My morning started out extraordinarily positive. I was overjoyed when T hit the snooze button on the alarm in order to snuggle up with me all warm and cozy with me for 9 glorious minutes until it went off again and he bounced up out of bed and into the arms of his true love, his Blackberry. I looked out the window and saw the snow swirling around, rooftops powdered white and thought to myself, "Awesome, the gym is going to be empty this morning since only us really dedicated (read: neurotic) members troop it out in the bad weather." When warm and cozy time was over, I popped out of bed made breakfast for T and myself and we discussed, with excitement, all that I was going to accomplish today.
Now, just three hours later at 11am, I'm contemplating slamming my laptop closed and heading to Hoboken for an impromptu pub crawl with my bestie, but no amount of booze and gossip is worth trekking anywhere beyond a one block radius from my apartment today and here's why.
Before I even started my first set of Abs the smile had been wiped off of my face and my positive attitude had started to go south. Stepping out of my building, I was hit with the realization that what looked like a winter wonderland from the 14th floor actually looked more like raw sewage from ground-level. I slipped and slid my way the four blocks to the gym, trying to desperately not to fall down, eat yellow snow, or get hit by a car while staring down out my Blackberry in the rain. True to New York, as I walked along, a complete stranger yelled at me. His concern was not that I was going to get hit by a car, but that I was going to ruin my Blackberry if I kept using it out in the open while the sleet was falling from the sky. Rather than thank him for his input, I snottily responded, "Yeah, that's why I have insurance DAD." (As I've mentioned before, telling off complete strangers is one of my favorite things about living in New York.)
Crossing the street and thinking I had made it all the way to the gym without incident, I tried to be cute and workouty, by daintily jumping over the final puddle that stood between me and my sweat-fest. Almost. Instead, probably because I was chatting on the phone with my mother, I misjudged my take-off point and river-danced my ass straight into a giant, brown, slushy puddle. Praying it wouldn't be too bad, I jumped out and went sliding three feet down the sidewalk miraculously staying on my feet. Cutting off our conversation by blurting, "MA, I gotta go!!," as she told me about her days plans in excessive detail, I walked into the gym, my feet growing colder and wetter by the second and asked the girl at the front desk if they sold socks.
Eleven dollars later I had on a fresh pair of socks and was blowdrying my sneakers in the locker room, an area I usually try not to spend any extended period of time in thanks to the New York phenomenon of old-ladies loving to prance around nude at gyms. When I finally started my workout, I had regained a little bit of motivation in the only way I know how. It's embarrassing, but whenever I work out and I need a boost, I pretend I'm a personal trainer and that I'm training myself and I will silently say things like, "This is where the change happens UnPlain, just one more rep!" or "I know you had wine last night UnPlain, let's DO THIS!". Otherwise I just pretend I am a celebrity/athlete/model getting ready for my next appearance/game/gig and avoid making eye contact with anyone so they won't ask for my autograph. Ridiculous? Yes. Does it work? Sort of.
So today, as Trainer UnPlain did her best to "take it to the next level" on the Ab Incline Bench, I felt, for a splitting second, an excruciating pain in my lower back. Immediately, I hopped off the bench, did some stretches and decided I would finish my workout no matter what, because my fragile psyche can not handle the thought of missing another day at the gym. I finally finished and left the gym with pockets full of socks and 180 degree change in attitude from when I woke up.
I shuffled my way through the sleet for the four blocks home and one extra block to the drugstore. Remembering only three of the six items on my mental list, I opened the door and figured that the rest would come to me as I wondered the aisles contemplating the purchase of things I neither need, nor enjoy, like Kettle Corn. First on my list was lotion and I was expecting that like most NYC drug stores, this particular one would carry the type of product I like. I like my lotion thick and prefer Body Butter to anything that comes out of a pump. I like to feel sufficiently saturated and creamy and when I stuff myself into my tightest pair of jeans, I like to feel like I've lotioned to the point that my jeans every so slightly stick to my skin and won't move. Unfortunately for me, I had no such luck finding the product I so desired at this particularly shitty drugstore chain outpost.
In the "ethnic" section, I spied a lotion that boasted it was an Oatmeal and Sheabutter blend. Afraid that I would make the same mistake I made in college when I was sure my unruly hair was ethnic enough to warrant the use of a chemical relaxer meant for African American children, I decided it was best to test this lotion out regardless of the store's no testing policy. After about fifty twists of the pump top while glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, I finally squeezed out a nickle-sized dollop of the above-mentioned lotion. At first, it felt great. Thick, creamy, and even though the smell was a little too coconutty for my personal taste, it seemed to be seeping into my skin just the way I like it. That was until this nickle sized dollop seemed impossible to fully absorb. I rubbed it all in my hands, went as far up my arms as I could and there was still more.
I had no choice but to plop myself down in the middle of the Ethnic Aisle, pull up my pant legs and start rubbing the-lotion-that-just-wouldn't-die into my legs. As I did this, I looked up only to be met by the disapproving gaze of the drugstore's star employee. Of all employees it had to be this particular woman with whom I have a torrid, love-hate relationship. We consistently alternate between exchanging pleasantries to making snide remarks to each other depending on the day. It's a miracle she didn't drag me out of the store, but she's far too lazy to exert any sort of physical force, let alone pick up her step when she strolls back to her register when a customer needs to check out.
I quickly picked myself up off the floor, grabbed the few items that I could remember I needed and slid myself down the block and into my building. I did my best to smile at my friendly doorman and at the same moment the elevator dinged, announcing my arrival on our floor, I remembered everything I forgot. Letting the door slam behind me with the knowledge that it was the IMPORTANT items I had forgotten, I stripped down out of my wet clothes, and marched my cranky ass into the kitchen.
Now, as I sit here in my undies, typing away, I've made the conscious decision not to venture out into the wet streets again today. (Until it's time to get dressed and go get a bottle of wine anyway).