Akimba Revisited.

A couple nights ago I went to my high school reunion. To begin with reunions are pretty awkward: experiencing a solitary night of friendship with people you chose long ago not to stay in touch with? Yeah... My big complaint, however, was that reunions are only fun if one of your former classmates has gained a shit ton of weight and now looks like he/she has his/her own gravitational pull. Unfortunately, I'm that classmate. But I bet no one noticed it too much since I was fat in high school too. [*Fist Pump!*]

It wasn't that bad though. I had fun being intentionally vague about my future plans, drinking way too much, and laughing at some boys who grew extra hands when drunk and others who took the reunion's open bar as an opportunity for a nice long sob.

But the most memorable part of the evening was hands down a hug I received from a fellow classmate. I don't remember it because of the poignancy of a reunion of two dear friends, but because of the dread I felt when I saw her coming in for a hug while completely and utterly (and obviously) akimba.

So I guess it's sort of like The Office

My mom thinks if I'm going to be a teacher come September I should probably have a real job first. You know, the traditional, 9-5 desk job where you spend most of your time figuring out how to covertly check Facebook or make paperclip sculptures. Today, however, I tried to mix it up by coloring in an entire Post-It note with purple ink. Yesterday my personal goal was to find a naughty word that the office's computer software recognized. It recognized vag but not ass, so I spent a solid hour reflecting on why that might be so.

And apparently it's crucial that I have this experience before entering into the teaching profession.

So since last Monday I've been working in my own dear mumsy's office. To be honest, it's actually a pretty sweet gig: no matter how badly I fuck up, everyone still has to be nice to me because I'm the boss's daughter. Granted, I'm trying really hard to avoid fucking up horribly, and so far so good, but the sentiment is the same when I do something right. If I successfully complete the phone number look-up mission they sent me on, I am showered with praise that seems to suggest that this was no mere phone number that I found. No, with the scale of my findings I make Indiana Jones look like a complete jackass. Mortals could not accomplish this feat and return to tell the tale.

The Doctor Who Exercise Program(me)

So I'm fat. Pudgy. Overweight. Chunky. Whatever. Has the issue reached such an extreme that I can no longer walk for even five minutes without getting out of breath? No. But the point is that for my own health I need to lose some weight.

The problem is motivation. The notion of "health" is sort of an abstract concept at my age. 22-year-olds, even ones who can't complete a mile within 15 minutes, don't die of fat. So the fact that I understand on a rational and objective level that I need to decrease my girth to something healthier just doesn't do it for me. And being able to dress in cuter clothing is hardly a motivator for me since I've never been particularly interested in clothing. I could have the body of a supermodel and I'd still dress like a haredi hobo--no, I don't mean like urban homeless chic or whatever that trend is called, I mean legit gross. Nor does the idea of being able to attract guys have any appeal for me, since I'd rather be the fattest woman on the planet and die of Twinkie poisoning than be with someone whose love for me is contingent on my being within a certain weight range. As for comments from my mother about my weight as motivation to lose weight, well, sometimes I wonder if I'm choosing to be fat just out of spite.

The problem is that I'm not a rational girl/lady/woman who carefully weighs (is there a pun in there?) her options and with a complete lack of emotion decides to go with the one with the most items in the column labeled "PROS." No, instead I am motivated by fiction and my whims. And, most of all, I am motivated by Doctor Who.

Why the Bible is like a second grader

I genuinely enjoy reading the Bible. I may be an offensive blasphemer and a believer in common sense religion (the basic tenet? "Don't be an asshole."), but I do try regularly to make a bit of time to read bits of the Bible. In fact, I wish Bible were a required subject in public schools--not because it's true (I mean, it may be...but that's a different argument for a different post), but just because it's a great read. All at once it's like a crime thriller, romance novel, and history book with elements of poetry and Judy Blume's "Superfudge" thrown in. And just for good measure parts of the good book read like a massive "Don't get drunk!" PSA. And if my fandom of the Bible makes me in any way even the tiniest bit like the nutjob haredim of Mea Shearim or like rural American Christians who quote Revelation like nerds quote Monty Python, then so be it.

Year 9s with blood on their hands and that hymn where you sing whatever you want to sing.

"Youuuuu well haf blud ohn yurrrrr haaaaaands!" screamed the crazy Scottish broad to a dance studio filled with 100 8th graders.

Why on earth was a woman with mad hair, a beaded hippie bag and a Scottish accent so strong that I was concerned it might be contagious telling a bunch of 13 year olds that their actions were dangerous enough to kill somebody and put blood on their (in some cases pre-) pubescent hands? Had they been peddling drugs to one another? Had they been holding Fight Club meetings during recess? Had they been playing Frogger with the traffic on the nearby high street?

No. They'd been doing Jesus arms on the stairs.

Let's rewind a bit.