Tickle Me, Test

I really have no good reason for not posting all week. I spent much of my time catching up on the archives of the journals I read, because if I read one entry I must read them all. If there are links, I must follow every single one. My father’s OCD manifests itself in strange ways; I cannot go a day without checking the weather online, yet I have no desire to whatsoever to clean my kitchen. And my kitchen is funky like George Clinton. It’s Clitchen. I dunno.

I can’t blame the weather, either, as yesterday was the most beautiful day we’ve had this year. Sunny and warm (which don’t go together as often as you might think), with a slight breeze that alternated between cool and blustery. It’s just one of those nice not-sopping-wet days of spring, where you could tell the world was trying to thaw. [Today, of course, we have thunderstorms. But I don’t care, as I don’t have to shovel rain or scrape it angrily off my car.]

On that fantastic day, I am leaving work and heading to the gym when I think: Why do I want to work out in a concrete box when the weather outside is so lovely? I should just run out here. The problem being I am in my winter coat, with my backpack on one shoulder, which contains various heavy objects. I sigh in resignation, realize that I am dreaming the impossible dream, and turn toward the gym. That’s when the Napoleon Dynamite voice in my head goes “Nuh-uh! I could totally do it! The bag’s not that heavy! It’ll be like hiking, or training for the war! Soldiers have to carry loads on their backs all the time—they don’t have like, donkeys or anything. I can do it. I can be a soldier! Totally!” Apparently, I like ligers.

So I stop at the gym to change, stuff my giant furry coat into my backpack and swing it with much frustration onto my back, looking decidedly special-needs. I don’t care though, which says something about how much I’ve grown, that I don’t mind what people must be thinking about me as I run across a college campus in spandex shorts and a giant honkin’ backpack on my back (worn with both straps on, obviously, which I haven’t done since fourth grade). I decided to run to where my car was parked, which I guessed was about three miles away. It took 45 minutes.

I know you expect to hear about the plethora of ways I hurt myself, or the interesting things that happened along the way... but really, I had a pretty good time. Aside from the occasional hill and stealth ninja bikers (like, make a sound before you zip past me, would’ja?), I was just having a great time, enjoying nature and the outdoors, and wondering if I could do this everyday in the summertime. The only real trouble I had was trying to keep the pack from bouncing up and down as I ran; if you ever decide to do this, and I would actually recommend doing it at least once, I have this helpful advice:

1. Lose the backpack.
2. If you have to have the backpack, try to keep it under twenty pounds.
3. Seriously, lose the backpack.

Obviously, I’ll plan better for this in future; I’m learning that spontaneity doesn’t agree with me, because I can’t plan for it. Look out--sombody spilled some irony.

I even feel fine today, except for a pulled muscle in my back (minor), and my shoulders are killing me where the backpack was resting on them. It’s my fault (like, whose would it be?), as the straps on the thing are worn all to hell from years of usage. Add the insane amount of weight and I may as well have been running with an antelope strapped to my back with twine.

So my arms just hate me. Again. And with the bra sitting right where the pain is, they’re getting more than their fair share of workout stress. I think I won’t work them at the gym tonight, which means my abs are in for a special treat. [BEEDOO’S ABS: (waking up) Huh? What? Did you need us for—ugh!! NO! WAIT! GOD, MAKE IT STOP!] Heh.

After eating all the food in the world at lunch today, I dropped in on my sister who, despite having a job right down the hall from me, never seems to do any work. She’s taking a series of Tickle tests, all of which titled something like “What kind of movie are you?” and “Is your coworker crazy?” After she has taken the quiz, she IMs her friends to compare answers (no, she’s not fifteen, why do you ask?). Yes, you and I are simultaneously disgusted and envious. It'll pass.

I start to wonder about the content of the average Tickle test when it lists my sister as a ‘thriller’ in the movie category. She and I debate this, so she takes the test over. As I suspected, the questions are very limited (being multiple choice) and the options either have you as an apple or an orange, or more appropriately, a Kate Winslet or a Katie Holmes. Anyone can spot the myriad of degrees missing between these two poles.

After mocking her with my own Tickle Quiz [Are you more like A) an axe murderer B) a pedophile C) a lion D) a soccer mom or E) All of the above? Wow, YOUR NAME, you’re “The Maltese Falcon”—daring to be different, you wear fedoras and live your life in sultry and mysterious black and white. Men find you attractive, yet unapproachable, largely because you’re Humphrey Bogart. And so on.] she takes the “romance movie quiz” brought to us by the magic of promos for Tristan and Isolde (hint: no matter what your answers are, you will inevitably “be” Tristan and Isolde. What a coincidence). My sister finally caves to the opinion that maybe this quiz thing kinda just tells you what you want to hear—and apparently, you want to hear all about how you should drop twenty bucks on Tristan and Isolde. It’s the most obvious marketing ploy since E.T. munched a handful of Reese’s Pieces.

Ugh. Belly full o’cake. Better stop now.


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