I’ve put off writing here because I’m finding it entirely preposterous to put into words the experiences I’ve had here in Austin so far. It would sound something like, “I feel like my head is a stationary buoy with a thin wire cable running through all of my insides down to my toes and if I don’t keep my feet on the ground my legs will be sucked inside of me and sprout directly from both ears.”
This post-it on my desk has several notes referencing gut-busting moments I’ve had at the YMCA, but it’s been so long since I’ve written them that I have no idea what I meant by “stuck to rear”.
A lot of people are worried about the last unflattering photo they’ve had ending up in the obits. I’m worried about someone finding these awkward notes to self.
Although I do think it’s important for all members of my family to know that I fell in love for exactly one hour and a half with a black man named Devorak at the gym. It was a cross between the fact that his name sounds like it might belong to a one-eyed, scary, orange monster with overactive salivary glands and warts with teeth, or because I wanted to take a nap on his graying, rain cloud-like afro rather than exercise. If he googles himself he’ll know that our future together flashed right before my eyes and ended with him being reasonably upset with me for owning a Harriet Tubman action figure. Needless to say, I didn’t retain a shred of information about their fitness equipment.
In fact, I didn’t even use the equipment for about a month after my “orientation”. The thought of it weirdly overwhelmed me. One afternoon I felt motivated and attempted to tackle one with a slightly welcoming, candy apple red seat. I wrapped my legs around it and stared at the instructional diagram for entirely too long. Ikea furniture instructions long. And I’m almost certain that a descendent of Robert Wadlow had used it seconds before me because I couldn’t reach a damn thing. Instead of asking for a bit of guidance from the obvious gym veteran across from me, I blushed and practically ran to the locker room (CARDIO).
Who was I kidding because if you’ve ever been to the YMCA you too know that the locker room is definitely not a safe place to take refuge. It is a place where I’ve witnessed several instances of what I can only refer to as unnecessary bare-assedness. I’m talking completely nude women bent over drying their hair. Volume, people, it’s important. I’ll tell you what else is important, me not knowing what my vagina is going to look like in thirty years.
On another note, I’ve also fallen in love with Austin’s moonlight towers which leaves me feeling a bit like the lady who married the Golden Gate Bridge.
Everything I’ve read about them sounds suspiciously romantic, so maybe I’m not the only one. The department that handles their ongoing maintenance is called the Illumination Division for chrissakes. Please let me have a job there.
“The towers were also guaranteed by the designers to be bright enough that a person could read his or her pocket watch within 3,000 feet of a tower on the “darkest of nights.” Sigh.
I see 2 of the 17 remaining in the city regularly, but one clearly doesn’t know about the other.
In the 30’s farmers thought the artificial moonlight would cause severe overgrowth of gardens and lawns and that home owners would have to battle their yards with an axe. At first I had a good chuckle and thought to myself, “how bonkers is that?!”
I then retracted that thought immediately when the slight fear of accidental lunar fertility, or worse retarded werewolves crossed my mind.
Now I can’t decide which is a new all time low – the fact that I just linked to http://www.menstruation.com, or that I just typed and italicized retarded werewolves (twice).