The Woes of a "Workout Noob" Part 2

Oh yeah. There's a Part Dos. Are you ready for this?

Shit is about to get real. (Just kidding. Maybe.)

This is basically "The Woes of a Workout Noob Getting Schooled by a Workout Pro."

So I, the workout noob in question, received the great privilege to tag along with an experienced workout... dude... and learn from his techniques.

I think I was somewhat wrong when I thought that was a great idea. I knew I had misgivings for a reason.

So when I initially noob-ed around alone, at least no one was actually watching me. I could tell myself that it was just me feeling embarrassed for myself, and no one was judging me because you know, people have better things to do. Like do their own workouts.

However, accompanied by someone who was specifically meant to show me the ropes, I pretty much had no choice but to be watched, and bear that burn of a superior's gaze.

Oh, the self-consciousness that ensued.

And when that fellow demonstrated certain techniques, I mean... I had to watch in order to understand, right? But that was so weird because I was basically just staring at his muscles! And I just felt very... invasive. I felt like I was ogling blatantly or something! Like... do I stare directly at them? Do I watch the weight? How often do I look back and forth? Or should I watch from the mirror's reflection? (What's wrong with my brain?!)

And when a friend of said fellow's showed up and for some reason decided to sit and chill for a while near where we were working out, I flubbed the forearm curl thing whatevers (I'm not going to pretend I know all the terminology)... yeah, I saw that smirk. (I see you! I know you're judging me! I know you're laughing!)

Then there were these insidious thoughts that cropped up, like "Oh, I bet these people are thinking, 'That girl is such a noob. That poor guy, trying to teach her how to lift–are those five-pound weights??!!"

(Yes, my consciousness works against me most of the time.)

Obviously, when working out with a higher-up, my awareness of my weakness increased tenfold. Like at one point, during the isolation curls (I don't know what it's actually called; please don't make me try harder than I have to), Mr. Workout Pro tried to make me go up a weight thing (also don't know what the proper terminology is), and ummm.

Yeah that didn't go well. I could not lift the stuff (I'm so articulate). It was sad.

But wait! Don't you run off thinking that I am ungrateful and self-pitying (I mean I am the latter, but whatever)!

There are great things that come with a personal trainer-type buddy. Now I know what that triangular seat thing is, and now I know where some of the weights are! I know where the towels are (yay) and in a sense, I, oddly enough, feel less stupid in some aspects when exercising. One noob makes a workout session a chore, essentially; two noobs make the escapade hilarious and mutually embarrassing so that the humiliation sort of gets cancelled out in the process (and turned into a joke); but one noob and one pro make for an informative and somewhat reassuring experience. It might seem paradoxical in context with my crippling insecurity showcased above, but it's overall a lot better to work out with a Workout Pro than alone.

Indeed it's embarrassing having someone witness the absolute degradation of my alarming weakness, but it's also pretty cool to work out side by side with someone who clearly knows what the heck he's doing.

13 Reasons You Should Date an English Major

Warning: Sweeping generalizations ahead

1. You'll never get bored. All those books she reads? Awkward silences, begone! She'll regale you with tales of murderous husbands, mind-boggling philosophies, thought-provoking revolutionaries, and an endless array of future dystopian possibilities. (It's interesting, I promise!)
2. Speaking of books, you won't even have to read certain books to reference them. You don't need Sparknotes–you have an English major to help you! And when you're talking to someone you need to impress, you can totally throw in that very-pretentious-but-effective Shakespeare line. (It's up to you to remember if it's Richard III or Henry V, though.) 
3. There will always be someone willing to edit your paper. Even if it's 15 pages long. And your grammar will improve exponentially. It's basically a rite of passage.
4. Love poetry, anyone? Love songs? Love... prose? You don't even need to ask for it (à la Sara Bareilles). And if she's multitalented, as the literary types often are, she'll probably serenade you or something too. 
5. Besides all that, she'll quote love verses at random moments, and it'll be beautiful. (Bonus points if you can respond, but if not... she'll understand.)
6. She thinks. A LOT. And while this might be intimidating, it also means she'll be considerate and extremely empathetic. All those years of "walking in the shoes" of the thousands of literary characters pay off. 
7. It's not hard to buy gifts for her. A thoughtful book choice is always appreciated, and since many literary types take the notion of "it's the thought that counts" seriously, the little things count (like handmade cards!). 
8. She'll dedicate things to you. And it'll be awesome.                   
9. She probably loves Harry Potter. (Why is this a reason, you ask? Um, when is it ever not a consideration when dating someone?!)
10. Dates will almost always be fun and quirky, unique and curious. And if you're lazy? No problem! Curling up with a fleece blanket and some hot chocolate is basically every English major's dream setting (although usually she has a book in hand rather than a... significant other in her arms). 
11. She'll always have coffee. 
12. She probably enjoys her alone time. Clinginess will not be an issue. 
13. She's smart. And passionate about the things she cares about. When is that ever a bad thing? 

But if you break up with her, be prepared to be absolutely destroyed by words you didn't even know could be used that way. 

*All in good humor, friends. 

The Woes of a "Workout Noob"

I am what one might call a "workout noob." Put me in a gym setting and my heart rate will take off, but not for the conventional reasons...

I'll get that burst of adrenaline from pure panic. Because I have no idea what to do when put in a workout environment.

Starting from last night, I had a sudden rush of inspiration to "get in shape." Oh, ha ha, naive little me, thinking that I can suddenly get pumped and know exactly what to do without any outside help. It's simple enough to do ab workouts from the comfort of one's dorm (not even with a proper mat, but on a slip-and-slide rug that was deemed "eh, good enough"), but a Rec Center with actual equipment and athletes?

Oh. My. Gosh.

I walked into the gym all chipper and ready to do my fancy little Blogilates arm workout, and then realized I didn't actually know where any of the equipment was. About 98% of the contraptions absolutely confounded me. I walked in a dazed, confused half-circle before deciding I needed a quick bathroom reprieve; I had panicked so hard that my bladder was in need of relief.

I almost left the gym.

Yeah, it took 15 minutes to walk there, and I nearly turned right back around to waste a total half hour of my day. That's how confused I was.

But nope, I had to come away with something (jiggly arms BEGONE!). So, I marched back into that cardio/weight room and focused my vision with all the strength I could muster, and eventually zeroed in on the dumbbells! I never thought I'd be so happy to see those stupid weights...

I worked out for 20 minutes. Wow. Go me. And it was so awkward. I wasn't sure where exactly I was supposed to stand, so I just faced the window with my iPhone on the window seat thing, Blogilates video playing. I imagine I looked very much like a workout noob indeed.

Good thing I didn't recognize anyone.

And I felt like when I left, all the people who were there when I first arrived were still in full workout mode. What's wrong with them?! How do people get so fit in the first place?? Where do they find the strength and willpower??

Oh man. Walking back, my arms felt weird. I had my water bottle and keys firmly tucked under my left arm, and so my right arm was awkwardly unoccupied. It was like, bouncing against my side with each step I took. At one point, I looked at my shadow and saw this weird... orangutan arm motion going on.

It was sad. I felt like a wiggly waggly inflatable man.

Oh well. At least I have super cute sports bras! (Spoken like a true workout noob, am I right?)

Time.

“...unfortunately, it's true: time does heal. It will do so whether you like it or not, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. If you're not careful, time will take away everything that ever hurt you, everything you have ever lost, and replace it with knowledge. Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience. Raw data will be compiled, will be translated into a more comprehensible language. The individual events of your life will be transmuted into another substance called memory and in the mechanism something will be lost and you will never be able to reverse it, you will never again have the original moment back in its uncategorized, preprocessed state. It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.”

-Charles Yu, How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe

Collection

1
The girl holds her keys looped round her fingers and leans against the doorframe. The boy halts in his slowing footsteps and tucks his hands into khaki pants pockets, looking at her with sleepy eyes. She crosses her arms loosely, and one side of her mouth tugs up; her eyes soften in affection, one that arrives most poignantly in the sweetly stinging past-midnight hours. The conversation drops in tone, slightly above a whisper, in accordance to the sudden peace that accompanies a stop in movement. There is no lingering awkwardness, no urgency. Just quiet, punctuated by muted murmurs.

2
A boy and a girl stand side by side at the top of a mountain; fields of gold roll on and on below their vantage point. The night wraps around them, soft and warm like a lullaby. The sky is incredibly clear where they are. The girl raises her eyes from the tops of the trees to the belly of the sky, silently counting stars, drinking in the child-like twinkles and winks. She blinks slowly, once, twice, wispy eyelashes dusting high cheekbones, and lowers her eyes slowly to catch the tender gaze of her companion. With slow assuredness, he reaches out and links his index and middle fingers with hers, a relaxed but clear gesture of steady affection.

3
Her head is heavy against his chest. It's a natural weight. Without it, he feels oddly absent. For her, not hearing his warm heartbeat beneath her cheek is a silence that presses in too tightly. They don't have to speak. They communicate with an index finger softly stroking up the spine, or a light tug of a belt loop, or a tracing of the left ear shell. Sometimes when they're like this, intertwined loosely, she'll draw back slightly and sigh almost imperceptibly, as he dips to brush his lips against her forehead, always a little bit off center. When in physical contact, they move in tandem.

*may be updated in the future if another romantic mood strikes me, haha

Unloading Part 4 (aka Here Comes the Barrage of First World Problems)

• Sometimes I'm casually cupping my chin, pen in hand, looking all attentive in class, when I decide I want to shift positions. And then the pen gets caught in my hair. And it makes a long journey to the end of that strand of hair. So I'm essentially brushing a lock of hair with my pen. In class. 
• Passive-aggressive bathroom behavior is all the rage here in the realm of communal restrooms. For example, I might need to go to the bathroom in a... special way, and coincidentally there's a girl brushing her teeth. So I'll brush my teeth too and try to out-brush her, in an attempt to get her to leave so I can do my business in peace. 
• Houston weather is bizarre. It will change over the span of twenty minutes, from heavy sheets of rain to stifling sunny heat. Everyone pretty much always has to have an umbrella on him/her. What an inconvenience. 
• As a Spotify newbie, I am very confused. I don't really get how the queue thing works, and how many times is one allowed to skip songs? After a while I can't skip anymore, and it's frustrating! And is there any way to just note which artists I want to listen to in the future without adding their whole track listing to the 'queue' thing?! 
• I love sleep. A LOT. Yet, I sleep ridiculously late for no reason in particular, and so I wake up like fifteen minutes before my first morning class begins. That means no time to properly do makeup, and no time to sit down and actually eat breakfast. Basically, I eat a bagel every morning. It's quite sad. 
• If one is without a car (and don't feel like mooching off of someone with a car), one must wait till Saturday every week to make a trip to Target for snacklets... and other things (although what else do you need besides food, really?). 
• Finally... there is a plethora of potentially brilliant classes one could take, yet there is simply not enough time. Even if somehow it's possible to wedge in the maximum number of hours, it may come at a high cost (of sanity). Ah, life is hard. 

A Long Time Coming

You sway the grassiest ripples of my heart 

soft, pliant, cast with a sheen 

heat the top of my head like a disc of sunlight

I've always wondered what it's like to love and be loved in return.

(The ache of mystery has been resolved.)

Catching a glimpse of your dusky skin is like seeing 

light glancing over inked text 

Falling for you is like wondering what's it's like to fall from air, from the window of an aeroplane 

There's the clench of the stomach, but an absence of true throat-squeezing fear.

Losing you to time--that enveloping, oozing entity--is like the dissipation of ideas 

Helpless to stop it, I can only hope to grasp 
a few of the remaining, drifting, flaxen strands, 

all the while watching the rest fade to forgotten nothing.

When I was younger I tried to make patterns out of velour carpeting, futilely lifting 

my own stories out of embossed fabric.

Now I trace lacy designs on the sinewy, raised canvas of your palms 

your face, your angled shoulders 

Lost, in the plains and ridges

I paint.