Herculean Bacterial Coup de Tat

I thought I had beaten the system.  Nearly two years floating around in public schools without nearly a sniffle.  It had to catch up to me sometime.  Though, it's possible that I've just been harboring all kinds of kid-germs and they all came out to play at once- which would explain the head-splitting ache in my skull and the fire-breathing dragon sore throat.  

I've all but injected Vitamin C, have tried snorting Advil Cold and Sinus to no avail, and have hung my head in misery over a steaming pot of water.  I quickly become angry.  This is all a ploy- a dirty trick.  I've been out-smarted by Herculean bacteria.  The ones that hide out inside your body like those gross foot-fungal commercials....or Mucinex....shudder...little green booger men sweating and scratching, getting ready to release their fury just as I'm off for Thanksgiving vacation.  

All and all, I refuse to let it beat me.  I will rejoice.  I will be Thankful.  I will be armed with Puffs Plus and a humidifier. 

Gobble, gobble.

Necessary Indulgences

Both a mani and pedi in the dead of winter. ( No one should have feet that look like that, even if they aren't going to be making any public appearances for a few more months).

Good shoes. Fun, good shoes. One pair of good, fun expensive shoes.

The purchase of a book at full retail price on the day it was released. Yes, I know you can just get it for free from the library, but who knows how many people have read it their bathroom???? Bet you never thought about that, hum?

An over-priced, overly sweet latte from Bigbucks....just once in a while, you have an itch only a four dollar coffee can scratch.

Mental Health Days. No work, no kids, no worries. Just you, a big bowl of popcorn and a sappy Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks combo.

Shoprite at Home. Hellooo....order your groceries on-line and they do your shopping for you- all you have to do is pull up with that over-priced latte I was talking about and watch as they lovingly place it in your car. No more Shoprite on Sundays has single handedly lowered my blood pressure.

A weekend away with your husband. Sure, you'll argue about who forgot to pack whose glasses, complain about the scratchy sheets and the way your car is always a mess- but isn't that all the stuff you'd do at home already? New places even make arguing more fun.

Fresh Flowers, Fresh Produce, Fresh Food. All capitalized for good reason. They may feel like indulgences, but there are few things more necessary.

Good wine and good chocolate. Neither necessarily mean expensive, just that they are important enough to splurge on when necessary. If a good wine's 7.00, then awesome- if it's 70.00, aren't you worth it?

Showing "The Goonies" to your class full of 17 year olds on a rainy Friday under the guise of utilizing it as a "Writing Prompt" for an essay about Childhood Adventures. Yes, I'm that smart. This day is awesome.

I know I have much more necessary indulgences, what are yours???

Gym Politics

In light of the up and coming election, I thought I would articulate some of my thoughts on political matters at large....no, this is not the forum to declare which candidate has my support- I seldom discuss it publically in person, why display it all over the internet?- but to discuss an entirely different set of politics I am sure most of us are aware of. The politics of the Gym.

Let's get one thing straight. I hate the gym. Everything about the gym, actually. I hate the spandex, I hate the sweaty towels, I hate the soccer moms in their forties fooling themselves into believing that wearing pink stretch pants with flirty sayings across their behinds is appropriate. That is singularly why, after three years of living down the street, I conceded and joined the YMCA. I mean, there's nothing intimidating about the Y, right? A bunch of fat people just like me minding their own business, trying to keep their feet on the eliptical machine while changing songs on their ipods-you laugh, but for someone as uncoordinated as myself, this is a feat worthy of celebration. Six weeks ago I walked into to Y for the first time and was hit in the face by more than the musky stink.

There are two rooms of cardio equipment and you must walk through one in order to get to the other. You enter into the back room first, filled with sub-par machines and dirty carpet stains that seem to be designated for the morbidly obese, terribly self-conscious, geriatric wing of Mountainside Hospital. As you make your way through the "back room", silently encouraging the gentlemen who seems about to suffer cardiac arrest if he spends one more second on the bike and the young girl who is having trouble trying to convince the wall to swallow her, you catch a glimpse of the utopia that lays ahead.

The "front room". The front room is a dizzying display of lycra and flat screen televisions. Matching sweatsuits, ipod armbands, nalgene bottles. Everyone is so tan and shiny and serious looking! You recognize immediately that you do not belong there. You notice that people even scowl as you pass through. And it's not the "I'm working really hard here and I can't control my facial expressions" it's the, "you can't honestly think that you belong here, sweating next to me".

I allowed the front room trolls control my whereabouts for three weeks. I knew where I belonged. I don't have a matching sweatsuit. In fact, I actually had to go and purchase sweatpants so that I would have something to work out in. I gave the girl who hogged the wall spot the evil eye. Who needs a flat screen t.v. right on your machine, anyway? Watching the old guy in Richard Simmons tights plod along on the tredmill was entertainment enough, right?

As I said, it lasted three weeks. On my forth week, unsure of what came over me, I ventured back into the front room. I was tired of machines sticky with ben-gay. I was tired of watching little miss, "I have a really tight ass; that's why I'm wearing these spandex pants the same color of my skin ," from the doorway. So what if I was wearing mismatched socks? So what if I didn't have a , "NYC marathon '08" tee-shirt on? I bet he didn't even run. Probably handed out those tee-shirts and got to keep one for free for volunteering. I parked my feet into that fancy-shmancy eliptical machine and felt like singing. It glided gently-something I was unaware an eliptical was supposed to do since the one I'd been using got stuck everytime my left foot went down-it had a remote for the t.v.! It did all but serve me sparkling water at the end of my work-out ( I'm pretty sure it does do that, but secrets are well kept in the front room). I had hit the jack-pot. I was not going back. At the finish of my workout I glanced around once more. You know the tight-ass girl? She has cellulite. The marathon man? All the tred-mill running in the world isn't going to fix that saggy man-boob syndrome.

I threw a smile in the wall-flower girl's direction assuring her that the grass was indeed greener on the other side and we had just as much right as the rest of the lycra posse to indulge. I hope she'll take the long walk up to the front soon. I'd be glad to save her a spot right next to me. Perhaps we could even watch Oprah together and toast with our cheap, plastic water bottles that we won't recycle to reclaiming our dignity, our humanity and our right to a bright, shiny machine without judgement. So, scowl away lycra ladies- we're coming in and we're here to stay.