Moose in the Kitchen

When I started my Exercise Every Bloomin’ Day Because I Can’t Hear The Voices Over The Sound Of My Muscles Shrieking At Me To Lie Down and Have a Beer Already routine, I had suspiciously rose-tinted ideas about all the extra energy I would enjoy. I would stay up late penning letters to senators and conjugating French verbs! I would rise early to cure Lyme disease before my healthy breakfast banana! What I obviously forgot was that my body is not used to this endeavor called “movement”. Forcing my arms to lift 8-lbs weights cans of chicken noodle soup and hold muscle-quivering poses is plumb doing me in. In other news, I would like to take a nap. Wait, no. That’s the same news.

But I refuse to quit, because I am determined. Determined to heft something weightier than a can of green beans. Determined to burn off all the excess energy that otherwise gets funneled into less productive endeavors – like worrying. Or making grand pronouncements I later regret. And because if I quit, my new trainer might peck my eyes out:

Rooster says, “Put down that bottle of chardonnay and do some Sun Salutations, damn it.”

And I do. Would you mess with that face? I didn’t think so. Print out that picture if you need some exercise incentive – like encouragement to sprint shrieking into another room. (Menacing chicken-induced terror speeds the heart right up!)

Section entitled “Sitting On My Ass”

If there’s a Global Warming lottery somewhere - maybe sharing a condo with Bill Watterson and the Easter Bunny - California wins. This weekend’s buttery, golden sunshine encouraged me to blaspheme the god of my idolatry – my folder of To Do lists. Blew off every last productive activity in favor of warming my pasty shins and migrating from park to park, location based solely on what type of treats were available in the surrounding environs.

Section entitled “Probably Should Have Kept Sitting On My Ass”

In fact, the only bad weather anywhere in my little world this weekend was at the Tonga Room, where the indoor rainstorm, complete with lightning, was the hit of the San Francisco social scene back in 1957. Luckily, you can still get Mai Tais and, with this judicious application of rum, convince yourself that boogying with Japanese tourists under the indoor ship rigging is a brilliant plan. (It is.) (Even if you see camera flashes from the table where your more well-mannered, and possibly less inebriated, friends are sitting. Camera flashes which imply photographic evidence exists and will soon be used against you.)

Section wherein I display sympathy for those suspiciously orange-colored waifs on The Bachelor

After the first episode, notable mainly for the shocking personal hygiene – hair a fetching shade of peroxide! tans the color of jaundice! blinding teeth! – and the bachelor’s need for a thesaurus (may I suggest “astonishing” or maybe “stupefying” in place of one or sixteen of those “amazing”s), I was hooked like an unwary trout.

“This week, on The Bachelor! Moose grasps the underlying humanity of this keenly-honed social exercise, recognizing that beneath the shameless melodrama, there may be a few real people. Real people who may exhibit dating behavior SHE CAN IDENTIFY WITH. Like the girl who races out of the room when tension flares! Or the girl who’s so awkward she practically swallows her own larynx!”

I’m concerned.

Section wherein this post tries to justify its existence

Walking through the halls at 8:45 this morning, there was not a single person sitting at a desk or doing any kind of work. Everyone was clustered in conference rooms, watching the inauguration. For a room full of lawyers, it was oddly silent. I left with goosebumps and hope. It’s a good beginning.