The Gym

I made my first gym visit last night, 58 days after beginning my membership. This means that 15% of the money I have given to the gods of Crunch Gym has been a charitable donation as opposed to a payment for services.

Or, more optimistically, 85% of my money has not gone to waste.

Note: These numbers have been calculated based on the assumption that I will continue to go and completely fail to take into account such factors as actual time spent working out. (I was in the gym for an hour but unfortunately, much of that time was spent lost in the maze of the woman’s locker room, trying to find the elliptical machines. Actual time spent on an elliptical machine was precisely 23 minutes).

Conclusion: I need to cancel my membership as soon as possible. Aside from wasting money, the gym is having an adverse effect on my weight and health as I have spent the entire day eating chocolate while deluding myself that:

a) I will actually go to the gym after work.
b) Twenty minutes spent on an elliptical trainer burns 2,000 calories.

They really should not be allowed to give once-a-year corporate discount rates.

Artist boy was featured in a magazine. (And by featured I mean mentioned and by magazine I mean one that does not circulate beyond New York). At first I thought it might be nice to be quasi-seeing a quasi-celebrity. Then I realized I was getting the ego of a star with the budget and cache of a regular citizen.

I knew it was over when he called Friday and referred to his work as "significant."

"Mmmmhmmm," I responded. "I have to go." I am young enough to be this hasty in my decisions.

I am also young enough to not only have screwed but gotten back together with Ex-Boyfriend. We went to brunch on Sunday and discussed the finer points of the VH-1 reality show "Flavor of Love." (So bad, so wrong, so significant).

A Job Well Done

My boss just congratulated me. He congratulated me on my ingenuity in doing something that he himself had told me to do. "I was really impressed that you did that." Grin. "That’s really great."

I smiled uncertainly, not sure if he was kidding.

Then I remembered an incident a month ago. I had used a form letter of his design, inserted the proper names (my only change to the document) and left a printed copy on his desk for approval. (Our company is like England, steadfastly adhering to social class and hierarchies).

The next morning I found the letter back on my desk, almost entirely covered in blue, as opposed to the usual red, ink. Boss had taken the time to effusively praise "my" writing, telling me: "It takes a lot of talent to write a succinct, straight to the point business letter that does not sacrifice form for function."

After far too long spent floundering, I have finally discovered that it takes little to no creativity to succeed in this job, just a willingness to keep quiet when praised for the work of others.

The Story of the Prematurely Delivered Project

A stealth operation to retrieve my error-riddled project, fix all mistakes and redeliver it unnoticed, began to seem unlikely. My boss seemed in no hurry to leave his office and there is only so many times one can walk by the same office door without arousing suspicion, or at least unwanted curiosity.

I switched tactics.

"Did you get that report I left on your desk last week?" I marched boldly into his office, catching him off guard.

"Errrmmm…" He began to rummage.

"And we have a phone conference at three tomorrow."

"Mmmmm…" The pace of his rummaging quickened as he added "planner" to the list of things to find.

"And I'm going to take back that project I left here just to go over something." I ever-so-casually lifted said project from the desk as I spoke.

"Aha. Mmmmhmmmm. I can’t seem to find—" he muttered as he scribbled something down in his organizer.

"I'll print out another copy of the report and come back." I sashayed out of his office.

I honestly believe all he will remember from this incident is a vague impression of a pale blue sweater coming at him, speaking too fast and demanding things.

Objectively speaking, this is probably only marginally better than admitting a mistake, but I am infinitely more comfortable with it.

I have just spent the past 7 hours highlighting. It was quite a blow to my self-esteem because, despite an education at a top tier school, I am not very good at highlighting. I couldn't even have the satisfaction of being self-righteously bitter about all my talents going to waste--I was too busy worrying about going outside of the lines, and how to prevent the yellow highlighted bits from bleeding into the blue highlighted bits.

Just five minutes after handing over the project, I realized that I neglected to highlight a large section of highlighter-worthy material. Apparently my worrying did not do me much good.

I am now surreptitiously watching my boss's office in the hopes that he will soon emerge, allowing me to dart in, grab the relevant papers, correct them, dart back in and leave them where they were, unnoticed.

He has already looked up once and said "Can I help you?" as I walked by his door. This can only get worse.

My Serious Hipster Friday Night

Artist boy and I took the L train to the serious hipster scene I had been promised.

My sense of foreboding began when I noticed that every female in our subway car (aside from the homeless woman and myself) was dressed alike. All the girls had an odd, mullet-esque hair cut, a suit jacket and/or a baggy cardigan and black tights. (Or were they leggings? And what's the difference?)

The men were a bit more varied in look, but they all sported the same shaggy hair cut that had looked so charming on my artist boy when I thought it incidental, not carefully planned in a lemming-like pursuit of coolness.

We arrived at the apartment building to find a scene eerily reminiscent of a college dorm. All apartment doors were open, people were congregating in the hallway and a keg of beer was being rolled into someone's kitchen.

Artist boy shuttled me around the building making introductions. People were bearing down on him at an alarming rate, the males yelling his name and clapping him on the shoulder, the females tossing their mullet hair and smiling suggestively.

I soon tired of playing the quiet co-dependent guest in the background so I kissed artist boy on the cheek and made a break for the alcohol.

As I waited to fill up my little plastic cup with beer, a friendly looking bearded creature tapped me on the shoulder.

"Hi, what’s up, I'm John."
"Hi John."
"My friends call me Concept." Okay.
"Hi Concept." He smiled in a satisfied sort of way.

It was time to drink until this was funny. Unfortunately, instead of drinking until it was funny, I drank until I wanted to make out with artist boy. I wandered in and out of apartments until I found him smoking a cigarette by a window and petting someone’s dog.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," he smiled. He looked completely stoned.

"I just heard people talking about the roof, want to go see what's up there?"

"Sure."

What was up on the roof was a handful of very fucked up people trying to body paint each other, a kiddie pool, a view of Manhattan and an old velvet sofa. I pulled artist boy onto the sofa.

"Hey," he said. "I like you." I smiled.

"I like you too." I was only half-lying. I really like kissing him.

I woke up the next morning.

Pluses: I was in my own bed, alone.
Minuses: I was in all my clothes, with a large, uneaten pizza on the floor.

Picture of Valentine's Present. As requested.

For background info please see prior posting.

Serious Hipsters Don't Do Valentines

Artist boy called yesterday. He could not bring himself to call before or on Valentine's Day because "God, I mean, like who even made that holiday? Like, it's just totally invented by greeting card companies." My eyes began to glaze over. Couldn't he at least have anti-establishment opinions that were a bit more original?

"Where did that name even come from? Valentine's Day. Seriously. Like, where? What a dumb name."

"Saint Valentine. It's Saint Valentine’s day." I said, admirably refraining from adding "Idiot."

"Oh…that's really interesting. Huh." Pause. "You want to see Brokeback Mountain tomorrow night? I've been hearing it's great."

Must he pretend that everything he does is born of insider knowledge? He's "been hearing" it's great? It has Oscar nominations. The entire free world has been hearing it's great.

"Or we could go to this party. It has a serious hipster scene."

This being the second time artist boy has used the term "serious hipster scene"(which amounts to a mention in 50% of our conversations) I was curious.

"Okay. Where is it?"

What a dumb question, it's in Williamsburg, of course. I am beginning to suspect that artist boy is secretly a Republican masquerading as a leftist, creative soul and has only the most stereotypical knowledge of how artists "should" act.

Nonetheless, I'm sort of excited to see this serious hipster scene. Since I have no hipster clothes, I feel like I should practice looking ironic.


And to answer questions about my previous post:

The picture was taken by Ex-Boyfriend, via the mirror. You pervs.

I have named the bear Pickles.

Since you asked, bear picture to come.

Ex-Boyfriend did not disappoint. My Valentine’s Day present was a large, expressionless pink teddy bear—with claws.

It is, apparently, part of the "Gloomy Bear" line of toys ( www.kidrobot.com/search.php?keyword=gloomy+bear) and is special not only because it has claws, but because it has a back story.

The Back Story As Told to Me By Ex-Boyfriend: One day a little boy was walking through the woods and came across a baby bear. The bear was so adorable that the little boy adopted it and took it home. They lived together in peace and harmony until the bear grew claws (puberty?) and attacked the boy. Much blood and violence ensued.

Ex-Boyfriend concluded this tale by saying, "I really wanted to buy you the bear with blood on its mouth and claws but I couldn’t find it." Pause. "Did you notice it can move its limbs?" Pause. "Really, it’s all right, you can touch it." I was staring at the bear as if it might leap from Ex-Boyfriend's arms and forcibly remove my eyeballs.

There was also a card, which began "The bear reminded me of you. Cute and cuddly but also a little bit dangerous." I was thrilled with this line (“Oooo..I’m dangerous,” I squealed, then realized how ridiculous I sounded). Unfortunately, my pleasure was somewhat mitigated by the fact that the front of the homemade card was a grainy, black and white photo of the two of us screwing in a bathroom. (My ass looked good though.)

As always, equal parts endearing, frightening and inappropriate.

A Hallmark Holiday Surprise

Ex-Boyfriend has texted to let me know that he has bought me a Valentine’s Day present.

Being the mercenary little thing that I am, I would be jumping up and down with anticipation were it not for the track record of the man in question.

A list of things that Ex-Boyfriend has bought me in the past, all of which were advertised as being amazing:

• One bottle of Maker’s Mark, wrapped in a paper bag.
  
• A small, intricate statue of three people engaged in sexual congress. Supposedly carved out of ivory.
  
• The book The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat by Oliver Sacks.
  
• A card with a photograph of him and me.
  

My hopes are not up. But I am insanely curious to see what item Ex-Boyfriend has deemed an appropriate present this time.

Friday Night

I met artist boy at the sushi place and instantly felt awkward. I realized the only thing we had in common was a confirmed mutual attraction, but it seemed impolite to begin the conversation talking about our looks. I said "hello" and he replied in kind. We both looked around frantically for a hostess to rescue us but one came only after we had successfully completed the "How are you?" and "Heard it’s going to snow" rounds of uncomfortable conversation.

At the table things only got worse.

"Do you go to Starbucks a lot?" Did I really have to answer that question? I stared at my menu intently as I contemplated feigning illness. Thankfully our waitress asked, almost immediately, if we would like anything to drink. "Dirty martini," I responded, a bit too quickly. He looked at me with either renewed interest or suspicions of alcoholism, I couldn’t be sure. We went back to staring at our menus.

As the waitress took our orders and then our menus, thus removing any excuse for not talking, I looked around to find another distraction. The sushi restaurant was one of those that had made the surprising choice of including aquariums in their décor. I pretended to be intensely interested in the fish.

"You know," he began, noticing me gazing at the aquarium with an unusual focus. "I used to think that sushi restaurants killed the fish from the aquarium to make your dinner." It wasn’t much, but it was a beginning. The drinks arriving spurred us along and we began to exchange stories of ridiculous things we had once believed.

One dirty martini later I offered "I used to think you were supposed to condition your pubic hair."

He laughed, leaned forward and said conspiratorially "Last month I was in the shower and I got confused. I was like pubic hair is hair. So I shampooed it and conditioned it. But then I got really confused and was like chest hair is hair too. So I shampooed it and conditioned it. But then my skin felt really strange which made me wonder—what’s the conditioner doing to my scalp?"

I stared.

He concluded, "Sometimes I over-think things."

Thankfully I am the type of girl who thinks odd ball guys are sexy. Then I inevitably recoil when I find out they are, in fact, unhinged, but I refrained from thinking too far ahead and wound up making out with him in front of my apartment for almost an hour. Have I mentioned he's gorgeous?

Artist-type hot guy called. He wanted to know if I wanted to go out to dinner tomorrow (tonight), or to a party in Brooklyn that was "a serious hipster scene." I wasn't sure if the hipster comment was supposed to be a positive or a negative so I opted for dinner.

We are meeting at "this really cool little sushi place," that the boy has "found." Sushi places, both dirty and expensive, are to the Upper East Side what pizza places are to the rest of Manhattan. This one is no different than the other two on the block, yet the boy made it sound like his awareness of it was the product of a long, arduous journey and much diligent research, which I suppose it might have been since he lives in Williamsburg.

I am reserving judgement on his obvious potential to be a totally pretentious, boring ass because he is so delectable-looking.

The Cool Kids Go To Starbucks. Apparently.

Having turned into somewhat of a caffeine and candy junkie (with no damage to my waistline—will the fat appear all at once?) I made the executive decision to institute a daily 3pm chocolate and caffeine break. Today my usual coffee place was out of coffee (I had not been aware that was possible) so I intrepidly headed off to the nearest Starbucks.

After ordering my venti coffee and feeling ridiculous as I said “Venti,” I stepped to the side to wait. I was gnawing at my very expensive Rice Krispie treat like a wild animal, (there is just no other way to eat it), when a voice to the side of me said brightly “You look just like Sienna Miller.”

Mouth full, and clothes speckled with tiny crumbs, I turned around to see what idiot actually thought I looked like Sienna. Instead of the balding, overweight, leering man I had expected, it was a gorgeous, borderline well-known artist.

I recognized him not because I am that culturally cool but because Ex-Boyfriend once dragged me to an exhibit featuring his work. I spent the night drinking wine out of a plastic cup and staring at the cute guy with freckles who looked like he didn’t want to be there either. When I casually pointed at him and asked if Ex-Boyfriend knew who he was, Ex-Boyfriend replied “I think he’s the artist,” and I suddenly became more interested in the art.

Now, the freakishly tiny island of Manhattan had given me a chance to say something witty and captivating to the object of my art gallery lust.

I chewed a bit, then mumbled “Before the hair cut?” It was the best I could do under such pressure. He smiled as if I had said something very charming.

“Yes.”

We looked approvingly at one another.

“Can I have your phone number?” he asked. It was quick, but who was I to say no?

After a hasty recitation of my number and the offering of my name, I left Starbucks and floated back to the office to spend the afternoon giddy with delusions of grandeur and Sienna Miller-esqueness.

I just now realized that I forgot to actually pick up my coffee. But even that cannot bring me down.

Though I am a bit sleepy.

One Is Never Safe In the Corporate Ghetto

Today Boss rounded a corner and spilled almost the entirety of his morning coffee on the publicity assistant who was, of course, wearing white. Boss looked as though he was going to apologize but was momentarily (and understandably) distracted by the assistant's green bra showing through her wet shirt. CEO, who had accompanied Boss around the fateful corner, jumped in between the two before apologies could be made.

"Boss," CEO exclaimed worriedly. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes," Boss said somewhat bashfully. "I'm fine." Boss, thankfully, had somehow protected his Brooks Brothers shirt in the collision and was, indeed, fine.

CEO clapped him on the shoulder and the two continued making their way down the hallway, the drenched publicity assistant forgotten, just another casualty of corporate life. These streets are dangerous.

In order to save money I have decided to start bringing my lunch to work, thus freeing up a few dollars each day for my Mamma Not Only Needs a New Pair of Shoes but a Marc Jacobs Trench Coat fund.

I usually hate the idea of bringing one's lunch from home as carting around a brown bag like a toddler going to kindergarten is the surest signal that one has not "made it." However, I feel I am (barely) young enough to get away with such things. A young twenty-something female eating dry cereal and fruit from her Gristedes bag is, though definitely not chic, at least a little faux-romantic to certain others, in that "Oh I remember when I was twenty and I had no money and it was the greatest thing ever," sort of way.

Unfortunately, after my usual bagel and coffee, I dipped into my lunch bag of shame and ate the entire contents of a little plastic bag full of cereal. To counteract the feeling of carb overload, I ate my apple and peach yogurt. Before I knew what was happening, I was eating my breakfast bar and bagel chips with one hand, while doing my morning Gawker review with the other. Then, and only then, did the office announce there were free donuts in the 4th floor conference room.

Now not only do I have to spend money on lunch, I feel like a fat ass before 10am.

In tangentially related news, I have not been to the gym once since beginning my membership. I did, however, sleep with Ex-Boyfriend this week and I was on top for quite a bit. While not precisely the same thing as getting on a treadmill, surely this counts as some sort of exercise?