September 25, 2007

Only Barely Condoning Avril

I always thought knocking on wood was silly. Like, saying something doesn’t make it happen, and if it did, how would wood help? And then even finding wood to knock on in the space of a conversation—say, at work, in your plastic cubicle, do you stomp the floor and hope there’s wood somewhere beneath you? Or when you’re running, joking that the training’s going so well and it’s amazing you haven’t got the cold that’s been making its way through the family—then what do you do? Smartest thing, apparently, is to face-plant into the nearest tree, because you’ve just Macbeth’d your way into two weeks of bronchitis.

It’s funny how you fantasize about sick days; a bunch of time off that you don’t have to feel guilty about, because you’re sick. It’s legitimate. People actually want you to be home; you weakly protest that you can work, and they tell you—give you permission, rather—to take it easy. The fantasy involves lying on clean, fluffy sheets, clicker in hand, enjoying endless cups of tea and a nice boxed set of Doctor Who. And maybe later, after a nap and a shower, you’ll even get some work done—setup the new laptop, reorganize your music files, maybe even do a bit of cleaning! The same psychosis that makes pregnant women fixate on finger-painting and itty-bitty socks rather than incessant wailing and unholy poos.

After thirteen days of the cold from hell, I am now fit enough to sit upright. I still need a nap around midday, so I’ve been spending lunchtime with my head on my desk like a third-grader, but lucid moments are finally stretching into hours. And even though I needed a sweatshirt tied around my face against the cold air, I still ran the eighteen miles required for the long run on Sunday (Eat that, relentless plague!). But everything at home is still very much un-done, except now it’s waiting under a spotty layer of wadded Kleenex. Laundry is unwashed, but gathered. Cleaning has been listed into task groups. I named the laptop. Excavation of former life is underway. Right after I watch part 2 of Dancing with the Stars tonight because… I have no excuse.

Why does watching reality shows give me such a deep sense of shame? I’ll roll my eyes at the Bachelor ads, but stop flipping when B-listers do the cha-cha; is it just the bikini-whore factor? I could go the “I watch it for the dancing” route (I do) but that’s really just six degrees of “I didn’t inhale,” and anyway I shouldn’t feel low-class about watching crap TV because I’ll probably lose Jeopardy! regardless of the fact that I didn’t watch the PBS exhumation of Babylonian kings special. Because Extreme Home Makeover was on, and the guy had cancer, nine kids, and no legs. Again.

Speaking of guilt, does everyone have this problem with Avril LaVigne’s “Girlfriend”? The one where you have to hear it every day and rock out ridiculously and probably inappropriately for your age bracket? This song is my crack. It actually makes me appreciate the third-wheel anthem, which is done much better as an in-your-face jam (Joan Jett’s “I Hate Myself for Loving You,” etc) than a pining, self-conscious whine-atribe. Even if you can empathize with the latter, why blame yourself? The affirmation that “I’m great, you’re great, why aren’t we doin’ it already?” is much more flattering. Speaking as someone who sat through eight damn hours* of Pride and Prejudice, who wouldn’t want to see Elizabeth Bennett flick Mr. Darcy in the forehead, proclaiming she’s the mutha-fucking princess? They could’ve been making out in the parlour in, like, Act I.

Or, you know, whatever example works for you.

** Even longer, if you read the book. Or… actually, maybe not.

2 comments:

crdrue said...

bad, bad song.

Sarah Beedoo said...

You're just afraid to get your chick rock on, girlfriend.