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5:18 p.m. - 2010-06-02
At the table again.

Worked hard at the gym yesterday and now my arms are complaining. Not loudly, but enough to make me smile. Not smiling over being in mild pain, but that I'm improving my workouts. The weight and number of reps I did yesterday would have been impossible three months ago. Ditto my speed and distance on the treadmill. Speaking of which between the new shoes and my doing a goodly bit of stretching beforehand the shin cramps have stopped entirely. Even yesterday when I jacked my speed to 3.7 for the last mile. (I was anxious to get it over with.) Even the fact that I could speed up at the end and not keel over makes me feel good.

Also good (and bad) was my wearing shorts at the gym. Good because even though PF claims to have the a/c on I've been dying of the heat in my sweatpants and the shorts definitely helped. Good because I'm over myself enough not to give a crap about strangers seeing my pasty fat legs. Who cares, right? I'm at the gym not the Miss Universe contest. Good because the shorts made me feel more like an athlete and less like a dilettante. Why? Unknown, but they did. Bad because of the friction. Not precisely skanky booty shorts, but the ones I wore yesterday are pretty short and the thighs of doom did some damage to each other where they meet at the top. And if your thighs don't rub together, well goodie for you, but understand we tubby-legged people hate you and want you dead.

Okay, not really. (Yes, really, you thin-shanked bowlegged twerps. Die!)

Gads I'm so mean.

Last night after dinner, well Mick was still eating and I sat at table with him after choking down most of a chicken breast (eating is problematic recently, won't go down or stay down, sigh, it's always something with this shitty body of mine) and we got into a discussion about Mick's love of all things austere and/or prehistoric looking. That I am neither austere nor quite prehistoric (yet) means I am the exception that proves the rule. He fussed a bit when I twitted him about his odd taste. Said he wasn't that bad, surely wasn't so limited in his choices. I laughed. Told him Spartans look like party boys next to his love of the stripped down, root basic, no pretty things need apply attitude. Mick was startled when I ran the list of his loves.

His favorite model of Volkswagen Beetle? This, the KDF.

His favorite sea creature? This, the coelacanth.

Favorite land creature? This, the snapping turtle.

At least 95% of his shirts are grey. His earrings are 16 gauge matte stainless steel. His wedding band looks like hardware.

I went on to point out his fixation on the most basic models takes on all sorts of weird permutations.

For instance his favorite superhero is The Hulk. No super powers, no costume, no cool gadgets. No posse. No spiffy car or invisible plane. The Hulk. A seething inarticulate green beast with huge anger management issues.

"Look at the Universal monsters. The Mummy is steeped in legend and ancient curses, plus he wears cool shades and a fez. Dracula, sexy, charming, well-dressed. The Wolfman is horrified by his uncontrollable brutishness. Poor Frankenstein's monster, heartbreaking in his ultimate humanity with his sorrow over not knowing if he has a soul. Even the Bride of Frankenstein is a repository for men's fears about women who own their sexual desire and their terror of women who have no compunction about getting what they want. And who's your favorite Universal monster? The Creature From The Black Lagoon. A slimy proto-humanoid with no clothing, no backstory, no tribe, no history, nada. Just a creepy fish guy with webbed feet and a fetish for Julie Adams."

Mick shrugged and blushed a little. "Okay, maybe I am weird about what I like."

"You are. S'okay. I'm weird about what I like too. I mean, jeeze, I like you."

"Whew! Thank goodness for that!"


Chafed of thigh and amused by my weird guy. ~LA

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