Perhaps it goes without saying, but I often think inappropriate thoughts. When people trip while walking down the sidewalk, it takes every ounce of strength I have not to laugh out loud (provided no teeth were damaged and no blood is visible…Who am I kidding? I’d laugh then, too, but it would be my really uncomfortable, “oh no” laugh). It’s a terrible quality to have most of the time. Life becomes one act of censorship after the next. Self-editing is exhausting.

This is especially true when I catch myself about to utter phrases like, “That place should do the neighborhood a favor and burn down.” I mean, what if that place did burn down. I know that all eyes would be on me (and not because of my new heather gray American Apparel t-shirt).

There are other times, however, when censoring my uncivilized bursts of imagination could prove detrimental…to millions. In particular, I’m thinking of my ideas of how terrorists are going about their jobs all wrong.

Let me say, for the record, that I’m not a supporter of terrorism. I have no terrorist friends nor am I a fan of any terrorist organizations on facebook. Well, except for this one place that has cupcakes that I cannot stop thinking about. Refined sugar is, in its own special way, a form of terrorism, after all.

So, while I am by no means into or okay with terrorist practices, it is hard—as a possessor of common sense—to ignore how they could really improve their techniques. Mainly, I think that terrorists are thinking too big. Take the aforementioned cupcakes, for example. If Bin Laden sent every American child one of those cupcakes, they would inevitably become hooked, end up obese and develop type 2 diabetes. Oh wait, we already have that. Well, sprinkle the iced topping with some crystal meth and voilà! We’ll have a nation where the youth aspire to appear on “Intervention” instead of “American Idol.” Then we’ll really be screwed (even though we sort of already have that, too).

In all seriousness, I walk through life thinking of possibilities for creative attacks on peace of mind. And therein lies the difference—creativity. Blowing up planes? Ugh. That’s so 2001. Installing air horns and things that jump out of the RedEye newspaper boxes like rubber snakes out of a “jelly bean” canister? That I can get behind. Just because Ellen would laugh about it doesn’t mean it’s not terrorism. Think how scary that would be…not knowing if reaching in for that free daily paper would cause an accident in your dress pants. And you thought that the RedEye’s content was the scariest part…

If there is one lesson that the Directors of Business Development for terrorist groups should take away, it is the power of grass root efforts. Little acts with big results. Take the Lamdas’ payback to the Alphas in Revenge of the Nerds. Jock straps soaked in liquid heat. Genius. Hit the jocks where it’ll really get ‘em…in the jock. Now that’s creative terrorism. Imagine its translation to the underwear aisles of Nordstrom Rack or Filene’s Basement (it’s a recession, people)…that’d be one tricky Al-Qaeda, I tell you.

My point (if there even is one), lies in the fact that I’ve become rather numb to the fears of a grandiose terrorist attack. If I see a suspicious character on the train, I chock it up as, “If it’s my time to go, so be it.” I assume that I will die with the purchase of every plane ticket. It’s just easier that way. I cannot, however, fathom a life where I greet each morning with the fear of being shocked by every doorknob I touch. [Another of my ideas: somehow make the entire country supercharged with static electricity; everyone would hesitate to touch anything…can you imagine?]

So there you go, bin Laden. Get a’thinkin’. There are many ways to keep America in a perpetual state of fear other than blowing up planes. Torture us in more psychological ways…ways that make life unbearable…ways like giving Elisabeth Hasselback her own show…

In an effort to break up my monotonous workout routines, I decided to try a spin class last night. I had attempted this self-inflicted punishment once before, years ago, and had results much like past relationships: agony and resentment. Given my current state of mind, I deemed both the exercise and its consequences a timely venture.

The thing about spinning, at its most basic level, is the commitment to cardio. Without standing up, varying resistance or sprinting, you’re still committing to 45 solid minutes of cardio. And, self-admitted, 45-minutes of cardio is a tall order. While a tall order it may be, it’s no match for my many a’late-night orders at Taco Burrito Palace of recent. Hence, spin class.

Having arrived 15 minutes early (I heard that the bikes filled up quickly), I took the opportunity to gauge my company. As each person walked into the small studio, I assessed the likelihood of he or she being the instructor. To say that I was off is an understatement.

Expecting some sort of fit, statuesque motivation shouting commands at me, I instead got (in my estimation, at least) a top-heavy mother of two from Berwyn who enjoys scrapbooking and experimenting with recipes in her crock pot. No judgment, of course, but that’s where my mind immediately ventured.

Thinking positively—as we all know I do best—I took relief in not being intimidated by the instructor. Quite the opposite, I wondered if I should let her know about the sale on Frosted Mini-Wheats at Jewel this week. She seemed the type of mom that compromised her preference for healthy cereals with her kids’ love of sugary ones with Frosted Mini-Wheats. Her scrunchy told me this was true.  

Fast forwarding into the workout itself, it was pretty great. Perfect for my re-entry into spinning, the intensity was bearable and the instructor’s motivation to push myself was…well…interesting.

With a personality somewhere between Greg Kinnear in Little Miss Sunshine and the hypnotist who performed in the amphitheater of UVA my first year of college, Suzie Sloppyhair’s visionary words of encouragement made last night’s spin class something greater. It was an experience. Not an assertive personality by nature, it was at times difficult to stand, pedal and NOT choke on my gum when she told us, in a tone of unconvincing authority, that “only we have the power to push ourselves up every mountain.” Why, thank you, Mother Abbess…I will envision myself escaping the Nazis while carrying the von Trapp children on the back of my bike. 

There were plenty of comments of this nature.

“Maintain your momentum to avoid descending the hill backwards…don’t get off course…DON’T LOOK BACK.”

Suzie McScrunchy’s words of workout wisdom started to get to me. Were we cycling or having our tarot cards read? I went to spin class with intentions of forgetting; instead, these attempted pep talks hit a little too close to home. Talk about my chicken legs? Fine. Reference my muffin top? Well, okay. But offer life advice while sweating awkwardly close to strangers? I’m not so sure.

For all of the spinning that this class caused (mostly of the mind), I think I’ll give it another whirl. It was obnoxious, awkward and, at times, grueling. But it also inadvertently entered me in a wet t-shirt contest, introduced me to a Fleetwood Mac remix and broke up my monotonous gym routine. And it’s cheaper than therapy. If these aren’t reasons enough to return, I forgot to tell the instructor about the sale on Frosted Mini-Wheats. I’m sure she’d appreciate it.

I’m certainly not the type to make New Year resolutions. They’re predictable. And they beg to be broken.

But one thing that I would like to in 2010 is write more. Write more letters to friends on earth-toned note cards, write more ransom notes with magazine letters cut and pasted with tweezers and, of course, write more blog posts.

My problem with writing to-date is the pressure I place on cohesion. The topic needs to be relevant but irreverent, the conclusion should allude to the opening and the title should be cleverly (un)related.

But enough with the pressure.

From now on, I won’t fear writing without an end in sight. I won’t care about length. I’ll use more pictures. Everyone likes pictures with their words.

The other day I was in the locker room at the gym when I overheard an interesting conversation. [See that!? No transition whatsoever! Liberated in 2010, I tell you!] A gym member was griping about how busy it was that afternoon.

“It sucks out there on the floor. I can already tell. Damn New Year resolutions…why don’t they just leave? They’re not going to last anyway.”

While at first I agreed with him, I soon realized how pompous he sounded. As though he should be on the gym’s death panel, relaying to members his thoughts on their fitness goals. And even if the gym did have such a panel, his body hardly garnered him a place on it. I’ll leave it at that.

I left this locker room eaves dropping feeling that if we all heard our thoughts—most of mine being judgments—spoken out loud by someone else, we would likely request a re-do. There’s no doubt that I agree with Snobby McFerrin’s assessment of the New Year Resolutionaries at the gym; however, is it really my place to cramp their gettin’ physical? Probs not.

And even if I were to someday earn myself a seat on the Supreme Court of Cortisol, why would I wish for people not to work out? I believe that any initiative that reduces the likelihood of a dimply thigh brushing up against me on the bus is a good thing. A very good thing. Well worth a little elliptical inconvenience, no doubt.

So there you go. Write more. Judge less. Well…judge out loud? Or Judge Judy.

Oh yeah. And no Taco Bell in 2010 (see photo evidence above).