Two of these stories actually happened; one happened only in my head.
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Up front: I keep this household under control. None of that status-quo-society’s-expectations-of-who-we-should-be crap. I don’t “have to” do the dishes. I can come home late from working hard at my job. I can marry a Republican and not completely lose every ounce of sanity I possess. I can stop our run early because the ice cream man passed by.
It’s Saturday, which means it’s against the rules to get up before 11 but we made an ambitious exception to set the alarm for 8:00. We’re kind of like runners now, “realistically dedicated” to taking it to the road when we can, which means we run about 2-3 times per week. (ie. 200-300% more than we used to run. Can’t fight the numbers.)
8:03 am: (barely-alive Lindsey) Are we doing this?
(sleepy Colin) I don’t know. You pick.
(straight-to-the-point Lindsey) You pick, and don’t talk to me.
(seriously-not-at-all-using-his-brain Colin insistent on making me the most angry person in the entire world by nudging and poking me) I want you to pick.
(absolutely-furious Lindsey) DON’T TALK TO ME.
11:25 am: We get out of bed.
So we might have missed our morning run, but we made up for it tonight because we are that dedicated. So we’re running. And I’m sweating. And I’m kicking butt. Then half way through the second song on my iPod… just a faint melody. It’s so familiar. Warming, welcoming, nostalgic. Suddenly I’m back in the 5th grade craving a Choco Taco. It’s the ice cream truck I can hear, and it’s quickly approaching.
Inner thoughts: Keep running, lose calories, want to die OR $3 for an ice cream and 100% more happiness. #icecreamforthewin
I watched a man throw up three times last night at the dinner table. I don’t even really understand.
Colin’s work has a client who sent his boss an email. The email was so inspirational that boss guy wanted to help out client-related somebody for something. And that’s how we wound up at the 11th annual Fight Night — a black tie, tickets only, white collar boxing event for CanTeen (an NZ charity supporting young people living with cancer). Such an incredible charity event. I watched a debuting-pro box to raise thousands of dollars for kids living with cancer. His CanTeen kid, who lost his leg to cancer in April, called him his brother.
We were at Jared’s table. Jared is an ex-rugby player from Sydney who has recently taken up boxing for fitness and the good cause. Jared’s dad used to be married to the woman with the fake blonde hair across the table but they split ages ago because she is a liar. Everyone’s remarried now, friends, and here tonight to support Jared. The young chap is Jared’s dad’s grandson who doesn’t say much. We don’t know Jared. I learned all this from the family friend sitting next to me.
So everyone’s having a great time. Jared’s mum’s new husband had the winning bid for a home entertainment system. Dad’s new wife is doing the dougie in her seat. What happened next any normal person might have missed but my killer peripheral vision noticed Jared’s dad’s grandson foaming at the mouth. Not really in an incredibly alarming way. It looked mostly like his beer — the way beer foams when it’s being poured. I know it’s embarrassing when someone sees that you’ve over-poured your mouth with liquid so I went to look away… then vomit. He seriously threw up right between his legs.
My peripheral picked up that he must’ve spewed a little on his pants, and also that if he believes if he covers the puke pile with enough napkins no one will notice. Fine. But not if you’re going to throw up again 10 minutes later. And a third time approximately 12 minutes after that before you finally excuse yourself to the restroom. While you’re gone for 40 minutes probably dry-heaving in a stall, the waitress thinks you’re disgusting. And that lie you tell her about someone else who “spilled” something… she isn’t buying it. And also, you’re disgusting.
The gym is the best place to: Magazine catch up with the Kardashians or Prince George’s latest outing, soak in some Beyonce on shuffle, consider dying as an alternative to the rowing machine, and listen in on sub-par dating antics.
A girl who looked like she could be an Amanda or Ashley was sitting on one of those mats they never clean in the area people never really do anything but stretch. I was there stretching when a guy who looked like he could be a Chris came to talk to Amanda/Ashley. Chris works at the gym and is very, very proud of that.
(Chris) Hey, Amanda. Where you been, girl?
(Amanda/Ashley) Oh, hey. I haven’t seen you in awhile.
(Chris) I work almost every night. Tuesday…. Thursday. I’m here like every night.
(Amanda/Ashley) I’ve been coming in before work because I read working out first thing in your day speeds up your metabolism and like makes you skinnier.
(Chris) Oh yeah, that’s probably true. What else you been doin’?
(Amanda) Not much.
(Chris) Are you on Facebook?
Then, seriously, Chris pulls a little scrap of paper from his pocket no bigger than a fortune from inside a Chinese cookie. He writes what I believe to be his Facebook URL (practically your “digits” of the 21st century) and hands it to her.
(Amanda/Ashley) Is this just in case I miss seeing you so much I need to look at you all the time?
Bad timing, Amanda/Ashley. Chris is being called away to help Gus clean the free weights racks.
(Chris) Look me up.
Then I watched Amanda stare at the paper for a little too long, stroke it, and roll up it up and slip it into the side of her inhaler container. #seriously
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(Bonus TRUE story) We’re moving home next month! Two years in New Zealand… guess “it’s time”. Colin got an amazing position in Seattle. Hence, moving home. I’ll be jobless so if you’re keen to write me a recommendation or buy me lunch or refer me to *any* sweet job openings you know, please! See you soon 🙂