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Warning: Men might want to skip this one.

25 Jan
WARNING: Today’s post is brought to you by the Flashback Machine and True Stories of Teenage Girls. If you are a man, hate embarrassing stories, or don’t care to take a trip down memory lane, then you might want to skip this one.

Wow. That didn’t throw you? Good. Because I’m pretty sure my third paragraph will.

I swam a mile before work yesterday at one of DC’s public pools. A local high school swim team was there practicing as well, which always brings back fond memories of my own high school days… even though I was a diver an couldn’t be PAID to swim laps at that point in life. (Probably because of my preternaturally high metabolism.) I digress.

So what is memorable about yesterday’s swim is this: the bloody footprints leading into (and around) the locker room.

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Half my workout was just getting to the water.

17 Jan

The pool where I swim is a 15 minute drive from my house, so if I forget something mission-critical (like goggles or my bathing suit), I forfeit my workout rather than make the roundtrip twice.

That precise problem reared its head this weekend, when I arrived at the pool only to realize I’d forgotten my photo ID, meaning I wouldn’t be admitted to the pool. GRRRR. Fuming, I drove home completely irked.

When I got home, however, I saw that my towel was still hanging on the back of the bathroom door knob, so my missing ID was actually a blessing in disguise. I can’t imagine wrapping up a workout completely soaked with no ability to dry off before heading out into freezing temperatures.

This wasn’t the first time I’d forgotten something important, and it reminded me of another time recently when I got to the pool only to realize I’d left my flipflops at home. If you don’t understand how flipflops could be critical, then you clearly haven’t spent much time in a public lockerroom.

Remember playing “lava” when you were a kid, trying to avoid touching the floor when you walked? That’s kind of like me navigating a lockerroom without flipflops. I look at the nasty floor and all I can think is, “Plantar’s Warts!”

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Where the strangers are friendly… and pogo sticks are helpful?

13 Jan

Today my work brought me from Chicago up to Milwaukee. I’ve been here two other times, and each time, it has left me wanting.

Not because there’s anything inherently wrong with Milwaukee, it’s just that I expect to see two people (specifically Laverne & Shirley) dancing down the streets on their way to work at a bottling plant. And it hasn’t happened. Yet. (I remain hopeful.)

This morning I was debating between the 6am or 8:30am train from Union Station in Chicago. I harkened back to my last visit, and remembered the odd desolation of Union Station at 6am. I arrived at 5:30am and the place was DESERTED until 5:55. If memory serves, I went so far as to take off my belt in case I needed to clock someone in the head with the buckle.

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You have to be smarter than the lies you tell.

5 Jan

Like pretty much everyone I know, I hate going to the dentist (even for routine cleanings) because I know I’m going to get lectured about my flossing habits. Or lack thereof.

Other than my sister, I don’t know anyone who flosses daily. And I think even my sister would admit that the only way she’s able to work it in is by standing in the middle of the living room, carrying on a full conversation with her hands and a foot of floss in her mouth at the end of the night.

Her teeth might be grateful, but I’m pretty sure her audience has a different take on it.

Anyway… to deflect some of the lectures, I’ve gotten into a habit of bending the truth a bit when I’m at the dentist. I’ve found that if you don’t fully own up to not flossing very regularly, the hygienist will provide you with a plausible alternative excuse.

To wit – about a year ago the conversation went something like this:

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Just when you think you know someone…

3 Jan

…there’s a record scratch and you’re all, “What the hell?!”

At least, that’s how it played out this weekend in Berkeley Springs. We were walking down the main street (better known as Washington Street, in case you’re curious) when I spotted an SPCA poster with photos of animals through the window of a consignment shop.

“Alan!” I yelled. Kind of like this:

And a few minutes later, there we were, standing in front of a large  poster board display of cats and dogs needing adoption. I was studying the descriptions when I heard Alan say, “Do you think they planned this, or is this song a coincidence?”

I stepped back and listened, registering Sarah McLachlan’s song, “Angel.”

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