Why No One Hits on Me at the Gym

You know those random thoughts you have that even though you’re like “Why am I thinking about this? I don’t even care about this topic/idea/question/what-have-you!” you can’t not think about them because they are, after all, random thoughts and you have no control over such things?

Well, I had one the other day. And it went something like: “Why don’t I ever get hit on at the gym?”

BEFORE I GO FURTHER, I must say that I really don’t want to get hit on at the gym. I mean first, I’m married. And second, even if I needed that little ego boost it’s not like the guys there are really all that flattering. I mean, sure, you have the occasional beefcake. But the one that I’m thinking of in particular has star tattoos on his triceps. Not really my type...or anyone's type aside from some shot girl working at a club.

So this thought kind of stuck with me, and I really started analyzing myself. Am I really that out of shape? Am I less attractive than the other girls? Is it just a myth that the gym is a place to hook up? I really mulled this over, folks, until the answer hit me whilst I was looking at my reflection in the gym's giant mirror.

I have horrible workout clothes.

Most girls there are really matchy-matchy, with their hot pink Fila shorts and white-with-pink-accents Fila tank and white and pink shoes. You know the type.

 

If they’re not matchy-matchy, they’re pretty basic with running shorts and a plaint-shirt. And if they don’t fit into either of those categories, they’re probably high schoolers with high school track t-shirts and such.

And then, there’s me.

I used to have lots of great workout clothes. But then I stopped working out. And gained weight. And now those clothes don’t fit. So, I’m stuck with this ensemble:

And this t-shirt:

Oh, and this t-shirt:

Clearly, this is why I don’t turn heads. Because I look like some grade schooler who just rolled out of bed. And I’m okay with that. Like I said, I don’t need to get hit on.

But then today, all of my workout shirts were dirty, so I was left digging through my dresser and random storage places for clothing before I found this...a t-shirt I bought at a concert I attended in college.

Yes, that is a creepy ghost woman.

I find it sad that my once-treasured concert t’s are now degraded to unattractive workout wear. But such is life. (Plus, this shirt is a major step above Royal Chambers, wouldn’t you agree?)

If anything, despite still feeling un-hit-on-able, I can comfort myself with the fact that I bought this shirt at the very same concert at which I asked a band member to marry me. And he said yes. Kind of erasing the non-hit-on-able feeling. But that’s another blog post for another day. Maybe Thursday.

Ps. Yes, this was the band. Can you guess who the lucky guy was?

Emo Batman

If I were any good at making those spliced-up vids that make fun of huge blockbuster movies, I'd make one called "Emo Batman." Because as I sit here, Tad is blaring Dark Knight Rises in the adjoining room, and I cannot help but think about how Batman is really just a poster child for the emo lifestyle.

Here we have a rich, good looking guy, who despite some unfortunate events in life, has really turned things around for himself. But is that enough? Is that ever enough? No. Somehow, he always finds a reason to brood. To be sad and introspective.

Batman always finds a reason to go out and get punched in the face. It's as if he wants to get the crap beat out of him. He wants this so that he can feel sad and have a Bella Swan-sized depression montage so he can get an Alfred pep talk (who doesn't want one of those?) so that he can be angry at the fact that yet again, the old man is right, so that he can mope some more, only to rally himself at the last moment to get his act together, come out of his emo slump and do what normal people would have done from the get-go.

In Dark Knight Rises, that "thing that normal people would have done long from the get-go" is to actually train before a fight.

Brilliant, emo Batman. Glad you figured that one out.

Now maybe I'm remembering the movies incorrectly. Maybe he's far less emo in the other movies than he is in the third. I can't really remember them clearly, considering the first one I saw in a Turkish movie theater, and the second, well, I was one of those people who were unjustifiably sad about Heath Ledger's death.

So please, correct me if my memory is failing me and emo-ing things way up when in reality they maybe weren't that emo. At which point I will retract these statements and instead talk about how much I want to put together a video splice that shows Tom Hardy as I originally knew him...as Heathcliff.

Yep. Totally made Tad suffer through this movie.


Also, I think the guy who plays Linton is the main cop from Walking Dead!!

10 Annoying Things About Being a Left-Handed Guitar Player

So once upon a time, I played guitar. I've mentioned this before, though I've never really gone in depth with my former rock star days. I mean, what goes on in Vegas, right?

But what I will discuss is all of the annoyances that came with being a left-handed guitar player. You think I'm kidding, I'm sure. You think "Oh, here's sweet Amanda, blowing things out of proportion and hyperbolizing hyperbole as usual."

How I wish you were right.

10 Annoying Things About Being a Left-Handed Guitar Player

1. Really dumb right-handed people will ask you "Is it hard to play left-handed like that?" causing you to mentally smack them. (This has happened to me on multiple occasions. And here they say blondes are dumb...)
2. You leaf through a guitar magazine and your heart skips a beat at all the beautiful guitars there are in the world. Then, you go to buy one and you realize the one you want isn't available for lefties. And furthermore, you only have like 10 models to choose from because guitar manufacturers find it too expensive to offer every model in a lefty version. Grrrrr....
3. When you do settle on one of those 10 guitars, it will cost you like $200 more than what they'd charge for the very same guitar built for a right-handed player. (And people think I'm kidding when I say I'm going to march for Lefty's Rights!)
4. Slightly-less-so-but-still-very-dumb right-handed people will hear you griping about lefty discrimination and say "Why don't you just learn to play it right-handed?" in a tone that tells you they feel they've solved your problem and are expecting you to give them a kiss and go "You are so smart!" (Again, blondes are the  dumb ones??)
5. Right-handed guitarists will pick up your guitar and look at you with the most confused expression when they try to play it and it doesn't sound right. Then they berate you for not having a guitar on hand that they can play.
6. People will exclaim things like "You're the best left-handed guitar player I've ever heard!" As though the left-handed guitar is a different instrument than the right-handed one.
7. You will be more attractive to some guys because you play left-handed. Not because you have actual talent, mind you. But because you play "backwards."
8. You'll be at church and the worship pastor will be MIA and suddenly everyone will turn to you and expect you to pick up his right-handed guitar and lead worship. And when you try to explain that you can't, they suddenly think you're a less-talented guitar player and say things like "Can't you just figure it out?"
9. You want to punch the makers of Beatles Rock Band for designing Sir Paul's bass controller as a right-handed bass, when clearly he played a left-handed bass. It's this kind of discrimination that makes you want to scream and lead rallies and give speeches.

And lastly,

10. Famous left-handed guitarists become your idols for no reason other than you know that they went through what you're going through. Mind you, most of these idols are barely "idol" matieral: Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, etc.

So there you have it. The horrors of being a left-handed guitar player.

Anyone else have any instrument-related horrors to add? Like the assumption that tuba-players are overweight or that only girls play flutes?

Come on, your confessions are safe with me. Because you know the saying...What's said on Swedish Pankakes, stays on Swedish Pankakes. For the entire world to read.

A Testament to my Beastlyness

Would you believe it if I told you I was the runt of the family? Me. Oldest born. 5'6". Runt.

You see, my family...we are not small people. Nor are we wimps.

This is my dad. He’s a bit over 6-feet tall. Former wrestler and high school Hot Rod of the Year. Descendant of vikings and barbarians.

This is my mom...well, she’s one of those perfectly petite people, so we’re excluding her from this study, since viking blood doesn’t flow through her veins. (She brings to the table my French ancestry...wonder if that explains my hatred of guns and love of cheese).

This is my brother, Ryan (his wife, Laura, is with him!). Again, over 6-feet tall. People used to always ask him if he played football, but this was before Tim Tebow revolutionized the rules for homeschoolers and sports and so he’d always reply “No” while probably thinking to himself “Can’t a guy just be big for no reason?”

This is my sister, Emily. She is like 5’9” with epic, strong hair. The hair of a Valkyrie.

This is my brother, Jared. Though the slimmest of all us kids, he’s like 6’3” and his skinny jeans don’t help with the super tall illusion. He can build shelters that blend into the forest and traps that catch wild animals.

And then, again, there’s me.

At eight, I’d play wrestling with Ryan and his neighbor friends.

At eleven, I was my dad’s go-to person to help him move all of our furniture into the moving van.

And then again at twelve. And thirteen. And fourteen. We moved a lot.

At sixteen, despite my ho-hum skill, I got to play the position of catcher on my softball team a few times. (We all know that’s where the beastly players play...that, and first base).

At 25, I killed it as lead paddler on a white water rafting trip. Not to mention, I was running 6 miles a day at the time and lifting rather frequently.

And today, at 28, I’m considering training for a Tough Mudder.

All this to say, despite being the runt, I’m no wimp. But I often get the feeling that I come across wimp-like.

I opened a new gym membership, and part of the whole deal was I got a one-on-one assessment from a personal trainer.

Now, I hadn’t exercised or done anything remotely healthy for about a year leading up to this (I have the number on the scale to prove it). Yet when my super-buff trainer, Craig, handed me a kettlebell, I manhandled that thing. After one round of reps, he was like “do you want a heavier bell?” and I was like “yeah, this feather-like joke of a kettlebell is about to fly out of my hands” and he was like “you can go pick whichever one you want” but I had already gestured at HIS kettlebell. The one that he had selected for himself to use while demonstrating the moves.

“You want this one?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay” but I could hear the doubt in his voice. As if he said, How can you, a wussy blond who hasn’t lifted a thing in the past year aside from her laptop, even think to be able to use MY kettlebell? Can't you see my muscles, woman?! Can't you smell protein shakes on my breath?!

To which I replied, “I am Amanda, daughter of Randy, sister of Ryan, Emily, and Jared. Great granddaughter of Carl Oskar Johansson of Sweden and Hulda Edin of Mora, Minnesota. My ancestors raped and pillaged yours. I think I can handle this kettlebell.”

And I did.

Commander Lol

For as long as I’ve been on the Internet, I’ve avoided using the term “Lol.” Not only does it look absolutely disgusting (like the name of some Star Trek character whose brains are coming out of his ears), but my head is incapable of translating it properly. I don’t see it and immediately think “laugh out loud.” I see it and think of it as a pronounceable word, such as “loll” as in “lollypop” or “lollygagging.” And that just sounds stupid in my head.

So all these years I’ve opted for the much more mature “haha.” Or, if I’m particularly tickled, the “bahaha”or the “hahahahahahahahaha.” But never the “LOL” or the “ROFL” or the really ridiculous “ROFLOL.”

Still with me?

Good.

Because lately, my resolve has weakened. I’ve found myself responding to entire emails with a simple “Lol.” I’ve left Facebook comments that include that horrific letter combination, and I’ve even texted, yes, TEXTED the abominable “Lol.”

I keep telling myself, “Self, you’ve got to get it together. You’re better than this. You’re smarter than this. You don’t want people to think about a Star Trek character whose brains are coming out of his ears when in fact you are just laughing. And you aren’t even really laughing. You’re chuckling. So maybe you could instead type Col...no, scratch that. You don’t want people to always think of Col. Mustard when you laugh. Sigh. See this predicament you’ve gotten us in?”

So two seconds ago, I decided to accept this stupid phase of life and just deal with the fact that I was now a “Lol-er.”

And then it happened. When I was thinking about a response to an email I received, I began whispering to myself (this is a horrible trait I got from my dad. THANKS, DAD). I whispered my imagined reply and then out of nowhere, I included a “Lol.”

Except I didn’t laugh aloud or even chuckle. I just seamlessly inserted my weird, pronounceable version of “Lol” right smack dab in the middle of my sentence. One moment, I was responding intelligently and the next, I was summoning Commander Lol and all of his ear brains. All of this happened while I remained emotionally astute. No smile. No physical indication that I could maybe squeak out an actual laugh. No, “Lol” took care of that for me. Apparently, accepting him into your life means that you no longer need to actually laugh or chuckle at things. You need only to say the name “Lol.”

Stupid, Lol. You’ve replaced my ability to laugh aloud.

And, you make me sound dumb.

When Nature Attacks...Again!!!

Just when I thought these ridiculous encounters with nature couldn't get any worse...just when I thought my days of playing Snow White were over...just when I thought I'd had run-ins with every oddball creature in these parts, Helo and I were stalked by a deer. But let me rewind. Because before that, there was a goundhog incident.

ATTACK 6
(For attacks 1-5, please see my other post).

There are two huge piles of wood behind our garage that we can do nothing about. (This is one of the many joys of living in a rental). A*bout a month ago, I heard a weird noise every time I took Helo behind the garage to go potty. It was as if something was thumping on the wood. I got smart and began checking the wood pile as we walked back there. Eventually, I saw a furry butt disappear into the jungle-gym. A big furry butt.

Then one day, I walked Helo back there and heard the thump. I looked at the pile, but instead of seeing a retreating furball, my gaze was met by two beady eyes. A huge groundhog stared me down. We remained locked in this unspoken contest until moments later, he casually dropped into his hole. Message received, groundhog. Message received.


ATTACK 7
Okay, this one happened about an hour ago. It was dusk, and Helo and I were out for a walk. There's this giant forest/woods behind our house with many paths through it. We like to go through the woods on our way home, because one path in particular pops us out near our backyard.

So we're walking, and Helo is sniffing, and I'm daydreaming/duskdreaming and then I see this massive furry body about 20 feet ahead of us. A doe is staring us down. We stop, of course. Helo keeps sniffing (the dog is super oblivious). And this video starts playing in my mind:



So I start thinking about options. I'd like to think that if I were on my own, I would have been more brave. But with a 10-month old Great Dane puppy in the picture, all I could think of were outcomes that involved blood. SO, my mission became to avoid blood. Simple enough.

Now, deer are supposed to scare easily, right?
So, I take a few steps toward the deer.
It doesn't move.
At this point, Helo notices the deer and decides he wants to be friends. He starts jumping up on his back legs, pulling on the leash.
The deer doesn't move.
I calm Helo down and consider continuing on the trail (the deer was standing off to the side of the trail), when it STARTS WALKING TOWARD US.

This isn't a casual, aimless wandering that happens to be in our direction. NO, this deer starts walking a straight line toward me.
At this point, I realize we should leave. So Helo and I turn around.
I glance over my shoulder and here's the part where I almost started to cry...the part where Tad said it's like The Village. The deer is peeking at us from behind a tree.
We pick up the pace.
I look again, and it's behind ANOTHER tree. ONLY CLOSER.
We scurry as fast as we can and eventually lose sight of the deer.

At this point the thrillseeker in me takes over, and I decide to choose another path that will lead us right by where we spotted the deer...only we'd be closer to the edge of the forest and the safety of the better-lit clearing. So we're walking along when Helo comes to a complete stop. He starts doing this low growl and won't go any further, his eyes fixed on a bend in the path before us.

I realize I have no interest in being killed by nature, and so I turn us around again to find our way to the clearing. And Helo practically pulls me along, as he nervously glances behind us.

We make it into the clearing. Don't hear from the deer after that.

But as my friend Kyle Waalen hilariously pointed out. If I AM Snow White, the gatekeeper of nature, perhaps the deer was just approaching me so she could bless me? I mean what else could explain this erratic behavior? Do deer eat people??