Swingin’ times in London town

The Games of the 30th Olympiad are plowing ahead, and we’re deep into the second week of stiff competition. Some competitors got off easy, while others went limp during their events. If you need to bone up on the results, check ’em out here. Once you’re caught up, you’re ready to plunge headlong into the last weekend of competition. Enjoy.

Until next time, please enjoy some of the more memorable images from the games.

 

 

 

 

 

Objects in Mirror Are Larger Than They Appear

It’ll be interesting to see if I am able to compose a coherent post today. First, I did Bikram, then I came home and did some of this workout. Yes, ’tis true. I got sucked into the infomercial vortex a few days ago and since I’m a sucker for innocents named Ryan with Canadian accents, well you can figure out the rest.

I’m waiting for the required mocking to stop. Any time now would be just perfect. Seriously. Stop. Now.

As for the liking innocent Canadians named Ryan, I don’t know where that came from either. Do yourself a favor and stop trying to figure it out.

So, Bikram was brutal and I did the thing that all American women do–compared my bod to the other women in the class. Now, before you say “Not ALL women do that, McCrabass.” Um, yeaaaah…. you do. Imma gonna call you out on your bullshit. Of course you do it. Yes, stop denying it because you’re full of shit. You do. It’s okay to admit it. Comparing ourselves to our fellow American females citizens is a national past time.

Now that that’s settled, back to the body comparison. I felt good that I wasn’t the fattest in class today–or the weakest–that’s a win in my book. I give myself a lot of credit for doing Bikram in the first place since I’m usually one of the older ones in class, but I look about 8-10 years than my actual age. For that accomplishment, kudos to great genes (see photo below of mum & one of mah seesters), drinking lots of water, wearing a lead blanket as sunscreen and Bikram yoga.

The beautiful ones.

Sadly, my youthful appearance hasn’t helped me land a job, which has me forced me to set aside a plastic surgery change jar. Each day, I toss the day’s accumulated change into it, and with each ping of the coins hitting the glass, I feel safe and hopeful about my future. I should have enough scratch saved by the time I really need a facelift. Until then, Bikram, good genes, SPF 500 and copious amounts of water will have to do. Oh and probably Botox. Sometimes I wish this country was a place where women were accepted for their intelligence and wit, rather than for their dress size. I’ve harped on this subject before, so I won’t open up that old thread again since it doesn’t do any good AND it just makes me a titch sad. The thing is, I think women in this country are forced to compare ourselves to others OR we run the wrath of being labelled a bitch. I already am a bitch and am damn proud of it, so having confidence in the way I look shouldn’t be an issue for me. But it is.

Back to comparing my physical self to others. I can’t help it. I’ll be doing it until I draw my last breath. So, until that day comes … meh…I’m too damn tired to finish that thought.

Corey Hart will haunt my dreams

For some reason, I heard this song on the way to Bikram this morning, and on the way home. This worries me — makes me wonder that maybe there’s some sort of disconnect in the universe. Who knows. However, knowing how things are with me lately, I’m sure I’ll have some sort of Ambien-induced, weird dream about Corey Hart, a bucket of fried chicken, a sear-sucker suit, pine needles and some dude named Hoke. Great — now I’m not gonna be able to sleep tonight.

Class was off today. I couldn’t get it right, wasn’t feelin’ it. Half Moon really hurts the bejeebus out of my shoulder. I didn’t push as hard as usual because the pain was causing me to wince which, in turn, was causing me to hold my breath. It didn’t help seeing my “Hi Janes” in the mirror. Fortunately, neither my arms nor my hair look as bad as what’s featured in the picture, but you get the idea. Plus, that necklace is U.G.L.Y. If I’m not careful, this is gonna be me in about 5 years.

A young women directly in front of me had THE best tat on her lower back. It was of Shakespeare all hip-hopped up. I can’t find any images to do it justice. Wait, I could, but I’m too damn lazy. Tats are de rigueur in Bikram. I feel so out-of-place because I don’t have an “Om” or something else written in Sanskrit splayed on my inner-thigh, or winding up my spinal column (because you know that felt fucking good — I just hope those broads were drunk/passed out when they were getting stamped). Actually, I’ve considered getting a tat for a long time now. I go back and forth on it, but I don’t think my family would appreciate their likeness inked across my ass. That wouldn’t be good for anyone.

And, now that I’ve added a tattooed image of yours truly to your mental Rolodex, I will sign off for the day. Ciao, Monkehs.