I left for the Y at about 1:30 today and heard my weird neighbor tunelessly singing "she's so beautiful" over and over. When I came back two hours (and an alleged 763 calories) later, she was singing "Don't worry if you come in last." Seriously, people, keep the Randy Newman away from the mentally impaired.
Really, how honest can that elliptical ski machine be? I read in an article in one of those lady workout magazines that the count can be off by as much as 20 percent, which gives me a range of 610-916 calories burned. I'm thinking the machines overcount. Here's another skeptic, but she doesn't give any idea of how accurate the count might be. Anyway, I "skiied" more than 6 miles, so it's an accomplishment either way.
I had an attack of acute embarrassment at the gym because my newish workout pants are suffering from a case of mom's pyjamas. My mother can't own a pair of pyjamas and refrain from washing them in the hot water wash. Trust me, I, too, have occassionally succumbed to the pleasure of a hot-water cycle — ever put your hand in the allegedly "warm" wash cycle? It ain't. Clothes need the heat for cleanliness. Anyway, her pyjamas shrink and she ends up giving them to me. Well, my pants shrunk enough to make me self-conscious. I mean, there's hugging the curves and there's hugging the curves. I'll have to stretch them out again and keep washing them in the tepid cycle.
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I have laundry drama that culminated in a stupidly spectacular show of violence on Friday morning.
Groggy, but with that consolatory feeling that comes with knowing the weekend is nigh, I was searching for something to wear to ROOM 101.
My office clothes are uninspiring; lumpy khakis and light green pants. Two particular pair of said trousers had been afflicted with a certain permanent wrinkly-ness that neither iron nor dryer was able to fully dispell.
On this morning, I had had enough.
"Okay, you don't want to fucking cooperate then, heh?!" I shouted. "Try a bit of this, then."
With that I proceeded to rip the pants from the crotch down the seams. Thats how Sally woke up, to me screaming at the shredded pants still in my hands.
Feeling ridiculous, I slid into some dirty jeans and made the trek to the office. While I now need new work clothes, the thought of going shopping for them pains me.
Like most guys, I hate shopping for clothes, not because I don't like clothes, but because places that sell them really put me off. I have more fun shopping for groceries.
As for gym clothes, I like mine better that my work gear, hands down.
-M/C
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