So not to be all publicly corny, but I’m real glad this guy joined my department. I like weird, interesting people with weird, interesting stories. And good brains. This guy is weird and interesting, with stories to match. Sure beats the whole, “so what are you gonna do this weekend?” conversations!

Not really, actually.

Not at all, in fact.

Tonight, I pulled a muscle. Or perhaps I didn’t. Perhaps this muscle just came to life after a glorious 15-20 year hiatus. And so, dear friends, I’ve named this muscle Herman. And why, you ask? Because it came out of nowhere, got after my body, continues to irritate the piss out of me, and won’t just go away.

It’s fun, though. Terrible and awful and hot and sweaty and far too fast-paced for my slow and wholly uncoordinated ass, but fun. So far, so good.

Of course, who knows…I’ve been through enough crap in my life to know that everything could go down the shitter tomorrow. But I doubt it, in this case. I feel respected and trusted and cared for and listened to and appreciated and loved — for exactly who I am, exactly the way I am. It’s freeing and wonderful, and it makes me appreciate my Nater more and more every single day. It’s good. Real good.

For me, the most profound paragraph was this:

Doctors also know that undergoing heroic measures is a lousy way to die. They’ve seen what it’s like for an elderly patient to end up in the ICU, hooked up to machines, often semiparalyzed, in pain, lying on what philosopher Sidney Hook called “mattress graves” during his own terminal illness. At a recent meeting I attended, one emergency physician tearfully admitted she didn’t think she could stand to hear the sound of ribs breaking as she performed CPR on yet another elderly patient who almost certainly would not survive.

The article above stemmed from Ken Murray’s piece “How Doctors Die (It’s Not Like the Rest of Us, But It Should Be).” This piece should be required reading for everyone over 12. Now get to it.

I have ear and sinus infections. Hopefully the antibiotics will help soon, but I feel nothing but p-r-e-s-s-u-r-e all around my face and ears and neck and head. It kind of sucks. I hate infections, too; I never know they’re infections, so I figure I just have a cold or flu that will eventually go away. Thus, I don’t go to the doctor. Thus, things get worse. By the time I finally do go to the doctor, the infection is bad and I feel like total ass. Which is where things stand right now.

1. I haven’t done anything even slightly resembling exercise for oh, say, 10 years.
2. I am severely uncoordinated. I am likely to fall and flail around throughout the entire hour-long classes. This is likely to be funny to everyone in the class–except me.
3. My face turns red and hot after about 3 seconds of motion. So I’ll be red and sweaty-looking before we even begin.
4. My boobs are–how can we put this delicately?–enormous. And before all you men and B-cuppers out there suggest any particular sports bras, let me assure you: they won’t work. I could wear 15 of them, to no avail. No, that’s not fair. I’ve never worn more that 3 at a single time–but that didn’t work. Maybe 4 will be my lucky number?
5. Even though I get hot right away, I’m going to have to wear pants for these workouts, because I stubbornly refuse to shave my legs with any degree of consistency. This will make me hotter, but it’s the price I pay for my supreme vanity.

Classes start next Wednesday, the 18th. Here’s hoping for a miracle, kids.

Too bad it’s not big enough for Finny; I’m sure he’d love it!

So Ashamed!