I wrote a post this morning about how stupid it is that the news media follow George Bush, Sr.’s lead in calling the president of Iraq by his first name even though they call the leaders of every other country by their last names, and how this was confirmationas if anybody needed itthat the media never tell us anything the government doesn’t want us to hear, but then I reread the post before publishing it and realized that it was too angry and bitter even for me. Which, as those of you who read me regularly might realize, is really saying something. This happens every time I try to talk about politics: first I get incredibly angry and bitter, and then I get depressed and eat ice cream. So, in the interest of maintaining my waifish figure, I deleted the post and went to the gym, where, for the first time, I ran into an old trick. (This was not, of course, the first time I’d run into an old trick; simply the first time I’d done so at the gym.)
I remembered his name (first and last, thank youT.D.) and he remembered something sort of like my first name. The interesting thing about T.D. is that several months ago, after the first of our few trysts (he wasn’t that good), we realized that he was the ex-boyfriend of a guy I was casually dating at the time who insisted on calling himself my boyfriend even though he wasn’t he wasn’t he wasn’t (those of you who have been reading me for a while may remember him as E.S.). So this morning T.D. and I talked about E.S., and how I quit my job, and my cool headphones that filter out noise so that I can listen to music on the subway, and then he went to go do cardio and I went back to my weight lifting (pec flys, to be exact).
I tried to feel dirty and ashamed for a few moments, but then I glanced in the mirror and realized that the weight lifting had actually started to have an effect, and I forgot everything else in the wave of elated vanity that washed over me.