u s e y o u r h a n d s

If your heart is breaking and you feel the urge to cry, ball up your fists and press them to your eyes, little camper. The intense surge of pain will be stifling at first, but will make your forget about your sadness, if only for a minute.

Everybody has a thing. A thing they do to get through. Some people – in fact most people – become little drinky crows when they are sad bunnies. Others eat, purge, eat. Lots of people fuck indiscriminately. Whatever. We’ve all got our thing.

Last night, I thought about this fucked-up summer after high school. I was 16, and didn’t have the regularity of school nor upcoming college to occupy my mind. On the patio one day, I found a flat of tomato seedlings half dead. I figured, “What the hay!” and planted them in a patch of sand outside my bedroom window. I had no idea. They grew incredibly fast and soon my window was obscured by lushness.

I had more tomatoes than I knew what to do with.

I was so excited that they’d survived. Each morning, I’d pull off all the tomato worms and kill them by burying them in the sand. I loved smelling the leaves, the stalks, the tomatoes. Everything about those castoff plants smelled clean. I’d run my finger along the stalks and feel the damp fuzz that left a pleasant residue.

Late in the season, the tomatoes started displaying odd mutations. Weird hooks began growing from the sides. They grew into weird heart shapes. I didn’t know whether or not to eat them. But eventually, I gave in and made a tomato-black pepper sandwich on wheat toast with a particularly odd heart-shaped tomato.

It tasted great. And nothing happened.

Thanks to: Hopper and McInnes for running excellent sites.

Drinking: Shit-ass coffee out of a starbucks paper cup.

Let Down By: The Life of Pi. It wasn’t as good as I’d hoped, but was set in a lovely font.

I ran out of gymmable underwear this morning. I think you know what I mean. Some cuts of underwear are just not suitable for repetitive motion. But instead of laying about in bed, I woke up the Peedger. Then I took a shower. And woke up the Peedger again. Eventually, he was awake enough to accompany me to Foster Beach to look at Lake Michigan.

It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen.

The entire surface of the lake appeared to be a jumble of broken glass shards. The scariest perfection. Ice crept over the concrete chunks that border the shore and looked so slippy that I surmised that this was what mothers worried about. The crack of a skull in a totally silent morning. Phineas tried to edge across the ice to angle for better photos and as soon as he stepped foot on it, I began figuring out how to rescue him from a julienned, frozen death.

I had two inclinations: 1) Jump into the lake. I figured I’d be impaled and die instantly. Phineas would have enjoyed the color juxtaposition. 2) Throw a brick into the lake to mar the uniformity. I did neither.

Although Lake Shore Drive buzzed in the background, I was struck by the total silence. I really didn’t think the lake froze. I figured the edges got crusty. But as I listened, it wasn’t silent. The lake groaned and cracked as the liquid below the solid shifted. Sometimes people personify nature, but I generally look on it as a feeble literary trick; this morning, I bought in completely.

I always like the image of the sun reflecting off of water. But it’s never looked so callous. Lake Michigan in the winter.

A smattering of cars were strewn about the parking lot. Some drivers just sat, mostly scribbling or just hanging out. Other cars were empty. My first thought, in fact, the first thought I ever have when I see people/empty cars in a scenic spot in the morning is suicide. “All these people came to kill themselves on the same day?” Of course, they could be jogging.

Overheard: “Every manager had a bottle of Coca-Cola and they had Skittles and Snickers spread out in front of them. In back, we could see all these empty Dunkin’ Donuts boxes.”

Reading: This and this.

Jonesing for: A bottle of good champagne and no hangover.

I got out of work a little early yesterday and decided to mix up my workout routine by taking a different class at my gym. I arrived at the Webster Place branch of Bally Total Fitness to attend something called KwandoFlex that combined kickboxing stuff with weight lifting. I felt like a champ, throwing perfect cross-punches and doing exquisite roundhouse kicks. After the 45-minute session, I endured 20 minutes of back and abs hell in another class. During minute 11, I realized that I would be in pain later.

And I am!

I thought my abs were going to be aching today, but no! My abs – troopers that they are – have taken their punches swimmingly. No, my ass is in pain. My haunches! My sore, sore haunches. I noticed it immediately this morning as I rolled over the Peedger and landed on the hard wood floor. My haunches gave my a punch and I said, “Ow!” Boy howdy, them’s haunches hurt. Thank God for workplace escalators.

On a positive note, I finally found the most perfect jeans ever. I bought two of the same pair, not only because they were buy one, get the second for half, but because they make my bottom look amazing. Truly. I bought enchanted pants! Unfortunately, I’m losing weight again (six pounds in two weeks) and soon these pants will be retired to the fat pants pile, but in the meantime, my ass is a star.

“Hey you! Are you looking at my ass? You sure are, mister or miss!”

On another note, I got to be within twenty feet of my secret crush Lawrence Lessig. I took a lot of classes about the politics of media in college and Lawrence Lessig was a regular read. I have a couple of his books. Because of all these things – because he’s smart, accomplished, and funny – I have a huge monster crush on him. Thank God I was wearing the enchanted pants. Professor Lessig and I will be returning from our honeymoon soon. Don’t tell the Peedger!

Eating: Nothing! I am a svelte goddess.

Reading: About to finish The Life of Pi. I’m on the fence about it. Also reading Noam Chomsky’s Profit Over People.

Giving Up: My nummy lunchtime salads. I’ve gone over to the ways of the sammich.