confessions of a twenty-something single white female.
All I can do to avoid picking the charred skin off my recently sunburned back and chest is slop more globs of lotion on, which then just makes a nasty concoction of dead skin gloop that smells vaguely of cocoa butter.
I should've heeded Sonjie Scribbz sunscreen advice, but alas, I did not, and I probably will not, ever, because I'm destined to die of skin cancer.
I saw it in a dream once.
Aside from laying on the beach voluntarily subjecting myself to third degree burns, I've been keeping busy by reading Chelsea Handler's "My Horizontal Life," collecting the hordes of stray bobby pins from all over my empty room, eating a smorgasbord of random canned goods and other foods that have a shelf life of at least a century, and of course, packing.
I move out of my apartment on Wednesday.
Out of my apartment and intooooo...the dorms.
Try as I might, my goal in life this summer, is to avoid re-introducing myself to the freshman 15. Or, in my case, the freshman 25. Let's not talk about it.
Ok, let's do.
Yes, I gained 25 pounds upon entering college oh so many years ago. Six years to be precise. (oh shit, that means my ten year high school reunion is in four years...I should probably start working on my "check me out I'm so cool, I've got my shit together" plan, or, maybe I should just have a kid).
So yeah, 25 pounds. Twenty-five pounds of make your own waffles with boysenberry syrup and that extra dollop of unwarranted whipped cream splattered on top. Twenty-five pounds of all you can eat cheeseburgers and french fries, with a side of pepperoni pizza (times 3 of course). Twenty-five pounds of cranberry juice with every single meal for a year. I'm rather surprised I didn't develop diabetes with all that unnecessary sugar, but I presume my bladder is doing quite nicely. Cranberry juice is good for your bladder right? I've heard that once or twice.
Anyway, I'm determined to avoid the afore-mentioned weight gain. And I'm determined to do that like so...
Of course I have a plan. I always have a plan. No matter how often it falls through or I bail on it like an "I'm about to careen into a ditch" skateboard....there is still a plan.
Drum roll please...
Ok, ok, you can stop beating on your knees like a crazy person while you sit in that room by yourself reading about someone else's life, that is far less cool than your own...
And moving forward from the virtual noogie you just subjected yourself to...
I'm training for a marathon.
I know, I know...if you know me at all, I've never trained consistently. Ever.
So who's to say this time will be annnyyyy different...
Well, to be quite frank, and not the ballpark kind, or the overweight handyman with the over-sized onesie kind...quite frank, like bam, in your face, it probably won't be any different.
But I'm gonna try. And that's all I can offer up at this point in time.
I've been active four of the past five days. I'm gonna go ahead and pat myself on the back for that one. Ok, my definition of active may only mean getting out of bed to grab the stale chips from the back of the cupboard, the ones that have been hiding under the empty generic oreo box, for the past month, but hey, it's active nonetheless.
Ok, that was a joke, purely for joke's sake. I think that would be a great name for my first child. Joke. No? Ok, never mind. That was a joke too.
Yes, my definition of active is probably different from yours, but it's probably a little more on the extreme side. As my roommate likes to say "Sabrina, you're too hard on yourself."
I get it at least three times a week.
I've gone on a few four mile runs, a "medium" hike (my definition of medium is Emily's definition of strenuous...oops), and I suffered through some very low energy stadiums today. Four days of lackluster exercise that I consider to be active.
I'm so out of shape, I'm rather embarrassed. I went on a two mile run about two weeks ago and my lungs felt like tiny little leprechauns clutching their gold in the fetal position, completely and utterly unwilling to open up and expand. I was ashamed and walked home, trying with all my might to keep from crying hysterically. I knew that would only aggravate the leprechauns.
It's no secret I've been dumping buckets full of unhealthy all over my body. And pulling myself out of those puddles and shaking off the residual sludge is not going to be simple.
But I'm hiking up my britches, accepting some blame, and pulling my chin up off the ground. Have you ever successfully done a chin up without smacking your chin on the bar? Yeah, me neither. I couldn't ever do the weenie roaster either, those girls that could were beyond me. The one time I tried to do one of those flips over the chin up bar, I fell on my back. Praise the Lord I'm not paralyzed due to trying to one up the weenie roasters.
Now that I've got my pants back on, and my chin at a socially acceptable angle (not too high and not too low), and some blame deep tissue massaged into my body, it's time to gather up my basket full of lessons learned and skip to the loo my darling. Except I don't need to go to the bathroom.
I fashioned myself a cloak of optimism out of all the leftover Sandbar flyers and empty condom wrappers laying on my bedroom floor. I pulled it around my shoulders and pulled the hood up over my head and looked at myself in the mirror for awhile.
Someone once told me you can't possibly love a man completely, until you love yourself entirely. Makes sense right? Hence the reason God hasn't graced me with a husband just yet.
Hope those four years go by slowly because I definitely ain't got my shit together yet. Damn high school reunions. Remember how I was valedictorian? Oh yeahhhhh....needless to say I've regressed..or not so much regressed, I'm just a late bloomer. I didn't get my period til I was 14 and a 1/2, while all the other girls got it at 11 or 12. Seems only fitting that I wouldn't start partying and drunkenly carousing until well after college. Dumbass. I was calling myself a dumbass, not you. Sorry if that was misconstrued.
This whole online diary thing is so funny and awesome. And borderline insane. I don't know who you are, but you're reading the most intimate details of my life with some half-hearted chuckles tacked on the end. I hope you thoroughly enjoy it, appreciate it, and maybe someday you'll make me famous. Now run and go tell your friends I'm funny, or at least tell them that I'm real. My friend Krista and I used to challenge each other to live transparently...here's lookin' at you kid. My poker face isn't that great.
Anyway, now that I've morbidly hacked into you with my capital Sin, and her little sin minions, it's time to go eat tacos with my family.
Pick your jaw up off the ground and call me. Lord knows I need some real friends these days.
And if you haven't already, go read my other blog...http://droppingeez.blogspot.com. It's a doozy. Beware.
Zie enddd.
I should've heeded Sonjie Scribbz sunscreen advice, but alas, I did not, and I probably will not, ever, because I'm destined to die of skin cancer.
I saw it in a dream once.
Aside from laying on the beach voluntarily subjecting myself to third degree burns, I've been keeping busy by reading Chelsea Handler's "My Horizontal Life," collecting the hordes of stray bobby pins from all over my empty room, eating a smorgasbord of random canned goods and other foods that have a shelf life of at least a century, and of course, packing.
I move out of my apartment on Wednesday.
Out of my apartment and intooooo...the dorms.
Try as I might, my goal in life this summer, is to avoid re-introducing myself to the freshman 15. Or, in my case, the freshman 25. Let's not talk about it.
Ok, let's do.
Yes, I gained 25 pounds upon entering college oh so many years ago. Six years to be precise. (oh shit, that means my ten year high school reunion is in four years...I should probably start working on my "check me out I'm so cool, I've got my shit together" plan, or, maybe I should just have a kid).
So yeah, 25 pounds. Twenty-five pounds of make your own waffles with boysenberry syrup and that extra dollop of unwarranted whipped cream splattered on top. Twenty-five pounds of all you can eat cheeseburgers and french fries, with a side of pepperoni pizza (times 3 of course). Twenty-five pounds of cranberry juice with every single meal for a year. I'm rather surprised I didn't develop diabetes with all that unnecessary sugar, but I presume my bladder is doing quite nicely. Cranberry juice is good for your bladder right? I've heard that once or twice.
Anyway, I'm determined to avoid the afore-mentioned weight gain. And I'm determined to do that like so...
Of course I have a plan. I always have a plan. No matter how often it falls through or I bail on it like an "I'm about to careen into a ditch" skateboard....there is still a plan.
Drum roll please...
Ok, ok, you can stop beating on your knees like a crazy person while you sit in that room by yourself reading about someone else's life, that is far less cool than your own...
And moving forward from the virtual noogie you just subjected yourself to...
I'm training for a marathon.
I know, I know...if you know me at all, I've never trained consistently. Ever.
So who's to say this time will be annnyyyy different...
Well, to be quite frank, and not the ballpark kind, or the overweight handyman with the over-sized onesie kind...quite frank, like bam, in your face, it probably won't be any different.
But I'm gonna try. And that's all I can offer up at this point in time.
I've been active four of the past five days. I'm gonna go ahead and pat myself on the back for that one. Ok, my definition of active may only mean getting out of bed to grab the stale chips from the back of the cupboard, the ones that have been hiding under the empty generic oreo box, for the past month, but hey, it's active nonetheless.
Ok, that was a joke, purely for joke's sake. I think that would be a great name for my first child. Joke. No? Ok, never mind. That was a joke too.
Yes, my definition of active is probably different from yours, but it's probably a little more on the extreme side. As my roommate likes to say "Sabrina, you're too hard on yourself."
I get it at least three times a week.
I've gone on a few four mile runs, a "medium" hike (my definition of medium is Emily's definition of strenuous...oops), and I suffered through some very low energy stadiums today. Four days of lackluster exercise that I consider to be active.
I'm so out of shape, I'm rather embarrassed. I went on a two mile run about two weeks ago and my lungs felt like tiny little leprechauns clutching their gold in the fetal position, completely and utterly unwilling to open up and expand. I was ashamed and walked home, trying with all my might to keep from crying hysterically. I knew that would only aggravate the leprechauns.
It's no secret I've been dumping buckets full of unhealthy all over my body. And pulling myself out of those puddles and shaking off the residual sludge is not going to be simple.
But I'm hiking up my britches, accepting some blame, and pulling my chin up off the ground. Have you ever successfully done a chin up without smacking your chin on the bar? Yeah, me neither. I couldn't ever do the weenie roaster either, those girls that could were beyond me. The one time I tried to do one of those flips over the chin up bar, I fell on my back. Praise the Lord I'm not paralyzed due to trying to one up the weenie roasters.
Now that I've got my pants back on, and my chin at a socially acceptable angle (not too high and not too low), and some blame deep tissue massaged into my body, it's time to gather up my basket full of lessons learned and skip to the loo my darling. Except I don't need to go to the bathroom.
I fashioned myself a cloak of optimism out of all the leftover Sandbar flyers and empty condom wrappers laying on my bedroom floor. I pulled it around my shoulders and pulled the hood up over my head and looked at myself in the mirror for awhile.
Someone once told me you can't possibly love a man completely, until you love yourself entirely. Makes sense right? Hence the reason God hasn't graced me with a husband just yet.
Hope those four years go by slowly because I definitely ain't got my shit together yet. Damn high school reunions. Remember how I was valedictorian? Oh yeahhhhh....needless to say I've regressed..or not so much regressed, I'm just a late bloomer. I didn't get my period til I was 14 and a 1/2, while all the other girls got it at 11 or 12. Seems only fitting that I wouldn't start partying and drunkenly carousing until well after college. Dumbass. I was calling myself a dumbass, not you. Sorry if that was misconstrued.
This whole online diary thing is so funny and awesome. And borderline insane. I don't know who you are, but you're reading the most intimate details of my life with some half-hearted chuckles tacked on the end. I hope you thoroughly enjoy it, appreciate it, and maybe someday you'll make me famous. Now run and go tell your friends I'm funny, or at least tell them that I'm real. My friend Krista and I used to challenge each other to live transparently...here's lookin' at you kid. My poker face isn't that great.
Anyway, now that I've morbidly hacked into you with my capital Sin, and her little sin minions, it's time to go eat tacos with my family.
Pick your jaw up off the ground and call me. Lord knows I need some real friends these days.
And if you haven't already, go read my other blog...http://droppingeez.blogspot.com. It's a doozy. Beware.
Zie enddd.
posted by Sabrina @ 6:54 PM
1 Comments:
Sometimes we do that. regress. It's life. We like to think we can control the way things go. We pretend to put it in God's hands when really we're just fooling ourselves and everyone around him. We know EXACTLY what WE want, and how we want it. I know, that you know God loves you regardless of your transgressions. Heck, I made plenty of mistakes throughout the past 6 years. I've gone back and forth, hardcore all for God, to double minded doubts and dishonesty with God and myself. Sometimes as strong as we think we are, we forget how strong the enemy is, and we give in, not remembering that God is the strongest, and it's him who gives us strength. Not ourselves, not our situations, not the lives we've lived, or horrors we've faced. none of that makes us strong. only him. Love you Sabrina. Happy Birthday my old friend.
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