Guten Morgen, Leserin*!
*Reader
Part of my German heritage is rattling around in my brain this fine morn, and I just went with it. I’m not forcing my brain into a different track, if that’s where she wants to be, she be.
I think I have a German heritage. There’s something from somewhere over there, but I’m officially too lazy to open a new tab and re-check my 23-and-Me DNA.
Yes, I took that years ago.
I was on a discovery mission, to see how much Native American is in my blood, so I could either 1. open my own casino or 2. horn in on my tribe’s casino.
I’d been told my whole life that a great great great grandmother was Blackfoot Indian.
Well, if that’s the case, we have diluted that down enough in my bloodstream that I don’t get to claim any rights to any casinos, or open one. I wish the Irish could get their same land rights to opening casinos. I have that in me, which explains a lot (freckles, pasty-white skin, ill-tempered when drinking, enjoyment of the potato, dislike of snakes on my land, lover of Lucky Charms**).
**both the cereal and the talismen
Yesterday I spent brain power wishing I were someone else, which frankly is the most pointless thing you can spend your brain cells thinking about. I wasn’t thinking like, “Oh, I wish i just loved raw onions, they are so good for your bone strength!”
It was more along the lines of, “I wish I were confident and adventurous and innately talented artistically and had zero money worries ever and had a house in Malibu where I could swim and walk the shores all day with not a care in the world.”
The wishing was mostly for a house in Malibu.
WHY NOT ME, UNIVERSE??
Why not me.
I look back on my life and I have never really TRIED HARD. As soon as I meet resistance, I tend to give up, thinking, “Well, that’s apparently not for me.”
I am in the era of wanting a life do-over.
Except that’s impossible, but I still want one. I want to be 16 or 22 or 35 and select differently.
I want to change my path.
I’m still athleting. Except this week, where I have been under-the-weather and I can’t be confined to a one-piece bathing suit when an emergency strikes. It makes me apprehensive to not athlete; I don’t want to get out of the habit. It’s so so so easy to revert back to the material of who I WAS before April; I don’t want to be that girl any longer. I’m now the girl who goes to the gym 25x a month.
My name made it into the Red Font Zone in June! Red font is for the super-worker-outters, who go at least 20x a month. I didn’t even know this was a thing that got rewarded with red font letters, but it has provided new motivation, which is why I’m especially anxious that this month isn’t going to make it, because of said sick feeling all last week. I’m only at 12x this month. I mean, I’ll be on the board; easy peasy. I can still technically do it, it’s just going to take some gumption to get up early in the morning because I have a packed schedule next week.
So now you know, I can be very competitive with myself if the reward is something as simple as seeing my name on a leader board in red font. I’m almost offended that I don’t get extra-credit for going due to the fact that 1. I drive about 25 minutes to get there and 2. I’m not retired and 3. I am not a natural morning girl. My show-ups should count double.
Let’s assess this post: 1. it’s all about my gym habits again. 2. Is it ever going to be anything else? 3. Do I have to rename this blog from “Partly Clowder With a Chance of Cake” since I don’t really even eat that much cake?
EXCEPT! I did eat some cake recently, and let’s talk about that so I can earn my blog title and get back to what matters. THIS CAKE MATTERS.
That’s the flag I’ll fly.
I’d like to say that I shared this cake with others.
That would be a lie.
I systematically ate this cake right out of the container, one delicious bite at a time, over the course of several days.
Every mouthful was a delight.
The vanilla was so so so vanilla-ie.
It inspired me to order vanilla paste during Amazon Prime Days, just so I can bake a cake with it and see if it compares. Because apparently I still love cake. GOOD cake. I’m not really into mediocre cake at this time. That was Old Me, who believed in equality for all cakes.
Now that I see it takes me 30 minutes of hard labor on the elliptical to burn off 150 calories, I’ve gotten more selective with cake.
A Trixie’s gotta have standards. On something, I guess.
Well, we didn’t get to the heart of anything that matters today. However, it is time for me to slip into my sexy*** one-piece swimwear and head to the water.
***not sexy at all, i picked a suit that won’t jostle my tits outta the top when I do some bouncing around during water aerobics, nor ride up the crotch and present the world with my camel toe****.
I leave you with this:
Don’t blame me. You knew what you were getting when you came here.
****my 60 year old friend, who I will call B, JUST LEARNED the term camel toe for the very first time recently. Not from me, but from her own 20-something-yr-old kids. So here you have it. If you haven’t heard of camel toe before now, go look it up. In this way I’m an educator, like the finest teachers who go before me.