Off like a...

And I'm out.  It's time for my annual pilgrimage to my other home.  The place where I can take a break from all my worries.  The place where I can get away.  The place where...

No.  Not Cheers.  I'm off to get covered in dust and dirt.  To get abused by the fierce wind, hot sun, and cold nights.

Burning Man awaits me.  I'll be back in about three weeks.

Excited doesn't begin to describe how I feel.  As Mama Kitte put it, "I'm about to vibrate into a mass of whirling molecules."

Substance abuse

Hi.  I'm Cary.  And I have an addiction.

It started when I was young.  Grandmother was to blame.  I would watch her as she just gave into temptation willy-nilly.  My mom and dad didn't really help curb my desire either.  They acted like such an obsession was normal.  And now that I'm an adult, I realize that I really don't have the skills, the courage, or the strength to resist.

I'm addicted to cookies.

Just the way a well-made cookie melts on your tongue, the flavors blending together, creating a sense of euphoria.  My eyes roll back into my head.  Goosebumps rise on my flesh.  A shiver runs down my spine.  If it's really good, like Tiff's Treats Snickerdoodle...  the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

How have I handled my addiction thus far?  I've gone the whole cold-turkey route.  I don't keep any cookies in the house, and for the most part, I'm able to resist any temptations.

However...

The H.E.B. (local grocery) around the corner from my gym does this wonderful little thing where they place all the broken tidbits of cookies out on a "sample" table.  All one has to do is wander by periodically and snag a couple of broken bits.  Chocolate chip.  Oatmeal raisin.  White chocolate macadamia nut.  A smidgen here.  A handful there.  I made three trips past the bakery on one shopping trip alone.

While the cookies may not be the best cookies ever made, it doesn't really matter.  For someone who has avoided them like they're the plague, these things are sweet ambrosia.

Seriously.  I need help.  I find myself planning extra trips to the grocery and making plans to grab the cookie tray and run out the door, leaving a trail of chocolate chips and M&Ms behind me.

I have a secret

I have a secret admirer.  A secret admirer who has my phone number.  But I don't have his.  And he likes to send me cryptic text messages.

I'm not fond of my secret admirer.

See, even though I'm still kinda hanging out with Chef Guy, and I'm not really looking for any kind of serious relationship, for someone to just say that he's "an old friend and I have a crush on you" without revealing himself...  it's kinda chicken.  And I'm not fond of people that are chicken.

If you have an interest in me, own it.  It may or may not be reciprocated, but at least its out there and it's honest.

For to rest

o·ver·train (ō'vər-trān')  v.   o·ver·trained, o·ver·train·ing, o·ver·trains v.   tr.
To train too much: a coach who overtrained the athletes before the championship.

v.   intr. To engage in excessive training: a boxer who overtrained.

I don't know when it happened.  I don't know how it happened.  I was in the middle of teaching a class when I became very aware of a sharp pain in my chest.  My breath caught.  I hunched forward slightly.  I put my students in a repetitive cycle, and tried to determine what was happening.

Chest pain. On the right side, just beside the sternum.  Hrmmm...  right side... not a heart attack.  Very localized.  I rubbed the muscle (yes, I was rubbing my chest...  you turned on yet?) and determined it wasn't a muscular issue.  Figuring that I was ok for at least the time being, I finished class, went home and got ready to meet up with Chef Guy and some others for some shenanigans.

In the two days since this happened, it hasn't really gotten any better, but it's not really bothering me that much.  However, I've realized that perhaps this is a sign.  Perhaps I need to slow down a bit.

This has been what I've been up to lately.

Teach 14 yoga classes per week.
Take 3 cycling classes per week.
Run 2 times per week (4-5 miles).
Weightlifting workout 2 times per week.

I've been at this pace since the 4th of July.  Maybe it's time to scale things back.

Update:  I suspected as much, and it was confirmed.  I popped a rib out of place.  It's now back in it's proper position.

I do that now!

First conversation of the morning.  Well, other than the normal grunt hello that I give to my office-mate.

Me:  Ugh.  I stayed up too late last night.
Co-worker:  Me too.  What's your excuse.
Me:  I couldn't put down the book I was reading.
Co-worker: ...
Me:  *stares at the floor* Um...   Atlas of Human Anatomy.
Co-worker:  You're getting stranger by the day.
Me:  What can I say...  I was really interested by the different layers of abdominal muscles.
Co-worker:  You're going to be that sixty-year old man at the end of the street all the kids avoid because he talks to himself.
Me:  I talk to myself now!!

Homo-say-what?!?

"I'll bet you a dollar I can get you to show me your dick."

Now say what?!?!  These words were uttered by a man who had just knocked into me, spilling about half of my martini.  And before any of you ask, no... he wasn't cute enough for me to show my cock to him.  He actually reminded me a little of an aging Dick York. 

Bathroom Etiquette

I swear, I was so close to doing the pee-dance that when the stall door opened I nearly collided with the guy coming out.  It took all the restraint I could muster not to have an accident  while I fumbled with my belt and fly.  (Mental note: why was this so challenging?  Normally I have no problem ripping into the crotch of pants...)  I was so absorbed in the sense of relief I was feeling that I almost didn't hear the guy enter the stall next to me.  I also almost didn't hear the tell-tale jingle of the keys and the little "pop" of a small plastic ziploc-style bag being opened.  Unfortunately, both of these sounds are not unknown to me.  In fact, it's rather common to hear on Friday and Saturday nights in some bars.

What I was not expecting to hear, however, was what came next.  "Tchk, tchk."  My ears pricked up.  Did I really just hear that?  Then it happened again. "Tchk," followed by a deep inhale.  I stopped pissing so fast and had barely buckled my belt when I tore out of that stall.  Thankfully the bathroom was now empty so that no one saw the panicked look in my eyes.  I mean, really.  Since when is it ok to smoke crystal meth in a bathroom stall?!?