"We're not in Colorado anymore, Tucker..."

I never really considered myself a "small town" gal.  I always pictured myself as more of a "big city" lady; trolling around some bright skyline looking for love in all the wrong places.  

Sophisticated.  Street smart.  And with killer style to boot.

Ha. Haha. Hahahahahahaha. 

(That's me laughing audibly loud at myself from this busy coffee shop table)

Today marks my fourth official day in New York City for the first time.  And while I would love to say I am the version of Carrie from Sex and the City that we all aspire to be, I am actually Tom Hanks from The Terminal.

You see that movie? Of course you did.

Tom Hanks is the man. 

I am perpetually confused and bumble around hoping to make sense of something or someone.  Sometimes I'm not entirely sure if I'm even speaking English.  My "Resting Confused Face" follows me around the subway as I get on and off of trains that only occasionally take me to my intended destination.  

So I'm a smidge directionally challenged it turns out, but the Big Apple hasn't entirely chewed me up and spat me out just yet. With some time I think I could stumble gracefully into this place.  

The first day was the hardest, hands down.  As I exited the subway for the first time I started walking in the general direction of the swarm of humans also exiting the subway.  I figured being a salmon wasn't the correct move so I went with the flow.  I walked towards the metal turn-style to leave to the street.

Right as I was in the middle of the turn-style about to pass through the metal gate, a woman approached me from the other side.  I was already almost through and she entered my turn-style.  

We made direct eye contact.

Um, hi.  Hello.  I'm in this one.

I didn't say this out loud.  But I thought about it.  She continued to make eye contact with me as she kept coming at me at full speed.

Suddenly I thought I must have been going the wrong way.  Surely I was doing it incorrectly.

I went into reverse and backed out of the turn-style as she continued like a freight train into my lane.  I backed all the way out as she passed by me as if it was nothing, making uncomfortable eyes at me the entire time.

"Oh my goodness, how embarrassing," I thought.  "I just went the wrong way in a turn-style."

Nope.  No I didn't.  They go both ways.  She was just a busy New Yorker who couldn't be bothered to move out of the way.

She high-statused the small town fuck out of me. 

Which is easy to do when you look like me: short, baby-faced, and with a permanent confused furrow in my brow.  Worry lines, if you will.

I have always loved big cities.  I have just never seen anything this big before.  I mean New York City is enormous.  People are on top of people here.  If you hit the town at the right time you might just see more people then you ever even knew existed. 

Where are all of these people going?  What are they doing?  WHY ARE THERE SO MANY OF THEM.

These are the thoughts I have as I get on and off the subway each day.  It makes me physically anxious.  Am I supposed to look them all in the eye?  Do I compliment each person I see on their outfits?  Is it okay to ask someone how their day is going?  I'm just at a loss as to what to do about all the humans I see on a daily basis here.  

Not only have I battled with my human-related anxiety levels while here, but I have attempted to adapt quickly to the environment.

I do things in New York that I would never do back at home.

Subway too packed?  Let's cram on in there.

Sketchy street deals?  99 cents for pizza AND a back massage?  What a steal.

Don't Walk sign?  Sure, let's walk.

My mother is most likely cringing at the thought of these things that I have just said, but I adapted this way to make it out alive.  I mean don't get me wrong.  There was plenty of overlap between Suburban Me and City Me.  

A good day was getting lost five times instead of six.  I think my count this morning is only two, so we're on a roll.

(knock on dirty wood table)

Well, back to the old grind as they say.  I have approximately three minutes to inhale this fancy sandwich and trek the five blocks to my improv class.  Which is plenty of time if you're a New Yorker.

Bye! Or as they say in New York,

"..."

(says nothing and proceeds to jog-walk past you in the turn-style.)

Got That S-S-Summatime Sadness

Today marks my last week of summer employment.  As I sit in my wheelie teacher chair that is not actually my own at summer school monitoring my one student I contemplate that the summer is pretty much over. 

He's taking a test.  He's fine.

A week from today I will be enjoying my last bits of summer freedom in The Big Apple.  As a treat to myself and the hectic summer I signed myself up for with summer school tutoring and trying to haphazardly string together a novel, I enrolled myself in a UCB improv class in New York City.

Treat yo'self.

UCB, Upright Citizen's Brigade, the comedy school brain child of Amy Poehler and home to the world's best comedians, is the stuff of legends.  

It's the big deal, the trifecta; Emerald City, if you will.

And like Dorothy, perpetually confused but always fashionable, I will be trying my hand at the big leagues.  During this week long intensive course I will be testing my improv chops with the best of the best.  Or at least the best ones who could afford to be here.  I myself can't actually afford to be here.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, I owe you like a thousand dollars. But really. I'm sorry I'm so poor. But have faith. My degree is being put to good use, I promise.

The class includes five days jam-packed with improv theory, training, and a final performance on Saturday to showcase how awesome we'll all be at improv.  I mean some of us, present company included, are already awesome at it. 

But we'll get awesome...er.

But no matter how awesomely awesome this New York trip will be for me, I can't help but feel like my summer is over.  As I sit now in my sweaty and filthy bedroom and listen to Lana Del Rey's Summertime Sadness, I question what became of the months of March, April, May, and June.

Seriously.  What became of them? 

My guess is that they're sitting in some hipster coffee shop that moonlights as a puppet theater trying to avoid humanity.  I can't make this stuff up.  I actually had a kiddie scoop of gelato yesterday at a small Denver coffee shop that closed at 3pm for a children's puppet show.  Who knew things like this even existed? 

You're drunk, Denver.  Go home.  Anyway.

I'll never know what became of the spring or much of the summer, but I do know this:

A storm is coming.

The tidal wave that is the coming school year will soon hit the mainland and I will likely find myself clutching to my deflated life rafts and arm floaties.  I have a confession.  I can't really swim all that well. 

My mother tried relentlessly every summer of my childhood to get me into swimming lessons and I always ended up shivering and crying in the pool and pissing off my instructor.  I mean don't get me wrong, if put in a situation where I was forced to swim for my life I would certainly put up a good fight. 

But I would also be the first one to die.

You know, like in those survival movies.  It's usually the character that everyone loves the most, too.  The endearing map expert.  The hopeful youth with a gal back home.  Yeah, I'd definitely die first.

I use this hilarious and all-too-real metaphor because teaching is a lot like swimming for your life in shark invested waters.  Especially in your first year.  No one can really prepare you for the shit-storm, you just gotta' kick and hope yuh don't feel something graze your foot.

Speaking of those majestic creatures, excuse me I have a date with my television set to binge on Shark Week programs for the rest of the evening.

Ta!

It's All Downhill From Here: A Letter From Your Fragile Body

Today while sitting on an uncomfortable but necessary paper sheet separating me from the doctor's chair I perused my all-too-familiar surroundings. 

Stethoscope, hello.

Pamphlets for the elderly, good to see you.

Pressure cuffs, we meet again.

Needles, you're dead to me.

I greeted the quasi-clean environment like an old (and annoying) friend.  The kind of awkward acquaintance that you just can't seem to escape from.  But try as we might, we are doomed to make eye contact in the grocery store and attempt forced small talk.

I have been in more doctor's offices, nurse's chairs, and metal contraptions than I would care to admit lately.  Due to my famous combustible brain matter that we all know and love, I find myself in routine check-ups on a frequent basis.

CAT scans, MRI's, PET's, ultrasounds, X-rays, that tiny heart monitor thingy that they put on your finger that lights up; I've done it all, folks.  I have done it all.

And for some silly reason I had the impression that after my brain surgery mumbo-jumbo I would be all good; forever exempt from the medical world of pokes, prods, and sympathy lollipops.

But no.  Ohhhhhhh no, no, no, you silly brain-damaged comedian, you!

After approximately six months spent dealing with doctor's visits, intensive therapy, and a garden variety of medications, I experienced a radio silence.  All of the sudden I was back to normal.  Or the new normal, really.  The kind of normal that has occasional bouts of double-vision when looking to the left and falls promptly out of chairs for no good reason.

It's a hilarious coincidence that while writing this post in the neighborhood Starbucks I quite literally fell out of my chair and onto a complete stranger when I saw a friendly face enter the door unexpectedly (Wade, you have my permission to judge me).

During my student-teaching semester I hardly ever needed to visit my annoying ol' pal at the doctor's office.  I was too busy running around my classroom like a chicken with its head cut off to even notice what condition my health was in and if it needed tending to.

I was on edge and fantastic.  Epically stressed out and riddled with anxiety.

I was a glorified zombie trying to convince everyone that I was a human and not a gooey test tube of medical complications.

Cue my summer body.  And no, not the summer body that does yoga half-naked in the park or relaxes leisurely by some sun-kissed beach tide waiting for the hot beach volleyball playing men to stumble by.  

Nah. 

It's the body I'd been neglecting for the past six months.  A body overcome by a laundry list of obnoxious ailments.  Without penciling in a visit to therapy or the next MRI session I had procrastinated on the upkeep.  I slacked on the oil changes...

Crud.  Now I just remembered I actually forgot to get my oil changed, too.  What an accidental metaphor.

Needless to say some work needed to be done, and by medical professionals.  What I originally self-diagnosed as a callous was soon discovered by the salon technician as she went to town on my dry, cracking feet like an Italian with a cheese-grater.

"Oh, honey that's a wart...those are baaaad.  I had to have mine cut off my foot.  See the scar?"

Oh, fantastic.  Another surgical procedure.  Another scar.

What the hell, body?

My mother took me promptly to the Walgreen's to find the freeze-away remedy.  For the next couple of weeks I tried relentlessly to rid my foot of the wart, channeling Lady Macbeth and shouting, "OUT DAMN SPOT," at the top of my lungs in my bathroom.

So eventually I ignored it and continued on grading papers and thinking of new exciting ways to make my Power Points more engaging for my students. 

Eh, what's a little wart gonna' do?  It's got nothin' on that brain hemorrhage of mine.

Towards the end of my student-teaching semester my body found other ways to casually piss me off.  This time in the company of my friends.  At a local summer food truck event in the heat of May my friends Rebecca, Mason, and I scoured the lot for the best burgers and brews.  Alongside the food trucks were local merchants; hand-made jewelery, bags, and adorable knick knacks.  We found a tent filled with organic hand creams.

Perfect.  Just what I needed for my dry man-hands.

I found an opened sample and rubbed it on my hands.  We carried on our way to the beer tent that would later disappoint us.

After about an hour in the hot sun I could feel my hands tingling and going numb.  I figured nothing of it and thought that it was simply the mystery cream working its magic on my hands.  As we exited the festival I turned to Mason.

"It's pretty normal that my hands are numb.  Right?"

"Mimi, I don't know how to tell you this," Mason said straight-faced, "but I think your hands may have been roofied..."

I looked down at my tingling, red hands in humiliation.  I knew there must have been something in the cream that was giving me an allergic reaction, but I had paid no attention to the name of the product nor its ingredients.  

By the morning my hands had broken out into a full-scale awful, itchy rash.

Figures.

While I knew I always had sensitive skin, I was peeved that my body was doing this to me.  I tried again with a variety of over-the-counter medications and for a while it seemed that the rash was going away.

But alas!  The body is a fragile being.

A little time spent in the sun caused my hand rash to flare up again.  Hence my long-awaited visit to the doctor today for the rash and pesky wart that refuse to go away. 

And here we are again, consistently disappointed in my body's inability to keep its shit together.  So to give my body a little bit of credit for trying to keep pace with my hectic life, I gave it the reins for the day.

Here's what it had to say:

Dear Mimi,

Thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedule to listen to me today.  For once.  It shouldn't be of any surprise what I'm about to say right now, but in case you've been ignoring me for the past 23 years (which you have), here's some things you should take note of:

1. We are not immortal.

2. We don't like it when you binge eat chocolate and salty things and watch Netflix for hours.

3. Running five miles sporadically without proper training or athleticism hurts us. So stop.

4. Our skin hates it when we're stressed out.  So just stop thinking about all the stuff that stresses us out.  Like now.

5. Read the ingredients for Christ's sake.  We can read, can't we?

6. Stop doing stupid things like Snapchatting at odd hours of the night.  We need our beauty sleep.  Unless you'd like to see us age prematurely.  Forehead wrinkles, I'm looking at you.

7. Do some yoga, yuh lazy scum.  Lord knows we could use the balance in our lives.  Remember that time, just a moment ago, when you fell out of our chair?  Do you enjoy embarrassing us?  DO YOU.

8. Since when has exercise ever been rational for eating an entire pizza in one sitting?  We can't elliptical our way to eliminating that muffin-top with your poor excuse for a diet.

9. Vegetables do not count if you cover them in butter and salt.

10. DRINK SOME WATER, WOULD YUH. Jesus woman.  You'd think you enjoy making us look and feel like Nebraska during the Dust Bowl.

Well now that we've covered some of my minor complaints, I'd like to end by saying that it is indeed all downhill from here.  The rush you used to feel by running shall soon be replaced with knee replacements and asthmatic lungs.  Don't bother trying to prevent worry lines, they are already here and they are here to stay. 

Oh sure, we've got a couple more glory years ahead of us.  We could capture the eye of a young male suitor at the YMCA. But those days are few and far between, my decomposing friend.

Take it from me, your poor, innocent body, you might look cute and endearing now when you stumble out of chairs and into stationary objects...but just wait til we hit 75.

That shit is not cute.

Yours Unfortunately,

Your Fragile Body 

Joining the Good Ol' Boy's Club: Women and Stand Up Comedy

I watched a documentary recently called Women Aren't Funny.   In the piece, comedian Bonnie McFarlane and company react to the hot debate spurred by belated Christopher Hitchens' article in Vanity Fair in 2007 titled Why Women Aren't Funny.  The article sparked so much of a response that it has since been taken off of the Vanity Fair website.  So McFarlane went on a hunt for the real answer to the question:

Well, are women funny?

While we are a progressive society and one that promotes the equality of the sexes, fair treatment in the workforce, and the elimination of the glass ceiling for women, you'd be surprised how many times I've heard the answer, "No" to this question.

From men and women, mind you.

In Hitchens' article it would appear that women are certainly not. Here's my favorite part:

"Humor is part of the armor-plate with which to resist what is already farcical enough. (Perhaps not by coincidence, battered as they are by motherfucking nature, men tend to refer to life itself as a bitch.) Whereas women, bless their tender hearts, would prefer that life be fair, and even sweet, rather than the sordid mess it actually is. Jokes about calamitous visits to the doctor or the shrink or the bathroom, or the venting of sexual frustration on furry domestic animals, are a male province."

Oh, bless my tender, fragile heart, Hitchens. You are right. My life experience with a battered heart and a broken brain are jokes for a man to tell. 

I can't even believe we're even having this discussion about whether or not women are funny, but whatever.  I hope you are doing stand up in a hell surrounded by women that are funnier than you and refuse to have sex with you, Sir Hitchens.

My condolences (he passed away in 2011...and I really am sorry about that...but like, I'm also offended by your ridiculous arguments).

To see more of his thoughts on how unfunny women are, click here for an exclusive interview.

For just about a year now I have been slowly experimenting with the Denver Stand Up scene.  It started off as little more than a silly bet from a college buddy one drunken summer night last August.  We both confessed that we'd always wanted to do it.  So she called the nearby comedy club and we signed up for an open mic that evening.

When we showed up the place was packed.  Mostly with men.  So we signed up and were randomized as numbers 14 and 18 on a list of 30-40 other comedians.  We then went down the street to go take some shots of liquid courage before our sets.  I figured my nerves could take a chill pill after a Rum and Coke and a few dollar tacos.

As we stumbled back to the comedy club in a stupor, I noticed my entire body tense up.  I brought with me at least 6 friends who I trusted to laugh at me no matter what happened up there, but I felt uneasy. 

An alien dropping in to survey a nearby galaxy of strange creatures.

I'd been introduced to the improv comedy world before and felt as though women were on the rise of doing comedy.  I was on an all-female improv team called Amelia's AirHearts and my college improv club almost had more women than men involved in comedy.  But this was different.  The few sets before mine and my friends consisted of racist, sexist, and downright offensive content matter told by and for a male audience.

I was about to talk about 4 year olds and that time a guy held my face on a date.  Was I going to fit in here?

Then I was announced on stage.  The Emcee made a comment about my gender in the worst way possible.

"Ohhh, it's a female comedian, everybody!  Look at that!"

I suddenly felt like the bearded lady at a freak show.  I started to question if I belonged in this setting or if I was just another strange thing that needed to be kicked swiftly off the stage and into a burning funeral pyre along with other Devil-worshiping witches.

I proceeded with my set in determination; 8 minutes that felt like 30 seconds but also 30 years at the same time.  I did my bits, got some laughs, and survived it with relatively few speech slurring incidents.  Since that first rough go at it I have taken it upon myself to go fairly sporadically to several other comedy clubs, dive bars, and coffee shops in the Denver Metro.  I'm doing my best and I'm surviving.

But that's the thing: some women are merely surviving at stand up, not thriving.

This is not to say that there are not successful female comedians, we all know there are.

Ellen Degeneres, Amy Schumer, Tina Fey, Amy Pohler, Mindy Kaling, Kristen Wiig, Melissa McCarthy, Kate McKinnon, Iliza Shlesinger, Whitney Cummings, Sarah Silverman, Joan Rivers, Wanda Sykes, Natasha Leggero, Maria Bamford, Ilana Glazer, Abbi Jacobson, like does everyone really need a reminder of how funny women are?

And these are just some of the big names.  There are countless amounts of women trying to break into comedy the way these women have successfully done.  And while women have made incredible progress in comedy, the stand up scene still leaves a lot to be desired.

If you pop into the Denver open mic scene on any given night you might find a handful of women there on stage.  Some are hosting, some performing, some watching. 

When I go to open mics I get some weird looks at the sign up.  Mostly because I look 12 and not old enough to be allowed in the bar much less do comedy, but also because I'm still a new face.  I'm not part of the boys club just yet.  I haven't been welcomed ceremoniously.  I'm just kind of there.  Occasionally shaking things up for the sausage-fest.

I feel a lot of feelings about doing stand up comedy as a woman.

Part of me feels like I could actually get good at it eventually.  Like anything else, comedy is a skill that I truly believe can be learned by anyone.  Rome wasn't built in a day and neither was Ellen.  So I feel encouraged to hone the craft and gain confidence in my comedic abilities.

Part of me feels strange; feelings of unwelcome surface as they did my first time.  Laughs seem harder to come by when you're not the usual but the unfamiliar. 

And part of me feels outraged, militant even. 

Why does this guy get to get up there and talk about his genitalia and hate of women for 5-10 minutes and get laughs and I get silence after quality insight on small children and brain injuries?

There have been times I have walked out of open mics offended and utterly upset.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe violence against women has ever been a laughing matter.

But what do I know.  I'm brain damaged after all.

Again, I am a newbie to the Denver stand up scene and I am still learning its in's and out's.  I claim no expertise in this field nor do my affiliates, my associates, or my dog.  Some are delightful with true talent.  Some have great happy hour specials.  Pretty much all of them have welcomed me with open arms and haven't thrown cabbage at me yet.

But there's still some well needed growing pains that need to occur before women are on equal footing with men in the comedy game.

I think the reason for people answering "No" to the question "Are Women Funny?" is that:

a. They may have suffered mass head trauma, severe concussions, or may have lost the ability to string together rational thoughts,

b. They simply don't see as many women doing comedy and therefore if you don't see something then it doesn't exist,

c. Women being funny all of the sudden is threatening to a patriarchy that yes, is still alive and well.

It's a double-edged sword for female comedians.  Or as I like to call them: "comedians."

Not only do we feel put on the spot by our unique gender to a field that is predominately male-centered, but it is likely that we feel pressure to be that much funnier just to prove to the world that yes, we are actually funny.

If you happen upon a conversation about women in comedy, it is likely that you'll hear the following comments:

"She's too raunchy."

"She just talks about dating all the time."

"I can't believe she thought it was okay to discuss her period.  Ew.  That's disgusting."

Really?

You don't find it acceptable for me to discuss a natural occurrence that happens within my body monthly that makes it possible to produce human life?

Well that's interesting.

The fact of the matter is that it really shouldn't matter who or what you are, you should be able to do comedic material on anything that's witty, truthful, or relatable.  If women want to tell bodily jokes like some men do, then why shouldn't they?  Shouldn't the same rules apply to everyone?

By the way, if you're a comedian I kind of don't recommend the "shock and awe" method.  This includes racist, sexist, ageist, homophobic, and really any other highly offensive content. 

Except for poop jokes.  Those are pretty much always a win-win scenario.

Just last week I was at an open mic where a gentleman told a bit about black people not being able to swim.  Uncomfortable laughs and disappointed head nods followed.  

Like. Why.

I have to give my partner in crime and best friend Brennyn mad props for escorting me to the variety of strange and uncomfortable open mics that I have ventured into.  She has watched in agony as comedians make rude, outlandish remarks on stage and remained completely supportive of my mediocre comedic timing.  Like I said, I'm no expert just yet.  I still have a long way to go before I feel at ease in my own skin in the stand up scene.

Just find comfort in the fact that there is indeed a place for women in comedy as there always has been.  It takes some women years to be as successful as their male counterparts, but there is no secret to the funny.  It's just hard work, dedication, and the ability to tell it like it is.

If you are a woman and have been contemplating comedy and your ability to be funny, know this:

You can do this.

Funny women are here.  And they are here to stay.

A Treatise On Why Gyms Suck

Look.  Everyone hates the gym.  Where else can you work self-consciously on your inept body under the watchful eye of old high school acquaintances while simultaneously picking up a myriad of diseases from greasy exercise equipment?

Gyms aren't exactly my thing.  Nor do I expect them to be anyone's thing.

Prior to my brain's epic fail I was a moderately athletic individual. You should be shaking your head in agreement right now because you know deep down this is not so hard to believe.

Believe it or not, there was a period of time when I could squat lift something weighing more than a box of pizza.  I played competitive ice hockey for most of my life.  I even played twenty minutes in college once.

Big deal, everyone.  Big. Deal.

Anyway, what I'm trying to impress upon you is that I used to be somebody. 

"I coulda' been a contendaaaa..."

I never considered myself to be exponentially good at anything, but at least I could run without a pebble nearly ending my life and could stop a flying hockey puck every now and again.  And not being exceptionally "gifted" at sports allowed me to develop a healthy sense of humility when I got rejected from sports teams.  I knew I couldn't rely on natural ability so I worked harder to make up for it.

I was doing alright for myself.

Then we had a tiiiiiiiny lil' brain bleed and all nonexistent athleticism went directly out the hospital window.  It's kind of hard to run a half-marathon when you can't walk, it turns out.  Who knew.

I certainly didn't.

"I'll be out of rehab by like October 16th...that's still three whole days to train for my half-marathon..." I said casually to my physical therapist one day as we were working on walking a straight line heel to toe.

"Come again?" She said laughing into a grin.

"What? I signed up for the Denver Half Marathon for the 19th.  I should be able to run that by then, don't you think?" I replied as I lost footing and had to restart my exercise.

Walking and talking at the same time was a skill set I did not yet possess.

During my rehabilitation I often became frustrated at my body's inability to act its age.  My physical therapy consisted largely of balance activities that you would normally encounter if pulled over for a sobriety test.  By the time I left Spalding Rehabilitation Center I could walk heel to toe straight lines while counting backward from sixty in threes.

Fancy, no?

What was not so fancy was the toll the injury took on my body.  The athletic legs I had spent so many years fine crafting became withered and skimpy, chicken-like even.  Because the injury occurred in my Cerebellum, motor functions and the ability to walk became temporarily impaired. 

In the span of a month and a half I lost a tremendous amount of muscle mass in my legs and arms. So imagine my surprise at learning how to walk again after years of being able to do it just fine.

We really don't give babies enough credit.  This stuff is hard work, people.

But I made it out of rehab fine with my own creative version of Amy Winehouse's famous song.  I regained mobility and was cleared to run again in December granted I stay away from the half marathon until I could walk without running into walls.

Pebbles still felt like death-traps, but I slowly worked my way back up to full exercise and public gym visits.

But then I remembered that regular gyms, the non-hospital kind, suck.

Friendly elderly rehab friends were quickly replaced with people from high school that I didn't care to see.

Nice and clean balancing machines were now greasy exercise balls and malfunctioning treadmills.

I had become so accustomed to the splendid rehab facilities and kind encouragement from therapists and nurses that I could hardly recognize my neighborhood gym.

Why is no one clapping at the fact that I just did a push-up without falling directly on my face? Is everyone looking at my chicken legs in disgust? Why is my therapist not here to give me tips on how to get on and off of this treadmill machine correctly?

Of course I had never cared for public humiliation, but now I really didn't care for it.

I've come a long way since my tiny hand weights and heel-toe walking, however I'm still unsatisfied with the status of my chicken legs.  So I run a lot.  And every one in a while I go back to the gym and remember how much I absolutely hate it.

Yesterday I went to the gym.  I did a quick lap around the track and made my way to the leg press.

Here we go, chicken legs.  Time to be less chicken-leggy.

I did ten leg presses with 110 pounds and felt awesome about it.  I would be back to physical mediocrity in no time! This was when I was interrupted from my awesome by a 16 year old girl who asked to use my machine.  Like now.  Like this second.  Like get off of it.

"Well I'm kind of on it right now, but when I'm done you're welcome to use it.  It's not like I own it.  It's a free country." I said, thinking she would come back in a minute once my chicken legs got some work done.

But no.

She just stood there.  Starring at me.

So I continued my reps and hoped that she would take a hint and not pressure me off of the machine that I so clearly needed in order to not have chicken legs anymore.

After about a minute of making awkward eye contact with her I gave up and got off the machine peeved at her inability to see just how badly I needed this machine more than her.

This is why I hate this place.  No friendly old people encouraging me, no gait belts to hold me up just in case I fall on my face. 

Nada.

I mean regaining muscle mass after a brain injury is hard enough, people.  I don't need you pressuring me off of this leg press.  I don't need you gawking at my pathetic excuse for legs. 

I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.

Ah well.  Back to lifting pizza boxes in the privacy of my own living room.