Zugenia's Procrastination Salon

So our cat, Ophelia (a.k.a. Kitty), who'd slept in Derek's bed her entire life, began boycotting our bedroom after we brought Daisy home in April 2008. (I think this is because for the first couple of weeks we put Daisy's crate in the bedroom with us at night, but Kitty continued to withhold her affection long after Daisy was removed to the hallway.) About a month ago she took up with us again, installing herself nearly 24/7 in the middle of the bed the VERY DAY I put on a brand new duvet cover. Fortunately for us, the duvet cover is white and cat hair doesn't really show up on it, so we were mostly happy that she decided to sleep with us again. This was clearly not her primary motivation, because she mostly abandoned the bed for the top of an open bag of clothes I've been meaning to take to the dry cleaner, which from her feline perspective is just a pile of dark, expensive clothing that cannot go in the washing machine. This bag has been sitting, growing, on top of a dresser for the past couple of weeks, so it has the added benefit of placing her literally above us when we are lying down. Just now, I went in and found her sneering at me from a new throne: the black sweater I wear ALL THE TIME that I carelessly left lying on top of another dresser yesterday. It takes me more energy than it's probably worth to keep it relatively cat-hair free when she's NOT using it for a bed. HOW DO CATS KNOW?

John Warner on Netherland, which lost in round 1 of The Tournament of Books:

Netherland is essentially porn for hyper-literate New Yorkers, i.e., the sort of people who review books for the New York Times.

Joseph O'Neill lost to Louis de Bernieres's A Partisan's Daughter, which surprises me even though I haven't read the latter.  I guess Warner knows why.

Me: Wouldn't it be amazing if we got home and the power was back on?

D: Well, that's going to keep being a possibility until it happens.

Me: When the power comes back on, can we watch tv for 24 hours straight?

D: If that's what you want to do.

Me: I'll watch anything just to keep watching it.

D: Baby, you would do that anyway.

Sounder has just begun on TCM.

Me: Is this movie going to make me cry?

D: For Christ's sake, baby, it's a movie about a dog. It's either going to play a sport or make you cry.

It's been a while now since my nerdiness felt like real nerdiness—you know, that socially disenfranchised, painfully humiliated, utterly abjected uncomfortable-in-one's-own-skin feeling. In fact, I think it's been since 1991-92, i.e. tenth grade, when my complete inability to be normal was suddenly called "alternative" and became its own kind of cool. Seriously, nineties geek chic saved my life. But I also think my ability to become an acceptable version of myself circa sophomore year has something to do with the fact that, at that time, I was no longer required to go to gym. Because short of skipping out and smoking cigarettes in the locker room, which I was too wussy to do, there is no way to be cool in gym if you have absolutely no athletic ability whatsoever. Not even donning burgundy lipstick and combat boots, which is how I did it everywhere else. Gym class nullifies even the cleverest attempts at self-deprecation or cynical disdain. You can scoff at girls-vs-boys dodgeball, and be totally right about it being the most insane concept of a pedagogically sound sixty minutes ever, and you'll still get smacked in the face with a red rubber ball. You can laugh at yourself following said smack, and everyone will still be laughing at you, not with you. Gym class is the kryptonite to the rehabilitated nerd's hard-earned social graces, which is why I have avoided not only gyms but all organized sporting activities my entire adult life. In grad school, when begged by my colleagues to participate in a softball league that by definition comprised only fellow geeks (our department's team name was the "Beowulves"), I adamantly stood by my vow that all I would do is stand in the outfield and drink beer. Many excruciating years of P.E. taught me well that gym class and all things associated with it are perfectly designed to do one thing, and do it well: destroy you.

Which might be why, now that I've reached The Thirties, I'm feeling a little tubbier than I'd prefer. I already eat pretty healthily by default (when I get the munchies I eat everything out of the produce drawer, vegetable by vegetable, the guilty part of the pleasure being that I don't bother to make them into a salad), so the only logical antidote is exercise. I thought I'd actually cured my allergy to exercise a while back when I discovered that I like to get on the elliptical machine at the gym, zone out to Britney, and read beauty magazines. Then D recently pointed out that if I never really break a sweat it isn't really exercise. "But it's hard when you sweat, and it's the hard part I don't like," I protested. Nevertheless, I recognized the truth of his observation and realized that I had to choose between the pain of working out—really working out—and the pain of not being able to fit into my clothes. Vanity won over fear of the burn and I enrolled in a Group Exercise class at the university health center.

Yesterday we had our first class. It was led by a young woman who is just one long, lean muscle wrapped in spandex. I positioned myself way in the back of the studio and wondered if I should be concerned about my shorts being dorky because everyone else was wearing capris and yoga pants. That was my first inkling that something was different. The last time I was subjected to a gym class, I knew with excruciating, visceral certainty that my shorts were dorky, even though everyone else was wearing the exact same shorts (we had a uniform, even in P.E.). Whether to be concerned about it was simply not a metaphysical option. Before I could think too much about the shorts situation, though, the instructor began class by warning us that this was going to make us "sweat and hurt." "Especially if you haven't been working out over the break," she said cheerfully, "you're really going to feel this one. You're going to be in pain all week!" I calculated that since I hadn't been working out for sixteen years, I would be in pain for the rest of my life. But her enthusiasm for pain was surprisingly infectious; I was ready to go. She turned up the music and we launched into a 40-minute cardio session, which was basically a non-stop combination of kickboxing and line-dancing moves, all done while bouncing on an imaginary trampoline. I must have looked absurd. I kept kicking the wrong leg at the wrong time and my body simply couldn't make the angles everyone else's did. At several points, I ended up a full 180 degrees off from the rest of the class, facing a wall and wondering what the hell was going on. When, at the conclusion of the cardio and the commencement of the strength training component, everyone assumed a perfect push-up position and began twisting themselves in physiologically unlikely ways, I collapsed on my mat and just started giggling. I was sweaty, exhausted, slightly delirious, and kind of having fun. I felt silly, yet I had no urge to flee. I looked around and saw that the very few people who were even glancing at me gazed not with contempt but pity. And that's when it hit me: I can go to gym class now, because I'm no longer a nerd; I'm just old.

This is a Thing That Is True: Being old in gym exempts you from all standards of athletic competence. It's cute that you're even trying.

I am totally going back tomorrow.

Every time I listen to The Breeders' "Cannonball," I hear the line about the reggae song, "...the bong in this really gay song"—and I can't remember if, back in the nineties, this was my joke or Beavis and Butthead's. (No, I'm not proud.)

Also, from the Adventures in Testing One's Prejudgments file:

At the gym this afternoon, I was working out with my headphones on (Britney to Ting Tings to Stars to The Dollyrots: iTunes Genius really is a genius!), eyes glued to some atrocious VH1 reality show ("Daddy's Girls"?), when a leggy, wide-eyed, blond girl in a pink sorority t-shirt comes up to me and asks kindly whether I'd mind if she changed the tv to CNN. "They're showing Obama's speech on the economy," she explained, a little bit apologetically, but more as if I were, you know, slightly retarded.

Also, from the Because I'm Awesome file:

Last night, D had a craving for both soup (inspired, I think, by the lackluster Tale of Despereaux, which we saw last weekend) and turnips (inspired by...I got nothin'), so I TOTALLY MADE UP this turnip-leek soup, and am amazed at my own genius.

( Turnip Leek Soup )

...would SARAH PALIN: THE E! TRUE HOLLYWOOD STORY make great television?

Consider this project delegated.

"Boneless Thursday" is a really bad promotion for Hooters.

Someone should inform our local franchise.

You know you need a lifestyle adjustment when you walk into the office humming a happy tune ... and then you realize it's the music from the "natural male enhancement" ads on late-night TV.

I've decided to make an ongoing list of Things That Are True. One day I will publish my findings and you will all thank me. Hopefully with presents.

Things That Are True, Item #1: If some evening you are bored enough to set your cell phone to ring Salt n Pepa's "Push It," the next morning, you will forget to turn your phone off before your morning lecture, and it will ring in the middle of your explication of "The Rape of the Lock," and hilarity—at your expense—will ensue.