You probably think I'm pretty upset that my column didn't happen to fall on Valentine's Day -- that it ran on the Mondays before and after. This is simply not the case. I am resigned to the fact that Clare Ondrey is far more adept at speaking of matters of the heart (or Browns football, or speed pong) than myself. So I'm definitely not upset at all -- and not just because I think she could probably destroy me in a fight.
Just so you know, I got a holiday column, too. Today happens to be Presidents' Day (a fact that would have escaped me if not for my handy Paris Hilton calendar), which I think is largely considered a far sexier holiday than Valentine's Day anyway. If you ladies are anything like me, just the thought of Lincoln's stovetop hat or Washington's wig makes you all hot and bothered. No? Fine, forget it.
The truth is that my Valentine's Day would have made for a fairly pitiful column. I spent my day dressed like an eighties-movie reject (huge sweatshirt ripped at the neck, tiny shorts, out of control hair) curled up in the fetal position eating mint-flavored Milano cookies sent to me by my one and only Valentine: my mommy.
My best friend from home decided to perk up my day even more by sending me a text message informing me that her boyfriend had scattered 264 long-stemmed roses around her room. I then showed amazing self-control by not chugging a bottle of wine and, instead, settled on sending her a passive-aggressive instant message asking how the hell she knew it was 264 roses exactly. It was probably a paltry 90 long-stemmed roses or something lame like that. Ha. What a loser.
The one good thing that came out of my Valentine's Day was a renewed commitment to a long-lost place I like to call the AFC. I figured a couple minutes on the elliptical might save me from getting another sympathy valentine from Mom next year.
I had made a prior commitment to workout more, which was derailed by an unfortunate fall I had in history class on my walk out the door to get water. I was trying to hustle, as not to block my classmates' view of the movie being show, but unfortunately my attempt at courtesy prevented me from seeing the (blatantly obvious) puddle of mystery liquid in front of me. I proceeded to bust ass in front of my entire class. Not just ass, actually -- I busted ankle too. I ended up in a transport van headed to the hospital for X-rays. And I wonder why no one wants to be my valentine. From now on, I swear I'm going to know my role and mosey Southern-style. I should have known that calamity naturally ensues when Southerners try to do the Northeastern urban speed-walk.
Once my ankle healed and my Valentine's inspired resolution was made, I still wasn't thrilled about going to the AFC. I have never felt comfortable there -- the place definitely has its own little subculture complete with crazy rules and exercise cliques (think your high school cafeteria). My roommates are absolutely no help when it comes to making me feel at ease there. They are, without a doubt, a part of the scary subculture, as evidenced by the fact that they ran a half-marathon earlier this year. A half-marathon. I can't even walk up the Cabell steps without wheezing and busting out my inhaler.
One of the roommates has quite the obsession with her trendy black workout pants and hardly ever takes them off. I'm not sure whether this is because she is afraid of being unprepared should she spontaneously burst into exercise (a startlingly likely possibility) or because she likes the way they look on her. Either way, she is starting to remind me of Tony Perkis, the crazy "fat camp" counselor played by Ben Stiller in the movie "Heavyweights."
Clearly, I don't own trendy black workout pants, so I wear pajama shorts to the AFC. This makes me feel helplessly inadequate when I inevitably end up frumping over to the elliptical between two 110-pound sorority girls, who are, of course, wearing both the black workout pants and the sports bra tops. Since I am insanely competitive, I try to go faster than my friends from the Greek community. I usually end up fainting from exhaustion after three minutes and 23 seconds while they go on without breaking a sweat for another half an hour.
"There's a 24 minute limit," I mumble weakly. They don't hear -- they are too busy listening to their iPods.
But by far, my least favorite thing about the AFC is when someone tries to talk to you when you are working out. This is particularly true when the person says something "funny" like, "Haha... why don't you try going a little faster," to which I politely nod and smile, thinking all the while, "You're lucky I'm too uncoordinated and fatigued to get off this machine, or I would definitely strangle you."
Despite my qualms with the AFC, I plan to keep my resolution. You can find me at the AFC five (okay, maybe three) days a week sometime between five and eight in the evening -- when the first years are still in O-Hill. I'll be puffing away on the elliptical. I'll be doing sit-ups (if you know how not to look awkward doing sit-ups, do them next to me so I can copy you) and maybe, if I have the time, I'll pump some iron. But it's only so that next year, I can fight Clare Ondrey for the Valentine's Day column -- and win.
Erin can be reached at gaetz@cavalierdaily.com.
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