I am back from yet another break I took from blogging. I will dispel your curiosity – I didn’t go on a safari, I didn’t skip town and move to Hawaii… In fact, I didn’t do anything interesting. I was studying for the GMAT, a standardized test designed to give the distinguished members of the graduate admissions committee insight into my academic abilities, business acumen, and general worth. Turns out I am priceless.
In the past, I’ve taken the GRE (to be the writer I always wanted to be) and the LSAT (to be the lawyer I thought I wanted to be). My current status of a full-time employee at a leading professional services firm will give you an idea of my consistent performance on these tests. About three and a half hours after walking into some welcoming test center, I leave a reborn woman. Nail polish chipped, hands slightly clammy. While some doors close, others – also close!
I have adopted a new outlook on general failure, which I attribute to my spiritual growth and occasional consumption of antidepressants.
Scenario 1 – Best Case of Failure
Amount of effort exerted: Minimal
Assets (material, emotional, and other) at stake: None – nothing to lose; the opportunity cost is zero!
Result: Failure
Example: A few months ago, I got the nerve to ask if I can one day come watch the chef cook at one of my favorite restaurants. I mentioned that I can help with any tasks and would gladly wash dishes. I left my number, and…surprise-surprise, no one called me back. Now, I am still in the same position as I was before asking, and I am only slightly embarrassed – not enough not to go back to the restaurant.
Scenario 2 – Moderate Case of Failure
Amount of effort exerted: Some
Assets (material, emotional, and other) at stake: Some self-worth, some time
Result: Failure
Example: I started submitting some of my writing to publications. This obviously involved writing and then (ugh!) filling out multiple forms and submitting my work. I also had to research the publications and submit to a variety of journals, ranging from some that would you can actually buy at a newsstand to some that are probably edited by a bunch of high school juniors in an English club. Slowly but surely, the rejections started flooding my mailbox. One rejection got spammed – even Yahoo! couldn’t imagine that I could possibly get so many “thank you, but no, thank you” emails.
Scenario 3 – Worst Case of Failure
Amount of effort exerted: Enormous
Assets (material, emotional, and other) at stake: Most of limited self confidence, too much time
Result: Failure
Example: Insert your own here
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Healthy Spirit, Healthy Body
Fitness has never been a big part of my life… Aside from joining my mother to “jazzercise” in Orlando, Fl at a civic center, where I stood right behind a petite forty-five year-old eager to highlight her little butt with one of those exercise suits that involve a thong, I haven’t done much exercise at all. I guess I can also count that season of Lacrosse my sophomore year of high school, which I joined exclusively to get an athletic activity on my college application. I did, by the way, have it on my college application, and of course, it impressed no one. I got to wear a cute skirt, cleats, and a sexy mouth guard – so it was totally worth it.
Recently, though, I started going to a local gym. After living in Brooklyn and then attending Baruch, the local Westchester gym seems like a genuine slice of Americana. The Pilates class consists of a few stay-at-home mothers, a few senior citizens, and a hand-full of men. Then men in the class are really special. The loudest and most energetic gentleman sports at least 30 extra pounds, shapely womanly hips and a unique walk (think third position, shifting weight toe to heel as he sways from side to side). He squeals like a pig during each exercise and either amuses or annoys everyone. I am, obviously, not amused. To top it off, he wears a Freedom Is Not Free t-shirt. One time he brought his 12-year-old daughter to class; I am not sure what she had done to deserve such trauma. Lately, his squealing has become especially obnoxious, so much so that my muttering “shut up” under my breath has evolved into a quiet whisper of “shut the fuck up.”
Moving on to my West African dance class. This one is great too. The audience here, as you might guess, is slightly different. Again, we are mostly dealing with stay-at-homes. These ladies, however, are what you may refer to as more “sophisticated.” Most are Manhattan transplants, who moved up north to breed. Think reusable bag carrying, organic coffee drinking, yoga-loving ladies, who pride themselves on having seen Life is Beautiful and talk about what a great book Eat, Pray, Love is. It is at West African dance that I meet a fellow Russian. Actually, two Russians! You can only imagine the excitement for the American contingent in class: an entire three Russians in the same room! Wow! That’s so great! Most contained themselves, and I couldn’t believe that we would actually finish the class without the usual: “Do you guys all know each other?” Finally, one busted out with the expected. Now we are forced into the familiar conversation. “Where are you from?” the lady asks across the room.
Me: Moscow . And you?
Lady: St. Petersburg . We don’t like you.
Me: …ummmm OK
Lady: How long have you been here?
…and so on.
Thankfully, there are no men in this class. Except for one. He comes there with his wife… It is really awkward to do my cardio African booty shaking exercises when he is there; I feel like I am peeping at what can be nothing other than an attempt at couples therapy.
Next stop: common exercise area with all the machines. I do my ridiculous speed walk on a treadmill next to an enthusiastic marathon runner, who keeps farting the entire 26 miles. I try to be polite and ignore the stench, but then remind myself that I, too, pay an arm and a leg for the opportunity to walk in place, and I deserve better! So I move across the floor (now I am facing the runner), far away enough to stare at him bravely. “You, sir, are disgusting!” – I burn at least 10 calories channeling my revulsion through my eyes.
My experiences in the locker room are quite unique too. After missing gym for a few days, I finally make an appearance. The atmosphere in the locker room is very congenial, I must say. One of the ladies (she is a real estate agent, so she has superior social skills) starts inquiring where I have been the last few days:
Lady: Where have you been?
Me: I’ve been sick and really tired in the mornings (it’s 6 AM for reference)
Lady: You have Lymes desease?
Me: Ummm… no
Lady: Are you sure? My husband had Lymes, he was tired all the time.
On this note, I invite you to share your own gym experiences. This blog has turned more into a newsletter, with people emailing me responses rather than engaging in anonymous discussion on the site. Gregory/Fan – perhaps, you can tell us about the fitness regimen of your Nordic countrymen. What do you do to stay tall and lean? Valerie – I’d love to hear your experiences with the rich and famous at Chelsea … Don’t disappoint me.
P.S. I have a few free passes to my gym. If anyone is interested in West African dance, this is your chance. Free Freedom is Not Free t-shirts for those who come.
Recently, though, I started going to a local gym. After living in Brooklyn and then attending Baruch, the local Westchester gym seems like a genuine slice of Americana. The Pilates class consists of a few stay-at-home mothers, a few senior citizens, and a hand-full of men. Then men in the class are really special. The loudest and most energetic gentleman sports at least 30 extra pounds, shapely womanly hips and a unique walk (think third position, shifting weight toe to heel as he sways from side to side). He squeals like a pig during each exercise and either amuses or annoys everyone. I am, obviously, not amused. To top it off, he wears a Freedom Is Not Free t-shirt. One time he brought his 12-year-old daughter to class; I am not sure what she had done to deserve such trauma. Lately, his squealing has become especially obnoxious, so much so that my muttering “shut up” under my breath has evolved into a quiet whisper of “shut the fuck up.”
Moving on to my West African dance class. This one is great too. The audience here, as you might guess, is slightly different. Again, we are mostly dealing with stay-at-homes. These ladies, however, are what you may refer to as more “sophisticated.” Most are Manhattan transplants, who moved up north to breed. Think reusable bag carrying, organic coffee drinking, yoga-loving ladies, who pride themselves on having seen Life is Beautiful and talk about what a great book Eat, Pray, Love is. It is at West African dance that I meet a fellow Russian. Actually, two Russians! You can only imagine the excitement for the American contingent in class: an entire three Russians in the same room! Wow! That’s so great! Most contained themselves, and I couldn’t believe that we would actually finish the class without the usual: “Do you guys all know each other?” Finally, one busted out with the expected. Now we are forced into the familiar conversation. “Where are you from?” the lady asks across the room.
Me: Moscow . And you?
Lady: St. Petersburg . We don’t like you.
Me: …ummmm OK
Lady: How long have you been here?
…and so on.
Thankfully, there are no men in this class. Except for one. He comes there with his wife… It is really awkward to do my cardio African booty shaking exercises when he is there; I feel like I am peeping at what can be nothing other than an attempt at couples therapy.
Next stop: common exercise area with all the machines. I do my ridiculous speed walk on a treadmill next to an enthusiastic marathon runner, who keeps farting the entire 26 miles. I try to be polite and ignore the stench, but then remind myself that I, too, pay an arm and a leg for the opportunity to walk in place, and I deserve better! So I move across the floor (now I am facing the runner), far away enough to stare at him bravely. “You, sir, are disgusting!” – I burn at least 10 calories channeling my revulsion through my eyes.
My experiences in the locker room are quite unique too. After missing gym for a few days, I finally make an appearance. The atmosphere in the locker room is very congenial, I must say. One of the ladies (she is a real estate agent, so she has superior social skills) starts inquiring where I have been the last few days:
Lady: Where have you been?
Me: I’ve been sick and really tired in the mornings (it’s 6 AM for reference)
Lady: You have Lymes desease?
Me: Ummm… no
Lady: Are you sure? My husband had Lymes, he was tired all the time.
On this note, I invite you to share your own gym experiences. This blog has turned more into a newsletter, with people emailing me responses rather than engaging in anonymous discussion on the site. Gregory/Fan – perhaps, you can tell us about the fitness regimen of your Nordic countrymen. What do you do to stay tall and lean? Valerie – I’d love to hear your experiences with the rich and famous at Chelsea … Don’t disappoint me.
P.S. I have a few free passes to my gym. If anyone is interested in West African dance, this is your chance. Free Freedom is Not Free t-shirts for those who come.
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