The Grudge

I worked out today. At a real gym. With weights, and steps, and an instructor. And HOLY COW – my legs, they are a hurtin’! I took a Flex class this morning at 10:15 for an hour, and now it hurts to walk. I cannot imagine how I will feel tomorrow. And – I didn’t go jogging. I had planned to run after the class…but that didn’t work out since I had already spent an hour goofing off at the gym and my company is trying to get me to actually work. Bastards. I would like to do that class every Monday and Wednesday if I am in town – what a great feeling to know I worked muscles that have started to atrophy over the months of doing nothing. Maybe – just maybe I will be in shape by May.

Perfect segue…

In May my husband and I and another couple are going to Mexico to see Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers. I am so excited. We are flying to Phoenix and then driving to Puerto Penasco (Rocky Point). We are sucking up an expensive hotel bill because it is right across the street from the concert, and then we are hanging out on the beach and drinking – more than a person should ever drink. I just can’t wait. So this means that I have to actually look decent in scantily clad clothing…hence the working out. I put on my bathing suit this morning for motivation, and then I practically ran to the gym - it looked THAT bad. It is not so much the extra weight as it is the location of the weight. I don’t know that I look HUGE, I just look flabby. Hate flabby. Hate bathing suit. Hate my body. HATE!

I am currently on a conference call – and I happen to be the only one on. Does that make it a conference call at all? I am not conferencing with anyone. What a loser I am. I am like the kid who sits all alone in the cafeteria wolfing down her food so that she can hurry to the library where it is not such a big deal to have no friends. Not that I know anything about that…yeah.

In other news – our bathroom ceiling is caving in as I type this. We have some mystery leak that is threatening to take over our bathroom. My husband (who is conveniently out of town) suggested I climb up into the attic, all Grudge style, and see if the air conditioner is causing problems. I don’t know about you, but The Grudge was creepy and now I am not willing to climb into the attic for anything. Damn movie. Damn ceiling. Damn, damn, damn.

If you never hear from me again, it is because the monster in the attic ate me.