All I do is bitch, bitch, bitch

Wednesday, Nov. 29, 2006, 11:17 p.m.

When it is 7:30 a.m. and your legs already feel as though they are going to go on strike from your body due to intense overworking and exhaustion, it is a sign that a) you are suffering from an unfortunately debilitating disease, or b) you just finished "doing stairs."

I realize, of course, that "doing stairs" sounds much more like some kind of fun, kinky experiment than the horrifying descent into Hell that it actually is. Thus, I will clarify.

One of my sergeants is a sadistic, uber-fit man-bot. He looks at a perfectly functional gym containing an equally functional Stairmaster, and thinks, "Nah." Then he turns his head slightly to the right and looks at an ancient, overheated four-story building containing -- you guessed it -- four flights of stairs, and thinks, "This is how I will make them suffer."

About once a week, he leads our small group over to this building, stands at the foot of the stairs, and directs us: "Follow me."

The next thirty to forty minutes generally include wheezing, gasping, audible prayers for death to come quickly, and complete muscle failure.

We run up three flights to the top floor. Then we run down the long hallway to the other staircase. Then we run down four flights to the basement. Then down the hall. Then up four flights. Then we do lunges down the hall. Down the stairs. Sprint. Up the stairs. Backward lunges. Halfway down the stairs. Calf-raises. REPEAT. For FORTY fucking MINUTES.

After we finish, those of us who have not yet vomited, passed out, fallen down the stairs or died gather together once again. We stretch. And approximately twelve hours later, we begin to seriously consider amputation. At least, that's what we do if we are me.

And at this moment, we are definitely me.

I've read all of your comments on yesterday's entry, and I've surmised that nobody here thinks Adulthood happens anywhere near the age of twenty-seven. That is fantastic, because whenever large numbers of people agree on something, it eventually becomes true. I am all for the concept of middle-agedness kicking in somewhere around eighty-five or so, as I'm assuming most of my friends will all be too senile or stoned on their "glaucoma medicine" to join me in reckless frivolities by then anyway. It's a comfort to know that if I do actually get out of the Army in three years, I will not be at a loss for people to go fart around with until I run out of money and have to find something productive to do.

Speaking of productivity (or, if you want to nitpick, reproductivity), I had to cover a post-wide baby shower recently for the newspaper, and it was probably the best method of birth control I have ever witnessed.

Womenz: sometimes, if you are an uneducated, pampered, demanding bitch, it is okay for you to stop having fucking babies already.

I interviewed four (out of the four KADRILLION or so in attendance) pregnant women at this event within thirty minutes (because that's as long as I could handle being there), and not ONE of them was capable of forming a complete sentence.

Me: "So, what do you think of the baby shower?"

Them: "Nice."

Me: "Care to elaborate?"

Them: "Ummmm. I don't know. It's good."

My Brain: "Pop."

Seriously, I love babies as much as the next twenty-something female, but there comes a point when, if you are a greedy, illiterate jackass, you just have to say, "You know? I think I maybe should not reproduce. Anymore."

And here is where I am going to say no more on this subject, because I am not really down with becoming a Hostility Magnet at the moment.

See you soon, if I am not too busy hacking off my legs to increase my mobility.

P.S. Thank you for all the movie suggestions! I will be checking them out, as Shakespeare says, anon.