Color Me Responsible

"...I'm sorry Miss. Your card has been denied."
-Disapproving lady in the nail salon


Yesterday's Goal Met?: Sorta. Let's just say man can't run off anger alone.


My toes are pink.

I hate pink.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning.

After my 2.5 mile run yesterday, I decide to begin my upper body circuit. So I head to the free weight area (which is completely empty) and I stare at myself in the mirror. And I have a cold kind of horror grow inside of me. Sorta like living alone, and realizing you left your apartment keys in the office. (This has happened to me...twice.)

The first thing I notice is my sweat stained grey gym pants. Well..these are actually yoga pants and not made to absorb sweat. So when they do absorb sweat, it's noticeable.

Very noticeable.

Especially when the sweat pools in your crotch area forming a dark grey V between your legs.

I quickly and quietly ...START BOOKIN' to the locker room. And instead of instantly removing the yoga pants, I keep em on..and stare at myself in the mirror.

...In total disbelief of how fucking nasty this is.

How in the hell did this happen? I wonder.

I then notice the trail of sweat down my stomach. Bingo. It flowed down my hunter's line* like a fucking river...and since yoga pants have no elastic waistline to catch this...it pooled in my crotch. ILLG.

So I have a choice. Change and get back out there... or call it a night.

I change (because the gym has unlimited gym clothes and I'm gangsta) and head back out there....but I've taken too much of a break. Because now I'm tired. VERY tired.

However, I still pick up 10lb weights and do some military shoulder raises, side lateral raises, bicep and tricep curls. But only one set. I ran out of steam.

So I figure I'll end by making up those pushups I didn't do yesterday...and I get into position.
On my first set of push-ups...I realize...I'm sore. My chest. My arms. My back. Ay.

On my second set of push ups, I realize, I'm really tired. REALLY tired. If I try to do the third set, I'll never make it. Bad form. There's nothing worse.

Listen to your body Nye. Call it a night. Get some dinner and finish working.

Fine.

Not a salad from Chipotle again. A grilled chicken sandwich from McDonalds. Yeah.

(Though I always feel weird about walking down the street with a Micky-D bag. As if the health police will assault me, and I'll have to prove to them I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich, no mayo and water.)

Just then, a close talkin' homeless guy approaches me.

"Excuse me Miss..."

"Yes?"

"I haven't eaten in days and I was wondering..."

"Would you like something?"

He blinks. I blink.

Offering the homeless food in New York is sorta like calling their bluff.
Let's be honest here. Either you want food or drugs. Be real with me, or you get nothing.
(Or perform...but that's another blog.)

"Are you serious?" He says in disbelief of his luck. Wow. He was telling the truth.

"Sure, come on."

He's stunned. And I'm pissed. Because I know I wasn't the first person he approached. You mean nobody could buy this man anything? I hate this fucking city sometimes.

He modestly asks for a hamburger, and after a bit of prodding on my part (I understand the unspoken "beggars can't be choosers" rule, as does he)...we upgrade to a Big Mac value meal.

He's a nice man. Sometimes, you can just tell these things.

We say goodbye, I wish him luck, and head back to work (feeling like my karma went up a notch or two.) But also wondering just...what happened?

Why is he homeless, in Micky-D's, hoping somebody will provide his next meal?

"You're only one paycheck away from homelessness..." my mother once told me. Hmm.
Maybe not one...maybe three. Speaking of which, I'd better set up my bill payment for tomorrow.

I return to the office...log into Chase and pay every bill I can think of.

Whew. That's done. Homelessness averted for one more month! Yay responsibility!

10pm. Phone call. The peace talks begin...and this takes the rest of my energy from me.
Time to call it a night.

*****

I wasn't paying attention. I was watching "Monster-In-Law" with
J. Lo...again.
(How is it possible that I see this movie twice in the same month... against my will?)

She picked up the wrong nailpolish. My brown polish was next to my neighbors.

Pink.

If her leg massage wasn't so gangsta, I would have asked her to begin again. But she was so nice, and hey. Maybe I'm meant to have pink toes this week. Maybe it's a lesson I have to learn.

Here's my debit card...just put it on here.

(See above quote.)

Blink. Blink. Blink.

"Huh? What? It...but that's impossible. " ...I just got paid yesterday and... OH SNAP!

In my effort to be responsible and remain non-homeless with good credit, I forgot to check my account balance.

Way to go Ms. Responsible. "May I use your phone?"

Chase's new automated phone system is THE SHITTIEST ONE EVER... requiring codes and fingerprints in order to get into your account. UGGGH...Ms. Really Nice Representative Lady, all I want to do is just transfer.... You know what.. nevermind. I'll just go to the ATM.
No. It's not your fault. Thanks though, and have a great weekend.

(heavy sigh...) ...here. Put it on the Visa.

Pink toes will keep me humble. They will serve as a week long reminder that I need to be more responsible and stop fighting things that haven't even fucking happened (...and if they do...it's probably going to be beyond my control anyway.)

...either that, or it simply means that J.Lo is evil and must be banned.

Which is what I've always suspected anyway.

...have a great weekend.

-Nye


Goal: Taking the day off. I know when the universe gives me pink toes, it's time to sit down somewhere and be quiet. Bad week. Meditate on that.

Hot beat to chill to while I edit training montage: Like A Star - Corinne Bailey Rae




*The line in the middle of your abs that separate the "six pack".