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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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9:12 a.m. - 2010-02-13
Hey, good morning! Ms Perversity here. The only day this weekend without a single commitment or errand and as usual I popped wide awake at a stupidly early time. However, if I needed to be in Albany at 9:00am to get a big fat check from the Lotto people and if I wasn't on time they'd give it to someone else I know darn well I'd be in a coma until noon. While I can't say for certain since yesterday wasn't my usual day to be at the gym, but the population seems to be thinning. Perhaps Fridays are less crowded than Thursdays anyway, but I have a sneaky that the New Year's resolutioners are starting to drop like flies. On one hand it'll be great to have fewer people to fight for equipment, on the other I feel sort of bad for the drop-outs. I know how cruddy I've felt when I quit on myself and don't like thinking that some of those folk I've nodded to and sweated with will be hating themselves or feeling foolish about their lack of attendance at the gym. I also know that if I didn't have MIL to workout with I might be one of the quitters too. Forget it, no 'might' about it, I'd have gone maybe 3 times and then let my oh so very important life intrude on my gym time. I know, without MIL getting me there in the first place I wouldn't have EVER gone, but you know what I mean. So just another reason to love my MIL, she'll make a gym rat out of me despite my natural sloth tendencies. Mick went yesterday too. (See previous entry about up my butt.) No, I should be fair, Mick always goes to the gym when he has a holiday from school. And truly his being there didn't change my routine a whit. I was introduced to a couple people he knows though. Between the gym nomads he knows from the last 30 years of working out and colleagues from school who are also taking advantage of the day off, being at the gym with Mick pretty much guarantees I get to shake hands with some guy who will only know me as some make-up-less hag in cruddy workout gear. Whoo. Though I guess it depends some on what part of me you're looking at. Since I didn't want to set off a coughing fit I kept my pace fairly sedate and worked on my posture while walking the treadmill. Without planning to I fell into my catwalk strut. 25 years off the runway but some habits don't ever really die. Back super straight, head in the air, cross-footing, leading with my pelvis, I was grand marshall and sole member of the PF fashion parade. It can be safely assumed the guy on the treadmill next to me was NOT expecting that. I had my eyes on the far horizon but knew he was gawping. And eyes forward or not, I definitely saw it when he got so busy watching me he lost his footing and fell down. I didn't lose a beat and pretended not to notice. Saved my big laugh to share with Mick and MIL. The guy slunk off and I kept going until I'd gone the distance I'd set for myself (equivalent walk from the Hobbit House to the General Store). Speaking of things catwalk, I can't say I'm terribly broken up by Alexander McQueen's suicide. If the rumors are true and he offed himself over his mother's recent death then it's safe to say that guy had a real Norman Bates thing going. Alexander McQueen's designs were the most hateful, anti-woman shit out there. To wit, check out these babies. Ever since he hit the scene as a young turk designer I've wondered just how much self-loathing women had that his miserable, body contorting, staunchly torturous, hideously painful garbage was such a fave of the fashionistas. Not since Dior's post-war New Look had one designer done so much to ignore how real women were shaped and insist they brutalize themselves to fit into his vision of what women should look like. Breast smushing, crotch crushing, foot binding, Alexander McQueen's choices of toxic colors, unwearable metallic fabrics (one year his cocktail dresses featured actual barbed wire)�gah! I know the whole point of high fashion is to make women feel like shit about themselves and foist the impossible consumer dream on them that somehow they will be worthy of love if they spend enough, lop off enough body parts, inject enough plastic into their faces and their breasts, laser off their pubic hair, and otherwise deny everything pure and natural about being the givers of life, real women with brains and libidos of their own, but even I who bleached, plucked and starved to be part of the army of oppression had limits. And misogynistic Alexander McQueen always and forever went waaaay over the line to me. I won't miss him or his hateful designs one whit. I have to go check which coffee I brewed, might have accidentally made the full-bore stuff. I am far too strident for this early hour. Let's blame it on the caffeine, shall we?
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