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Not Egg-cellent

I’m alive and back by my own demand. I need a distraction and quite honestly I miss writing so ready or not, here I go.

I love eggs. I apologize to all my vegan friends out there. I know. I know. I get it. But I still love eggs.

Poached, scrambled, omelet-style, sunny-side up, over-easy, hardboiled. On toast, next to toast, under toast. With an avocado. In potato salad. With green ham. In a word — or three — I love eggs.

Except I will not eat them Rocky style. I may enjoy raw fish but I have to draw the line at a glass full of raw eggs. I don’t care if they will give you the Eye of the Tiger.

Gross.

Eggs are the last item on my grocery list because the egg/dairy aisle is the final stop of my shopping trip. It’s my “oh my god I’m almost done” moment. Because I do not love grocery shopping as much as I love eggs.

Last week when I got to the “thank god I’m almost done” aisle, there was a man standing directly in front of the eggs fridge. In his left hand was a carton of eggs and he was methodically picking up each and every one of the eggs with his other hand and giving them a thorough — and I mean THOROUGH — once-over. He was basically undressing them with his eyes. It made me very uncomfortable.

Inside my brain —because I didn’t want to be rude — I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, “who the heck has time for that? That’s a little over the top, if you ask me.”

Not that anyone was asking me.

Before you all judge the judger, I do always open the carton and give the eggs a cursory look-over to be sure there wasn’t a chicken fight. Aka no broken eggs. I made sure I did it in front of the egg inspector to passive-aggressively show him how it’s really done.

I did my obligatory cursory glance and ran — not walked — to the closest and less crowded cashier lane, checked out, and drove home.

As the hubs was putting away the groceries, I heard him say, “there’s poop on this egg.” Of course my immediate thought was “do you personally know the egg inspector I saw at ShopRite a few minutes ago or did I miss the memo?”

I did not believe him. I thought that it’s got to be dirt, so I took it upon myself to take a sniff.

Sure enough it was poop. And it smelled slightly familiar. Almost human -like.

My first reaction was to toss the offender in the trash and just rinse the remaining eggs but then visions of Sam & Ella stopping by for an impromptu dinner party danced through my head.

The offender.

Instead, I did what every normal middle-aged woman who has been egg-scorned does — you drive 10.6 round trip miles and burn $1.60 in gasoline to return your $3.65 carton of eggs.

And if that wasn’t enough, after you tell the girl there is human poop on one of the eggs and she looks at you like you’re crazy then asks if you want to grab another carton of eggs, you indignantly tell her, “no thank you” as if you will never purchase eggs there again and then hop in your car to go to the nearest garden center that sells fresh eggs for $6 a carton (I bought two) which means another 5.1 miles plus wear and tear on your vehicle (yes, I calculated all that in case you thought I had no time on my hands).

Also, is everyone imagining a farmer squatting over an egg to relieve himself of his morning BM?

So, I have two cartons of fresh eggs still sitting in my fridge a week later because I really shouldn’t eat them anyway because of my high cholesterol. But they are clean and a farmer did not poop on them.

What is the moral of this long story just to tell you I returned eggs that had fecal matter on them? Never judge the egg inspector because if you do, karma will come to your house in the form of feces.

Also, I will buy eggs from ShopRite again. Who am I kidding? All that business was exhausting.

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It’s time for a respite.

We all need one. I don’t care who you are. And it doesn’t matter how or where you do it. We all need a break from the craziness of life. For some — just having your work world turned off for a few days and sleeping late, leisurely and unapologetically lazing around the house, maybe planning some local day trips — is just what the doctor ordered.

For me, the perfect place to turn off the world is at the beach. It’s sitting my ass — the same ass that sits in an office chair for 40 hours a week — in a beach chair with a good book. And if I’m lucky enough to have good weather, my ass will also sit in that beach chair for 40 hours during that week. Maybe more.

Yes, I will wear sunscreen.

I love to travel and I feel like I have had my fair share. But most times, traveling requires every minute planned. And — depending on your mood — that just doesn’t fit the bill.

This is where the beach comes in.

Humans are said to be 60% water, that’s why so many of us are attracted to the sea. It may be nonsense, but in my world I believe it. I can’t imagine not being able to get to the ocean within a couple of hours.

When I sit on the beach my blood pressure immediately drops. When I inhale the briny salt water of the ocean I feel like I am receiving a dose of therapy. I feel like I am home. The sand beneath my feet is like a shag carpet. Luxurious and soft. The more sand between my toes, the better.

I’m on vacation. A beach vacation. Mere feet of the salty water that beckons me. I hear nothing but seagulls and waves.

When I’m working, I have a habit of asking Alexa to play the sounds of the ocean when things get too stressful. And although it has a positive affect on me, it’s not the same. No amount of closing my eyes and meditating can make it real.

This is real. This is just what MY doctor has ordered.

It is the last full day of our vacation as I write this. I always feel a little melancholy when a vacation is over. This time especially because it was surrounded by my family. Quality time with my daughter and future son-in-law. Time with my husband away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. It just makes it that much harder to leave this place. To head back to reality.

Monday I start back to work after a ten day break, but I will be ready. My mind will be clear. My stress levels will have declined.

Until Tuesday.

But have no fear! The ocean isn’t going anywhere, so I will return. Maybe in a month, maybe in a year. It always calls me back. And back is where I shall go.

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Checking Up or Checking Out

I’m not gonna lie…I always thought my parents were a little over the top with their doctors’ appointments. They will not allow anything to come between them and their beloved providers.

Kind of like Calvin’s except these Calvin’s wear a white coat.

Hell could be freezing over but dammit, they will make that appointment. Like Superman during a blizzard. Over tall buildings and faster than a speeding bullet. Nothing will stop them.

The year before the pandemic, I decided I probably should start going for annual skin checks. 2019 went off without a hitch, then the pandemic hit and I was forced to cancel my appointment for 2020.

One that I didn’t reschedule.

Until recently, when I discovered that two friends of mine were diagnosed with melanoma. Skin cancer. One was caught early. The other, not so much.

Was this a sign? Maybe. But that was all I needed to get on the horn and call my doctor.

It wasn’t even mid-August and the next available appointment with my derm — who I love almost as much as my firstborn — wasn’t available until four days before Christmas.

Am I panicking? Not totally.

But what if? I won’t let my brain go there because I tend to be a bit of a hypochondriac. Just make sure my ashes are thrown in the Atlantic, mmmkay?

Will this burn from 2017 come back to bite me in the chest?

Anyway, I think I now get what my parents mean. There is nothing that can make me cancel that appointment. Except maybe death. And it will have to be my own. If it’s anyone else’s they will have to wait.

I jest.

Kind of.

Is this another by-product of aging? This sudden need to have all the things checked?

ALL the things between the hair on my head and the bottoms of my toes? Inside and out?

Gone are the carefree days of having to only worry about skidding out on your bicycle and scraping a knee.

Oh my god. Knee scrapes can’t turn into cancer…can they?

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A Love Affair

I am not really sure where I picked up my love for food. It’s not like I was born into a family of chefs. I was brought up on bologna sandwiches, Steak-umms, and tuna casserole with toast. I have an aunt who takes great pride in what I have dubbed her “Buster Brown” pot roast. And my grandmother would always put too much thyme into everything.

Full disclosure: I was in my late twenties before I realized she put too much “thyme” into her food, and not too much “time” into her food. For years I thought if you didn’t get in and out of the kitchen as quickly as possible your meal would be a disaster and everyone would sit around the table admonishing you for using too much effort.

I may not know where I picked up my love for food (making it is a whole different story), but I can tell you when it started.

I was in high school when I developed an irrational obsession with cafeteria pizza. “Cardboard” is what most of my peers referred to it as. Turns out I liked cardboard and their loss was my gain.

I’d bet the ranch and say there is pizza on this tray.

Luckily for me, I had a metabolism that lived on the Autobahn. These days my metabolism prefers to take the slow lane on Rural Route 9. Although I can no longer eat what I want without repercussions, I still do so with abandon.

I’m always hungry. I wake up hungry. I usually go to bed hungry. Food is almost always on my mind. Right now, I am thinking about when I can eat again. And I just had dinner. In my mind, I am scouring my refrigerator because I’m too lazy to get up. And from the looks of it, a call to Uber Eats may be in order.

You know how you feel after a Thanksgiving meal and you declare you are so full you are never eating again and then don’t for at least another day? Not only does that not happen to me, I don’t understand it.

The only time I’m not hungry is when I have a stomach bug. And even then I’m thinking, “what cracker would go well with my ginger ale?”

The newest thing I do is cry over a really good meal. Most recently was just last month over a bowl of lobster bolognese. Let me repeat that: I cried over a bowl of pasta. I don’t even cry at Hallmark commercials.

Exactly like this. Except I’m not faking it.

I also have taken to moaning out loud when I eat food I highly enjoy. I just can’t help myself. It kind of pops out of my mouth like a burp ramped up on rocket fuel. It’s quite embarrassing.

So, there you have it. I like food and I cannot lie. From toast to caviar. There isn’t much I won’t turn away.

Except black licorice. Black licorice tastes like the deep recesses of Hell and Hell is where it should stay. Oh wait, black licorice isn’t really considered food, is it?

Never mind.

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The Drink

(NOTE: If you think you are an alcoholic, please seek help. This post is not meant to poke fun at anyone who has a serious drinking problem and needs help quitting.)

It’s no secret that I enjoy drinking. I don’t enjoy getting drunk and I most definitely do not enjoy a hangover, especially at my age. But I do enjoy a glass of wine. It is a part of my nightly routine. You know, like brushing my teeth and washing my face, except more fun.

My problem is it’s not just one glass of wine. It’s two or three. And if I’m going to be really honest, sometimes it’s four. I know my limit. I know when to stop to avoid the dreaded hangover.

Before the pandemic, I made a “no drinking on a work night” rule for myself. I stuck to it for a while. But true to form, I gave up and gave in. I am a social creature and love to hang out with friends and it was always the “let’s meet Tuesday night for pizza and wine,” or something like it that would undo me.

And then the pandemic hit. No more Tuesday night pizza and wine with friends. I may have not been physically with them but my brain didn’t get the memo. Also, the Happy Hour Zoom and Houseparty calls did not help.

It seemed to be the trend (it took me five seconds to find out that alcohol consumption went up by 78% in 2020). That was a trend I could get behind. It was the perfect excuse to drink every single night if I wanted to. After all, everyone else was doing it, so it must be ok.

image courtesy of @ marriage.meme

After about seven months I decided the drinking was out of control, so I reinstated my rule of “no drinking on a week night.” I was tired of being “off” the next morning. Exhausted and groggy and full of regret. After all, I was doing so many great things for myself like eating right and exercising. Alcohol didn’t seem to fit in with all that.

On October 5th I stopped drinking during a weeknight. Again. But this time it stuck.

Also, I did a little research. Apparently, one glass of wine a day is fine. It even has some heart healthy benefits. But more than that? Not so much.

Did you know eight alcoholic beverages a week for women is considered heavy drinking? Me either. During the early months of this pandemic, I was probably drinking close to twenty drinks per week.

Do you know what else drinking can cause? High blood pressure, liver disease, cancer, and memory problems, just to name a few. Bottom line is drinking did not fit in with how I pictured my current and future self and I desperately needed to make some changes.

Enter “The Empowerment Experience” Stage Left. It’s run by a pretty badass woman and made up of some pretty badass women. And for lack of a better way to describe it, it’s a “course” that basically helps you to get your shit together. I know I could have backed off the drinking on my own eventually if I pushed myself (maybe), but this group really helped me to commit, be accountable, and sit through discomfort.

Every week we choose one challenge for ourselves. It doesn’t matter what it is. Making the “no weeknight drinking” rule held me accountable. We check in with each other every single day. Some of us have a little setback. That’s life. Sometimes we take two steps forward, and one back. My point is I truly believe this group is what made me want to finally make it stick.

But I still had the issue of the weekend. I was treating them like a free-for-all and for all the work I did during the week, I just reversed it by the time Friday night arrived. So, I did something I never in a million years thought I would or even could commit to.

And it’s call “Dry January.”

I never thought I could do this. I have learned how to sit through discomfort. Nine times out of ten, the feeling of wanting a glass of wine passes.

So far it has been eleven days. That included two weekends and even a very small, safe gathering with a few girlfriends, and I am happy to say I haven’t had anything but tea and water. Oh, and a little sparkling white grape juice.

Every morning I wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to face the day with no regrets.

I do not typically do affiliate stuff. It’s just not my thing. But this is something I really want to share because it works and I feel very passionate about it. Otherwise, I would not be here talking about it.

If you are in need of a change in your life — it could be anything from needing to exercise more to losing weight and anything your heart desires in between — and are ready and willing to put in the work, this program is for you. Unlike my “morning after” you will have no regrets. (Click on image below to get started — you’ll be glad you did)

The Empowerment Experience
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229 Minutes

That’s how long I was sitting in line to get tested for Covid-19 this past Saturday. 229 minutes. For those of you who don’t feel like doing the calculation, or if you’re like me and are not good at third grade math or just don’t have the ability to run numbers in your head as quickly as Sir Isaac Newton, that computes to three hours and forty-nine minutes.

Nearly four hours to receive a covid test. It takes less time to run the Boston marathon. Or to take a round trip flight to Wisconsin from New York. But don’t take a trip because we are in a pandemic. You probably shouldn’t do any marathons either. This pandemic is a killjoy.

I could have saved myself four hours

Long story short, I wanted to be tested because Friday night I felt like I was coming down with a cold and woke up Saturday morning congested and headachy and exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that renders you incapable of doing anything outside of rolling over.

I also had a dream that a friend’s cat was talking to me.

I know many people who came down with the dreaded ‘rona and it started out the exact same way…cold-like symptoms and weird dreams.

Unfortunately, there was not one single appointment at a local walk-in clinic or pharmacy inside of 72 hours and my PCP doesn’t have weekend hours. My only option was one of those places you see on the news where the cars snake around for what seems like miles.

Every time I see this madness on the evening news I am astounded. It always reminds me of one of those apocalyptic movies where people are trying to get out of dodge en masse. I swore that would never be me. But there I was. Stuck in a line of cars, but without an apocalypse or zombie to be had.

What does one do for four hours while deliberately waiting for someone to shove a ten-inch Q-tip up your nostrils?

In my case, I spent an hour talking on the phone with my parents, did a little Facebook scrolling, texted some friends complaining about the injustice of it all, and enjoyed a little people watching.

In 229 minutes I saw a car overheat and get towed away, I saw a man walk up the long line of cars with a red gas can. Not sure if he was selling gas or if he just simply ran out. But darn. That’s not a bad side gig.

I myself only had a quarter of a tank of gas leftover from when I filled my car in September, so it could happen. There are stranger things. I mean, I was willingly waiting in line for 229 minutes to have my brain tickled. Saturdays sure aren’t what they used to be.

Where was I? Oh yeah, people watching.

I watched the teenager in the car in front of me get out of the vehicle, walk down the hill, and come back with food an hour later.

I saw a man get food delivered to his car. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of that. I was so hungry by the end of this, I was close to exiting my vehicle and start grazing on the fir tree to my right.

I did panic a bit when I realized that if I had to go to the bathroom, I wouldn’t be able to. Turns out there was a bathroom at the three hour mark, but it also turns out there was a note on the door. Not sure what it said because I couldn’t see from my vantage point, but my guess is it wasn’t, “Welcome all who could potentially be infected with the Covid-19 virus, please come on in and sit a spell so you can continue to spread your germs all over the universe.”

After three hours, one of the nice volunteers came up to my car to scan my online registration, thanked me profusely for doing so, and stuck a Post-It note on my windshield with my test number. She told me I was almost there with “only” about another hour to go.

When I got close enough to see the front of the line, I started timing how long it took for one vehicle to get through the actual testing area — anywhere from a minute and a half to two minutes. When I pulled up, I was done in well under a minute.

In other words, register online for these things if you can, people. It will save a lot of time for everyone.

The lady who administers the test and looks as if she is going to do a mold remediation on you instead of a simple nose swab, greeted me with what I could gather was a smile on her face even though she was working her butt off in the wind and cold all alone to test 400 people. I appreciate her.

But I wouldn’t blame her one bit if she lost her mind and ended up shoving that Q-tip all the way to the temporal lobe and killed us all. Wow. That took a turn. I’ve been watching too much Netflix. Maybe Disney Channel would be a better choice.

The Verdict: The specimen that was collected from the deep recesses of my face on the end of that ten inch Q-tip has determined I am Covid-19 negative. Should have done the cover test (see meme above).

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COVID-19 Random Thoughts – Self-Quarantine Day 7

I thought I was done talking about this, but I’m not. I’m never done talking about anything. Just ask my family and friends. I bet it takes all the energy they have to not throw tomatoes at me during a movie. I feel the need to give commentary even when not wanted. Or needed. Is that the same thing?

Today my day started with making a smoothie and putting a wooden spoon into the running blender. A friend suggested I strain the wood-splintered smoothie, which I proceeded to do…right into the sink. How was your day?

So, here goes my Coronavirus Random Brain Dump:

  • Most restaurants and bars are shutting down across the entire country. Think about the enormity of that. People aren’t gathering anywhere (except Florida beaches but I don’t want to talk about it). It probably hasn’t been this quiet since Columbus didn’t discover America.
  • Less cars on the road equals better air quality. Less pollution. Less gas being used. Less mileage. Longer car life. Has anyone seen the pictures from Venice? Soon enough the Hudson River will be safe enough to drink from. I mean, I know Venice doesn’t have cars. Potato Potawto.
  • Toilet paper is something I will never again take for granted as long as I live. At least until September, anyway. If I run out of it, I don’t know what I’ll do. Wiping my backside with moss really doesn’t do it for me. Growing mushrooms out of there isn’t a trend I would be too keen on participating in. Mushrooms may be hard to find right now, but I’ll take my chances.
  • This event is an extrovert’s worst nightmare. I have been feeling squirrelly since day two. Please send help. Just send it in a hazmat suit.
  • I’m getting so conditioned at practicing social distancing that when I see characters on television hugging or standing close in a group, I scream at the screen, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? SIX FEET, PEOPLE! SIX FEET!!!”
  • I haven’t seen this many kids outside playing and riding their bikes since I was twelve.
  • I think I have tennis elbow by repetitively looking at Coronavirus memes on my smartphone.
  • I really hope the virus outbreaks shrink as much as my pores have from not having an opportunity to wear makeup.
  • If I don’t start shaving my legs soon, there WILL be mushrooms growing. Moss not needed.

That’s about it for today. Stay safe out there, and please don’t do what they are doing on TV. Or in Fort Lauderdale. For the love of God, practice social distancing. Thank you and have a nice day.

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Friday the 13th Part XII: The Coronavirus

The shelves are empty. People are fighting over a roll of toilet paper. Schools are closing. Events are being cancelled. Businesses are locking their doors.

It almost feels like we are hunkering down for the blizzard of the century. And it’s not limited to my little part of the country. It’s everywhere and widespread. The entire world is in on this.

The…Entire…World.

Only it’s not a snowstorm. It’s a really bad “B” movie with zombies and aliens, and we can’t get away. As the wise Pat Benetar once said, “got nowhere to run, got nowhere to hide.”

You can’t trust anyone. People are feeling crazy, losing their minds. The National Guard has been called into some areas. They have shut down roads. People are quarantined — not allowed out, not allowed in. There’s mass hysteria. There are no supplies to speak of because we were fools and didn’t listen to the “Doomsdayers.” And to top things off, it all came to a head on Friday the 13th in the United States. The only thing we’re missing is Jason.

Random Jason pic and random mask pic from Google. Creds for putting them together goes to The Kid.

Except it’s not a movie. It’s real life and we’re all living it. Although there are no zombies, there are aliens. And it comes in the form of a virus.

I have washed my hands so much the skin is peeling off. I haven’t touched my face in so long that I forget what my face feels like. If I accidentally touch a door handle with so much as my pinky finger, I get completely disgusted. I run to the nearest sink or hand sanitizing station before I do anything else. Repeat ten thousand times in what seems like a ten minute period because people touched the sink. See the problem?

I’m usually not an alarmist when it comes to this stuff. I really am typically not that fearful. Hell, if I didn’t have a husband with asthma, I might take advantage of the $65 round trip flight to sunny Florida.

But I do have a husband with asthma and there are people out there who don’t have strong immune systems. We also have to worry about our elderly. Therefore, we need to act responsibly. I need to act responsibly. Even though acting responsibly is just about one of my least favorite things to do.

Although at times this all seems a bit extreme, I will order my *groceries online, make sure I have enough wine to last through an apocalypse, and remain calm.

Are you calm? I’m calm. Oh, where did I leave that damn cork screw?

*I tried to order my groceries online except there was a week-long waiting period for a delivery. Instead, I weathered “the storm” and was able to get what I needed. I had to leave the house before the sun was up and be amongst the zombis…err, other people…but I survived. Well, maybe. I won’t really know for another 14 days.




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A Year With Not Your Average Fitness

One year ago today, I wasn’t exercising at all, I was lazy, and a major couch potato. I was the textbook definition of that word that I hate most: Sedentary.

My flexibility was so bad I would wonder how I was going to do something as simple as push myself up from a sitting position. Time and time again I put off going to the gym in favor of going home and relaxing because I had a bad day and “deserved” it.

I drank something alcoholic every single night of my life and woke up every single morning groggy and with a bad attitude. I basically didn’t care about anything. I wasn’t depressed, but I wasn’t happy either.

I ate all kinds of bad crap. I hardly ever ate a vegetable. I suffered from high cholesterol and terrific heartburn, but I didn’t seem to care. I liked to eat and dammit I ate what I wanted with the reckless abandon of a teenage boy. My weight was the highest it had ever been and was climbing.

I fought with my closet every morning over what to wear, which inevitably made me late for work. I never packed a lunch, prepped a dinner ahead of time, and more often than not I’d go to the grocery store with a list in my head and not on paper. That never ended well and often required me to hit the store again because I forgot something.

I had no good habits. I never wrote which is something I adore. I was addicted to my phone and social media and would choose that over doing something else that I adored: Reading.

I never planned a thing in my life. I flew by the seat of my pants because that’s the kind of person I said I was. The problem is, it didn’t work for me.

A year later I exercise and stretch consistently. I wake up early to do yoga most mornings. I eat right and track my food. I have developed so many habits that not only work for me but have helped to improve the quality of my life that include simple things like packing a gym and lunch bag and picking out my clothes the night before.

I plan out my exercise and meals. I even plan out when I’m going to write and read. I go to bed early to be sure to get a good sleep and wake up before the sun comes up with no problem.

When I think back to that girl I was a year ago, I feel bad for her. I no longer think of exercise as a chore but something I actually look forward to. It’s something I do to improve my life, my flexibility, my mind, and my body. My mindset has changed from being irritated that I need to exercise to wondering how I could ever not do it.

In the past year I’ve lost weight, lowered my cholesterol, and have controlled the terrific heartburn. I have learned about self care and how important it is. Today, I almost want to say, “I don’t even know who this person is.” But I know who this person is. It’s ME. It’s who I always was. I was just bogged down with negative thinking, laziness, self doubt, and no self control.

Is it perfect all the time? No. I’m human. But the difference is now I just pick up and continue on. Instead of throwing it out the window and starting again “on Monday.” Or worse yet, “next month.”

But I did not do this alone. I joined a fitness group online. This group of amazing women, run by a badass instructor, helped me to achieve what I thought was unattainable.

You should join me in the war to combat unhealthy living. It’s really pretty awesome. I would not be here saying this if I didn’t see with my own eyes what it did for me.

You don’t have to be a mom or even have young kids still at home. It turns out, that was really just an excuse for me to not take care of myself. Being an empty nester for 3+ years didn’t change my attitude.

Until now.

I’m sharing because we all deserve to take better care of ourselves. Also, the deal is amazing. And no one loves a good deal more than I do. Also, I’m cheap as they come, just ask DH.

The next course begins on January 13, but the cart is open now.

So, who’s in? (Click the link below for more information)

https://susie-johnson.mykajabi.com/a/20946/boTVei32

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Who Even IS Luke Bryan?

Yesterday after work I went to the gym like I do and I saw a friend down there exercising. I went over to talk to her and in the process, lost an end of the rubber earpiece thing that attaches to my earbud.

I dropped to my knees frantic to find it. I retraced my steps all the way back to the locker room. I wasted a good ten minutes of exercise time because I was desperate not to listen to the music the gym was playing — country.

If you know me, you know I am the absolute opposite of a country fan. I would rather listen to Ben Stein on repeat for a month straight than be forced to listen to country music.

Unless it’s old school like Johnny Cash or Patsy Cline. Does this make me a hypocrite? I think not. There is a VAST difference between yesterday’s country and today’s. There just is, so don’t try to fight me on this.

Most people in my life enjoy the stuff. I have countless friends who love it. DH’s family — every single blessed one of them — seem to only listen to it. It is on every one of their car radios, and playing at every single bleeping family event.

A few years ago, two of my sisters-in-laws and a couple nieces even drove me to Tennessee in the hopes of a massive conversion. It was country music everywhere, all the time, for a week straight.

Did it help?

No. In fact, I believe it pushed me even further away. Which is as possible as pigs sprouting wings.

I know what you’re thinking. Especially those of you who love the stuff and can’t see where I’m coming from or are insulted by my little anti-country music rant.

You’re thinking, “Suck it up buttercup. Everyone else likes it, so you need to join the club.” And to that I would ask the question my dear parents bestowed upon me every single time I wanted to do what everyone else was doing.

If you told me to jump off the Brooklyn bridge, would I?

No, I would not. Because I know jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge would most likely kill me. And so would listening to country music.

After enlisting the help of my friend and the gym trainer, it couldn’t be found. Finally, I threw my hands up in the air and gave in. I wasn’t going to go home because I couldn’t listen to my own music. I wasn’t going to abandon my daily workout because I was going to be forced to listen to Today’s Country. No.

I had to put on my big girl spurs and get to doing my thing.

There are two types of people in the gym: the ones who workout to the music de jour. And the ones who listen to their own music. I never understood how anyone can workout without their own theme songs, but who am I to judge? It’s what makes the world go ’round, right?

To each his own.

One thing I discovered about myself yesterday was that music is a very large part of setting myself up for the energy and the motivation to exercise and to exercise hard.

Was my workout up to par yesterday? No. I was cranky and severely annoyed. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t feel like exercising. I did it, but I wasn’t happy. I even got off my elliptical 1.3 minutes sooner than usual because I just couldn’t take it anymore. Also, the blood running out of my ears was making a mess.

I have gotten to a really good place in my relationship with the gym the last few months. I have worked hard to create a habit that I actually enjoy. I have worked hard to get to a point where when I enter the gym, I don’t curse, make ugly faces, and sigh deeply over the fact that my body — inside and out — isn’t perfect and that I even have to spend my time doing this thing called “exercise” at all.

You know, kinda like the fact that spinach and brussel sprouts can’t taste like Big Macs and donuts.

My earpiece thingy may be lost forever, but I will replace it, cement it where it belongs, and never, EVER be without my own music again whilst at the gym.

And if there is a freak incident and it does happen again? I will have a back-up. On top of a back-up. On top of a back-up. On top of a…get my point?