Surprise: this post will be written in proper, educated, upper and lower case grammar. Shocker! Little did you expect, I do know how to write like an actual human being (I took typing classes for two years during school and used to take those ‘how many words can you type in a minute’ challenges online all the time… for fun). For some reason, when I’m typing for my blog, my go to is all lower-case, probably because it reminds me more of free-flow writing like you would in a journal — just write, don’t look back. But I recently finished Anna Kendrick’s book Scrappy Little Nobody and I. Am. Inspired. Totally in love with her. It’s official. She’s beautiful, she’s sassy, she’s intelligent, she’s witty. I adore her. And she writes with proper grammar. So I thought — why the hell shouldn’t I!
Yesterday was a spectacular day for no particular rhyme or reason. I really didn’t do shit except for go to the bank, go to the gym, and go to work, but it was great. The gym is… a funny place to people watch. I’m not, by any means, one of those mean girls in the gym who judges other people working out, but when you go regularly, you notice the people who are also always there at the same time as you. I typically go anywhere between 10-2 and there are always 5 people I can count on seeing: 1. the dude who only works out arms, dresses in all black, and spends most of his time sitting on the bench looking at his phone, 2. the red-head who wears one pair of Gymshark leggings, only works out glutes, and wants to make sure everyone is aware she’s working her booty (think extremely arched back… and loud sex moans), 3. the bomb-ass mom who is always in stealth mode when it comes to form and focus on exercises, 4. the guy in his late 40s/early 50s who is super friendly, super talkative, and super jacked, and 5. the girl who works there as a personal trainer, who is gorgeous and fit and looks like she could be part of Gymshark’s team, and who all the guys (young and old) find a reason to talk to. And speaking of old… never have I ever seen so many elderly folks at a gym hitting weights before. Swimming, suuure. They’re out there with their head caps and one pieces, flittering around with their water pilates, all the while pissing silently in the public pool. Cardio, suuure. They’re on the treadmills, incline 10, speed 3, holding on for dear life. But weights? Either I’m ignorant or I’m ignorant, but you usually don’t see it. I’m talkin, bringin’ their walkers in and slowly crawling from set to set type-of-old. Again… not judging. Just observing. Ehem, admiring. Get it grandpa.
Shit talking aside, I love that the gym is starting to become more open and appealing to all ages and genders. For far too long, it was dude-dominated. The first gym I ever had a membership at was in San Antonio and they legitimately had a completely separate area of the gym dedicated for women, with all the same machines that were on the main floor, but behind closed doors, where we would feel “more comfortable” and “less judged”. At the time, it seemed like a neat idea. Now, I think it’s kind of bullshit. I understand why they did it — a lot of women are uncomfortable in a gym setting next to a lot of guys, for many reasons: insecurities, being unfamiliar with the machines, feeling as if all eyes are on them. But… that’s just a headspace, and I am all for women owning their body and being proud of it and what they’re capable of. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with starting out working in a space like that if it’s available in your gym, but I do think it’s something that should be grown out of. Get familiar with the machines, gain your confidence, and then stick your middle fingers up to your insecurities and break away into the area with all the dudes. They’re not that scary. Intimidating maybe, at first, but when you start doing your thing and realize that all eyes are actually not on you (except for sometimes, because ya know, you are a hot piece of ass), you notice that everyone there, girls and guys alike, are just there to better themselves physically and it’s actually sort of a neat thing to be a part of. I remember when I first started getting back into the gym and I would get that same kinda feeling, now I’m so focused on growing and toning each area of my body that I immediately get in zeeee zone as soon as I step into the gym. And then the only time I look at people around me is between sets. And if they’re looking at me while I’m workin out? Hell yeah. You are welcome for the view.
As far as my job goes, I love it… 90% of the time. I get to run the show by myself, when it’s busy I make really good money, the few coworkers I do have are dope, I get a lot of free drinks, it’s a very unique place of business, the live music Wed-Sun is great, and I truly do get to meet some neat ass people and have really good conversations. But the other 10% comes from the fact that I am one of two servers — it’s me and Kayla — and there’s Patrick, but he’s a man of all trades — he works in the kitchen, does banquets, serving, and bartending — so he’s spread pretty thin. And Kayla only wants to work one day a week. So getting time off or finding someone capable of covering any of my shifts is slim to none. And that gets slightly annoying only because I’m used to working for such larger companies where I have ten, twenty coworkers that I can convince to work for me if I want an extra day off. But it is what it is, I suppose this is what they call… adulting? Bleh.
But on the real: my job is a gem. My boss is this old hippie angel — her outfits consist of mutli-colored scarves, skirts, and shawls, and when it’s slow we go to the gas station a block away to buy ice cream as the pre-game for our Sudoko puzzle binge. Then there’s my gay cook Garrett. He’s a tiny, adderall-addicted stoner who usually maintains a happy-go-lucky attitude until shit hits the fan and we get a rush of people out of nowhere; when that happens, he starts throwing pans and cursing turrets style about the customers and how he’s going to quit and go back to school. Bless his soul, love him. He really does brighten my day, which is good, because for the majority of the week it’s just me, him, and Patrick holding the hotel and restaurant up. We may bitch about the hours, we may bitch about the customers, we may bitch about management, but we make a good team.
I would argue that one of the best parts of my job are my customers — even though some of them are cheap assholes, like the ones tonight — a lot of them are super cool. And I hate to say it, but worldly. Our cliental is an older crowd and a lot of them travel to Saratoga for various reasons from the city, New Jersey, Maine, Boston, Connecticut, and sometimes from far away, like Switzerland or the West Coast. I can’t even tell you how many couples I met this summer who told me how all summer long they’ve just been on their big expensive boats traveling from place to place, or how many couples go on and on about their abroad escapades. As a server you get really good at judging how the table wants to interact with you upon the initial greet: some people want good service but minimal conversation, and some want good service and a lot of conversation. They’ll dive right in about where they’ve been lately and what they’ve been up to and then they’ll start asking you all sorts of personal questions: what’s your name? are you going to school? how did you end up in Saratoga? And then the conversation takes off and pretty soon you’re telling these complete strangers all about your hopes and dreams. I’ve gotten the shpill down pretty good — I’m an Army brat, I’ve lived all over, I went to college pursuing Journalism, then I married a guy in the Navy and put school on hold and well lo-and-behold, here we are, in the great city of Saratoga Springs. Most of them go bananas over the fact that Steve is in the nuclear program, and that leads into a whole conversation of itself: they were either in the military, or their second cousin’s daughter’s husband was in the Navy, and boy oh boy you are really set up good arent’ cha, that is just a super duper stellar job — and it always ends in “please tell your husband thank you for his service, and young lady, thank you for your service”. It’s sweet. I know my tone comes across as sarcastic but it is sort of endearing having these total strangers commend you and your husband on all your life choices. It’s like, ma’am, I know you’re only saying this because you aren’t aware that earlier this week I got so drunk I had throw up in my hair the next morning, but thank you, you’re right, I am an awesome human being.
As of right now, the gym and work are the only things I got goin’ for me. Steve and I are on entirely opposite schedules this week — I literally haven’t seen him in three days — so that’s a bummer, especially considering him and the roomies and all our friends are going camping in the Adirondacks on Saturday and I can’t go because I have to (you guessed it) work, but… it is what it is. Adulting. What a fucking drag, amiright.
ACTUALLY. I take that back. I have one other thing going for me.
Arriving in less than 24 hours is none other than Steve and I’s brand spankin’ new, gorgeous foam mattress that we ordered from Lull. You guys… I’m so pumped. You have no idea. Remember when we were like 2 and we got excited over play-dough? That’s the level I’m on right now. Freaking play-dough level. I don’t think I have ever been this enthusiastic about a purchase in my life. I suppose this is the plus-side of adulting? Or the sad part… maybe it’s all the same, but regardless, I’m into it. The bed we have now is mediocre. At best. I used to have such a high level of admiration for it. Even when we got married and had to sleep in it on a regular basis together it was kind of cute because we were legit forced to cuddle considering it’s a full size bed. We had all the snuggles. Which I love, but now it’s like… please move over, you are on my side, and my side is only three inches wide. I. Need. Space. Plus, it squeaks. A lot. Which is not ideal for the middle of the night piss or when you only get to see each other so many hours out of the week and have roommates, ya feel.
But Lull… oh Lull. What a god-sent. I’m late on the bandwagon but it’s one of those bed-in-a-box deals, gets delivered to your door in a box the size of a mini-fridge and when you unwrap it, it immediately starts inflating and comes to life. And if my mom taught me anything (she taught me a lot, but if she taught me one thing), it’s to read the damn reviews. Purchasing online can be a bitch, but not if you invest in the reviews. They are there for a reason. Between hearing my friends raving about them and reading all the online feedback, I decided it was time to ditch the full and upgrade to a premium Queen. Oh, the sweet luxuries of life. It only took about five minutes of back-and-forth banter with Steve about why we needed this in our lives, me going “but baby it’s FOAM. and it’s supposed to help with spine alignment… you know how bad your back is.” and him going “okay, fine, but we’re not doing anything nice for the next three months. no cool halloween costumes. no expensive wine. no going back home for thanksgiving.” Obviously… he’s a sucker. There will definitely be cool halloween costumes, and expensive wine, and a trip home for the holiday. He loves me. He doesn’t know how to say no. And deep down, he wants this mattress juuuust as badly as I do (I saw that smile), he’s just mister penny-pincher.
So… there’s that. Last week I was excited about buying a new toaster, this week I’m excited about buying a mattress. Maybe next week it’ll be a plant. Or a lamp. Or a rock.
Although, apart from the toaster, last week did include a trip to the city for a Broadway show. Steve’s dad came to visit and I have never met a man more anti-mormon than him. It stems from his rough relationship with his sister who I guess is a die-hard mormon but holy shit does he hate that religion. It’s a little hilarious but entirely fitting that of all the plays to see he chose The Book of Mormon, a parody created by the same people who produced South Park. The theater was gorgeous, the show did not disappoint, and our night cap consisted of meeting a rando guy at the bar next door and hanging out all night getting drunk in Times Square till 3 in the morning. Sometimes I catch myself telling somebody a story and I’m like — what? I drove to NYC, saw a Broadway show, and hung out in Times Square all night? Is this real life? It makes me feel… elite. fancy. privileged. Which I am far from… except for maybe the last 😉
Life is good. I had the sweetest old lady at work two nights ago, and her energy was beautiful. It radiated out from her in every direction and her smile and laugh was infectious. She was just this bundle of light and joy and she continued to tell me over and over: life is good sweetie, never forget that. It was adorable. And even though I don’t remember her name and it might just have been the wine she had talking, I loved her. Life is good. Even with the long hours, the time spent apart from your significant other, and all the shitty mattresses in the world — life is good. Never forget that.
Till next time,
hubba hubba, how handsome is my guy? very.