The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

I had my first training session yesterday and it was fabutastic.  My trainer took the time to educate me and go through the machines.  They do a great job of documenting how many reps you need to do on what machines, and how much time to wait in between reps.  It felt like fireworks in muscle groups that hadn’t seen much action in I don’t know how long.  And I can’t wait to go again on Tuesday.

Of course, there’s also the locker room issue.  Now, I’m not one with a wandering eye.  But this particular locker room is just basically one long row of lockers and benches, with not much room to pass by fellow members in various states of undress.  There’s your usual fare of old, fat, naked men totally at ease meandering about.  And then there are the really hot guys shirtless, in towels about to slip right off their hips, and stripping down to naught with the family jewels full on display.

I felt like I had a few eyes at least briefly on me, but that might have been a bit of paranoia.  What was most surprising was that I had to make a slight effort to look away at the hottie nudies at times.

Now, I myself change at work and then don my coat and knapsack and hightail it out of there when I’m done ’cause I ain’t bearin’ my wares to the public.  And the idea of locker room sex makes me sick to my stomach.  Like, genuinely.

But who am I to turn away from a beautiful man merely centimeters away from me.  I should just put horse blinders on the moment I walk in the locker room from now on. 

Yikes, you guys.

I am fairly certain someone slipped a disassociative into the Brita pitcher over the weekend.  I’ve felt completely out of it since yesterday, like I’m in a dream.  Not the good kind where you’re doing the wild thing with Zac Efron and Jonathon Rhys-Meyers all night, but the kind where you’re at work and having to work hard but don’t really feel like you’re there in the office.

I suppose it had something to do with me remaining intact in my bed all day Sunday sipping on Appletinis while watching “Viva La Bam” DVDs.  It rained all day, and I was wholly unproductive.

Saturday, LG came by in a cloud of smoke.  We were supposed to see “Coraline” the last weekend it is in 3-D, but it was sold out for the remaining showings.  Still, we made the best of it with a deliciously down home meal on Polk.

I figured why not go the whole hog since my first training session at the gym isn’t until Thursday.  After they canceled on me twice.  But it’s with Kevin, and he’s “one of our favorites”.  We’ll see if he ends up being one of mine.

My tax refund just came through!  Good news, as I’m planning a trip to Miami to meet my long list sister LM come May.  Plus I want to see where the Golden Girls live, and perhaps stroll out on the lanai.

I’m enjoying “Rupaul’s Drag Race” more than I thought I would.  Even though they’re a bunch of queens competing for a prize, they’re not all that bitchy, and it’s all rather fun.  And who doesn’t love seeing RuPaul being back in some semblance of a limelight?

I hate to break it to you, but skinny jeans look awful.  On everyone.  No one’s butt and legs look so fantastic that ever bit of them needs to be emphasized in air-tight denim.  Spare yourself.

Among the many popular American phrases I hate (”you guys”, “literally”, et. al.), chief among them is the term “results-oriented”.  This term frequently pops up in ads for beauty products or fitness regimes.  Let me explain: you only ever do something expecting a result.  You don’t do something not expecting a result.  So it’s a redundant phrase.  And it makes you sound stupid to say it.

Listening to straight guys engage in small talks with chicks just biding their time until they get into their pants is effing hysterical.

Crucifixes as accessories are tacky and blasphemous.  If you’re gonna believe in Jesus, do it without donning some blinged out to the nth degree cross across your breasts or tattoo-splattered chest.  K?

“DEATH COOOOOMES UNEXPECTEDLY! [beat, beat, then quickly] Amen.”
–Reverend Paul Ford in “Pollyanna” giving his Sunday sermon, one of many unsettling sermons he was intimidated into preaching by Aunt Polly to keep the town in check

If I die in my 30s, I’ll be a bit pissed.

If I die in my 40s, I’ll be even more pissed, ’cause I’ll be all like, Well, I made it through my 30s, so what is this?

If I die in my 50s, I’ll say, Well, I had a good run.

If I die in my 60s, I’ll be like, Heeeey!  See!  All those supplements and sunblock were worth somefin’!

If I die in my 70s, I’ll sing Kool & The Gang’s “Celebrate” on my 70th birthday in jubilant, mocking tones to fate.

If I die in my 80s, I’ll say, Thank God!  Enough is enough already.

The above inspired by a conversation between Mr. Altherhausen and me:
Me: “You know you’re gonna die one day.  You, your aunt, your mom–everyone.”
Mr. Alterhausen: “And you’ll totally know when it’s happening, too!”