Hummus, Books and Pecs

I don’t know why I hate being interrupted. It’s like my hatred of hiccups; it’s not really based on anything malicious or harmful, it just annoys the hell out of me. And if I’m interrupted either 1) while I’m eating or 2) with a stupid question, look out. It’s irrational, it’s knee-jerk, and I can’t control it. I almost beat a woman over the head today because she wanted help with the copy machine. Hardly a provocation of aggravated assault. Dirty looks, yes, and maybe a heavy sigh or two, but not the murderous rage I felt at the time. Thankfully, I don’t subscribe to passive-aggression, but I think she read my annoyance through my silent efficiency. She apologized for pulling me away from my lunch, so then I felt guilty for being angry, and when I said it was “no big deal” I realized it actually wasn’t, and took a little of the sentiment for myself. I’m hoping to foster a little patience, just a tiny bit, that I can keep under a little glass bell jar at my desk so I don’t bite people’s heads off when they ask me for more Diet Coke. I mean, come on, I can’t hate somebody if she can’t figure out how to use the copier. And she did ask for help. It’s like hating on a puppy. Man, I’m mean. I’m a big mean meanie-head. Poor woman. I owe her a muffin.

And now I sit here, eating my hummus, fatoush, and the best pitas I never paid for. You can rip them in half and wrap them around the yummy cucumbers, and then dip them in hummus, which is exactly what I am doing. Bliss.

This day has been largely uneventful. Nearly everyone at the office is out from work, leaving a handful of people (namely Jackie and myself) to sit in our respective gopher holes and be driven slowly mad by the resounding silence. Occasionally we type, or cough. You almost expect to hear the deranged kitten-on-the-keys soundtrack of Eyes Wide Shut, the silence portends such an eerie tension. When a phone rings, we jump. That is the level of quietude. Although a little unnerving, it’s an excellent opportunity for all of us to catch up on projects that need a studious level of concentration.

Which is why I came here; I assume they’re all working.

I cannot wait for the day to be over, so the Jackster and I can hit the gym, and I do mean “hit”. Cardio, weights and ab work for hours on end—boy howdy! (You can see my masochistic tendencies here. When I turn out to be a serial killer on the nine o’clock news, your eyebrows won’t even go up.) I will say, though, that I am a little apprehensive about this trip, as I pulled a rather important muscle on the last well-intentioned journey to fitness: I pulled my pecs.

Now, women love to work their pectoral muscles, as they think it makes their boobs bigger. I have been assured this isn’t the case, and if it is, I will immediately cease all pectoral pumping. I already have all the frontal enhancement you can shake a stick at. What it will do is take what you have and lift it, preferably into its “proper” space on your chest—the one that’s polar opposite to gravity. I only did a few reps; I was really more concerned about my arms and shoulders, and the aforementioned abs, which were all treated to many successive Nautilus machines. I felt like a rock star leaving the gym.

The next morning, I was having a heart attack.

That’s what I thought, until I remembered that one usually feels a heart attack in the left arm, not spread across the chest like some sort of VapoRub of pain. I managed to dress myself (which was impressive, given I couldn’t raise my arms above my head) and get to work, but was sorely (ha! except, not) limited in my activities. It turns out the pectoral muscles, while seldom actively “worked,” are the very same muscles used to:

Brush hair
Brush teeth
Pull on shoes
Tie knots
Change CDs
Pour coffee
Post a note
Eat food
“Raise the roof”
Cross your arms
Stand arms akimbo
Anything containing the phrase “your arms”
Read a book
Lift an envelope
Press elevator buttons
Sleep, in any and all positions
Turn a doorknob
Scratch your back
Pet a cat
Lift a cat
Ease cat claws out of your neck
Swing a backpack over your shoulder
Any sort of upper-body dancing, most notably the Cabbage Patch
Put on hand lotion
Hold the top of your chest in pain

I was in screaming pectoral agony for two days. Can’t wait for tonight!

Beedoo's Book Club:

Finished Reading: Me Talk Pretty One Day. It’s funny. I would recommend it to people. It’s not going to strain your brain in any way, and it’s a little fluffy compared to the dense, 19th century stuff I’ve been trying to force myself back into. It’s a good bus book, because it’s written in such a way that you feel like you’re having a conversation with David Sedaris, except you never get to say anything, but you don’t care because he’s so funny you’d rather listen anyway.

Beedoo’s Book Rating: 4 out of 5 Ostrich Feather Lampshades


Jessica said…
I feel your pain girl. Well not really. I haven't been to the gym in months. But if I actually went, I'd be sore.

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