I love eating lentil salad. It’s like eating confetti.
For the base:
1 Kindle, charged
Too many words
Not enough time
1 supportive family, a little over room temperature
1 cup fear of stuffs under water
1 tbsp. motherly instinct, boiled until bubbly
3 tsp. silly sense of humour
2 tsp. annoyingly loud laugh
2 tsp. cry baby
1 tsp. aspiring writer
Add amazing friends to taste
Let the Kindle charge overnight and make sure the wireless is turned off for extra battery life. In a large bowl, mix family, silly sense of humour and annoyingly loud laugh, preferably while performing a personal contemporary dance creation. Add cry baby and aspiring writer gradually and finish off with some of the best companions you’ll ever meet (Tip : the more the better)
For the glaze:
4 cups binge drinking
1 million highlighters
1 tbsp. outrage
2 tbsp. boredom
Mix in a large pot over a fire of court cases you will never read again until almost unbearably heavy. Glaze base lightly and let cool for two years or however long it takes you to get over the traumatizing experience of learning the law.
That’s the little of a Celine Dion album. You know you love it.
I can’t get the The Nance out of my head. I think I’m over it and it appears again, with flashing moments of brilliance and intensity.
The scene of the morning after was just so beautiful.
Let’s forget for a moment that we witnessed full frontal nudity in the presence of you parents and ponder on the magnificence of what was developing on in front of our eyes.
Mainly I remember their embraces and kisses. Whereas I get thoroughly annoyed at heterosexual PDA, I find myself nearly applauding every time I see two men showing their affections to the world. I do so hate generalizations, but I feel I might be right about this one and besides it makes me happy, so I’ll allow it:
You see, a man’s love is not like a woman’s. When a man decides to love (I have always felt they had some sort of decision to make, which just serves to make it so much more endearing), he does so purely and without complications. It is a tenderness so intense, it is just short of violent. But it is so, oh! So, so true. A man in love is a man possessed, but willingly, happily so. It is true happiness, that shines and glows and erases all shadows of doubt, all fear of tomorrow and any day after that.
You see, one man in love is enough beauty for days. Put two of them together and, well, I am simply in pure, joyful awe.
Do you think Chauncy loved Ned? If he didn’t I wonder why he cried so intensely near the end. Maybe he was simply crushed by the absence from his life of such a good person. I also wonder what made it so clear that Ned was a good person, an angel of some sorts. Did you feel that way as well? Like he could do no wrong? Maybe it was because he said his wife deserved to be with someone who loved her, maybe it was his complete and undemanding devotion to Chauncy. Maybe it was just his always so high spirits. I wish I could have known these people. Is that the mark of a great play?
The breakup scene was just so excruciating.
It lasted long because breakups usually do (I’m permitting another generalization). Neither ever wants to leave, neither is ever sure who should be to one to. It goes on and on until your eyes grown wide with the realization that despite all that has happened and what it has led to, what you know is inevitable, you were still coveting, somewhere hidden, where the darkness couldn’t go, a glimmer of hope, that fades at that exact moment. That’s when everything gets dark and you, like Chauncy did, hurl yourself towards the other, only to feel the pain that there is nothing left.
The scenes in my head are happy endings.
I like to think – and I believe I am not alone – that Ned comes back and he is still the forgiving angel that he was. It helps that he learns Chauncy’s sacrifice for him. He doesn’t tell him he knows until they get into a fight during which Chauncy, in a manifestation of his own insecurities, claims Ned thinks he is a horrible person, incapable of doing anything for others. Ned says something like “I don’t think someone who would sacrifice so much just to protect an ex-lover from the cops can be qualified as a horrible person”. They make up and it’s lovely and sort of corny and they kiss and I get the urge to applaud.
For those who like physical comedy « Anastasia doing Crossfit » would be a sure hit. For starters, the simple image of me and my seldom trained arms trying to perform ONE pull-up is enough to make more than a few people chuckle. But there is so much more.
The odd thing is, the first two months were quite uneventful. Granted, I sucked horribly, but no more than expected and I generally made it through a workout without turning in to a clumsy cow. I guess you could have laughed at my inability to go down stairs on the way home, but it would still be a chuckle at best.
Then, I had to stop the workouts (ahem torture ahem) for a few months. For some reason, when I got back, no class would go by without some sort of comical and embarrassing moment.
Three particular moments stand out.
On my first day back, we were practicing presses. I asked my companions to suggest a weight, specifying that I do not lift much (I probably should have explained that I can barely carry a 2/4. I just figured one could tell by looking at my puny arms.) and what do you know, it was too heavy. Instead of simply letting the bar fall behind me and taking a step forward, I somehow ended up with it resting on my head, unable to move at all. The coach came running. He held the bar and I did not move. He had to yell for me to let go and get out of the way, which I did promptly. In my haste, as a stood up, I turned around took a step forward, straight into the left side of the bar. The coach just looked at me and said: “I didn’t move.” I was aware, thank you.
A few weeks later, the workout included a few series of handstand push-ups. No, I cannot do a handstand push-up. The trick to practice is to kneel on a box, hands on the floor. Around the third series, my arms decided to go on strike and voted that my face should the one taking the hit. For those of you who have never tried, falling off a wooden box is slightly awkward, but the worst part was trying to jump rope mere seconds later, when I could barely stand I was laughing so hard. In normal circumstances this would be fine, others would be giggling with you and you would pause the time to catch your breath and carry on. But this is crossfit, everybody is busy suffering self-inflicted martyrdom on their own and it would not be well looked upon for the girl who ran into her own bar to be laughing while the clock is still running.
Last, but most certainly and embarrassingly not least, is the day I decided the time had come to start practicing pull-ups. Up until then, the coach had given me as simpler (because a pull-up is oh-so complicated) exercise. That day, I decided I could give the elastics a try. With my foot in the strongest one, I did it. That, however, meant actually getting my foot in the elastic. Tied on the pull-up bar, it came down to the level of my chest. It feels like the guys who made these should have thought : “If this strength of elastic is necessary for a person, I should make them longer, for it is doubtful such a weakling will be able to stretch it very much”. I do not believe my skills can render this image, but I simply must try. There I stood, pulling on an elastic that is barely stretching with one leg in the air, ready to step on the loop the second I manage to get it to the right height (because it wasn’t going to remain there very long). Of course I had to do this more than once. And of course that is not even the worst of it. My lovely elastic was intent on doing its job to the best of its bouncy ability. I pushed my legs back to get the necessary swing and it decided to help by swinging my legs forward, until I was parallel to the floor. At which point, it decided I was helpless and slid off my foot and right up between my legs. I’m sure not I have stressed how strong this little guy was : I could barely get my feet to the ground. I half-hung there for what seemed like forever, desperately trying to free myself of this undesired harness.
Bref, I’m going to stick to running.
For the record, this is going horribly.
That being said, I recently stumbled upon this marvelous quote from Albert Camus :. “Chaque excès diminue la vitalité, donc la souffrance. La débauche n’a rien de frénétique contrairement à ce qu’on croit. Elle n’est qu’un long sommeil.”
Authors. How do they get inside our heads?
My first reaction was “No, you cannot do this to me.” One cannot, in the middle of a lengthy and slightly uneventful description, decide to insert this perfectly worded yet painful truth.
How do you feel when you’re hungover? I have long ago gotten over the physical discomfort, mainly because it usually consists only of a headache and (this is the terrifying part) welcome the exhaustion, for it includes a certain fatigue of my mind. Like my body is telling my brain that today, there is need for peace and quiet on all fronts, that all the issues that have been racking it can wait until tomorrow. It’s not the kind of thing you realize until, I suppose, you start to understand your excessive drinking has less to do with a good time with friends and more with the luxury of numbness guaranteed for the morning after.
But oh! What joy it is to go to bed after a day of lying on the couch treating a pounding head and knowing that you will fall asleep almost instantly!
It is so not about living every moment to the max. It is a long sleep, an attempt to make everything a little less intense and poignant, diminuer la vitalité.
I really do mean fault, as in fault-cause-prejudice, the wonderful trilogy that had been so embedded on our brains that if, god forbid, we were to develop Alzheimer’s it would be one of the last things to be erased from our memories.
You made me promise, while under the influence of a much to strong margarita, that I would start this blog when I got back from vacationing with you in New York city. My prejudice will be the extreme anxiety brought forth by the idea of anyone stumbling upon to this blog and the humiliation I will feel when reading back all the nonsense that will be poured onto these pages.
For instance, since we so like (and need) to vent, I currently want to tell you how utterly annoyed I got at a conditioner bottle this morning. You see, it was doing that annoying thing where all the air comes out, leaving behind conditioner that will under no circumstances be squeezed out. It is one of my all too many pets peeves. Thankfully, it doesn’t happen as often as other annoyances, like being stuck behind people that walk to slowly.
And now you see, I have just spent the last 10 minutes making damn sure my first world conditioner problem will not show up on a Facebook newsfeed. I personally find my day to day life quite gripping, but I am not so conceited as to believe others will. However, the permission to go on and on about mundane and utterly unexceptional events is, in my opinion, one the greater perks of friendship. You will be required to do a little more than the usual companion, as compensation for the damages caused by the birth of this blog.
I will however admit that it is reassuring that you should be the main recipient of my thoughts. You with your open and never judging mind should hopefully make it easier (though I do say this having been unable to click the “publish post” button for the last hour). Ah well, here it goes.