Working it out
I hate when people talk about working out, tell you how many miles they ran or how many push-ups they did.
Writing about it, however, is a whole different story.
I can’t even remember anymore why I exercise. I’m pretty sure I stopped liking it years ago. I have no idea how to calibrate calories when I eat, so I definitely don’t know how to subtract them when I work out, and I don’t believe it when the treadmill does it for me.
Alec, Ernest and other tough guys
Until about an hour ago, I thought the meanest thing my husband and I had ever done to our son Alec was not buying him a dog.
But according to an article in Social Science Quarterly – What? You don’t read that? – we have also given him a terrible burden to bear.
A friend sent me a link to a segment from the Today Show (always on the lookout for new ways to depress us in the morning), which cites the article, saying that giving your newborn boy an “oddball, girly or strange first name may just land them in jail.”
Co-ed Softball, Fat Guys and other Lies
“You’re still playing softball?” my daughter asked incredulously tonight as I hunted for my crusty cleats, as if somehow being too old, too slow and, well, bad would suddenly stop me from playing in our co-ed softball league this year.
I mean, why should this year be any different?
Playing for our Red Star Tavern team isn’t about being the best or making every play or, in my case tonight, any play. It’s about the camaraderie, the joy of competition and the drama of seeing how many of us are going to end up in the emergency room each week.