I just wasted an hour of my life by sitting in traffic for absolutely no reason.
So, what happened was… I decided to go to the gym in East Greenwich.
Now, I don’t live in East Greenwich, and I’ve never been to the gym there, but that’s where the “sister location” to my gym is, and since my gym did not offer the classes I wanted to take tonight, I thought I’d try the other one.
I planned this this morning, before I went to work at 10:30, even though I knew I’d be on my feet all day, running around like a crazy person, serving food but not eating any. I thought I could manage my hunger by having a small snack. I thought I could utilize self-control and only eat only a couple of bites of my training meal and take the rest home. I even had the chef put it in a To-Go container for me rather than eating it with my trainer at the end of my shift.
The To-Go box lasted as far as my front door.
I not only ate the entire meal, I ate most of it with my bare hands, looking like someone who might bite you if you tried to offer her a fork. The sad part is I didn’t even think the food tasted that good. The pasta I sampled before I left, that I thought was included with my meal but turned out to be my trainer’s meal, was much better.
In my defense, I didn’t realize I been eating her food until I was about to leave with the To-Go boxes and she separated them saying, “Here. This one’s yours.”
My reaction: “Ohhh. Thanks, bye!”
Karma-ically, I think we’re even, though, since I did most of the work for her tables and she kept all of the tips.
So—there I was, sitting on a full stomach of pan-fried sole with roasted tomatoes, potatoes and green beans an hour before my kickboxing class, thinking this is no big deal. People eat and then exercise all the time, like kids, or people with low blood sugar.
But because of the food, and the internet, I didn’t leave my house until 5pm. East Greenwich is 24 minutes away without traffic, so taking off at the peak of rush hour should have been my tip-off that I wasn’t going to get to the 5:30 class on time.
Granted, I’ve never been on time for anything in my life except work. I won’t blame this on my parents, but this is totally my parents’ fault. (YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE, Mr. and Mrs. Runs Through The Airport To Catch A Flight). My piano teacher even commented on my tardiness on my last lesson with her—I believe she was moving to Florida or somewhere far away—that she’d hoped that I would have at least been on time to my final lesson. But alas, I was not 😦
(ps. I was nine, so I don’t think I can be held fully responsible for my arrival time.)
Now, however, I’m fully responsible for my arrival times, and I’m always late to exercise class. I end up jumping in right as class starts or a few minutes after. But today I was afraid of showing up late because I’d never been to this gym before, and I wasn’t sure how late I’d be. I have enough respect for the instructor to not waltz in more than seven minutes late. Moreover, I didn’t want to be that person who walks in noticeably late, weaves through the entire class only to realize there’s no room to participate, and then walks out. Everyone judges that person, and thinks, “Well, bum-off-the-street, what did you expect? If you wanted a spot you should have been here on time.” I decided I should not go to class if I was going to be late. But then what would I do…run on a treadmill? I could’ve done that at my own gym!
And that’s when I thought: I will go to my own gym!
So at exactly 5:30, I took the nearest exit and made a U-turn to back to my gym. But somewhere between getting back on the interstate and arriving in Providence, I was overcome by an exhaustion so great, I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and fall into a coma-like sleep. My stomach was still full; I was stuck in traffic; and the sun had gone down—and when that happens on the East Coast, it is like MIDNIGHT out there, man. How do people survive in places where the sun doesn’t shine for the majority of the day? I wouldn’t last more than one winter day. I’d be like the walking dead. In fact, I’m not entirely sure how I made it home tonight—part of the drive escapes my memory.
Dear Lord. Were zombie movies based on people like me? Will I start eating my own kind after a few more winters in New England?
As a precautionary measure, I think everyone in the household ought to carry ice cream and throw it at me if I come after you late at night. I mean, it’s either that or your face.
And with that warm sentiment, I think it’s time I go to bed.
(Wow. It’s taken me five hours to write this blog, likely because I started it when I was still half asleep. Now, of course, I’m wide awake. That makes perfect sense.)
One thought on “How Zombies Are Made”
I never caused you to run through the airport to catch a plane. That is Daddy’s favorite thing to do (and he really does enjoy it). Sadly, I’ve lost touch with my parents’ rules for arriving 2 hours early for all events. One hour before a plane takes off. As for work, etc., not more than thirty minutes after I am supposed to be there but being the CEO helps.