Life & Other Drugs

Snow, Or Not

February 18, 2015


Due to recent weather conditions, I’ve spent a lot of time sitting around, reflecting on stuff. One thing in particular has been on my mind–my failed relationship with snow. Our love was promising, but it couldn’t last. I’ll start from the beginning.

Winter 1998-1999
I am in kindergarten. This is my first blizzard, and it is thrilling. We get out of school early! My brother and I put on our full body snowsuits and go out to play. Within a minute I (accidentally!!) hit him in the face with a snowball and he starts to cry. Mom is mad, we go inside.

Winter 1998-1999
We have another snowstorm. I run outside completely naked, and, for good measure, sit down in the snow. I love snow! Our neighbor walks by during my performance, looks at my dad, and says, “You next.”

Winter 1999-2000
Another blizzard! I love snow! My siblings and I jump around the living room to celebrate school being cancelled. We put snowballs in the freezer to save for later.

Summer 2001
My brother and I put on our snowsuits to play in the yard. We pretend the blossoming trees are actually covered in snow. Did I mention I love snow?

Winter 2003-2004
I am in 5th grade, on the verge of my angsty teenage years. I feel obligated to go out and play in the snow to make the most of my last days of childhood. Also, I am an artist and must express myself. Inspired by Calvin and Hobbes, I make a lot of mutant snowmen. I may or may not still save snowballs in the freezer.

Winter 2009-2010
During my junior year of high school, we have two spectacular blizzards almost back to back. I’m from D.C., which is really not the south, though some New Englanders are convinced otherwise. It snows there every winter, without fail. With the snow comes a bizarre winter amnesia in which everyone forgets how to drive, all the snow plows are somehow misplaced, and the government closes. At home, 1-2 feet of snow means a guaranteed week off school.  I have to sleep over at a friend’s house two nights in a row because the roads are so bad (read: because I am drunk on her parents’ booze). I reconnect with my snow-nudist roots and go sledding in my bathing suit, which I think is a pretty cool and very original thing to do. The cold never bothered me anyway!

Winter 2011-2012
I was told I’d get a taste of real winter up in Providence. My freshman year, this does not prove to be the case. “It’s really not that bad,” I scoff. If I started to build an igloo, I would finish it.

Winter 2013-2014
It really is that bad.  Every day on campus I pass splatters of vomit perfectly preserved in the snow piles.  I am reminded unpleasantly of the ice man, and can only hope these remnants of college life don’t take after him and last for thousands of years. After months of walking only where the shoveled paths dictate, I begin to doubt the existence of free will. Road salt destroys all my shoes. I don’t love snow, and there’s no way I’m building an igloo.

Present day
It’s kind of funny to think that not so long ago I felt compelled to get out there and take advantage of every snowy day. Even in high school, I always made a point to at least go sledding. Growing up, blizzards were such a fun event that I remember every single one. Now, I don’t even remember every blizzard in the past two weeks. I wish a foot of snow still meant a week without class, and above all, I miss my snowsuit.

Image via

Life & Other Drugs

Pressing Questions

December 7, 2014

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As an “adult,” I spend my time wondering about really important stuff. Here are some of my most pressing questions:

1. What goes on in my fridge when it’s closed?

Several great works of literature have addressed this topic, not least of them Eggbert: The Slightly Cracked Egg, which was one of my favorite books as a kid. Seriously, though–does all the food come to life and start whispering to each other every time we close the fridge door? Or is everything sleeping in there? After all, the light turns off when you close the door.

2. Where do things go when you lose them?

Really, socks should never “get lost in the wash.” There’s nowhere for them to go. Though everyone seems to accept this phenomenon, there’s really no logical explanation for it.

When things get “lost in the move,” where do they go?? If they’re not at the old house, and they’re not at the new house, where the hell are they? On the sidewalk somewhere in between? Beamed up into an aerial graveyard for lost items in the atmosphere? Also, how is it possible to lose something inside your own house? If you systematically search every room in the house, you should be able to find whatever you lost. But this often doesn’t turn out to be true. For example, over thanksgiving, my mom misplaced a wedge of cheese. We searched the whole house for it, but it was just GONE.

This question is really part of a much larger question: where do things go, in general? What is the map of the flow of objects through the world? When a store is going out of business and “everything must go,” where, exactly, does everything go???

3. What are the contents of other people’s packages?

Let me be clear: by packages, I mean the kind you receive in the mail. The last package I received was from my grandma. It contained 4 avocados, 3 pomegranates, somewhere between 50 and 100 limes, and a lemon the size of a grapefruit. And a handwritten card, of course. I bet no one who saw that package anywhere along the line of its delivery guessed what was in there (she definitely lied about perishable contents at the post office, though by the time it reached me the box was a little pulpy and reeked of citrus). What is everyone else getting in their packages? I could never work for the postal service; I’d die of curiosity.

4. What is mascara made of?

I actually looked this one up, and it turns out to be mostly wax and color additives with really long names.

5. What is inside a lava lamp?

The answer to this one can also be looked up, but knowing the ingredients somehow doesn’t really answer the question.

Naturally, to see how mainstream I am, I took to Google to find out if other people have the same questions as I do. Here are some of the results:

The Who

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This was by far the most depressing result of my search for other people’s questions.

The What

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Fascinating how much the options change between searching “what’s” and “what is.”

The When

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When is apple picking season, indeed.

The Where

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The Why

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Apparently, people are overly concerned with the definition of a fruit. I was always told a fruit is anything with seeds.

The How

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For the record, a hemisphere is half a sphere.

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Ebola and almond milk are really weighing on people’s minds, I guess.

The Tabloids

Do Us All a Favor and Let It Go

November 9, 2014


No, I’m really not.

This post has been brewing for a long time, but today, when I woke up to “Let it Go” blaring out of speakers unknown (in my house? on the street? from a cruel poltergeist in my imagination?), I knew the time had finally come. To everyone who plays “Let it Go” at pregames or on any occasion other than while watching Frozen: this post is for you. I hate Frozen. I know I’m not the only one, because when I was looking for good clips on YouTube, the second search suggestion was “frozen worst movie ever,” followed by “frozen worst parents ever.” Amen.

Let me be clear: I have no particular attachment to strict reality. I love cartoons and animated movies, even princess movies, but Frozen is a bad princess movie. I understand that a certain amount of realism has been abandoned, that abandoning realism is actually kind of the point. Yay magic! Still, even after accepting the premise of a fantasy kingdom in which one of the princesses shoots ice out of her hands, the plot doesn’t work.

First off, why are ice hands such a big deal? Don’t they sell ice anyway? I can think of many powers that would be a whole lot more destructive. Fire hands, for instance.

Ok, so the kids are playing and Elsa accidentally hurts Anna and she ends up in an ER manned by trolls. This is not particularly out of the ordinary. Lots of little kids get hurt playing with their siblings, and it’s scary for their parents but it usually turns out ok.

Anyway, the parents handle this incident in the worst way imaginable, by locking one daughter up and erasing the other one’s memory so she has no idea what’s going on for the rest of her childhood.  We can’t let the kids learn from their mistakes!

Finally, in typical Disney fashion, they kill off the parents, because, as we all know, you can’t come of age unless your parents are dead. In this case, I wasn’t too sorry to see them go, but they really couldn’t do better than a shipwreck on a random voyage of unknown motives? Where’s the escaped rhinoceros when you need it?

Maybe I could have forgiven the gigantic leaps of logic in the backstory if the film improved from there, but it didn’t. It blows my mind that, in 2013, someone still signed off on a story in which the two main characters are women and yet almost all of the major plot moves are driven by the actions of the men around them. Elsa strikes out on her own. Go Elsa! Anna decides to follow her. Go Anna! Only, once she leaves the castle, Anna can’t manage to do anything without Kristoff’s help. Also, rather than leaving her trusty castle staff in charge, she leaves her entire kingdom in the hands of an almost-stranger, who she trusts because he told her she’s pretty and stuff. Because women will do anything if you make them feel special, amiright?

Just when I thought Frozen couldn’t get any worse, it turned out that the only way to save Anna was through true love. I realize this true love thing is a classic fairytale device, but can’t we bury it already?? Some things really are better in the 21st century. Never mind that emotions come from the brain, not the heart (old news, I know).

I’ll leave you with this: you know it’s bad when the highlight of the movie is Olaf, the character most blatantly designed to sell merchandise ever.


…But I make a great bobble head! 

Images via.

Life & Other Drugs, Satire

Expensive Ice Cubes for your Overpriced Drink!

October 26, 2014

ice cubes

Earlier this week, I stumbled across an NPR article bearing the horrifying title “Can Hand-Cut, Artisanal Ice Make Your Cocktail That Much Better?” I had to double-check to make sure I wasn’t on The Onion website.

The article reads: “‘If you’re gonna get a drink that’s $15, it better have the best ice,’ says Joe Ambrose, a bartender at the W Hotel who co-founded Favourite Ice, the company that’s hand-chiseling frozen water for about 30 restaurants and caterers in the D.C. area.”

What a great idea for a start-up! Nice job finding a synonym for ‘ice.’ How anyone could possible think it’s a good idea to sell something that can be made for free by anyone with electricity and running water is beyond me. The fact that Ambrose managed to get other people on board is even more astonishing, but hey, I guess it’s working.

“Regular ice is cloudy because of the minerals like calcium in tap water, Ambrose says […] So he filters water, and then puts it in a big machine made by Clinebell — the same machine that makes those huge blocks for ice sculptures. The machine churns out 200- to 300-pound blocks of crystal-clear ice.”

Shall we make the ice cubes emerald cut to show off their purity?

“…A restaurant called Second State will charge $1 per “hand-cut rock” if you order from its rye whiskey menu.”

Are we still talking about ice here? This whole thing would make a lot more sense if it was really a drug front all along. Pass the hand-cut rocks.

The article ends with an attempt to ascribe real value to artisanal ice. With some material goods, you really do get more value for more money (one-ply toilet paper, I’m looking at you), but I’m pretty sure i  ce doesn’t fall into this category. Anyway, here’s the claim: “Artisanal ice is pretty, but the real selling point is that the super-sized cubes melt more slowly, which gives you more time to enjoy the flavors in your fancy drink.”

Sure it does.

I’m actually surprised they don’t make more unique shapes. Dinosaur-shaped artisanal ice cubes for a kid’s birthday? Such a tasteful detail! Octagonal ice pieces? They catch the light beautifully! I guess a big, square, roughly hewn cube has a certain rustic appeal, though. It’s a timeless look.

I’m also surprised they haven’t started making flavored ice cubes. I mean, they could be lavender infused! Salted caramels, make way for the salted ice cube. Artisanal sea salt only, of course. Which brings me to an awful possibility…

Brace yourself for the pumpkin spicecube. It’s coming.

Image via.

Life & Other Drugs, Satire

Thanks for the non-compliment!

October 23, 2014


One of the most frequent compliments I receive is not actually a compliment at all.  I get it in floods during my first few weeks in a new environment (middle school, high school, college, study abroad, etc.) and in a trickle at other times, but it never fully dies out: “You have really long hair!”

How to respond? Although it’s usually delivered in an almost congratulatory tone, it is not a compliment. It is an indisputable statement of fact. My hair is definitely long: long enough that it usually looks bad in a ponytail, not long enough that I can sit on it. Still, the only truly appropriate response to “Your hair is so long!” is “I know!”

The hair remark is a relatively benign non-compliment. Others carry less friendly subtexts. I’ve unpacked some common non-compliments below:

“Your hair is so straight!” (Yup)

“Your hair is so curly!” (Nothing gets by you!)

“I always prefer natural hair colors” (Do you think mine is natural or not?)

“You look really good today!” (As opposed to every other day?)

“You look ready to party” (Either I look like I’m trying too hard or I look like I really need a drink)

In heels: “Wow, you look really tall!” (But do my legs look longer and my ass more toned??? Because THAT’S what I was going for)

Also for a dress up occasion: “That looks… nice” (It definitely doesn’t)

“Your make up looks good!” (My face, on the other hand…)

And the ultimate passive aggressive non-compliment: “I’m glad you’re doing well.” (…But only because I’m doing better!) 

These are all non-compliments we’ve all either received or delivered. There are, however, truly bizarre ones that pop out. Here’s a sampling of the best (worst?) non-compliments I’ve personally received:

My dad, when I got my driver’s license on the first try: “Wow, congratulations! I estimated you had a 30% chance of passing!”

More than one person has said this to me: “You actually always smell really good.” (“Actually” is the key word here… apparently I have the personality of someone who smells bad.)

And the winner for most perplexing non-compliment: “Your hair looks like a polished wood floor.” What is it about my hair??

I don’t like to receive non-compliments. I don’t think anyone does; they’re either a total waste of words or extremely backhanded. Everyone should just stop giving them! Still, I can’t claim to be completely above the non-compliment. I’ll leave you with the least subtle one I’ve ever dished out (to my 6th grade math teacher): “You have the personality of a diseased lung.”

Life & Other Drugs

Brewing is the New Baking

October 13, 2014


It’s fall, and everyone wants to bake stuff. I can’t complain about the constant stream of cookies and pies, but I also think there’s something else everyone should be doing in the kitchen (spoiler: it’s not sex on the counter).

Brewing beer is just as easy as baking brownies.  In an hour you can make five gallons!  Better yet, there are only three ingredients besides besides water: hops, malt, and yeast. The actual brewing procedure is pretty much exactly like making soup: done on the stove in a giant pot. It’s even easier than making soup, though, because you don’t have to cut anything up. After the soup stage, you pour it into a bucket and leave it alone for three weeks. During this time, the yeast transforms the brew from sludge that tastes like leaves into beer.  Yes, people get fancy with the equipment and the ingredients, but all you really need is a bucket with an airlock.

I acquired my knowledge of brewing in high school. I bought Home Brewing for Dummies on a whim, and it taught me the basics. Lesson one: sanitize everything thoroughly before you start; bacteria can make your beer taste terrible. The good news on this score was that no matter how badly I botched the process, the beer wouldn’t be poisonous. Reassured that I wouldn’t kill myself by accident, I set out to buy the supplies. There were a few issues here: the nearest brewing supply store was a half hour drive from my house, and I didn’t have my driver’s license yet (lol).  I would have to order the supplies online, but my bank account was still attached to my parents’–they could see all my transactions. I bypassed this problem by buying Visa gift cards with my lunch money and using them to order the goods. I shipped the order to a friend’s house so my mom couldn’t intercept it. When everything arrived, I picked it up while my parents were out to dinner and stashed it in the basement, where the heaps of clutter would camouflage it. After that, I waited for an open house.

My moment finally came months later when my parents went away for the weekend. With my little brother serving as my assistant, I sanitized everything with bleach. Then, I poured the water, hops, and malt extract into our biggest pot, fired up the stove, and started stirring.

Our biggest pot wasn’t big enough. Within minutes the brew threatened to boil over. Standing over the stove, stirring frantically, I shouted orders to my brother, who ran back and forth getting more bowls to pour off some of the mixture. A very stressful half hour and an enormous, sticky mess later, we poured the brew into the bucket, sprinkled the yeast on, sealed it, and hid it back in the basement.

A month or so later, my friends and I set out to drink the beer on a friday afternoon. I had to use it all at once, because I had no bottling system. I’ll spare you the details, but it was delicious and approximately 10% alcohol.  I’d recommend the experience to everyone.

Tl;dr: Brewing is the new baking. I’m calling it.

Life & Other Drugs

Stealing Stuff

October 6, 2014

Aladdin 1.Spanish Divx Walt Disney

Everyone steals stuff. Stealing has an unwarranted negative stigma these days, largely because people conflate “stealing” with “shoplifting.”  In reality, forms of stealing that do not involve taking things from stores (more specifically, things that are for sale) are far more common than shoplifting. To help unpack stealing’s undeserved stigma, I’ve laid out the three most acceptable types of thievery:

1. Stealing Souvenirs

When my aunt was little, she caught my grandma in the act of pocketing a hotel souvenir. “What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s just a souvenir,” my grandma replied.

“Oh. It looks very much like an ashtray.”

In my view, stealing souvenirs is perfectly acceptable. These can take the form of knickknacks from places you stayed on vacation, glasses from bars you visited, or clothing items from people you hooked up with. When I studied abroad, my souvenir-stealing took a disturbingly sacrilegious turn: I started taking prayer candles from every church I visited. To be fair, they’re usually free with a “suggested donation.”

2. Stealing Food

Here, I don’t refer to the dining and dashing variety of stealing food, but rather the poaching of baked goods and other treats. Are you keeping a friend company while she mans a bake sale? Better eat ten brownies. Did you happen to pass by someone setting up the snack table for a lecture or info session? That sandwich is yours. Did the people sitting next to you at Jo’s leave their mozzarella sticks unattended? Finders keepers.

During my one year stint as a girl scout, I had the task of going door to door selling cookies. Everyone else manned the table we had set up on the sidewalk, and I headed off with a few boxes of treats. Instead of knocking on doors, I went around the block, sat on the curb, and downed an entire box of Samoas in five minutes. Yeah, I didn’t earn any badges.

3. Drunk Stealing

This category includes examples from the previous two categories and so much more. When drunk people get bored, angry, happy, or hungry, they tend to express these emotions in one of two ways: crying or stealing stuff. This “stuff” is usually of little value (traffic cones, raw pasta, small stuffed animals) and is almost always taken from either friends’ houses or public spaces. So, not on the level of shoplifting. As a result of this genre of theft, I once woke up snuggling a heavy metal chain of unknown origins.

I would be shocked to find someone my age who hasn’t participated in each of these three types of thievery at least once. Lately, these forms of stealing have come to bore me, and so I’ve begun pilfering the “unexpected.” For example, I take pictures from frames and peepholes from doors. Probably, their owners will never notice these things are missing, but if they do, they will definitely be confused. My number one goal for senior year is to steal a full deck of cards, with each number coming from a different deck. So far, I have aces and queens. I haven’t decided if I want jokers yet.

Ed. Note: The Rib does not condone stealing of any kind.

image via

Life & Other Drugs, Listicles

Interpreting Font Names

September 29, 2014


In every student’s life, there comes a time when she realizes Arial or Times New Roman just won’t cut it. This moment is a marker on the long road to growing up, not unlike the moment when you realize a used plastic water bottle is not always the most appropriate vessel for vodka, or that leggings and a flannel are not appropriate clothes for every occasion.

The first time I needed to use a more professional font, I scrolled through the list of fonts in Microsoft word and formed a question that haunts me to this day: who signed off on these names? To be fair, some font names have a clear relation to how the font actually looks. Most, however, have no apparent relation to typography at all:

1. Goudy Old Style
This one brings images of a high-end 19th century brothel to mind.

2. Apple
Steve Jobs is trying to send us a message from beyond the grave. He can only communicate using this font, or a series of generic iPhone ringtones.

3. Birch Std and Blackoak Std
I’m picturing dark squiggles that look like something between bits of tree bark and herpes sores.
(Yes, I realize “std” actually means “standard” in this context. But still.)

4. Haettenschweiler
Oktoberfest, anyone?

5. Mistral
At first I thought this was a misspelling of “minstrel.” Turns out, it’s a “cold and northwesterly wind that blows from southern France into the Gulf of Lion.” Also, a helicopter carrier ship. Either way, no relation to the alphabet.

6. Minion Pro
I don’t think I need to make the Despicable Me joke here.

Absurd as these font names are, they can’t compete with the names of free fonts. For those of you who have never ventured outside of Microsoft Word, these are available for download all over the internet. A trip to the land of free fonts will invariably lead to disturbing revelations about the nerdiness of our fellow man. Be warned: there are hundreds, literally hundreds, of Elvish fonts out there. Would Tolkien be proud? I’m not sure, but I digress. Below are some choice examples of bizarre – and 100% real – font epithets:

Many describe very specific activities that have nothing to do with letters or writing:

1. Lazing on a Sunny Afternoon
2. Chaos in Wisconsin
3. Vampire Raves
4. Margarita in August (there’s no way a font could live up to this name)
5. Jack and the Beanstalk
6. Frosting for Breakfast
7. Bleeding Cowboys

(Any one of the above would make an excellent band name.)

Some.. I can’t:

1. Parkinsonism
2. Crack Whore
3. Times New Romance
4. Chicken Butt (really?)

And my personal favorite of the day: Zephyr Jubilee

Some fonts, like “Papyrus” and “Palace Script” describe themselves so well they make me wonder if I’m just missing something about the majority of font names. Am I the only one who doesn’t know what “Spinwerad” means? Other times, I do see a meaning in a font moniker and wonder if it’s real or a symptom of my tendency to find Monty Python references in everything (see: “Flesh Wound”). Somehow, font names have become yet another source of is-there-something-I’m-missing anxiety. So, here’s hoping they confuse you as much as they confuse me.

It's a Girl Thing, Life & Other Drugs

The Detachable Penis

September 18, 2014

elizabeth cox article

After an endless week, I had finally made it to the weekend.  I staggered to my room, collapsed into a chair, and dumped the contents of my bag onto the floor. There, amidst my notebooks and gum wrappers, was my boyfriend’s penis. Ugh. I had forgotten I’d agreed to take care of it for the weekend. I got out my phone and texted him:

Any particular instructions for the care of your penis?

Yeah, make sure you take it to the bathroom every few hours so it can pee.

Ok. It’ll just pee if I take it to the bathroom?

Well, you might have to give it a little tug for encouragement.

Ugh. Ok. Anything else?

You could pet it from time to time. It likes attention.

The peeing part went ok until I brought the penis to hang out with my friends that night. I couldn’t leave it home unsupervised. About halfway through the hang out, I started getting nervous — did the penis need to pee? Would it have an accident in my bag if I left it in there for too long?

Having navigated the night out and made it back home without the penis making a mess in my bag, I was finally ready for bed.  As I moved to get under the covers, the penis, which was sitting on my desk, caught my eye. Should I bring it to bed with me? I guessed I should, and gingerly placed it on my pillow. Would it get cold? Maybe. I tucked it in, just to be safe.

Here’s the good news: the detachable penis incident was a dream. Can you imagine a world in which we lent friends and loved ones our body parts for the weekend? Could you watch my left hand for the afternoon? Make sure to crack my knuckles every so often! Some moisturizer before bed would be nice.

The detachable penis could be a babysitter’s worst nightmare, or it could be way easier to babysit than an actual child.  On one hand, children can think and move on their own, so they require constant supervision. On the other, there’s no risk of sitting on them or breaking them by accident, and they can tell you when they need to pee (though sometimes they don’t). So clearly, pros and cons.

Maybe the body part exchange would be more akin to borrowing friends’ stuff than to babysitting, but with no margin for error. Shit I lost your arm! I’m so so sorry, I’ll buy you a new one! Or: I ripped your favorite eyeball, but don’t worry, I’ll get my mom to sew it up the next time I’m home! Or: I feel so so bad about puking on Emma’s nose when I borrowed it last weekend, so I washed it and baked her cookies. Do you think she’ll still be mad? Definitely, if she can still smell through her detachable nose.

Of course, it’s possible I’m selling the detachable penis short. Detachable body parts could be valuable tools for establishing trust.  I’m trusting you to take care of my left boob for the day.  If you pass this test you’re upgraded from friend with benefits to boyfriend. Who needs to DTR when you can just exchange body parts? It’s like a high-risk trust fall.

All in all, I’m glad we live in a world where we can’t detach body parts at will, although I do sometimes wonder what it would be like to have a penis for the weekend.

Life & Other Drugs

Thinking About Sex on the Treadmill

April 24, 2014


I do almost all of my thinking while running.  Sometimes I brood, and sometimes I think deep thoughts. But if we’re being honest, I spend 95% of the time daydreaming about sex.

This habit is fine on my outdoor runs. No one can read my mind–either no one’s around or I pass people too quickly.  Unfortunately, the last two godforsaken months have been too cold to even breathe, forcing me to retreat to the treadmill. In the gym, there is never “no one around,” and I certainly do not pass anyone quickly. I don’t pass anyone at all, because, of course, on a treadmill you never go anywhere. There is no way to escape my fellow gym goers, and I may actually know some of them. Therefore, they are at least five times as likely to be able to read my mind while I think about sex.

Even more horrifying than the prospect of having my mind read is the very real possibility of running into the subject of my sex musings.  Whenever I remember that this could possibly occur, I develop an irresistible urge to look behind me. Have you ever tried to turn and look behind you while running on a treadmill? I don’t advise it.

When working out at night, I can look at the reflection in the windows and see who might be lurking among the ellipticals.  Other times, it’s light out and I can’t turn around, which makes me utterly convinced that the subject of my fantasies is right behind me, reading my mind and looking at my back sweat. In high school, I once had a spontaneous orgasm in class. The possibility of this happening again is not even as terrifying as the prospect of my subject walking in while I’m on the treadmill.

Why is my sex/treadmill encounter fear so strong? We’ve all had innumerable conversations during which we wondered what it would be like to sleep with the person we’re talking to.  During many dull lectures, I’ve wondered what my professors look like naked.  This kind of exchange doesn’t bother me; in fact, it fills me with a feeling akin to the glee I feel saying hi to a cop while carrying a pocketful of weed. The difference between those encounters and the possible treadmill encounter is the element of surprise.  I see someone, and I think about sex related to and/or involving that person. But it should never happen the other way around. And it should never happen while I’m trapped on an exercise machine.

Image via