I Dedicate this Entry to my Sports Bra

Here's something: The Paris Review - Interviews. Go to it and read cultural icons answer questions in a structured format. Or not. Hell, I ain't your keeper. Do what you want. (However, I recommend the Dorothy Parker and the Edward Albee.)

I've avoided telling you -- partly because I'm afraid that if I stare it in the face and ruminate, it'll flit away -- but it's a fact, I'm going to the gym. It all started about a week ago... This drastic behavioral change is motivated by our office move into a building with gym access and also, The Health Epidemic of 2004. No matter how much I hate cardio and assorted weight training, I've got to admit it makes me feel healthier. Begrudgingly admit.

While I'm in there tethered, I think about things. Things like, why can't time go any fucking faster? Or my legs fucking hurt. Or, all this walking in place is a metaphor for something, if only I could put my fucking finger on it... In my head I use the 'f' word a lot. It makes me feel like a big man. Even though I've got boobs.

I concoct elaborate fantasies. I pretend I'm Linda Hamilton in the Terminator movies or Kristy Swanson in the Buffy movie. That way, when I get all sweaty and drippy and moist, I feel like an actual ass kicker and not just some out-of-shape bimbo hopping in place for forty-five minutes daily. But then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and the illusion is shattered.

I'm so much cooler than all those bitches.