. I'm a catch. I've got a lot going for me. But that good feeling goes away when I know that those friends of mine have someone they love by their side every night. They have valid relationships and it makes me just want to throw all the parties and circles and performances and travel to the side because it's not important. It doesn't matter. It's just busy work until someone meaningful comes along.
The twelve year-old me would be blown away by who I've become. Sixth grade Samantha wanted nothing more than to travel and work in a skyscraper and live in a city doing important business with important people. Well Little Samantha, what you didn't know was that laying low and having a meaningful relationship with someone could have been just as, if not more fulfilling.
Of course, there's always the potential of a stay at home mom or settled down wife coming across this post and thinking that this life I lead is a fabulous one. You always want what you can't have, I guess.
To Portugal then.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Getting All Hipster With an Entry About Relevent Music...
I used to run along the edge of Lake Calhoun over the summer time, listening to The Current and watching the sun set. I would watch all of the couples and groups of friends walking and running and sitting and swimming in the hot summer evenings and would feel a dull and familiar jealousy take over. It was a hopeful jealousy and as I could feel it gnawing at me, I would look up to the sky at the airplanes overhead and daydream about the people they were carrying away from the city. I would wonder where they were going; who they were going to see; if they were crying or if they were happy. I'd lose myself in their made-up lives and compare my own anticipation with theirs. And it was a good anticipation. I was one of the happy passengers. I was going to be on one of those planes soon enough to see the person I would be able to walk and run and sit and swim with. I knew I wouldn't be alone for long.
But then something changed even though I didn't want it to. And one day after one of those planes had carried me back to this city, I looked up and my heart sank. A song I had never heard before came on the radio and the lyrics told me a truth I didn't want to believe. My gaze returned to the path in front of me and for the first time in a long time, the dull and familiar jealousy left me with an unfamiliar presence and calm.
This is that song:
The jealousy is back in full force now. It is no longer dull, it is no longer familiar. Instead it follows me; jabbing at moments that occur just when I think it's left me alone. I don't know what else to do but turn this song on its head and make myself believe that one day it won't be there anymore and that I'll be one of the hopeful and happy ones again. I am tired of this and I want it to be over.
But then something changed even though I didn't want it to. And one day after one of those planes had carried me back to this city, I looked up and my heart sank. A song I had never heard before came on the radio and the lyrics told me a truth I didn't want to believe. My gaze returned to the path in front of me and for the first time in a long time, the dull and familiar jealousy left me with an unfamiliar presence and calm.
This is that song:
The jealousy is back in full force now. It is no longer dull, it is no longer familiar. Instead it follows me; jabbing at moments that occur just when I think it's left me alone. I don't know what else to do but turn this song on its head and make myself believe that one day it won't be there anymore and that I'll be one of the hopeful and happy ones again. I am tired of this and I want it to be over.
Friday, October 14, 2011
My Pushup Mantra
Blog, my friend Trisha has brought to light the wonder of pushups and how in just a matter of days you can build up enough stamina to actually do them, like for real.
I remember I started hating pushups in the first grade when Mrs. Johnson would make our little 7 year old bodies hover just inches above the ground to the point where "your nose has to touch the floor". Even though little Samantha didn't have the cumbersome boobs and ass that eventually would take over her body, she still found it to be incredibly difficult to lower herself down to the point where she was face to face with the hundred year old floor boards of the Berg Gym. The Berg Gym, where little Samantha made her first theater debut as a cow in a children's theater production of Beauty and the Beast. The Berg Gym where little Samantha belted out the lyrics of Ace of Base's "I Saw the Sign" at one of her first school dance experiences. Oh that Berg Gym. I think they've torn it down now...
I digress. Even my 60 pound, 7 year old body couldn't handle push ups, so when little Samantha became self conscious teenage Samantha, things really started going downhill in the pushups department. Especially when my classmate Jen was berated by her peers when her version of the horrid exercise was compared to that of a beached whale humping the ground. When us developing ladies were finally given permission to drop our knees to the ground so we could take the pressure off of our weak upper bodies, I gave in to the handicap and haven't looked back since.
And then Trisha brought to light the actual idea of building up strength through exercise. What? Who would have ever thought such a thought? That's preposterous! I'm a fully developed woman, Trisha. My giant ass will never allow me to do a pushup without the aid of my knees. It's simply impossible. My weak arms cannot support the mass of my entire lady body. Physics will not allow this idea of me doing a "man" pushup to become a reality.
Well, that's what I was thinking two weeks ago. After adjusting my pushup form and getting a pep talk from Trish, I struggled and panted through five measly pushups; my nose nowhere near the ground. But I kept at it, and now I'm up to sets of 15, Blog. 15. Last night I did 15 man pushups in a row. My nose still hasn't touched the ground like Mrs. Johnson would have liked, but I'm feeling the burn nonetheless. Though this is a small feat, it is also a sad reminder of how closed off I am to things that I find utterly impossible. I should really start applying this push up mantra that Trisha has shown me to other things that seem impossible, like... not drinking during the week. Oh Jesus. It's so intimidating to say that. I kind of hate myself for it. Maybe I'll just work on getting my nose to touch the carpet...
I remember I started hating pushups in the first grade when Mrs. Johnson would make our little 7 year old bodies hover just inches above the ground to the point where "your nose has to touch the floor". Even though little Samantha didn't have the cumbersome boobs and ass that eventually would take over her body, she still found it to be incredibly difficult to lower herself down to the point where she was face to face with the hundred year old floor boards of the Berg Gym. The Berg Gym, where little Samantha made her first theater debut as a cow in a children's theater production of Beauty and the Beast. The Berg Gym where little Samantha belted out the lyrics of Ace of Base's "I Saw the Sign" at one of her first school dance experiences. Oh that Berg Gym. I think they've torn it down now...
I digress. Even my 60 pound, 7 year old body couldn't handle push ups, so when little Samantha became self conscious teenage Samantha, things really started going downhill in the pushups department. Especially when my classmate Jen was berated by her peers when her version of the horrid exercise was compared to that of a beached whale humping the ground. When us developing ladies were finally given permission to drop our knees to the ground so we could take the pressure off of our weak upper bodies, I gave in to the handicap and haven't looked back since.
And then Trisha brought to light the actual idea of building up strength through exercise. What? Who would have ever thought such a thought? That's preposterous! I'm a fully developed woman, Trisha. My giant ass will never allow me to do a pushup without the aid of my knees. It's simply impossible. My weak arms cannot support the mass of my entire lady body. Physics will not allow this idea of me doing a "man" pushup to become a reality.
Well, that's what I was thinking two weeks ago. After adjusting my pushup form and getting a pep talk from Trish, I struggled and panted through five measly pushups; my nose nowhere near the ground. But I kept at it, and now I'm up to sets of 15, Blog. 15. Last night I did 15 man pushups in a row. My nose still hasn't touched the ground like Mrs. Johnson would have liked, but I'm feeling the burn nonetheless. Though this is a small feat, it is also a sad reminder of how closed off I am to things that I find utterly impossible. I should really start applying this push up mantra that Trisha has shown me to other things that seem impossible, like... not drinking during the week. Oh Jesus. It's so intimidating to say that. I kind of hate myself for it. Maybe I'll just work on getting my nose to touch the carpet...
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