Lil' bastard stealing my dance moves.

It’s been quite a while since I’ve penned anything for the blog at hand. In fact, it’s pushing two months now…quite a while indeed. While I’d love to say that–in that time–I’ve been studying for an adult spelling bee or learning to quilt, I have not. I’d prefer a geography bee anyway. Nor have I been reading more or painting more. If it borders on healthy, creative and/or productive, I haven’t been doing it. I did, however, give up on working out for a few weeks, develop a lasting friendship with the employees of Taco Burrito House (I changed my preferred late night burrito vendor), and invent–and accept–a challenge to spend more time horizontally…whatever you may take from that.

(Un)realistically, though, I was busy summering. It turns out that changing nouns into verbs isn’t just for the wealthy. It’s for the delusional as well. For me, summering entailed a lot of skin, liver and intestinal damage. And allegedly the lungs some, too, but you never know the lengths health insurers will go to deny coverage, so let’s leave that one out. Agreed? In witnessing the still-emerging photo documentation of my preferred season, the abuses are evident: my face growing continually closer to PBR can red with each weekend (I can easily make this comparison because rare are the photos in which one appears without the other…it makes for a pretty unexciting reversal of “Where’s Waldo”).

Of all components of Summer 2010, however, it wasn’t the tanning, the drinking, the eating or the not working out that captured its essence. It was the dancing. If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a dancer. But shit, did I dance a lot this summer. I really hadn’t danced since my college days, when latching onto the hippie subculture in an otherwise stifling environment enabled me to perfect my off-beat gyrations to jams that lasted longer than most sitcoms. But that was ten years ago. I mean, I have all new skin cells by now. Now that’s a long time.

When dancing in Charlottesville music venues was a regular part of my college curriculum, I acknowledged–at the time–how much I loved it. I loved it so much that I came up with a theory about it (shocking, I know…it’s all theories and policies in Justinville). My take on dancing was that it served as a release. Obvious, right? More specifically, a release of all the joys we encounter on a day-to-day basis. Whether an awe-inspiring piece of artwork or a new and exciting relationship; a phenomenal meal or the anticipation of an optimistic future, we’re constantly absorbing elements of happiness, whether or not acknowledged. It’s pretty difficult to release the build-up of these experiences. Smiling and being nice to strangers has limited effects. Sometimes you have to physically shake the happiness out of your bone marrow. It works in the opposite direction, too, but the release of negative experience is scary movie watching, which I loathe. Subsequently, we won’t be discussing misery or those who manifest it in a passion for horror films. Judgment eyes.

As dancing–in my world–can only occur in times of happiness, its proliferation this summer past is a great sign. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that, after a ten-year sabbatical, I had some joy stockpiled. My own little bomb shelter with shelf-upon-shelf of sunshine and lollipops, neatly arranged sequentially by expiration date.

I know what you’re thinking: with dancing skills like mine, I should invest in a good unitard, stretch out, and audition for Billy Elliot. A fair thought, but no dice. Actually, I have some sad news to share. My dancing hit a wall Labor Day weekend. It was as though a switch had been flipped, turning off my innate sense of rhythm. Okay, okay…so I’ve never really had rhythm; still, call me a Scissor Sister, because I don’t feel like dancin’. Have I cashed in my bomb shelter’s last ray of sunshine or the root beer Dum Dum I’ve been hoarding for the long Chicago winter? Or has summer officially migrated from verb back to noun? In either case, it just isn’t the same.

Perhaps, like college, this summer was simply the product of a unique time and (head) space, never to be repeated. Or, like the migration of nouns back to verbs, maybe my dancing shoes will be dusted off in 9 months or so. Or in 9 years. Who knows? Not me.

This summer was a master cleanse. No, really. The irony of routine toxicity aside, it was a period of great simplicity and release. It was summer as I remember growing up, with hot weather, close friends and endless adventures. I embraced the important, purged the irrelevant and identified the permanent. I can look back with fulfillment at some of the greatest months to-date. Better yet, I can even remember some of them.

So, while it may be a muggy day in late September, it is nonetheless time to put Summer 2010 to bed. It was a great run, but I’m ready for what’s next, which hopefully includes at least a pinch of health, creativity and productivity. With that in mind, take a cue from Kylie and “Get Out Of My Way.”

I took a solo road trip to Ohio a few weekends ago. And when I say solo, I mean solo…not even my bulldog daughter was invited on this road trip. Dodging out of work a few hours early, I navigated swarms of Cubs fans, rented a Chevy Impala (as if my graying wig and collection of elbow-patched attire wasn’t enough…thanks, Hertz), and got the hell out of Dodge. Keeping it simple, I had a small bag of clothing and unearthed a giant book of CDs (remember those!?) that was embalmed and buried circa 2002. It was destined to be a good road trip, even if not a good weekend (another story altogether).

In the mad dash I was making to beat Friday traffic, I failed to remember one thing–there is no beating Chicago traffic. Thirty minutes later, I found myself weaving through downtown, following detour signs leading to more detour signs. When I the highway finally found me, it took the duration of Talk of the Nation and Science Friday on NPR to finally see the bustling metropolis of Gary, Indiana. Say what?

Traffic eventually picked up and I made my trek to Ohio, which looks a lot like Gary, Indiana incidentally. I had never made the comparison, but fits.  As I drove through the tiny town my brother calls home, I was struck by two images–a house displaying a Confederate flag from its porch and a pickup truck with a bumper sticker that read “Obama Sucks.”  Two things: 1. The last I checked, Ohio was a free state during the Civil War.  2. Perhaps bumper sticker wit is in a recession of its own, but that message seems rather void of personality, doesn’t it?

It was at this point that I realized the theme of not only my weekend, but my life of late: Patience.

Thinking about my day-to-day life in the city (via the lens of trying to get out of Chicago), physical patience is a huge component. From not freaking out on overly-crowded trains and buses to biting my tongue when the couple ahead of me in the grocery store check-out waits until their order is fully bagged to whip out a checkbook (why not cart around you ink well and quill while you’re at it!?…You’re only in your 30s, for chrissake!), city life requires a ton of patience. It’s an obvious byproduct of fitting so many people into such a small space. It’s undeniably physical patience.

Small town patience is an entirely different beast, however. I know this well, as I worked in the field for 18 years or so. Back woods living–if you have an intellectual or empathetic bone in your body (or all of your teeth, for that matter)–requires unimaginable amounts of mental patience. Rationalizing others’ ignorance and bigotry without recommending state-wide sterilization is a virtue. As is not calling Child Protective Services when you see the “food” that parents feed their children and accepting “Mountain Dew Mouth” as a real medical condition.

Overall, my weekend trip to the buckeye state cast a light on my preference for physical patience. I will take a physically uncomfortable environment that supports liberal-minded diversity over geographic space any day.  Mental claustrophobia? No, thank you, I like mine physical. Trees are nice, but new ideas are nicer.

So thank you, Ohio. Thank you for first teaching me and then reminding me of how to be patient. And thank you cities of the world–San Francisco and Chicago in particular–for teaching me (and often reminding me) how to be patient without being complacent.

Jasper Johns, Flag (1954-55)

In third grade, my class did a project in which each student studied a state. Mine was New York. I was born in New York and–living in Virginia at the time–that was a very cool thing. Take that, Robert E. Lee.

Part of the project entailed an artistic re-creation of the state flag, or so I remember. In all likelihood, I had simply envisioned my project exuding grandeur (symbolized by an impeccably drafted state flag) and wouldn’t settle for anything less. The teacher would make a big deal over how wonderful my flag looked and how it really made my research on New York State rise above my classmates’ attempts at Vermont and Kentucky. Yes, I was that student. Apologies to those I stepped on along the way.

The problem was that my artistic rendering of Lady Liberty or whatever Greek ladies adorn the New York flag was not up to my own standards. And I freaked. If there’s one thing I can own, it’s when I make something that looks/tastes/smells (yup…you know what I mean by smells) awful. Even at age 8, I knew that the only state this flag was representing was a state of panic.

Luckily, I have a father who was obsessive–but not neurotic per say–about education. If I was studying George Washington in school, we’d go to Mount Vernon that weekend (not that it was all that far…we lived in Virginia, after all…but we were po’, which makes it more meaningful). If I wanted to be in band, we’d figure out a way to get a saxophone. Life was good like that. But back to New York. My dad stayed up late into the night drawing those Greek bitches for me. How long it took him, I have no idea. I was fast asleep. All I know is that I went to sleep with Lady Letdown and woke up to Lady Luck, because my flag looked amazing. In case I didn’t do so then, thanks Dad.

The byproduct of my gut-wrenching experience with the New York State flag made me realize something. I like simple flags. When I think about Jasper Johns’ paintings of the American flag, for instance, I become exhausted. I mean, do we really need all fifty stars on there? That’s a lot of work. Look at California’s flag; it has a bear on it. I don’t remember being good at drawing bears when I was a kid. Fish? Yeah, I could draw a mean fish, but a bear? That’s a tall order.

What this boils down to is that I should live in Japan. A nice red circle on a white background. And I love sushi. Done and done.

The ideas of flags, simplicity and parents doing their child’s homework make me think about “flags” in another sense–the kind that are cautionary. References to “red flags” pour out of my mouth like wine pours in (and that’s a lot). Whether in friendships, relationships, jobs or seat stains on public transportation, red flags are those ubiquitous indications that things just aren’t right. They can be slight or monumental, direct or obscure. The fact is, though, that they’re important. And symbolic. Sort of like a real flag.

For the longest time, all flags were red flags, or deal breakers for me. They would cause me to hastily end things, whether (again) a friendship, a relationship or a job. If things were feeling off, I was out. Then, over time, things changed. That artificial, obnoxious-doesn’t-begin-to-describe-it word, “sticktuitiveness,” comes to mind. Thanks but no thanks to the teacher who planted that seed of vile faux-cabulary that I can’t seem to shake. Regardless, red flags don’t seem to burn as hot as they once did. Perhaps it comes with age, similar to theories that time feels like it goes by faster as we get older because it becomes a smaller and smaller fraction of our  total lifetime. After so many red flags, I think my vision may be fading.

My red flag reexamination has proven a good thing. A healthy thing. While it has the potential to bite me, I’d rather be open, patient and understanding (within reason, obviously) than callous and fearful. My new outlook on flags is that they’re still popping up all around me, but their color isn’t evident at first. It’s like the terrorism threats at the airport. Flags can be yellow or orange or, sometimes, red. Sometimes they’re complicated, like New York and sometimes they’re simple, like Japan. The trick is to resist assigning them their color prematurely. And to refrain from underestimating your drawing abilities.

Life is full of flags; full of hints and warnings. We’re lucky to have them. But sometimes we need to color-correct them and other times we need to disavow them altogether. On the flip side, there are some that ought to be heeded. We’d be silly not to. It’s a fine line indeed.

While flag-burning may be protected under the First Amendment, we can really only protect ourselves from being burned by them.

Exhibit A

I mean, what did we ever do before email? Can you imagine Mad Men-style offices with typewriters? A legitimate use for United States Post Office? No way. It’s simply unfathomable. Email has changed everything.

Besides its mere existence, it’s also interesting to consider email’s evolution. I remember my first ever email address. Correction: I don’t actually remember it because it was through my high school and it had a ton of numbers in it and the domain had approximately fourteen words, all separated by periods. Weird. At any rate, did you know that people–once upon a time–would fax each other cartoons, jokes, etc. the way that people later began forwarding emails? Again: weird.

Even the older demographic has gotten into the email, which is kind of cool (maybe). I always imagine those Hughes Net commercials appealing to the old, retired couple that live in the country. It’s probably because the demonstration of download speed is a picture of a little girl with a balloon or something, which obviously appeals to grandparents. The old folks are suckers for anything grandchild related…we all know that.

My grandmother is no sucker, but she is one such computer proficient senior. She’ll check in with me from time to time, laying the “why do I never hear from you?” guilt on thick. It’s cool, though, and very much deserved. These emails are nice. I picture her making her once-a-day trip to her desk, turning on the computer and waiting, patiently, for the screeching sounds of dial-up to get her online. Don’t ask me why, but I just assume everyone over age 55 has dial-up internet. I balme it on the Hughes Net commercials, so feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.

Anyway, it’s pretty cool that the internet really is universal. What’s not cool, however, is how not everyone uses it in the same way. [Dramatic sigh.]

Enter Exhibit A, pictured above. These are a sampling of forwards from my Grammie. As you’ll see from the dates and the unread messages, I stopped opening her forwards sometime around June 2008. The gap in chronology points to the fact that I have deleted most of them as they arrive. Perhaps I should feel guilty about this. I actually do, but have perfected the squashing of that pesky “guilt” emotion as soon as it rears its needy head.

The truth is that I don’t feel I even need to open these forwards, as I know, from subject alone, what to expect. Or so I imagine. Let’s run down a few of these, shall we?

“FW: I love my attorney!” = Some cliche take on attorneys being sleazy, unethical thiefs.

“FW: Zip Lok Bags…….Tip of the Week…….” = Something I would potentially be interested in but am too distracted by whether or not “Lok” is the correct spelling to pursue. And the over-use of ellipse–it’s all too much for me.

“FW: All God’s critters” = There is no fucking way I’m opening this.

“FW: Cabbies” = Something racist.

“FW: Impaled by a Taliban RPG” = Something racist and right-winged (or is that redundant?).

“FW: WARNING…..809″ = If you get a call from this area code DO NOT answer it or that grandchild in the picture with a balloon will be killed. Instantly.

“FW: Please read quietly and send it on its journey” = Cyber spirituality is creepier than that guy in makeup singing to JonBenet Ramseys on TLC’s “Little Miss Perfect”.

Grammie, we’ve always had a unique relationship of respect whereby we can be honest with each other when no one else is. Let the humor I find in your email forwards continue that wonderful dynamic…so keep ‘em coming; I even started a separate email folder for them, just for shits & giggles.

I love you! (And I’m still in your will after this, right?)

There’s little doubt that I’ve taken a…uhhh…sabbatical from writing. It’s been more than a month since dedicating any time to pursuits other than working and consuming every conceivable food and beverage product. But the time has come to get back to the basics. And by basics, I mean communicating my criticism of people, places and things on the most public of platforms that I have access to. No, not my too-popular-for-her-own-good dog, my blog.

While my overall consumption problem is epic, that’s nothing new. The greater reason behind my recently dried-up ink well is my new job. That’s right, people. A new job. NPR should come get their sound byte because my months of looking finally led to something pretty damn good. The Tide of Terrible has turned; if not for the entire country, at least for this Natalean life. All Things Considered, you have my number.

The rewards of stable and challenging employment are obvious; the process of getting here, however, was arduous. Searching, applying and interviewing for a new job proved a nerve-racking mind-fuck and, because of this, directly parallels my dating life.

It’s seldom discussed, but nonetheless true: the processes of interviewing and dating are one and the same.

From initially putting yourself out there and exposing your vulnerabilities to making the ballsy move of applying or approaching a potential match, interviewing is dating and dating is interviewing. By this standard, jobs are relationships. And relationships? They’re work. Makes a frightening amount of sense, doesn’t it? I think so, too.

As we all know, the worst–and I mean worst–part about both of these endeavors is the unexplained ending. The out-of-the-blue Houdinis; the ending because one party simply forfeits their appearance. “Things were going so well,” you think in disbelief after the second or–worse yet–third interview/date. Guess not. And here’s the hard part: accepting that it’s over and stop facebook stalking. They’ve moved on and the job posting isn’t on craigslist anymore. They both went with another candidate.

There’s a special place in hell for employers who don’t follow up with job candidates. That placeholder becomes increasingly cemented with additional interviews. Snub me after one interview? Fine. Spend eternity on an overcrowded city bus. Have fun. After three interviews? You’re so spending your next life as Kirstie Alley. Makes the bus look pret-ty nice, doesn’t it?

And with dating? The Houdinis? Well, I’m not all-too-familiar with how libel works and my bestie is a patent attorney, not a litigator, so I should probably leave that one alone. Consider yourselves lucky.

Having now completed this process (the job hunt, that is), there’s a peace that comes over me when craigslist is no longer in my web browser history. Career Builder is one less site I feel compelled to stalk each day. I can focus on other things, like when Bethenny Frankel’s baby is due.

The search for new professional opportunities also lends itself to some rather heavy self-reflection. Looking back at my work history, I realize that I’ve opted out of some pretty great opportunities with some great companies (and some very not great ones…*ahem*). The great ones would never have revealed themselves–even in hindsight–without the juxtaposition of the unsavory. They’re the ones I probably shouldn’t have given up on so quickly; the ones I should have realized, at the time, how good for me they really were.

Like I said, it’s seldom discussed, but nonetheless true: jobs and relationships are one and the same.

In the true spirit of life’s cyclical nature, I find myself revisiting a theme of years gone by. A few Chicago summers ago, some friends and I found ourselves in a rut. It was the rut of routine. We saw the same people, frequented the same places, and bitched about the same enduring themes. The solution to breaking this rut was more of a challenge. It went by the name of “ballsy moves” (pronounced ball-zy, for the virtuosos amongst us).

The gist of ballsy moves is putting one’s self out there. Putting dignity aside. Taking risks. Not risky risks, but risks with your pride. Approaching a stranger. Introducing yourself to someone out of your league. Going old-school and buying a drink for someone (this time, without roofying it).

To ensure that the Ballsy Moves, v.2008 took form, there were a few simple rules:

1. Each participant must make a minimum of two ballsy moves per week.
2. There must be a witness for each ballsy move, to vouch for its occurrence.

Of the three of us enrolled in this program of my shameless mind, the scoring of ballsy moves unfolded as follows:

Lonika, 0.
Jonah, 1.
Justin, 283.

What can I say? I took pride in my idea. Possibly too much so, but pride nonetheless.

There’s no doubt that ballsy moves was a schtick reflecting my boredom; still, I believe that there continue to be some valuable lessons in this exercise of the “awww, the hell with it.” If nothing else, it resulted in some great stories about Chicago characters summarized by their most memorable characteristic. Ask me about Class Ring sometime…I assure you, it’s a good story.

While I can’t claim that ballsy moves resulted in any tangible life benefits, it was undeniably a summer of realizations. Among them, that you can’t wait for life to happen. In that fine line between letting life find you and going on the hunt for it, I’d rather hold the compass than follow the leader. If “leagues” really do exist, I’d rather draft people to mine than be convinced of theirs. And, of all the harsh truths to be learned in life, I’d rather uncover them now than spend my days sweeping them under Ikea rugs.

The essence of ballsy moves has little to do with the moves themselves. It has more to do with movement in general. Change can only come with movement and while it sometimes requires approaching something new, it often calls for rejecting something old.

So, while it’s going on two years and countless ballsy moves later (I stopped counting mine some time ago), I’m happy to announce that—for one of us— the score has changed.

One of us has made our first (known) ballsy move. Better late than never, right?

Now let’s just hope he doesn’t wear a class ring.

Wayne Thiebaud, Cakes (1963)

Last night Joy Behar interviewed Jenny Sanford, the soon-to-be ex-wife of South Carolina Governor, Mark Sanford. You know—the one who confused “hiking the Appalachian Trail” with “banging my mistress in Argentina”? Yeah, that Mark Sanford.

On the show, the betrayed wife-turned-author made what I consider an incredibly astute point regarding her husband’s behavior. She argued that our society—as a whole—has a problem with wanting to have our cake and eat it, too. From her husband wanting to have both a wife and a girlfriend to her children wanting to get straight ‘A’s without doing their homework, it’s a mentality that is seemingly engrained in our culture.

A cultural epidemic of wanting to have our cake and eat it, too?
Abso-fucking-lutely.

In thinking about cake, I thought of one of my favorite artists, Wayne Thiebaud [pronounced “tee-bow,” for the sake of future cocktail party banter]. Thiebaud’s work pulls heavily from pop culture, with subject matter of ice cream, cakes, cosmetics, gumball machines, etc. I vividly remember the first time I encountered his work. I was a second-year student at UVA and went to Washington, D.C. for the day with my friend Rachel. This trip doubled as the first time I had Thai food. Thanks, Rachel…Cozy Noodle & Rice in Chicago owe you a free appetizer for the repeat-business you’ve inadvertently created for them.

Back to Thiebaud, though. I find his work most striking in its use of color. Bright color. Irreverent color. I’m not sure if the image above captures it, but all of his pop-culture objects are outlined by borderline garish, multi-color streams. Look at the base line of the plates, for instance. Pink travels into yellow, which turns to blue. When taken in from a slight distance, these outlines are swallowed up by the image as a whole. A step forward, however, reveals the technicolor dream that constitutes each object’s outer coat.

The array of colors that make up seemingly simple images (they are, after all, just cakes in a neutral setting) is telling. There is a lot more to these cakes than initially meets the eye. The cakes are commonplace; they are easily recognizable. Their artistic construction, however, is not.

Herein resides Thiebaud’s connection to our societal desire to have our cake and eat it, too: We are incredibly susceptible to overlooking the work that goes into seemingly obvious, recognizable things (living, working, loving, etc.). We have become so accustomed to seeing the big picture that we often fail to dissect that picture into its requisite pigments.

Whether caused by laziness or brainwashing, I’m not so sure. But its effects are everywhere you look. That much I know.

For the record, identifying this truth is not to exempt myself from its grasp.

I love cake. I wish I could eat cake every day. Cake without consequence. But I try not to. Instead, I look at paintings of cake. And, if I fall off the cake wagon, I’ll burn the calories hiking the Appalachian Trail.

If there’s one thing that you learn to appreciate when living in Chicago, it’s the weather. Well, maybe not appreciate so much as loathe. And maybe not “the” weather, but weather period. And its ability to make life miserable. Chicago’s weather is like that bi-polar roommate that you were too afraid to ask to move out, so you applied to grad schools in other cities to create an explanation for leaving. Not that I ended up in Chicago through such measures…

With winters that approach The Neverending Story status, small victories are key. This entails recalibrating your internal thermometer. Thirty degrees? None too shabby. Forties? Cabo San Who? For me, nose hairs become a barometer for tolerability. There are days when the air is so cold and dry, the wind so brutal that I can wiggle my nose and feel nose hairs being pulled out of the follicle. I kid you not. It may be gross, but it serves as one less task in my grooming regimen.

Besides truly testing the legitimacy of humankind’s warm-blooded categorization, Chicago winters are a lesson in managing expectations. This balancing of fact and fiction, vacation resort and blustery reality has become especially relevant to me lately.

Getting ready for work this morning, NPR informed me that it was currently 23 degrees outside. The high for the day? 28.

For my purposes, I categorize the weather into its implications for layers and accessories. No, not accessories like jewelry (which guys should never wear, by the way). Accessories like gloves, scarves, hats and handguns (should the weather finally break me). Twenty three degrees qualifies as a double-double-double: A double layer of upper-body clothing, my dual-layered coat and two-out-of-three accessories. I decided to forego the scarf, should you be wondering.

Arriving at the bus stop with no bus in sight (and with CTA Bus Tracker solidifying its worthlessness…2 minutes my ass!), I was reminded about one of my principles of Chicago weather—managing expectations. To my surprise, the temperature, despite reading a nippy 23 degrees, was comfortable. I even opted against my gloves, turning this morning into a toasty double-double-single. How could this be? Either NPR was off or…wait. NPR is never off. Let’s be clear about that.

It dawned on me that my expectations were off; not just with the temperature, but with a lot of things these days. The discrepancy between what is expected and what transpires is a pretty easy trap to fall into. Maybe that’s what “Mind the Gap” means. The Brits are an insightful people, after all. 

I have processed more thoughts, feelings and realities in recent years than I could even begin to enumerate. While there’s no doubt that this has enhanced my quality of life as much as (if not more than) my new Sonicare toothbrush, it has also shaped my expectations in some inaccurate ways. I’m finding that there is much less correlation between how much something “should” feel and how it actually feels than originally believed. Sort of like the weather.

The complication with this reality is that life is much less predictable. Old sources of pain are substituted by new ones. But, then again, so are sources of happiness and fulfillment. It’s a trade-off, I suppose. It’s sort of like the Masala Veggie Burgers from Trader Joe’s. While I initially considered pureeing them and shooting them up like heroin, their novelty eventually wore off. [Kudos to me for opting out of my idea for a Masala Veggie Burger-inspired tattoo.] My palate became less-and-less enticed by their Indian-inspired deliciousness.

Such is life.

I’ve recently had to face life head-on. In myriad ways. I was expecting this to really suck the life out of me…at least for a while. I thought it would be debilitating. I thought I’d really hate it.

Truthfully, though, it’s not so bad. Definitely not as bad as I was expecting. And therein lies the lesson: though 23 degrees seems to call for a double-double-double, sometimes you’re better off single.

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.