Many people use an imminent vacation as an excuse to get in shape. “I’m going to be at the beach,” they say, and to the gym they go. “Hiking through Cinque Terra is going to rip my untoned thighs apart,” they realize, and a personal trainer is hence hired. While I admit that I did slip a couple of yoga classes in between my double shifts and triple shots of Cuervo before popping down to Puerto Rico a couple of weeks ago, I more belong to the camp that exercises upon returning from an out-of-town excursion. Not because I’ve gorged myself (budget travel doesn’t lend itself well to gluttony, at least on the comestibles front) but rather because I realize that my actual life is so mundane that I may as well look as hot as possible as I trudge through the day to day drabness of a fixed-locale existence. Since getting home on Sunday, I’ve given myself two facials, pumiced up to my calves and done a pedicure, filed my nails to perfection and trimmed my cuticles better than Sun at Ardsely Nails. I’ve lotioned my entire body so many times that I could probably re-enter the birth canal if the wind was 30 mph and the angle was just right. Aesthetically speaking, I am looking damn fine. I have not, however, made it to any institution resembling a fitness center.
Not that it’s entirely my fault. Yesterday I was drugged by my mother, not in an evil stepmother way; rather, I got mysterious insect bites my last night on the island that swelled my arm to the size of the deli counter Boar’s Head salami before a single slice has been sliced. Super Fat Arm Sitch. I have a theory that the cabin pressure on the flight, which was an hour shorter than anticipated (worrisome), caused the venom to spread rapidly through my arm, thus engorging it so; her theory was I’m allergic to bug bites. Enter Benadryl, two at 9 pm and two more at 5 am. I woke up yesterday at 8:45, with what should have been plenty of time to get to the Power Vinyasa class in Irvington, had I not been positively tripping balls. It was like when you smoke before work and you know you need to be normal but you can’t get the clouds out of your eyes and it’s not the fun high but the trapped high, the kind of high where you need to Tell An Adult.
“MOM,” I said desperately, “I FEEL WEIRD.”
“Oh, yeah, that stuff is strong,” she said matter-of-factly. “The first time your brother took it he hallucinated for four hours.”
WELL. I certainly can’t walk into yoga in such a state. It would be unbecoming in such an upscale community with such respectable patrons. (Had it been Yoga to the People downtown, however, not only would I have gone, but I would’ve popped another three gelcaps,and maybe hit the bowl…) Yesterday comes and goes, and as I drift into slumber, I set my alarm for 8:45, put my little yoga outfit right in front of the bed, and soberly pass out, ready to make my boring life a little more beautiful in the morning with the 9:30 am Yoga Blend Level Two.
Except when I wake up I’m told that the car I’ve been using is going to be reclaimed by it’s owner before I will have returned from the aforementioned class, and the other car is in the shop. FML. Doomed to the slightly-above-average body type for ever, it would appear.
The point being, coming back from vacation sucks, especially when the universe conspires against you to go to yoga in order to combat post-trip depression. Hashtag Get Over It Gringa? Maybe. But let’s be real: I just turned 26 years old (more on THAT later). I live with my parents in the town in which I grew up, in the house I grew up. I don’t sleep in my high school bedroom, but rather in a 50% smaller room that’s downstairs but a mere door away from those who begot me, thus rendering 66% of this households sex lives 100% non-existent (as far I know). I work in a restaurant that I wrote an article about in an 11th grade journalism class (we trekked down from the high school and were treated to food samples – a small sandwich with a cherry compote sticks out in my mind – at what I now know to be Table Eight; in turn we had to write sycophantic and verbose restaurant reviews, similar to Yelp except no one but the teacher was cursed with having to read them). I kind of suck, objectively speaking.
So with that burning desire to do SOMEthing still not totally flickered out, I have decided to start this blog again. Though I can’t guarantee that the trials and tribulations of a Westchester waitress and imminent MFA grad student living in a toy storage room chez the ‘rents will be as scintillating or salacious as those of a globetrotting girl with a partiality to passion, penis, prose, and petulance (ahhh La Dolce Vita).