S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y, Hey!

(You have no idea how long it took me to write that title properly. Getting those little dashes between each letter takes skill).

I’m not sure why I feel the need to write about the pathetic moments of my life, but that’s the plan for the post today. Talking with M last night and giving him the details of my Saturday night, he suggested that I just write about my life. Forget meaningful posts about organ donation or bullying – no no, he thinks that reading about my life would make others feel much better about themselves. In his own words, my life would “be like one giant FML.”

“What’s that mean?” My Mom called out.

I effectively ignored the question, as I still can’t bring myself to intentionally swear around my parents.

“What’s FML mean?!” And then, “Oh, never mind, I know what it means.”

M was quick to point out that our mother didn’t rush to my defense and, instead, just laughed.

Can’t say I blame her. She was there on Saturday night. She saw me.

Let me explain.

See, I do a lot during the week. I work. I go to the gym. I participate in boot camp. (You’d think I’d be a lot skinnier). I don’t get a lot of time to watch my favourite shows or read books that I keep meaning to read (and party. That, too).

I spent Saturday night at home. With my parents. I didn’t really talk to them, but we were all home. We had a delicious dinner together. I went out and bought wine (I had a craving – you understand). I didn’t plan to drink it all. Really, I didn’t. It’s just that I was bored and it tasted so good.

I decided to get caught up on my TV shows, the first being The Biggest Loser. Great show.

I sat on my bed with my glass of wine and settled in to watch these amazing people on their journey to weight loss.

By the end of the first commercial, my wine glass was empty. Time to fill ‘er up!

Second glass. The contestants were competing or something. I don’t know. One of the new contestants didn’t give herself immunity, causing me to exclaim, “What?! Oh, dumb move.” I looked around for agreement. Oh, right. No one else is with me.

Second glass half empty. Another contestant is talking about how worthless she feels. I start to cry. Take another sip (okay, gulp) for fortification. Nod my head along with Jillian as she tells the contestant that she IS worthy of everything that she has and that it isn’t her fault that her son died of cancer. I also state, to said contestant, that she had nothing to do with him getting cancer. I felt as though the contestant could really hear me, you know?

Third glass. Something funny happens. I laugh hysterically and almost spill my drink.

Third glass gone abruptly. I run downstairs to fill up and tell my mom that I have a crush on contestant Mark. She asks if there is a way to get in contact with him. I don’t know but think it’s an amazing idea. Fill up a fourth (and last, but only because the bottle’s empty) glass. Stumble back upstairs.

Between these glasses, I’ve also started drunk texting my friends. Tell one about my crush on Mark and also that I think I might be black. Send five texts to every one of his. Eventually, I stop getting responses from people. Doesn’t stop me from texting, unfortunately.

I go on Facebook and search for contestant Mark, and think of how nice it would be to send him a message on his Wall. For a bottle of wine later, I write a rather coherent post: “You’re my favourite Biggest Loser! I’m rooting for you!”

I actually did get a message back. He said, “Thanks! Just working hard!” Or something.

I was expecting him to tell me how pretty I was and ask me for my phone number.

Whatever, though. Totally fine.

Hugs and kisses,

Bella

Seriously?

Okay, no offence to all the loved up couples out there, but why are there so many fucking loved up couples out there?

Seriously! Everytime I open Facebook there's something on there about how much in love one person is with their significant other, quotes that make me want to barf due to their lovey quality, and people getting shacked up/married left, right, and centre.

I get it. Now's about the time when you start to settle down, or something. Me? I'm still figuring out what I want in my career and my own life to worry about bringing someone else into it. (Not that I have anyone else to bring into it, but that's beside the point).

Am I jealous? A little. I want to feel that love for someone that everyone and their brother seems to have in their lives. But I also don't want to settle for it, and I don't want someone here that's going to hold me back from moving somewhere else, like out West or the States or Europe (it could happen).

But I mean, really. Love is great, whatever. But it's not the be all and end all of everything. Why is it everyone's goal in life to find The One?

Anyway, that was a little rant on my part.

Happy Thanksgiving?

Hugs and kisses,

Bella

Boot Camp - Yet Another Exercise Adventure to Add to the Repertoire

E and I, on our never ending pursuit to skinny jeans and bikinis, decided to join a local boot camp at the urging of a woman we work with.

Great idea! We were looking for another means of exercise after our belly dancing adventure, but this time we wanted an activity that didn’t call for fancy costumes and getting in touch with our feminine, um, organs. Being of the body type where we both have a lot of muscle, I felt like the Incredible Hulk when I walked into the room that was filled with skinny, mousy women (I can’t speak for E, but I know she wanted to do something like boxing instead of dancing, so I’m pretty sure she held the same opinion as I did).

We signed up for boot camp about a month ago and eagerly (?) awaited October 4th, when we would start our journey to hotness. That morning (which happened to be yesterday), I woke up terrified. E was surprisingly excited when I saw her at work that morning, and MT, the person responsible for the boot camp signing up madness, was jogging on the spot when I looked over. What? Their enthusiasm was so not catching.

E sent me an email later in the day confessing that she was “slowly having more anxiety about this tonight.” Yeah, me too.

We started the class with a run. Oh, goody. By the end of it, I was bent over gasping for air and it was only supposed to be a warm up. “Then why push it hard?!” You might ask. Yeah, that’s just it. I didn’t.

Each member was to have a personal kettlebell swing lesson by one of the trainers – a male, and the only one in the vicinity – who looked like he would rather be anywhere than with us. He said I could use the small kettlebell or the heavier one. The heavy one was about 14 pounds. Seriously? I did like 30 pound swings with I worked out with M. I totally wanted to show off. However, he was extremely unimpressed with my skill, and gave me a simple “yep” when I asked if what I got was good. Fine.

Boot camp consisted of agility drills, cardio sets, and strength sessions. Strength, for me, isn’t much of a problem. I had to go down to knee push ups at the 30 second mark to finish off the minute, but I can usually hold my own when it comes to lifting and pushing things (See? Incredible Hulk! I wasn’t making that up).

Here are some highlights of the workout that I found particularly challenging:

1) Running - We had to run in between each circuit, so by the end of the hour class I was wheezing my way through the workout.

2) V Sits/Supermans - During these rotational exercises, E and I kept rolling into, and kicking, each other as we tried to get through it. We basically got tangled in the grass for the minute long set.

3) Bunny Hops (aka my personal hell) - It’s hard to jump over things, okay?! I almost hit myself in the chin with my boobs.

Really, though, it was actually really good. My calves are burning today and I know we got a good workout. We laughed our way through it, which is what I wanted more than anything.

And then I had a wee bit of chocolate when I came home. E said she had pizza. And MT had leftover birthday cake.

We’re superstars.

Hugs and Kisses,

Bella

First Day of the Rest of My Life?

Orientation at a new place of work (or of volunteering) is never usually a riveting, glued-to-the-edge-of-your-seat kind of experience. The orientation at the mental health hospital wasn’t really any different, except when they took us on a tour of the hospital and brought in people who have suffered from mental illness themselves. That stuff was awesome.

As we walked through the halls of this new building, I was shocked at how bright and modern it is. There are no announcements being made for doctors, no stretchers in the hall, and no uniformed nurses walking the corridors. On the contrary, there are huge windows that face the lake, designed to give the patients a view of nature that is meant to be calming and serene (I kind of think it would give the illusion of the possibility of escape). Nurses and doctors are in plain clothes and the patients walk around freely in the halls, greeting visitors and workers as though they are welcoming you into their home. The layout strongly discounts the stigma of mental hospitals, physically representing the statement of the hospital that promotes patient recovery and reintegration into society. Gone are the days of strait jackets and padded rooms, a la Shutter Island. Patients are free to roam the grounds, taking in the serenity of the lake or interacting with workers and peers during a game of pool or foosball (something missing? Dart boards – I guess for good reason).

In the lobby, there is a large piano for use by those patients with musical talent or who desire creative expression. A great idea for those patients who take solace in the calming notes of their favourite song. A not so great idea for a volunteer who was seriously disturbed by the movie Patch Adams, where the mental patient played Fur Elise right before he killed his nurse. If he had been playing that song, I would have been out of there faster than if someone had told me there was chocolate cake in the next room.

My mom has said that her biggest fear is getting trapped in a mental hospital with no way to escape. I somewhat understood that fear my first day at the hospital. I was leaving my appointment with the nurse after getting my blood taken (worst thing EVER) and was walking back to the conference room where the session was taking place. I kept walking. And walking. Nothing looked familiar because I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was during the tour. I was too busy smiling at all the people.

I didn’t think to read the signs and all the halls look the same. Seriously. Why do all the halls look the same? To confuse the patients? Call me crazy (actually, don’t), but wouldn’t it be better to have halls that are, like, recognizable? Because I’m pretty sure it’ll freak the patients out if they can’t find their room, and that’s not good for anyone.

I walked past the forensics unit (criminally mentally ill) talking to myself in an effort to calm myself down, and it went something like this (not at all politically correct, might I add): “Oh, my God, the criminally insane. Walk fast. Don’t run, though.” “Oh! A patient. Smile. Or not. Shit, he looked mad.” “Maybe I should stop talking to myself in a mental hospital.” “MY PHONE DOESN’T WORK!”

That last thought provoked a mild panic attack as I tried to text my mom to share my terror. Also, I didn’t yet have my pass to show that I was an employee there and one very nice worker had already used “that” voice when saying hello to me. Perhaps the fact that I felt as though I could be easily mistaken for a patient should be a cause for concern for me, but it really isn’t.

I thought for sure that I was going to be attacked and, without my phone, I was imagining myself screaming “I’m not CRAZY!!!” in a padded room.

Managed to escape my fate that time, though. Can’t say I’ll be so lucky next time.

Hugs and kisses,

Bella