Gym Rat

CNN with closed captioning on. Chlorine and carpet floors. Lines of lockers. Sticky sweat rice around my collarbone. Hood up, kicks on, headphones in, out the door. Towel bins. Tile steam room. A wet hot vacuum, swallowed up whole. Pull extra hard on the suction door. Gasp at the coconut air, designer soap. Glass shower doors. Back into the night. Comedy club marquis dotting around. Salon with blinky lights. Baked chicken and pop music wafting from Brazilian Bowl.

Major Life Update One (of Two)

Semester One: Bike & Car

Semester Two: Bike

Semester Three: Bike & Scooter

My bike is still my primary mode of toolin' about town, but it was time to make myself just a bit more mobile. A bit more happy about grocery trips, meeting someone for dinner without being sweaty, and going out late. It was a long decision-making process, but I now own and operate my very own scooter--name pending.

Here's the thing: I love it.

In the day we sweat it out in the streets
of a runaway american dream.
At night we ride through mansions
of glory in suicide machines.

Sweating

Muff in DC. 2012.

I am so close to the end of this year I can smell it. But, in the meantime, I feel like I am in the middle of a swamp, wading through, absolutely icky.

I KNOW there is an end in sight, but why oh why does it feel like it will never come? I also know this stuff is relatively meaningless. No one really cares what my final Theatre for Social Change portfolio will be like, but, well, I do. So. It's almost 1 AM and I have work at 7:30 and at some point during my twelve hour shift I need to dash to the library and print these finals and that scholarship app and research the canon of theatre in reference to feminist criticism and and and...

"I'm not out there sweating for three hours every day just to find out what it feels like to sweat."--Michael Jordan

Da Doo Run Run

Something I like about improv is that you get really gross while doing it. You can't really help it. You're moving and sweating and your hair is sliding out of your ponytail and bobby pins are flying and your eye makeup smears.

Usually actors have a charm, beauty, or delicacy about them. They're far away on a stage with costumes and make-up...but I feel like there's only so much facade you can keep up in improv. You're just...out there. Pit stains the size of Lake Michigan. And, it's even worse for your fellow actors.

Sunday I practiced barefoot because I had a giant blister from that Thanksgiving run. Shoe turned to me in a pause from an exercise, pointed down, and whispered, "Aren't you cold." I told him I had a blister, did he want to see? He thought, then shrugged. I pulled my foot up sideways and revealed the huge chunk of healing skin. He scrunched his nose and nodded, "Yeah," he said.

Oh oh oh, yeah, my heart stood still.
Yeah, his name was Bill.
And when he walked me home.