Cold Medicine Is a Tricksy Mistress

Or: I Was Going to Write about More Tragic Tales of Failed Romance, but then THIS Happened

It’s no secret – I’m sick this week. I got laid low by what I like to call “horrible death cold” somewhere around Saturday night, and now, by Wednesday, I like to think I’m all better.



But I’m not.

Uh oh


It’s a lie. It’s cold medicine.

Yup. Not really better at all

Oh Dammit.

I woke up this morning feeling spectacular.


It feels really spectacular to breathe after four days of being unable to breathe.

I almost acted like a morning person. I showered and brushed my teeth and flitted around without even the help of coffee. Because I had AIR. Air was my new best friend. It gave me super powers. It made me feel like I was fueled on sunshine and happiness.*
*Which isn’t really helpful today, since the Queen City is preparing for a snowpocalypse today. There’s no sunshine to be had.

Wuv. Twue wuv.

It’s a true love. And unbreakable love. A love that lasts until death.

In my bliss, I completely forgot exactly how much cold medicine I’d layered on myself last night. Specifically, I forgot the sweet blessing of 12-hour Afrin.** Which I used last night, specifically because I was completely unable to breathe at all, and without breathing, there would be no sleep.
**Which is the divine gift to sick people.

Product placement!

Can you hear the angels singing? It’s really evil malicious laughter.

I know this, because now that I am at work, officially far away from life-saving congestion-fighters and medicine of any kind, I cannot breathe at all and am once again convinced I am so sick I may die.

Wheeze wheeze wheeze


Not funny, medicine. Not funny at all.


Side note: The product placement in this post didn’t benefit me in any way at all. I’m just being honest about the medicine that conned me into thinking I was well just long enough for me to go to work.

I Do Not Understand People Who Flirt At the Gym

Since I happen to think that cake and marshmallows are two of the essential food groups, it’s pretty important that I hit the gym on a regular basis.*
*When I feel like it and am not busy eating cake and marshmallows.

Nutrients are for the weak

This is why I go to the gym.

Which means that when I go to the gym, I’m going to burn as many calories as humanly possible**. I’m not going to flirt. I’m not even going to make eye contact with people, just in case they might later recognize me in public after having seen me at the gym.
**So I can eat cake for dinner.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. I have cute workout clothes. They make me feel perky and healthy and dedicated to running.
A miracle, because I hate running. I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns.

Workout pants are almost as cute as yoga pants

Facial enthusiasm in this image is provided for demonstration purposes only, and in no way accurately reflects my face on the way to go work out.

And everything goes well for a little while. Running feels freeing and joyous, and I periodically think I must look very charming and possible flirt-with-able.

But this is still better than my attempt at drawing an elliptical

Clearly I have no idea how to draw a treadmill.

But then things take a turn.

I should have drawn an elliptical

Seriously. That doesn’t look at ALL like a treadmill.

And then things start to get sweaty…

This is probably because I hate treadmills.

I have drawn the biggest treadmill in all the land.

And by the time I’ve successfully finished my run, I look inches away from death.

Seriously. This is an awkward treadmill

Do your treadmills not beep to signify the end of your torture? It’s like angels are singing.

And guys, I am not the only one. The gym is full of people who look like they might have a stroke at any moment, smell like a melting foot, and are huffing and wheezing like asthmatic bears.


YES! I didn’t have to draw a treadmill for this one!

This is not conducive to flirting.

And yet, every time I go work out, I see women batting their eyelashes at weight-lifting men, and men flexing extra for women strolling on the ellipticals****. This is not what the gym is for, people.
****And men flexing extra for other men while lifting weights. That happens, too. None of you are off the hook here.

It’s for looking like you might die so you can have wine and cake for dinner.


Yoga Is Not Easy

Or: Why I Achieve My Best Zen Rocking Out to Journey in My Car

I don’t do New Year’s Resolutions*, but I like to think that January is a nice time to make healthy life changes.** So I talked one of my friends into investing in yoga classes with me. Because yoga isn’t as fun if you don’t drag people into awkward poses WITH you.
*Not true. I make all kinds of resolutions. I resolve to eat all the chocolate in my pantry. I resolve to talk to my cat only when no one else is around. I resolve to close my blinds before I dance around my apartment in my dinosaur costume.
It’s just that I can’t keep any of them, so I like to pretend I never make them.
**Shop all the “health and fitness deals” on Groupon.

Yesterday was our first class.

Things started well. I arrived on early***. As I pulled into a parking space, the sweet melodies of Journey started to play on my radio. So, obviously, I put the car in park, cranked the volume up to 11, and proceeded to rock out like I had a perm in my hair and was wearing spandex pants.****
***This is nothing short of a miracle. Just ask anyone who knows me.
****I really was wearing spandex pants, guys! Because yoga! I am so prepared!


This is actually how I dance in the car. It’s kind of dangerous to be a passenger during a parking lot dance party.

I preened as I exited the car and found the right part of the building for zen and stretching.

It is not a mystery why I'm single.

This is, in fact, the patented “Wearing Yoga Pants to Do Yoga” walk. And I do it in real life.

And as we got our mats and positioned ourselves in the room, I was strong in the confidence that I’d done this before, and there was only one guy in the class, so how much could I possibly embarrass myself?

Really? They don't?

Do words not float around you when you do yoga the right way?

So much, you guys.

Somehow, despite my efforts to end up in front of the instructor***** but away from the one guy in class, I ended up directly in front of the one guy. Which implies that I have more confidence in my yoga pants than I actually do. And then we started yoga-ing.
*****Because – let’s be honest – I need all the help I can get, you guys.

As it happens, I have no sense of balance.

I probably deserve an award.

I’m possibly the only person who can fall over while doing seated yoga poses.

No balance whatsoever. I’m not sure my yoga instructor knew anyone could be that awkward at yoga…

But she didn’t see my sweet in-car dance moves.

In short: I would probably be great at yoga if Journey was our background music.