Full Moon

Last Friday, I went over to a friend's place in the South End for drinks and several rounds of Apples to Apples (an incredible game- play it at once if you haven’t already). We eventually headed out for the evening, and as we were walking toward the car, a dog- it appeared to be some breed of Pointer- came trotting towards us. The dog was clad in a beige cashmere sweater and leather collar, but sported no tags, leash, or owner. As I’d had my fill of exchanges with unfamiliar creatures in the South End, I was content to just keep moving. But my friend Anna felt concern for the homeless-albeit handsomely dressed- hound. She adoringly removed the scarf from her neck and wrapped it around the dog’s. Just as she did so, he began inching away, and then took off down the block. Once he’d reached a safe distance, he stopped to peer back at us. I half expected him to pull out a roll of Mentos and for an overhead voice to declare it the freshmaker, but he simply wagged his tail and continued on. I imagine he’d pulled a similar stunt earlier that day, hence the cashmere. I only hope that whoever it was that had offered up their sweater to the manipulative mutt wasn’t the same person whose coat we unintentionally stole later that evening. After giving up hope on the dog ever returning, we ventured over to Cambridge. One of the perks of living in a college town is the house parties; the downside is that cops always arrive to break them up. I’d almost forgotten this when three of them showed up and started barking orders at everyone. After a series of not-so-pleasant police encounters (one involving a dumpster, two involving taxi drivers, and yet another, an impromptu beach party), I’ve basically been conditioned to run whenever I see anyone in uniform. And that’s exactly what I did. I had enough sense to grab my coat first; not enough, however, to let anyone I was with know that I was bolting. I ran all the way home and passed out on impact. The next morning, I woke up to a slew of missed calls and texts inquiring about where the hell I’d gone. And in the mix was one painfully sweet message from Anna that read, "don't worry, we have your coat." As I stared guiltily at my actual coat, slumped over the side of my desk, I remembered that it had started snowing while I was running home. So thanks to my drink-n-ditch behavior, some poor girl will likely end up with strep throat. At least I can rest at ease knowing that somewhere on the other side of town, a clever canine won't.

Rebellion.

I got a gym membership last Monday. And after reaching my threshold of sloth this past weekend, I decided to use it. HealthWorks came highly recommended to me- it's a women’s only gym, which is supposed to take away the pressure. Uh huh, and being surrounded by perfectly toned twentysomethings really helps to do that. I would have been better of joining Gold’s or some other pumphouse- at least there’s no point of comparision. Too late to back out, I hopped on a treadmill. Just as I started to get into it I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“I was in line for this machine.”

I looked around and saw at least 7 eligible treadmills. “Ok. What’s wrong with that one?” I pointed at the one directly to my right. I mean, come on. “I’m signed up for THAT one.” She pointed right back at mine. I now understand why people resort to violence. If I’d had a weapon in my possession at that moment, there’s no telling what I might have done to this bitch. I stopped the machine and stormed over to the trainer’s office. I grudgingly asked how I could sign up for a treadmill, and she started to go through her spiel of the various machines that the club had to offer.

“I don’t care, I just want to get back on a treadmill. Someone kicked me off of the one I was using.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Yea, you usually need to sign up.”

“Uh huh.” I had to stare up at the ceiling to keep tears from rolling down my cheeks. “Why couldn’t she have just used any other treadmill?”

“She could’ve.”

As I was visibly distraught, she went ahead and signed me up for 30 minutes, the maximum time allowed on the weekends. I got on the machine, and as it started moving faster and faster, the tears came flowing down. By the time the machine reached full speed I was sobbing. I cried for 11 minutes, and ran for 65. Because screw it. By the time I got off I couldn’t feel my legs, but I’d least I’d showed them. Though I sincerely doubt anyone was watching.