The Towel Boy Confounds Me

I don't know how to deal with the towel boy at my gym.

Well, okay, maybe he's more like the front desk boy. (And I do mean boy - he's probably 12.) But all I need him for is towels.

I come in every day. And every day I need two towels. But he seems unabashedly unaware of my showering needs.

I stand there, looking at him, watching him fold aforementioned towels, my hand out expectantly. And he looks at me and smiles. (It probably doesn't help that he reminds me of an ex, beloved Bass Boy.) And continues folding. And so I try to come up with something witty to say, but always - ALWAYS - wind up saying something idiotic.

I just want my towels.

Why do you need to tease me so?

Mt. Misery (or Pre-Menstrual Hiking)

My hormones are all screwed up. I blame it on the stupid horsepills I'm taking for my foot. But still, I've felt PMSey for days - you know, bloaty, crampy, hostile. But today I'm convinced it's not a false-positive -- I got a case of the cries.

Other women might know what I mean. The NPR Weekend Sunday (or WeSun to us junkies) music set me tearing. A particularly poignant paragraph in my book started a gusher. I was overcome with a desire to read old Christmas cards I've hung onto for too many years.

So I decided to go for a hike. A guide to local hikes mentioned a trail that wound a few miles around Lincoln, MA with Mt. Misery as it's goal. Mt. Misery? Perfect.

It was truly wonderful to get outside. I do my best thinking outside. I do my best non-thinking outside.

And while I didn't meet God (although I'm sure She was there) and I didn't discover the Meaning of Life, I did have a very cool leaning-against-a-tree-uuji-breathing moment. Oh yea, and I saw some really big animal poop. Bear? Deer? Huge doggie? I have no idea, but it was a bitch to scrape off my boots.

Mt. Misery? Only kinda sorta.

Guilt will get you nowhere

I have this to say to friends and family members who try to guilt me into doing something - it will get you nowhere.

When I've decided to do something - or not do something - it's pretty much certain. Stubborn, who me?

If you try to change my mind by putting a guilt trip on me, the only success you'll have is pissing me off.

Unless I've done something that is actively hurtful, I refuse to feel guilty. And working that mojo on me will only make me want to end the conversation.

Capiche?

We'll Miss You Molly Ivins

Columnist, commentatory, funny woman, brilliant woman, brave woman, Molly Ivins died yesterday after a long, heroic bout with breast cancer. NPR did a wonderful eulogy.

She was a personal hero of mine and her spirit will be missed.

"We are the people who run this country. We are the deciders. And every single day, every single one of us needs to step outside and take some action to help stop this war. Raise hell!" -- Molly Ivins. Read more of her wisdom.

This Is Not a Test

So, Mr. Zips will be spending lots of weekdays/nights at my house over the next couple of weeks. He got a contract gig at a local company doing video editing. It's good money and an even better opportunity. And I am really proud of him for pursuing this.

But to be honest, I'm pretty nervous.

I know he and I have talked about the possibility of living together. But honestly, I'm not sure that I'm ready or even that it's something I will want to do eventually.

But with everyone I tell about this latest development in my personal life, I get the response, "Well, it will be a good test." This even a friend from so far back that he knows I will NEVER get married again.

Why does this have to be a test? Why do we have to test relationships? Why do we have to prove that we can live with one another to prove that we love one another? Is our relationship any stronger or weaker because he doesn't want to talk in the mornings or because sometimes I would rather read a book than watch Alton Brown?

It bothers me that everyone assumes that the conventional lifestyle is for everyone. I am quite happy living on my own, being responsible for my own mess or my own tidyness, taking out my own garbage. I don't need to set up a test run domestic arrangement to know that I love him.

Why can't that be OK?