6/28/2008

WORKOUT OVER

Yet another addition to bebe Me's catalog of BAD GYM BEHAVIOR (including that of officious trainers, grunters/groaners/weight slammers, blithely naked women, inconsiderate weight lifters and the smelly people).

Pet Peeve #6: irresponsible germ spreaders

Does the elliptical machine LOOK like your bed? Because that's where you should be if you are unable to stop your clamorous coughing and sniveling.

Gross.

6/27/2008

God bless 17-year-old stupidity, without which I'd have nothing to write

A few months ago, inspired by The Bobby Bones Show (aka the only thing that makes me feel better about living in Austin besides an occasional celebrity meeting) and Brad Paisley, I decided that maybe it would be cool to try to write a letter to the 17-year-old bebe Me.

But no sooner had I started with “Dear (bebe Me),” than I was reminded of who I was at 17. I was a smug and supercilious aspiring elitist violinist and I can tell you what I would’ve done with a letter like that. I’d have smirked and thrown that unopened letter in the dumpster where I knew it BELONGED. Because no way in upper middle class, suburban teenage HELL did I need anything to tell ME about MY future.

So I abandoned the letter writing and made a toast instead – to my 17-year-old self. Because for once (and I really mean ONCE), she was right.

6/26/2008

And it has nothing to do with the lyrics

Sit down y’all.

Because I, bebe Me, Princess of Upbeat Feel Good Girl Pop, am genuinely digging a song by- get ready for it- Coldplay. Yes, it is true. I can listen to Viva la Vida all the way through AND more than once. And it does not make me want to curl up in the fetal position and wait for the next terrible thing in my life to happen. In fact, the song actually makes me smile. Even dance. Coldplay!

Either this particular song of theirs is uncharacteristically pop-py or I am becoming more mellow.

Please God let it not be the latter.

Redeeming my frequent cryer miles

I’m ok with the fact that my first full semester of grad school (last fall) was a bit of a kick in the ass. Because sometimes a kick in the ass is what you need. Like vitamins. And pap smears.

But this past semester was far more than a fortified kick in the ass. It was a hard punch in the gut. The punch happened somewhere near the beginning of the semester and I spent the rest of it trying to crawl forward and get up off the slippery ground. Sometimes I’d get up for a second or two only to be shoved right back down on my still sore ass.

And yes, I know that doing “creative” work is painful. I know that being forced to make something you enjoy into work can wrench your sense of self, stop your breath and threaten to silence your voice. I’ve been there before and I chose to come back. So waking up sick to my stomach and angry because I don’t want to face another day of staring at a blank computer screen with nothing to write is all part of the package. Right along with the panic episodes on the stationary bike, the daily pacing and the tearful meltdowns.

Ideally, the reward for all of this adversity (in addition to giving you artistic strength and breadth of material, blah blah BLAH) comes in the form of newfound wisdom about the greater scheme of life.

So almost 2 months later, I am finally ready to reap the rewards and fill up this blank computer screen with some of that adversity induced wisdom:

Sometimes it just sucks.
And I still look ugly when I cry.



Wait, does this mean that I’m still not up off the ground?