What a terrible coincidence; what a terrible song.

Okay, I have had Joshua Kadison's "Jessie" stuck in my head for goin' on three days now. It's actually a really sweet little song . . . But I don't want to sing it anymore!!! "Jessie, paint your pictures about how it's gonna be. By now I should know better; your dreams are never free. Tell me all about our little trailer by the sea. Oh Jessie, you could always sell any dream to me . . . " Look up the lyrics sometime . . . it's sad and sweet and kind of hopeless, but what really makes that song is the tune, which you can't get from looking up the lyrics. And Joshua Kadison has a very nice, sad, sweet, hopeless-but-content kind of voice. Anyway, I like it. And I bet it's a song Dane doesn't have, which is rare and somehow makes it even more desirable. I'll be downloading it as soon as I get internet. For unbloggable reasons, I have to remind myself to download this song by writing it on my hand. In code. Yesterday my hand just had Sharpie marks that said, somewhat illegibly, "U THE CAT ME" from a part in the song that says, "We'll go down to Mexico; you, the cat and me." Today it says "Jessie", but it says it in my own slightly decayed version of Germanic runes.

I got up this morning just before 0500, to go work out with Tasia. But while I was sitting in the dayroom, wondering if Tasia was going to be a no-show, I saw a whole vanload of people, including one of advanced years and authority, pull up outside. This is odd for 0500, so I wondered what was up. My first thought was that they were here to get someone for a random urinalysis drug test, but they usually like to do that closer to 0430, and it wouldn't take a whole vanload. So I figgered I'd figgered wrong. Then I went and stood in my room, by the door, which is deadbolted open because it's broken. (Good for lockouts, bad for privacy.) And I heard the small redhaired girl start yelling "Exercise, exercise, exercise!" (What? Everyone's going to the gym now?) "Fire, fire, fire!" Oh, shit. Fire drill? Where do we even evacuate to? (Sorry, grammarians---To where do we evacuate?) No one else knew, either. So as she banged on every single door (and got more than one scream of, "We heard you already!") girls stumbled out into the hallway in various degrees of undress, stood for a moment deciding which door to head for, and then staggered out. I opened my door right before she got to it and said, "We're up," so she didn't holler in my face. Then I walked (not staggered, because I was up and dressed and ready to go) outside, following a bunch of confused chicas to the astroturf field across the street. Which turned out to be the wrong place to go, resulting in an overall fire drill time of fifteen minutes. Gee. We're all dead. So we're getting another one sometime in the next few weeks. I think I'll get up to work out with Tasia more often.

We did go work out, then, sort of. I mean, she worked out. I just sort of wandered around looking at machines. I'm kind of dumb. I did some leg work, and some pseudo-chin-ups. It's funny that I don't do anything and Tasia does . . . but I guess she feels like she has to and I really don't. She asked me why I'm so damn skinny (I'm not) and I said it must be because I've been in sports since 3rd grade. She hasn't. But she goes running almost every night, does yoga twice a week, works out most mornings, and has physical therapy. So why am I, the laziest person alive, the one with the almost-flat stomach? No clue. Nada. None. Zip. Good genes? I don't really know what I look like, bodywise . . . people tell me "Good," but I personally am not really attracted to myself, so . . . whatever. Subject change.

Actually, no, scratch that. No subject change. This is my blog, dammit, and if I want to talk about myself, I damn well can. Dane's the only one who reads this these days (may or may not change . . . clearly if you're reading this and you're not Dane, that changed), and if he hasn't already decided I'm Narcissistic, he won't now. (I don't think . . . ) He does think I have low self-esteem, though, or low self-image, or low self-respect, or low self-something, which I disagree with. I have extraordinarily high all of those things. I just don't expect other people to see me the way I do. Also, I fully realize that my personality has a tendency to sort of negate anything positive with which my person may be endowed. (Not that my "endowments" are really anything to speak of, per se.) I remember the first time in my adult life that I looked in a mirror and thought, "Oh wow. That person looks exactly like who I always wanted to be." Okay, so "adult life" is sort of pushing it; I was 17 and a half, sitting on a small bed on a big cruise ship somewhere near Panama, wearing a huge white terrycloth bathrobe, my still-growing hair wet and wavy from a shower and the humidity, writing a letter, and I was just barely starting to tan. Since then, it's happened more frequently. Last night, for example, I got back from PC and took my Tshirt off to change clothes, and I walked past the mirror in my sports bra and thought, "Damn. I look . . . fit. Or at least, way fitter than I have for awhile. What happened?" This is probably because I still had my shorts on; my "fitness" doesn't seem to reach anything between my knees and my waist, but I guess most women hate their thighs.

Personally, I'm going to say I hate my mother's thighs. Because those are the ones I've been blessed with. (That "blessed" was sarcastic. Unless I get stranded in the wilderness with no food for a very long time, in which case my body will feed off of those damn thighs and keep me alive until help arrives.) I have an upper body from my dad's side of the family---square shoulders, flat-ish stomach, long arms . . . and everything from the waist down (which includes my hands) is all Mom. Except hips. I don't really have any, and my mom has six children and therefore childbearing hips. I have the face of my father (well, a young, female version of my father) to a point of ridiculous resemblance, and the hands of my mother. Not younger. My hands look just like my mom's. The only difference is the nails. I have a tendency to keep mine very short and rather rough, and my mom's nails tend more towards long. (She says they're short, but I disagree.)

I gotta wonder how long it's going to be until people assume Dane and I are a couple. Someone asked once already, but it was a someone who doesn't know me very well, so it didn't really matter. But yesterday, I opened my door to let Dane in and was still wearing just my shorts and sports bra (on the occasions when I feel good about myself, I have every intention of showing it . . . thank you, Tasia, for your confidence-boosting urging to wear more revealing clothing), and Mary, the girl across the hall, raised her eyebrows at me. (Or maybe just one eyebrow; I don't remember.) I stuck my tongue out and shut the door. At any rate, even if there were interest (which there isn't), I'm way too young for Dane. Shit, I'm too young for myself right now. (So don't go getting any ideas, Dane. And I apologize if the no-shirt was a tease; that's why I asked your permission first. :-D )

Anyway. It's go time. Going . . . going . . . gone.