I swear I'm not a murderer...

...but I am slowly killing Lucille.

Lucille is the name of our car, by the way.

Now, I contest that Lucille was angry and resentful before I ever came into contact with her, but others seem to disagree.  I mean, I am not a bad driver.  Really.  I swear.  Just...absent-minded?  Occasionally oblivious?  Easily distracted?  Yes.  That last one.

Of course I am watching the road...road sounds like toad...Neville had a toad!  Why was Ron allowed to bring Scabbers?  The letter said "owl, cat, or toad".  I should buy an owl.

 

Take, for instance, the events of a recent road trip.  I was in the driver's seat and my friend was filling up the tank.  When he got back in the car, I figured (completely logically!) that he was done getting gas.  Never mind that it had only been about a minute.  So you can imagine my surprise at his panic when I went to turn the car on.  See, what I saw as continuing on the journey, he saw as my attempt to blow up a gas station and kill us all.  Turns out the car was still filling up.

I would like to remind everyone that this did not actually happen.

 

I would like to point out that I did not, in fact, set anything on fire.  However, this is just one in a series of small mistakes that have convinced the men in my life that I am not to be allowed behind the wheel of a car without serious supervision.  Despite all my protests that I am a perfectly good driver when they are not stressing me out and making me all nervous by WATCHING MY EVERY MOVE, they remain skeptical.  This is probably not helped by the car's obvious resentment of me.

I may have bent back the side mirror of the car by driving too close to the drive-through pick-up window, causing a chain reaction so the driver's-side window refuses to go up or down without forceful assistance.  I may have rear-ended another car when Lucille decided that sliding across the snow would be much more fun than obeying my frantic punching on the brake pedal.  I still say that was the fault of Lucille and her accomplice, unplowed roads.  And the fact that the passenger's side door requires yanking for both opening and closing really has nothing to do with me.  That's just Lucille being spiteful.

She takes after her namesake.

 

Despite all of my accidental abuse (and occasionally life-threatening absentmindedness), she still functions, carrying us many miles with only minor spurts of obstinancy.  So, Lucille, thanks for all you do.  I promise to do my best to take care of you.
Until I finally succeed in destroying you.  By accident, of course.

Dear Gym: if you were a person...

 ...I think I would round-house kick you in the face.  What?  IT'S WHAT YOU HAVE TAUGHT ME!

So, in a previous post I detailed my feelings about my occasionally abusive, on-again off-again boyfriend "Jim" (also known as "the gym").  Ah, Gym (I am going to capitalize this so it's more like a person that I can justifiably yell at rather than an inanimate object.  Because yelling at objects makes me a crazy person).  Things had improved so much since the last time I posted about you and then what do you do?

You sucker-punch me right in the muscles I didn't know I had.

You make me love you and then you make me wish I never knew you.  I get all dependent, going to you several times a week, and then you just turn on me.  I will probably go back to loving you soon, but right now I just think you're a jerk, Gym.

Just look at those smug little machines and condescending mats.

 

I guess it's not totally your fault.  I wouldn't need you so much if it wasn't for my love-hate relationship with Food (both best friend and arch-nemesis).  I truly love food in nearly all of its forms.  Melty.  Crispy.  Gooey.  Frosty.  Cheesy.  Sweet.  Crisp.  Juicy.

What can beat a cold, melty ice cream cone on a hot day?  A hot slice of pizza oozing cheese and delicious sauce over a crispy crust?  A fresh cookie with still-melting chocolate in it?  Cupcakes!  Tacos!  Shepherd's Pie!  Pasta!  Milkshakes!

Don't even get me started on milkshakes.

Sweet lord, I want you.

Food, I was unfailingly loyal to you in all your tastiness for years.  YEARS.  And then, right after college, you threw a wrench into the works.  You ran off with my metabolism.  And you still haven't returned it.  Suddenly, all my normal foods and normal portions were doing markedly abnormal things to my body.  What, you thought my hips were SUPPOSED to be that size?  You thought that since I ate pears so much I would really appreciate being gradually turned into one?  You realized that what every girl needs is thighs that make it look like two hams are having a battle to the death in a pair of jeans?

This is what came up when searching "ham death-battle".  It is awesome and I'm keeping it.

You drove me to Gym, Food.  You did this to me.  My pain is your fault.

But I still can't quit you, Food.

Gym, I thought we were working things out.  We accepted that I will never in a million years enjoy running around outside and moved on from that to stair machines, bicycles, elliptical machines, and even the occasional treadmill (turns out running sucks less when there is a television in front of you).  We were taking classes, Gym.  Kickboxing classes.  Core classes.  That one yoga class that we quit because the incredibly sweet instructor had a breathy little voice that kept making me fall asleep.  All was well.

But this week, you turned on me.  You decided that getting into shape deserved punishment and so, for no reason, you made me sore.  Not just worked-out-hard-yesterday sore.  You gave me can't-find-a-position-to-sleep-in-because-everything-hurts sore.  And seriously-it's-been-three-days,-why-does-this-still-hurt sore.  And HOW-CAN-THAT-BE-IN-PAIN?!-IS-THERE-EVEN-A-MUSCLE-THERE? sore. 

 Muscle in front of the shin?  O, it's there.  And it's angry.

And you know the worst part, Gym?

I can't quit you either.

And it's not just because the membership was expensive.  It's because for all your abusive ways, I like you.  I like feeling sore and strong and sweaty after a workout.  I like feeling healthy and powerful.  I like fitting into clothing that had been relegated to the bottom of my dresser drawers.  I like being back in a shape recognizable as female human being and not amoeba.  I even like you when it hurts.  And now I sound like a masochist.

I am not putting up a picture to go with "masochist".  Just...no.

So, Gym, even though I think we may need counseling or something, our dysfunctional little relationship is still going strong.  I am going to miss you while I am away this week.  And I know you are going to punish me for my absence when I get back.  But I am looking forward to that too.

Just, please lay off the soreness.  Just a little bit.