Today is a day where I don’t feel like cooking, so I’m eating a delicious, nutritious meal of shit on a shingle. You guys can thank my dad for that colourful name. For years, I was perfectly happy calling it beans on toast, until one day he decided to correct me.
I finally got off my lazy butt and went to a fitness thing other than bootcamp! And it only took the larger part of August! Anyway, the thing was Fake Kickboxing. It’s like kickboxing where you don’t actually get to hit anything. I learnt that I listen to top-40 music so little that I cannot distinguish between a remix and a skipping cd. I also learnt that working out is way more relaxing when Gerald isn’t encouraging (slash yelling at) me, but I get, like, way way less out of it.
I’ve made up my mind to make my suicidal Tuesdays this fall even more suicidal (suicidaller). Smack dab in the middle of my nine hours of regular school classes (oh yes), I will be taking the beginner bellydancing class again. My theory is that, by taking an hour in there to shake my booty and groove my thing, I will be reconnecting with my body and revitalizing my brain right at a crucial time during hours of sitting on my butt in class. Solid theory… ? Yeah, I hope. That, or I’ll be dead by Marina’s class. Would it be terrible rude, do you think, to keel over in class?