So it doesn't begin

So I tried to do squats this morning. Because of a disease I have*, my body grows bone-like things on the muscle of my left thigh, which makes it easier and easier, and mostly unnecessary, to find excuses not to work out, like, ever.

But sometimes, I don't know, call it peer pressure, call it the stupid notion that it would be nice to be healthy in my old age, I give it the old college try. It's fun in an "oh isn't the novelty just darling" kind of way, it's super validating, and it means I get to not exercise again for a good while.

That being said, if you were a teenager in the 80s (fuck that shit, I am already old, man.), when Jamie Lee Curtis' Perfect was all the bleeding rage (what. It was where I grew up, all right?), your expectations of what working out is/feels like and of the benefits it will bring you (health, happiness, John Travolta?) are a teeny bit out of wack and/or proportion. So I'm gonna be honest, when I did all five of my squats and my body didn't suddenly transform into my Body with a capital B (potentially followed by a superscript TM), I felt a little bit cheated.

Which is a very dangerous thing to be when you're going to be having dinner at a Michelin-starred, tapas-style restaurant (it's a work thing!) and you are pretty universally known for your propensity to eat your feelings. My timing is impeccable.



* It's fine. Doctors assure me I'm not going to die from it, so I can absolutely go ahead and be all "I HAVE A RARE DISEASE" and complain about the pain and discomfort, and you can absolutely not give a shit.

Hey guys...

Listen, it's either writing or actually taking care of actual business, and I'm lazy as shit. 

This has been a very complicated three years. (Yes, I realize I haven't been on here for waaay more, but the past three years have given me a surprisingly energetic ass-whooping, and I'm only now starting to feel like I may in fact be able to crawl out of that particular hole.)

I've missed this. I've missed the writing, the interacting, the laughing, the cringing... Been spending a lot of time on Twitter, but it turns out, I think, that I'm more French than I care to admit and that I need the ménage à trois of Blogging, Twitter and my neuroses. Which, OBVIOUSLY, isn't to say I'm going to keep to any sort of regular bowel movement of the brains, because, have we met? But maybe I'll try. 

(And yes, I'm probably ruder, grosser and more of a metaphor-mixer than ever.)

(One thing hasn't changed: I'm still a big, big fan of parentheses.)