Hot People Don't Run After Eating Indian Food and Ice Cream

'Nuff said, I think. (But since this is a blog, I'll say more anyway)

The Indian food was ill-advised from the beginning. I've had this craving for samosas for-EVAH, and on Friday the urge was just too great. Unfortunately, living about a block away from one of the greatest Indian Restaurants of ALL TIME (possibly not ALL time, but it has take-out, so I'm not picky) does not help you resist this urge.

This would be fine if I had only ordered samosas...but since I knew I had a weekend in front of the computer banging out case studies and strategic plans, I thought "Why not? Why don't I order a full meal?" So I did...I got appetizers, bread, main and dessert. My reasoning was that, since I'm single, I can do whatever the heck I want. I only have myself to worry about. I'm not a slave to anyone else's tastes. I'm not a slave to anyone else's pocketbook, either!

(interesting fact: my pocketbook certainly can't sustain impromptu Indian food Fridays for more than...really...ever - therefore, I am a slave to my own pocketbook...a very bad slave)

Against my better economic judgement, I ordered a delicious full-course meal. Again, this would be fine - if this particular restaurant offered single servings - which it doesn't.

So I've been eating Indian food all weekend. My mouth is thanking me, absolutely. I love, love, love Indian food with its spiciness and its many, many aromas. My stomach, however, has been very angry at me all weekend.

Why I thought it would be a SUPER idea to shake up my angry stomach by going for a run is a mystery to me. Why I added ice cream to the mix is like a mystery within a mystery. A super secret mystery, if you will.

My extreme laziness over the past few weeks (see: Miss T FAILS to ride her bike EVER), as well as my relative office-chair-boundness over the weekend inspired me to go for a run this evening. When you read this and imagine my voice, it may sound nonchalant, as though I could go for a run anytime and it wouldn't be a big deal. This is not the case. When I go for a run, I work up to it. I tell people about my plan to go for a run in order to be sure that they know I'm a serious amateur athlete (if I were saying that out loud, I'd have trouble stifling my laughter - and you'd probably have to smother a giggle with a well-placed cough or two). I keep my used running clothes around until people come over in order to prove to people that I have, indeed, gone for a run (this is not true...but it is an idea I might try sometime).

While I was running, I was pondering the contributing factors to my recent purchase of the Indian food and my resulting discomfort and I realized that I bought it because nothing was stopping me from buying it. I bought it because I WANTED IT!

***Trite, uber-lame self-realization to follow - WARNING!!!***

And THIS made me realize that the only thing keeping me from reaching my goal of hotness is me, now that I only have myself to look out for. I'm the only thing keeping me from doing anything. Like with the Indian food, I can do whatever the heck I want. I just have to want to do it.

So now that I know that I am the only thing that can get in my way, nothing can get in my way (except, empirically speaking, me)! Naysayers, be damned! Laws of physics, be damned! Sleep, be damned!*



*For those of you who ACTUALLY know me...I promise not to become a speed freak so I can study all night to ace my finals while at the same time practicing for my audition for a spandex pop trio, although we all know that I would be so excited (and so scared) to do both of these things at the same time.**

**I cannot take credit for this fabulous SBTB reference. If you deserve thanks, you probably know who you are.

Hot People Wear Stilettos and Shresses?

Ok - so I was innocently making my way to the very last debate meeting of my university career (I know what you're thinking, but nerds can be hot. This is a whole 'nother post). It is awards season on campus, and I imagine some faculty of hot people (like kinesiology or public relations) was giving out their pats on the back last night. Well...on my way to nerd central I found myself in a herd of girls in high heels and dresses so short they would still be suitable for a relatively comprehensive anatomy lesson.

Although most of these girls look like what I've wanted to look like since I was a tiny, tiny zygote, I question whether it is imperative for hot people to wear high heels and shresses. Because if it's a requirement, then I might have to pack it in right now.

I actually physically cannot wear high heels. I don't think the fates want me to. Here's a story (in five parts - well, actually three): When I was six, I remember watching Mary Martin's Peter Pan. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, I definitely suggest you watch it (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbQqH3c_Uwg). You might notice that it is obvious that she's being held up by some elaborate rope and pulley system. It was not obvious to my six-year-old eyes. Knowing that fairy dust is the means by which children get their bodies into the air, I asked Santa for some fairy dust (asking Santa never goes wrong - see Red Ryder BB Gun). Obviously, Santa couldn't just give me a vial of fairy dust, though - he'd have to disguise it or everyone would want some - in the bottle of perfume I found in my stocking. So, armed with my complete conviction that I had a bottle of fairy dust-infused perfume, I doused myself in it, donned my little brother's magician's cape (we had a bizarre childhood, he and I), and leaped from the top bunk of our bed with the firm belief that I would, in seconds, be floating through the air with the greatest of ease. Instead I merely fell the five or so feet from the top bunk - directly onto my ankle. The resulting EXTREME pain was fate's way of telling me that my feet were meant to be firmly on the ground, not elevated some inches above it.

I didn't listen. Every subsequent ankle-turning incident involved a set of shoes that was specifically designed to simulate levitation in some way. One summer, I tumbled down my friend's front steps wearing these:A year or so later, I slipped in my neighbour's icy driveway wearing a similar set of shoes meant for the winter months. This resulted in a sprained knee along with my ankle. I had gone too far and REALLY angered the gods.

This led me to the conclusion that I should tempt fate no more. And really, I don't need to lift myself off the ground any higher than I already am (since I'm 5'8"). Therefore, I only wear high heels of any sort for VERY special occasions.

Surely the abstention from one particular type of shoe does not exclude me altogether from, one day, being a hot, hot mama. Mamas can be hot wearing a pair of cute flats, right? Right?

I'm not even sure I believe myself.

On Shresses:

For the uninformed, shresses are dresses that could easily function as shirts, provided pants were worn beneath them. A reasonably conservative shress is shown here:

Maybe I'm ancient (I could very well be), but I don't think it's necessary to wear clothing that leaves NOTHING to the imagination. Why do people need to know that my vag is literally an inch away from the hem of my dress? Why is it ok that there's even a small possibility that it might come out to say hi to everyone if I dance extra-vigorously one night (or on a platform, or in an elevated cage)? There's also just something a little extra-trashy about the idea that NO CLOTHES need to be removed in order for access to the general vag area to be had. I mean, presumably, if someone has a chance at getting vag access, one could easily remove the vag-covering clothes in a private (or even semi-private) area, thus allowing access only to one person at a time (or two...or whatever - I don't judge - orgies aren't the same as public displays of vag).

Ok - perhaps I'm jealous that I couldn't pull off a shress even if I wanted to - but the principle still applies. And I refuse to wear them on this principle.

So do I have to give up my quest for hotness on principle? We'll see in six months, I guess.

Hot People Avoid Tempting Fate

Proving once again that I can always find a TOTALLY legitimate excuse not to exercise - it was snowing today. And I'm jet-lagged.

When the snow melts, I'll go.

For reals this time.

Hot People Acknowledge Their Limitations

Okay...so I know I said I would bike come hell or high water...but my knee still really hurts and it's really cold out. I don't want to overdo it.

So...when I said Monday, I really meant next Monday. And I also really meant next Tuesday, because I'm out of town on Monday.

Cool?

Hot People Don't Eat Cookies

So I went to the mall the other day to buy a skirt because my summer job requires business casual attire, and until lately, I've been erring more on the side of extreme casual attire. Anyway...not a single skirt fit me properly. Not one.

Ok...one did. But ONLY one.

When did I get so fat? I can actually grab WHOLE HANDFULS of flesh from my stomach! It's RIDICULOUS!!! How did I not notice this happening?

One might ask how I could possibly let this happen. Well...I can certainly think of a few culprits (although there are fewer and fewer of them every time I go back to the box...hmm...).

At any rate, I've had a solution to this for some time, my bicyclette. In fact, I had resolved to ride my bike more often from the beginning of this hotness journey, but it was too cold, or my bag was too heavy that day, or the roads were covered (I shit you not) in SHEETS of ice. There's always SOMETHING.

Case in point: I'm injured right now. Seriously. Here's how it happened: I was coming out the library to catch the bus home (it was sunny that day...so I'm not sure what my excuse was for not riding my bike...), only the bus had already arrived when I got out the doors. This usually means (and it did that day) a one hundred metre dash in whatever unsuitable shoes I am wearing. So I ran. But when I was almost to the bus stop, the bus started driving away. "Fine," I thought. I just stopped running and decided to wait for the next one. Except then I noticed that the bus was slowing down. The bus driver was looking at me. The unthinkable had happened! A bus driver was being courteous to a passenger who had been a few seconds late for the bus (I've seen some drivers actually shake their fists behind them as they drive off into the sunset while some person who is clearly late for a job interview or the birth of their firstborn child kicks at the dust left in the bus' wake). So, not wanting to spit in the eye of unprecedented generosity on the bus driver's part, and in order not to delay the bus any further, I started running.

So, here's some important information. It's just turning into spring in Eastern Canada. This means that EVERYTHING is wet right now. This also means that the chances that I was standing in a flat of mud when the bus slowed down were very good. As it happened, luck was not with me.

So, I started running...or rather I started doing that thing the Road Runner does when it's winding up to speed away from Wile E. Coyote because I couldn't get any traction in the mud. Unfortunately, instead of speeding ahead in a blur onto the bus, I did a faceplant into the mud. The immediate result was that I was covered in mud and had to spend the rest of my day until I got home several hours later covered in a thin layer of muck. The end result is that I REALLY hurt my ankle and knee - injuries made inexplicably worse by a much less exciting bathtub cleaning incident a few days later. Seriously. I'm limping.

All this being said, hot people definitely can't grab whole handfuls of flesh from their stomachs (perhaps from other parts of their persons, but not stomachs), and the longer I stay off my bike, the more handfuls there will be. I cannot let my unending ability to come up with excuses (real or imagined) not to exercise to get in the way of my hotness. Therefore, in the spirit of bullheaded ambition, I'm going to ride my bike on Monday, come hell or high water!

But perhaps not if it's raining or something.

Hot People Don't Shit the Bed

Okay - so I obviously don't mean literally (although I'm sure hot people also tend not to literally shit the bed either).

What I really mean is that hot people don't throw themselves at the first attractive guy they see on their first day out since becoming single. And they certainly don't have small, but public, meltdowns when things don't go right. I call the meltdown "shitting the bed" because really...it's all about making a stanky mess because you couldn't contain your emotional shit.

Clearly, I have recently shit the bed. It's especially bad to shit the bed when you've been drinking because you've got no sense of perspective when you're intoxicated - so you come home inconsolably upset (which is awful when there's actually nobody at home to console you because you just broke up with them), fall asleep, and then wake up hungover and TOTALLY EMBARRASSED by your public display of tragically unrequited flirtiness and subsequent emotional diarrhea. It's kind of like that pounding in your hungover brain is shouting "IDIOT! IDIOT! IDIOT!" at you. This feeling is amplified by the fact that you KNOW you've made everyone who was with you TOTALLY UNCOMFORTABLE. You know when someone you sorta know is crying, but you're not close enough with them to ask for the full details and you therefore feel totally unequipped to comfort them - so you just kind of stand there awkwardly while they cry. Yeah...THAT kind of uncomfortable.

But thinking back to a literal bed-shitting - you know...they're embarrassing, but they likely happened because something was going wrong internally and you probably feel a little better after you've had a hot, hot shower. The same is true for a metaphorical bed-shitting - while embarrassing, it's pretty cathartic - it's amazing how someone's douchebaggy decline of your advances can open your eyes to other douchebaggery (must use this word more in life) that you had been ignoring because you were blinded by his shiny prettiness. It feels kinda good to get that out of your system.

Hot People Set and Achieve Goals

I just ended a five year relationship. It was my decision, and I think it was the right one, but I've just recently come to the horrifying realization that I'm single now.

I don't know how to be single. I've never known how to be single (this might explain a. why I was single for so long before my relationship, and b. why I stayed in the relationship for so long). But all these people keep telling me they love being single (you know...single and loving it?)...so maybe I should give it a try, right? Don't I look excited at this prospect?

Problem is, I'm painfully bad at meeting new people. I'm not good at making small talk, or being interesting. One might wonder, then, why I'm blogging. Well, here's why: I've noticed that hot people have no trouble meeting new people (mostly because new people are VERY interested in meeting them). So I've decided to become hot. I realize this is not a SMART goal...so I'm putting a deadline on it. I'm going to be hot in six months. For reals. I'm blogging about it because frankly, if there isn't anyone to keep me in line, I just won't do it (See: Miss T does the dishes every day) - and I also think that my misadventures (and they WILL be misadventures) in becoming hot will make for a delightful sense of schadenfreude (I can laugh at my own expense, right? That way it comes out even).

So, how am I going to do this. Well, I know I have piles of room for improvement. Par example (...sometimes I like to pretend I'm French), last night was my first night alone. I was very scared. Supper of champions: Pillsbury Pizza Pops, Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, Smirnoff Ice. Obviously, hot people don't have this for supper. Nor do they go for the leftover ice cream for breakfast, like I did this morning. That would just be too indulgent. I understand this is a bad start...but I was scared to be alone, and there's really nothing like alcohol and trans-fats to make you feel comfortable. Dancing my ass off at the club (instead of sitting alone on my couch and watching chick flicks all night, which is what I chose to do) might also be a potential change.

So here I begin my quest for hotness, and we'll see where we end up in six months. I'm pretty optimistic about how this is going to go (but I was just as optimistic when I tried to do the dishes every day). I think my determination is obvious, though. Just look at me staring off into the distance, envisioning my future hotness and the wonderful life it will bring me!