Worry Wart

I have had a little wart on my right thumb for . . . . oh, going on two years now. I was reticent to get rid of it because not only did touching it comfort me when I was anxious, but it was cute. Strangely, as attached as I became to this little guy, I never came up with a name for it. I think we had an understanding that naming it might make it harder to part ways when the inevitable day of reckoning came.

Said day came on Tuesday when I was rifling through my bathroom cabinet and came upon the Compound W I'd bought a while ago for the purpose of bidding my buddy adieu. But due to my roommate's tendency to rearrange things, the little wart's life was spared for those intervening weeks.

This past weekend I was engaging in lots of hand-holding, and started to feel the slightest bit self-conscious about my friend the wart, so I suppose that might have been part of what contributed to the decision to say bye bye. Like with most things, I am feeling disproportionately sentimental about ending this chapter of my life and am thinking back on all the things me and my wart have been through together over the course of these many months and years.

Then again, this last eighteen months or so have been kind of shitty. Maybe it was the wart that was putting a pox on my life? Maybe it is the wart's fault that I was a victim of identity theft, broke my shoulder, dated a turd-head and kept on getting UTI's?? Hmmm, the plot thickens.

It's been three days, and currently the wart has been reduced to a soggy white lump with little teeny holes in it that make me think of a honey comb. Gross/awesome. It remains to be seen whether its permanent departure will banish bad things from my life. Here's hoping.

Shalom my little wart. May you find peace and happiness in skin malady heaven.

Shitness

*Disclaimer: Mom and Dad, if you are reading this, stop.
So today, in an effort to rouse myself from the 'doldrums,' and also because I'm too broke to afford booze, I resorted to getting high on 'life,' specifically endorphins. Ugh, the word alone is enough to make me want to take a goddamned nap. But I figure if I already paid the $90 monthly fee for the damned membership, that money's as good as spent.

I donned my fucking gay workout clothes, which are essentially my pajamas plus sneakers, and got my fat ass to the stupid gym. Are you sensing the undercurrent of rage in this post? Well congratufuckinglations! You're a genius.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. So there I am at the gym, surrounded by hateful healthmongers who are very nearly sweating on me. I plug in my earphones and switch my tv to the Food Network so that I can watch food while I burn lard off my body. The volume isn't working. This is a bad sign. I give up on hearing Giada DiLaurentiis wax on about stuffed shells -- she's got an annoying-ass voice anyhow, how she's always saying everything's so 'crisp' and 'crunchy' -- and start in on my Fergie workout.

Half an hour later, I'm schvitzing like a chazer. I jump off and do my stretches, and wait for the eighty-five-pound ano who's thought to bring her infant child to the gym with her to finish up on the leg-lifty thing. She's too busy making kissy faces at the kid and being all "I HAVE to work off this baby weight!" So I give up and bounce. I am still in a foul mood, perhaps because in my fruitless effort to avoid sweating, I've neglected to get my heart rate up enough to get the little endorphin fuckers flowing. So I decide to treat myself to a shot of wheatgrass, which sometimes has the effect of coke if you drink it on any empty stomach. I'm just coming out of the health food store, having choked down the vile, bilous liquor, when I run LITERALLY right in to my friendly neighborhood drug dealer. Ah, cruel irony! Just when I am beginning to feel all healthy and virtuous, the universe is there to remind me that I'm nothing of the sort.

After some idle chit-chat, I make it home and immediately start to feel the urge to purge. I am not sure if my body is in revolt from the unusually high energy expenditure or simply pissed off I made it drink the equivalent of 2 pounds of leafy green vegetables. Either way, I'm feeling distinctly urpy, and decide that the only real way to remedy the sitch is to bury my face in a plate of seasoned waffle fries, washed down with a 20 oz. coca cola classic. Take that, fitness.

So in sum, my ill-advised attempt to be healthy has, at every turn, been met with reminders of why I'm not cut out for that sort of lifestyle. To paraphrase Fran Lebowitz, I'm better off just chain-smoking and plotting revenge.

GROOOOOSSSS

It's just past noon and already today is shaping up to be one of the all-time record holders in terms of yuckiness. Specifically, sweating. Let me share my feelings with you on this topic: I HATE IT. I HATE SWEATING more than just about everything in the world. Yes, more than rosemary, yippee dogs, close talkers, anorexics, fabric stores and fascists. Well maybe not more than fascists, but it's neck and neck.

The dumb thing is it's not really even that effing hot out. It's merely thick and humid and pea soup-ish. I happened to be wearing my spectacles today and kept on having to remove them in order to wipe off the condensation on the lenses. And have I mentioned my OCD when it comes to facial sweating? I rarely if ever leave home without a supply of facial moist towelettes. I am aware that this makes me something of a freak and that for someone who is currently in financial dire straits, it does not follow that I ought to be spending five to seven dollars biweekly on the fancy, sensitive-skin variety of towelette. But whatever, eff you.

On this particular day of days, I was on my way to see Dr. X* for an annual physical and was running late, so I was unable to go through the normal ritual of making sure I had packed at least two towelettes in addition to my various lip balms, sunglasses, reading material, keys, wallet and cetera. WHAT A DAY TO FORGO THE TOWELETTE CHECK! I was dripping, I tell you! What started as a girlish glow, a glisten even, became a full-fledged schvitz bonanza. It was unpleasant.

In case you're worried about my health, Dr. X seems to think all systems are go, except for the fact that I smoke a little -- JUST A LITTLE!! -- and abhor exercise. I freely admitted this to the doc, because there's really no point in lying to him, even though I want him to love me forever. (See asterisk.) This admonition regarding cigz and exercise could very well have categorized every single doctor's visit since I was twelve, being that I have historically abhorred exercise (even when I was going through my adolescent quasi-ano phase) and have being puffing the fags since '91. I made sure to tell the doc that I DO do all my own walking, which I thought ought to count for something. I mentioned my recent sleep trouble, which hasn't been all that troublesome what with my blessed Ambien by my side, and he retorted with that same "exercise would help that" line. Pah, I said. Also, I don't like sweating. Really. Truly. Don't.

Are you sensing a theme here?

By the time I had trekked up to Union Square, having by then consumed two large coffees -- the equivalent of roughly six espresso shots (more on this later) -- I was actually seeing little speckles of sweat form on my chest like some lady with menopause or a fat guy with high blood pressure. No. NO. MOIST TOWELETTES WHERE ARE YOU WHEN I NEED YOU?? If I'd been in a really OCD mood, I'd have stopped at the nearest Wal-Greens to purchase my Oil of Olay babies, but I was trying extra hard to be abstemious and plus I was on a mission: to visit Barnes and Noble (or Narns and Bobble as I like to call it -- aren't I silly?? But seriously it sounds way better that way) to purchase just about every magazine ever published. For research. RESEARCH I TELL YOU!

Ugh. I was so sweaty that even in the oppressive air conditioning of B&N I couldn't regain my cool. I was actually forced to mob my brow with my just-laundered but still unsatisfactorily sanitary cardigan, which then made me paranoid that I would have little pieces of brown lint all over my face and people would think I had gotten in a poo fight with a Bonobo monkey.

After buying the entire fucking magazine section, I left with every intention of retreating to my little apartment with my little air conditioner and my stack o' mags.

BUT ALAS. As I exited I realized that I was face to face with the Union Square Market, and since I've been trying to force myself to eat fruits and vegetables more, I could not very well pass up the opportunity to peruse and purchase some of the agrarian bounty of the season. Mind you I was still sweating but making a ferocious effort to tell myself I was not concerned about the ocean of perspiration gathering in the little ditches below my specs.

Well in case you care, I bought some cherries. And some cheese. Not cheez. Cheese. So much for the leafy greens I aspired to. By the time I'd gotten my quarter-pound of raw milk havarti I was so thoroughly wet (get your mind out of the gutter!) that I couldn't bring myself to stop by the heirloom tomato stand, let alone peruse the purslaine (sic). I walked quickly towards the subway, praying that the L train would not require a long wait and that I'd soon be heading towards my marginally cool apartment where I could disrobe and aim the AC directly at my little face.

No such luck. A full ten minutes of near-hysteria ensued. I resorted to removing my glasses entirely in order to reap the full effects of the woefully weak fans, which made me even more disoriented. Those ten minutes were the grossest in recent memory.

For those of you who are wondering, I made it home in one piece. I am typing this in the comfort of my cute, cool, orange-blossom scented room. I do not plan on leaving until the disgusting humidity outside lifts. Or until I feel like getting drunk. Whichever comes first.


*Dr. X is my physician and crush object. He is sexually ambiguous enough to not make me nervous when he palpates my boobs, but is big and burly and strong and has a kind face and I daydream about hugging him. Ah, Dr. X -- I gladly put my life in your hands!