Exercise

Today's muse: One Minute Writer

Today's prompt: Exercise

* * *

Exercise
I look down at the digital numbers. I want to believe the scale is broken, but I know it’s not.

I sigh and leave the bathroom. I find my husband in the den, reclining on the sofa. “We need to start exercising,” I announce.

He bolts up. “What?” He has a look of horror on his face; as though I’ve just announced that I birthed a giraffe and I plan to name it Darryl. “Why?”

I pat my hips. “Are you kidding? Look at us. We need to start jogging.”

Jogging. Final answer.

He flicks his hand, lays back on the sofa. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Why in the world would anyone want to run if they weren’t being chased?”

Oh. Good point.

I sit beside him on the sofa. “Pass the chips.”

Choices

Choices

Over the years, I have managed to convince myself that my life is much better than it would have been had I made a different decision. I was at the beginning of a great journey, aching to discover unseen worlds, and you were going to change everything—be in the way.

I couldn't hold onto you. And yet, I couldn't let you be with anyone else.

I will always wonder if I was selfish to end your voyage before it even began. After all, another family would have loved you just as much.

Maybe more.

It's About Me

We all have people in our lives that annoy us to no end. I have a few. Too many, some might say.

* * *

It's About Me

Your jaw has expanded to mammoth proportions, simply to allow you to speak out both sides. We've paid the contractor a premium to widen the door jams, which should make it easier for you to walk around with your enormous ego.

Contrary to what you may think, the sun doesn’t shine out your ass; though it may balance quite well on the stick you have rammed up there.

You are not all that, nor are you a bag of chips (though, if you were, you'd be sour-cream-and-onion...I hate sour-cream-and-onion).

Get over yourself, honey--it’s not all about you.

Everyone knows it’s about me.

Colour 101.3

Part three of three in the Colour saga. All true...you can't make up this kind of stuff!

No doubt, one day, there will be a part four. Most likely a part five.

* * *

Colour 101.3

Killing time while waiting for a car part for my Honda Civic Si, we wander through the show room, admiring the shiny colours and gleaming chrome of my Honda's brothers and sisters.

It isn't long before a salesman pounces on us like a feral cat.

“Is there something I can show you?” he asks, all but wringing his hands.

I wander over to a CRV and admire the colour.

“It’s a wonderful shade of blue,” I breathe.

My husband lays a hand on my shoulder and, in an apologetic tone, says to the salesman: “She’s colour blind.”

I throw him a questioning look and he says, in a tone reserved for explaining difficult concepts to children, “It’s green, dear.”

Oh.

The salesman stares at me, forces his lips into a shallow smile. His pasty face shifts into an expression of solemn pity, as though my inability to differentiate between green and blue is a tragic handicap that will diminish my quality of life.

"Too, bad," I say to Chris. "If only it were blue."

Knowing the ruse, Chris plays along.

He shrugs. "Maybe next time." And he leads me away to the parts counter.

I glance back, and Mr. Slick's smile is now a thin line.

"Blue that, buddy."

Colour 101.2

Hand-to-god...true story.

Part two of three.

* * *

Colour 101.2

My high school art teacher was eccentric. That's a nice way of saying he was a lunatic.

I'm not being disrespectful. I adored him. As did most of his students. We still do. I think all artists should be a little crazy. Perhaps not to the extreme of hacking off your ear and mailing it to a hooker, but a little looney is good.

Mr. Blaise would wander around the classroom, winding his way around desks and students. He'd stop by my easel and exclaim, in his lisp: “The trees, the trees…they speak to me!”

It didn’t surprise me that he’d get a woody, as it were, over the trees. He was, after all, a crazy artist. I didn’t think much of it at the time.

But after discovering, quite by accident, that I am colour blind, I pulled out my high school art portfolio, and sifted through some old paintings. It was clear why Mr. Blaise was so excited about my work.

All my trees were painted varying shades of blue.

Turns out, I've been doing this since I was a kid. All the trees in my colouring books: blue. All the trees finger painted (wearing one of my dad's old work shirts as a smock) in Mrs. Van Dyke's Grade One class: blue.

I was stunned. Why hadn't anyone said anything?

I asked my mother why she and my dad didn't tell me I was colouring all my trees blue.

She gave me an absent pat on the head.

"We thought you were just being creative, dear."

Colour 101.1

Hand-to-god...true story.

Part one of three.

* * *

Colour 101.1

In the waiting room of my doctor's office, I flip through a magazine.

He's running late. I'm running bored.

I turn to an article about colour blindness. It details the various degrees and facets of colour blindness, pointing out the different colours affected.

Hmmm. Interesting.

Imagine, I wonder, going through life, not seeing what everyone else sees. I am at once filled with sorrow for these pathetic people. How sad, I think.

The article closes with an Ishihara color test—a number, comprised of a series of coloured dots, embedded within a background of more coloured dots.

“If you can distinguish the number nine in the dots,” the article explains, “you have normal colour vision and are not colour blind.”

I scan the picture. Then I take a closer look. I analyze. Take an even closer look.

“What are they talking about?” I'm confused. “There’s no number nine.”

I pause. I reread the explanation; particularly the bit about seeing and not seing the number.

“Oh."

I read it again. I digest that.

"Oh shit."

Pit Stop

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: edgy, iconic, lithe.

* * *

Sam wants to keep going, put a few more miles behind him, but guilt has won the battle.

Stupid Catholic upbringing.

His friends had told him about this place. It’s iconic, they’d said, you have to stop and stay a night, have a pint for us.

Shit.

After checking in, leaving his bags in his room, Sam finds the pub on the main floor. This better be worth it, he thinks, as he settles at the bar.

“What can I get you?”

He’s pulled into smokey eyes and pouty lips painted a luscious Fuck-Me red. His gaze dips down to the low vee of a black halter, then back up. His brain sizzles and he says the first thing that comes to mind.

“It’s my birthday.”

The bartender smiles, tucks wavy auburn hair behind her ear. “Well, then it’s on the house. What’s your pleasure?”

Oh, he can think of several things right now. None of them are on tap.

“Guinness.”

She winks her approval, walks to the end of the bar to build his pint, hips swaying in invitation. He grins his appreciation, swivels to watch the band rocking it on stage. Bass pumps out of the speakers, edgy and raw, as bodies bump and grind against each other on the dance floor.

Red pushes a pint into his hand, brushes her fingers against his, flashes him an I-will-if-you-will smile before sashaying away.

Okay. Maybe this will be worth it.

He nurses his beer while she tends the bar. They flirt, each innuendo more implicit than the last, until they’re no longer exchanging suggestions but rather detailed descriptions of what each will do to the other.

“I have a room upstairs,” says Sam. “What time does your shift end?”

She calls over to one of the servers, unties her apron. “Hey, Andrea, cover for me.” She turns to him, flicks her head. “I’m on break.”

Sam fumbles with the key to his room, pushes the door open, kicks it shut behind him. Hungry, eager, they tear at each other’s clothes, claw and bite. Each mutters promises neither understand as they fall onto the bed.

His hands and mouth roam, search, tease, until her long, lithe body bucks beneath his while she chants his name and he pours into her.

Sam shifts so that she’s splayed on top of him.

“Sam,” she whispers. “I have to go.”

He groans, runs a calloused hand across her back. “Stay.”

She presses a kiss against his throat before rolling off. “I can’t.”

Naked, she walks around the room, gathering her clothes. After running a brush through her hair, she dresses, then leans over and presses a kiss on his mouth, leans in when he pushes his tongue between her lips. His hand slides under her skirt, cups her ass.

“Sam,” she groans against him. “I really have to go.”

She smooths her skirt, adjusts her halter, walks across the room and opens the door.

“Wait.”

She turns.

“You didn’t give me your name.”

She smiles. “Happy Birthday, Sam,” she says, as she closes the door.

The Pressure's On

I seldom write anything personal on this blog. This is where I vent in fiction, kill off the people I dislike.

But, perhaps this type of therapy isn't working. I've been home from work on stress leave for four weeks now. Numerous tests have shown my heart is healthy, despite the chest pains. It's stress, said my doctor. Stress is a powerful thing.

Don't I know it.

So, though I argued with him, he put his foot down and said a blood pressure reading of one-fifty-four over one hundred is not good. He's probably right. After all, he's the one with the degree.

Rest, he said. Take some time to regroup and get some perspective.

Fine.

I go back to work tomorrow (today is a holiday in Ontario, and a few other provinces). I'm not sure how I feel about going back to work. Part of the issue is the hours I work which, I admit, is my own doing. I'm a firm believer in the adage: "If you want something done right, do it yourself." The problem is, in my office, this is often the case.

We do have people to help with the overflow, but I often have to redo the work, which defeats the purpose. It's not simply a matter of the work not being done to my standards (I can let that one go...most of the time), but the work is not done correctly. Which reflects on me, and my bosses.

I realize it's not about the work, it's a matter of health now. High blood pressure is a warning. I know this. I worked in funeral service for more than twelve years and I'm married to an undertaker. I know the end result. I've seen it many times.

So, new plan, starting tomorrow:

Limit my work day to eight hours.
Concentrate on finishing the first draft of Madison's Avenue.
As co-founder of The DRCC, organize the annual spring and winter craft shows.
Help look after my aging inlaws on the weekend.

And now that I've put that in writing, it still sounds daunting. The only difference to my normal routine is that I've cut my work day down to eight from the usual ten or twelve.

Maybe that will help. Maybe it won't.

How does the saying go? What doesn't kill us makes us stronger.

Well, if I make it to my forty-seventh birthday, I'll be a fucking Amazon.

Hear me roar.

Standing Proud

Standing Proud

I have erectile dysfunction. There, I said it.

It’s surprising really, since I don’t have the appropriate appendage for such an affliction, what with being a girl, and all. Nonetheless, it seems I can’t get it up and need help doing so.

I’m not sure when it began, but apparently I’ve had this issue for years.

I am promised that my lack of performance will be the demise of my marriage. If I take their recommended medication, my self esteem will increase, my sex life will improve and my partner will be satisfied.

I didn't know he wasn't before, but who am I to say? After all, I can't get it up.

Well, I can't go through life, limp and hang-dogged, so to speak. So I'll just reply to one of these emails and see if I can't perk things up a bit...

Mental Health Day

Mental Health Day

There were days—occurring with increasing frequency, she admitted—that she could barely muster the energy to shut off the screeching alarm, let alone get out of bed. Going to work was unthinkable. The medication didn’t seem to help, though she’d been taking it for months now.

She shifted under the covers, searching for that cool spot that would sooth her, if even for a moment.

In her mind, she practiced the message she’d leave at the office, working out today’s excuse for calling in sick.

I wonder, she thought, as the cold metal warmed in her hand, who will finish typing that proposal.

A Walk in the Woods

A Walk in the Woods

Blades of sunlight slash through the trees, brilliant swords that light our way as we stroll in the woods behind our house. Though our conversation is rather mundane—work, house, kids—the intimacy is there.

My breath catches when you reach over to brush my hair back, cup a hand behind my neck and rub your thumb along my cheek. My eyes try to tell you how much I ache to hold you again.

I know I can’t see you every day, and I know I won’t see you forever, but I will walk through our woods and hope that I see you again. Until then, I will visit you here and lay flowers by your stone and tell you I miss you.

Every day.

Beautiful Me

I know I've been away from this blog and I apologize to my faithful followers. I appreciate your patience while I focus my energy on finishing the first draft of Madison's Avenue. My goal is to complete the first draft by April, so it won't be much longer.

To relieve my guilt, I will cheat and post some old pieces I've been anxious to edit. And some pieces I've dug up on a long-forgotten memory stick.

* * *

Beautiful Me

"You either have looks or you have brains; few people have both."

This was something my mother often told me when I was younger. Though it was never said, I knew she meant I was gifted with both. She’s my mother—she’s supposed to say things like that, even though we both knew she was lying.

I, however, made the grave error of musing to my husband that she never did clarify which of these gifts were bestowed upon me.

Big mistake!

To this day, whenever I do something stupid (and believe me when I say that happens a lot) he turns to me, with his Serious Face, and says "You are so beautiful."