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Wednesday, Feb. 18, 2004 / 10:55 a.m. ~Squats Story~ Yesterday I actually wrote offline. I know, crazy, yeah? I have this notebook I carry in my backpack and yesterday I had written here, written in LJ, or maybe I had, not sure anymore, and I still wanted to write, just for me. So, I turned to the notebook, poured out some pourings, emoted some emotions for a bit, and then I turned the pages and read some of what was already there. Egad. The same things. The EXACT same things. SAME thoughts, frustrations, feelings, exactly. For two years now, almost. Two years I�ve been whining about the same things, at least in that notebook. Elsewhere? Like here? Close to three. So much has changed, externally, but inside myself it�s all exactly the same. I seriously need to work on this. Oh no, that�s what I always say too. Ergh. It�s too warm in here (at work, 9:25 a.m., cubicle time), my keyboard is sticky, like the keys are wonky, require too much pressure (it�s old), my thumb is really tired of hitting the space bar, I try to vary the part of it I use to press. But, when I was using pen on paper yesterday, I noticed I can�t read what I write. My handwriting is atrocious. My new watch slides around on my wrist. I have one more hole in the band before it�s as tight as it will be, yet I hesitate to take that advantage. I wonder if I start lifting weights again if I can increase my wrist size. It�s bone, but there must be some muscle surrounding it, yes? I am a pitiful skinny thing. I�ve lost weight in the past few months, and I�m not unhappy about it, but I�m not thrilled to be this sack of bones either. Story here: My father and I used to attend chamber music concerts at a local shopping mall, years ago, maybe 1984 or 1985?, I guess on Sundays, or Saturdays, details are understandably a bit hazy, but there was one member of the ensemble who was incredibly thin, a flutist, or flautist. We nicknamed her �Sack of Bones�, or, oh no, was it �Bag of Bones�? I think the former. No, wait, the latter? Either way, yeah? My memory is really fuzzy on this one. But, speaking of lifting weights, it was actually after one of these concerts that we went in a sporting goods store and I bought my set of Joe Weider (Wieder?) free weights. I used to lift a lot, sort of. One time I was home, alone as usual, doing my squats, and I couldn�t get back up. It was pretty funny. I had to get down on the floor and try to find the strength to lift the bar up over my head and behind me to the hardwood floor. I was scared, for a few minutes, then I just laughed at myself. Thing was, my legs were much, much stronger than my arms and shoulders, fairly typical for a woman. So, I�d added weight to the barbell, but I couldn�t actually lift it off. I could squat, fine, but when my muscles had had enough, I couldn�t raise the thing. Good lesson learned. Several actually. It�s not good to work out alone, and work the entire body, use a weight bench with one of those squat bars, or whatever you call them. I wish I had one. They�re fairly cheap now, at Kmart, etc., but really I have no room for one. I could do chest flies if I had a bench. Mmmm� I had no idea I�d sit here and write this right now, but I don�t feel like doing the busy work that�s usually all there is to do until the real work arrives by Next Day Air in a bit. I hate this job, I really do. It has so little meaning, in the grand scheme of things. I mean, I�m performing a necessary function, someone has to do the things I do, after all, but I don�t have to be the one to do it. The sun is shining, for the first time in days. I have Nicola Conte and Deee-Lite to listen to later. Energy is now though, and this is what�s so hard, wanting to do so much, now, but having to be here instead. This is the waste. There are reasons for it, for me being here, and we know what they are � the CHEESE. I have bills, I pay my own way, I have to earn the cheese to pay for it all, alone, but there has to be another way to earn the money. I�m thinking hooking. And I don�t mean rugs. No, no, no, a Sugar Daddy? Volunteers? How about someone to patronize my arts? Sure, I�m an artist. Fund me? Damn this keyboard. It�s noisy, it�s sticky, I give up for now. Cost of the War in Iraq
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