Total dork

Well, so I didn't go to my class yesterday, but I did go tonight. (Sports bra? check. And, thank god. Who knew such a small thing would make such a huge difference.) Last night I felt like shit, so I stayed in, watched "Ice Castles" (seriously. I watched "Ice Castles." Hey, Colleen Dewhurst is a fine actress. And Robby Benson? In 1979 Robby Benson was just plain old fine.), and hung out with Patrick. We walked to the video store, which took about 45 minutes, round trip, and that seemed like an OK compromise.

So I went today.

And, to those of you who thought I would never go back: Ha! Fuck you, ya doubters!

(Now, I'm sure there's a pool on if and when I will ever go back. Who's got three times and then I'm out?)

The hour went by much quicker, and while I still have no rhythm (I would hesitate to even tell those people that I'm a musician, though if I mention that I was in marching band for 4 years just to get out of P.E., the light bulb might go on), I figure the sweating, the breathing, the moving around (in time or not) must be good for me. I was reading some of the little handouts they have on the front counter, and it's not exactly kickboxing, what I'm doing. It actually is "Power Tae," and the description is that it combines kickboxing with aerobics and something else, and dance. I'm really glad I read that part after I'd paid my money, because this Latina doesn't dance. Isn't it funny the things that stop me in my tracks? Anyway, whatever, because I think I'm in, now.

I was a little worried during the first 10 minutes, though, because my stomach "muscles" (do I even have stomach muscles? In Middle School, I once said a really mean thing to this pimply guy who used to hang out with the boy I had a crush on - Eric Taylor! - and his friend Michael. This other guy's name was, I think, Robert, and though he had pimples and bad hair and horrible clothes, he was not a nice guy on the inside. He was, in fact, a jerk. Anyway, one day at lunch he was bragging to us - "us" being Serena, and I think Rachel, me, and Melissa - about his muscles and how ripped he was getting. Maybe in the 80s kids didn't get "ripped" but whatever the terminology they used in the old days for being muscle-y. Anyway, so this dork is going on and on about his stomach muscles, and I, little miss smarty-pants, I said, "Dude, the only muscles you have are your fuckin' intestines."

Now, hold a minute there, because I just realized that I don't remember exactly what I said. Wow! I love this story, and here I am, ruining it. I might've said,

"Dude the only muscle you have is your fuckin' stomach."

Or I might've said,

"Dude, the only muscle you have is your wiener."

Any one of those would've been funny. You pick the winner. Anyway, see, I loved cursing then. Picture me: skinny brown girl with brown hair, big ass glasses. I was shy - especially around dreamy Eric - but I loved swearing, and shocking people. One of those statements was the one, and damn, now I don't remember!)

...

OK, so my stomach muscles, whatever they are, were hurting at the beginning, and I was afraid I had some sort of hernia action going on, but Patrick said something about how my guts would be, like, on the floor or something, so I did what I could and kept moving, and kept hoping people weren't laughing at me. Or if they were, that I would be spared knowing about it.

And now I feel rather like a truck ran over me, but a slightly smaller truck than the last time.

...

Thanks to Wikipedia, I just learned that Colleen Dewhurst died in 1991. Marilla's dead! Shocking.