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03.19.03 -

Wednesday


The Body Pump class I've been taking is some kind of national brand workout, like...Tae Bo, or something. Anyway, somebody somewhere in the Pump food chain apparently develops special CDs for the class. I assume each song has a specific sort of beat, and is a specific amount of time long, etc. But. The thing is. In the several weeks I've been going to this class, the music has NEVER CHANGED. Ever.

Back:
"Heaven"
You know what song I'm talking about. That cheese-laden one. 'Baby you're all that I want...when you're lyyyying here in my arms'. Yeah. Gag.

Chest:
"Smooth Criminal." The Alien Ant Farm version. Not too bad the first eighty jillion times you here it, then it's just fucking annoying.

Triceps:
"Hey Baby"
This song goes like this: 'Hey, hey hey baby! I want to kno-oo-w if you'll be my girl. Hey, hey hey baby! I want to kno-oo-w if you'll be my girl'. Repeat until you go insane and shove a pair of scissors in your ear.

Squats:
"Don't You Want Me Baby"
By the way, the instructor sings along at the top of his lungs to all of these songs.

Biceps:
"Ice Ice Baby"
What's with the 'baby' theme here? Also, working out to VANILLA ICE? It's wrong. So...very wrong.

There's more, but it's too painful to recall. And the really irritating thing, is the instructor keeps claiming he's received new music but he needs time to 'get used to it'. Um.

I got my hair cut and colored over the weekend. As I always do when I have a hair appointment, I harbored a secret hope that the stylist would cast a critical eye upon my head, draw upon all of her training, and unleash a whirlwind of activity resulting in The Most Perfect Hair Ever. This perpetual optimism causes me to completely jettison my verbal communication skills in the vague belief it will allow my hairdresser to somehow excavate my innermost longings.

Vanessa the Stylist: "What are we doing today?"
Me (gesturing weakly at my hair): "Just...touch up the...it's so... mwaargh, you know?"
Vanessa (grimly): "Mm HM."

Now it's shorter, sort of bobbed, with new highlights. Going by historical evidence, it should look halfway decent for about 3 more days before it is once again Possessed By Evil.

Another weekend activity: JB and I went to Planet TanFastic, which is what I (ever so, ha ha, cleverly) like to call the humongous tanning salon near our house. Afterwards, on the way home:

Me: "I think I burnt my nether regions."
JB: "What? Where?"
Me: "My nether regions. You know, my girly part."
JB: "Oh! You mean the boat, or the man in the boat?"
Me: "Uh...it's just a little, you know, tender down there."
JB: "Awww, you burnt the boat. Should've covered it."
Me: "But I wanted an all-over tan."

As it turned out, I was fine, and JB ended up with a nice bright baboon ass, despite having used the bed that supposedly cannot burn you because it only shoots the "good" kind of UV rays into you. Riiight. A few more sessions on these things and we'll both probably grow extra fingers or something.

Also I got new shoes. I don't even know what to call them, really. "Tennis shoes"? That's not right, is it? I mean, I don't play tennis. Anyway, I was looking for a new gym shoe that not only provided me with the cushiony athletic-y goodness that you expect from something with a swoosh on it, but was also stylish and feminine in a swanky Nine West sort of way.

Oh, except that shoe DOES NOT EXIST. All gym shoes are clunky and ugly and have weird thick soles that aren't even cool in a Creepers sort of way. I got the least goofy looking pair I could find, the kind without the air pocket in the heel, because really, what am I, a wallaby? I don't need to sproing several feet off the ground in my air-pumped shoes.

Unless maybe there is a nice Bombay Sapphire martini just out of reach, or something.

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