A stupid study, a patch of white, and my ensuing quarter life crisis

It seemed as though the world was trying to tell me something yesterday. Everything looked a little bleaker, a little darker, a little more morbid. Everywhere I looked there were signs. SIGNS OF IMPENDING DOOM. Clearly someone had a message to send and was not being the least bit subtle about it. 

The first sign was sent my way at the gym. I was minding my own business, huffing and puffing away at my elliptical (aka holding on for dear life), when the super fit sixty year old on the machine next to me requests a channel change. It irritated me to no end that he sounded ABSOLUTELY FINE while I was practically wheezing and had to carefully and deliberately choose between breathing and talking. Also, why anyone wants to watch anything but mouth-watering cupcakes, donuts, and pastries being made and waved temptingly in your face as you strive to run off the two cookies you already ate today is completely beyond me? Watching all those yummy delights is the closest thing to a contact sugar high you can get! But what do I know. Anyways, the channel is changed to the local news station, and you see a banner fly across the giant flat screen "Were you born in October?" Yes, I think gleefully! Yes, I was. What wonderful things are they going to announce about people born in October. Perhaps we October-ites have been deemed the most successful of all the months? Or the kindest? Or the most beautiful (wishful thinking)?

But no. That would have been too easy. Instead, my heart sinks as I discover that a recent study done by Columbia University has identified October as the unhealthiest month to be born in. WHYYYYYYY?!? According to this study, people born in October have the overall highest risk for the 55 diseases that were studied including asthma, heart disease, and ADHD. WHY ME?! I have so much to live for: there are still hundreds of desserts I haven't tasted and thousands of restaurants I still need to try. Don't you dare try and take that away from me. After dropping this awful bombshell on a grief-stricken, heartbroken ol me, the reporter casually mentions as an afterthought that Dr. Tatonetti says "It's important not to get overly nervous about these results because even though we found significant associations the overall disease risk is not that great." THANKS! That was very comforting! NOT.

So I was already midway to a full blown panic attack as I was driving home from the gym. As soon as I got home, I haphazardly flung my sneakers into the living room, dropped my gym bag on the dining table (who cares if I make a mess, my days are numbered anyways) and went upstairs to take a shower. As I was combing out my hair, I noticed a little white hair. I quickly looked around (to make sure no weird spirits/ghosts was watching me in my own bathroom of course) and plucked it out. Phewww, I thought. This had been happening every 4 or 5 months since I had turned 21. I would find a white hair while combing or straightening my hair, pluck it out real quick, and pretend like it never happened. That was just the way I chose to live my life. Happily, and white hair-lessly.

Little did I know that my life would never be the same again. I was mere seconds away from entering a focal turning point: I would officially become OLD in about 8 seconds. I kept combing, and as I was pushing away hair, I noticed a suspicious shimmer. Now my hair is naturally fairly shiny, but this particular strand of hair had caught the light and had a distrustful air about it. Keeping the ensuing panic attack at bay, I decided that further exploration was necessary before any decisions were made (time to throw away my savings on that red convertible?) or conclusions drawn. I parted my hair and was going through it inch by inch, when I discovered IT. IT was a patch of FOUR white hairs located 3 centimeters to the left of my part. I will remember IT for the rest of my life. IT had officially plunged me into old age. Before I know it, my hair will all be white, I'll be stooped over a cane and screaming like a banshee at my deaf husband (assuming I find someone crazy enough to willingly enter the last legal form of slavery with me). It will all go downhill from here on out, I thought. This is it, I'm officially past my peak, my prime. It was with those sad thoughts that I went to bed. 

When I woke up today, I was completely fine. I looked in the mirror and thought, I'm young, I still have plenty time. Who cares what Columbia University or my evil hair follicles think. And then I spotted it. The evil, white, glinting, silvery 3 inch piece of hair that was marshaling in my inevitable doom lying oh so innocently on the bathroom counter...

Book Review: The Best of Me

Wow, I really apologize for the super long hiatus. I just checked my last post and noticed it was in January! Holy crap, time flies fast! So I kinda went to India for a month-long vacation, and I guess time really got away from me before and after that. Anyways, a million apologies, and here's a new book review!

In tune with my out-of-the-closet Nicholas Sparks book and movie obsession, I decided to read "The Best of Me" in preparation for the release of the movie. Four or five hours after picking it up at the local bookstore, I put down the completed novel, and was not at all covered in the typical afterglow I get after a good, cheesy Nicholas Sparks read. The story felt like a conglomerate of all previous Nicholas Sparks' novels, particularly The Notebook and Dear John. It lacked originality and creativity, and felt like someone had just combined all the "proper" elements of an "epic love story". Lots of cheesy, lovey-dovey moments, a splash of separation, a pinch of family drama, and a dash of sacrifice. Needless to say, I was not impressed.

Teenagers Dawson Cole and Amanda Collier are from complete opposite sides of the track. Despite the world being against them, and their radically different socioeconomic backgrounds, Dawson and Amanda fall head over heels in love until the tragic events of one night send them reeling and onto different paths. Nearly twenty-five years later, the death of Dawson's mentor, Tuck Hostetler, re-unites the two former lovers. As they carry out Tuck's last wishes, Dawson and Amanda are pitched head first into the countless memories from their past, their regrets, and their long lost love for one another. Can their love ever be re-kindled or has too much transpired in the last twenty-five years for them to be those two people that were once crazy about each other?

I suppose it's worth a read, especially if you want to watch the movie, but I wouldn't expect too much of it (I stopped watching the movie twenty minutes in....what can I say, I get bored easily). Nicholas Sparks really needs to up his game and come up with some new material instead of recycling his usual "tear-jerker" material.

Dear Wheezing Asshole

Dear Wheezing Asshole from the Gym,

GO HOME! Don't come to the gym when you're covered head to toe in disgusting flu germs and are hacking your lungs out on the elliptical. The gym is a safe haven for healthy people TRYING TO STAY HEALTHY. By coughing out your lungs every 2 minutes (and NOT COVERING YOUR MOUTH while doing so), you are kindly endangering the health (and lives) of the 100 or so other people sharing the same sweaty, not-very-well-ventilated room as you. 

It truly baffles me as to what you were thinking earlier on in the day. "Hmm...I can barely breathe without coughing or sneezing, I look like complete shit, and I see fit to wear A SCARF TO THE FUCKING GYM, but I really want to get a good workout in today?" WTF asshole?!! First sign that you don't belong in the gym today: wearing a woolen scarf to the gym in June in Southern California. OR wearing a scarf to the gym in general, anywhere! GO HOME!

Thanks to your incredible thoughtfulness, I can feel the same disgusting sickness that has clearly debilitated your mental faculties crawling up through my lungs and into my throat. Apparently the packets of disgustingly fizzy Vitamin C I was willing to trade an arm or a kidney for made no difference to my immune system, who decided to waive the white flag and surrender moments into being accosted by your nasty germ-soldiers.

If and when I see you at the gym tomorrow, I'm going to cough in your face and smear my germs all over your sad little scarf. OH WAIT...I don't go to the gym when I'm sick because I would rather embrace all my fat cells than endanger the lives of hundreds of innocent bystanders. But you better watch your back next week. I do have a reputation for attempting to lift and then "accidentally" drop heavy weights on people that annoy me. Oops..

Sincerely yours,

Your No-Longer-Healthy Elliptical Neighbor