Cheetah is the workout instructor from Hades. I should have known something about him was fierce when I saw that his name was CHEETAH. I took a class with him on Monday night and I can barely sit down, stand up or walk to work. It's like I was beaten by Tanya Harding's cronies in both legs - not just one, Nancy Kerrigan. It's so ever-loving painful. I suppose pain is good when it comes to working out, that is, if I'm going to reach my goal of looking like Heidi Klum. I'll also need to grow nine inches.
So, gosh, I really need a vacation. Not a mission trip, not a business trip to the Bahamas… I need a bonafide sit-in-a-hammock and nap vacay. It appears we're having a girls getaway to Vegas in October which will be wonderful, but definitely not relaxing in any way. You know what really gets in the way of my vacation plans? Work.
I had a request for some dating life details from a loyal reader… so here's one for the books. Last night, after participating in my weekly Social Experiment Part Deux, I was standing at the corner, waiting for the light to change when this guy started randomly chatting me up. In and of itself, that's not terribly weird - strange dudes are always talking to me on the street and I am forever thinking, "You are a complete and total moron. You have been sitting in the same place on this same block for the entire year that I've lived here, doing nothing with your life except trying to sell crap that you obviously stole from someone old lady's apartment. And every single time you tell me how hot I look, I want to kick you in the six remaining teeth that you have and tell you to take a bath, get a job and STOP HITTING ON ME, skeezeball!" So anyways, this is a normal occurrence and my typical external response is to look really unaffected and just keep on walking.
For whatever reason, last night was different. I left the restaurant where I'd been chilling all night with every intention of heading home. It was maybe about 11:30… so this stranger is like, "Hi, you're beautiful. Can I buy you a drink?" And I'm all, "Um, thanks, err, no, um, I'm going home." That guy was persistent though, and so I was like, "Fine, yes." So we went into this cute little French restaurant on that very same corner and I had the most expensive glass of white wine on the menu and he had a beer. (I should have had him buy me dinner, right?) And I can't remember one thing he said… or even his name. He was like those Match.com dudes - dull. It seems to me that if you have the skills to persuade a random girl to stop in for a drink, you might have some good conversation skills, too. But the poor guy really didn’t. When he asked me for my number, I tried to give him Erin's, but I couldn't remember it. Ha, Erin, wouldn't that be funny? No? Okay, sorry. He's not from here, so luckily I'll never see him again. I presume guys get mad when you give them fake numbers.
But seriously, that's the extent of my dating life outside of the Social Experiment… which last night lead me to meet a bunch of really funny, smart, talented MARRIED guys. Naturally.
Books a Million: What I Read, Part XX
11 hours ago