I get irrationally attached to inanimate objects.

When I go to the gym, I tend to use the same elliptical every day. It’s against a wall, not a railing, so I don’t feel like I’m going to fall backwards, not right under a light so it’s not too bright, and not too close to an air vent so my hair doesn’t blow across my face and tickle my forehead. It’s also not too close to the elevator doors because I get startled whenever they open. In short, it is perfect.

Since I usually go to the gym at the same time every day, I manage to get on “my” elliptical, since the same people are there every day and do the same thing. But sometime, there will be someone on my perfect machine. And then I pout.

Of course since I’m a functional adult, I hop right on any one of the dozen or so other ellipticals the gym offers. But I want that one. I feel weird anywhere else, and as a creature of habit, I never feel like my workout is quite up to (my admittedly low) par on a different machine.

Anyone else feel that way?


This is what happens when your best friend is getting married.

And when you best friend lives far away and is shopping for a wedding dress, and the two of you spend hours sending each other links to various dresses online in the same conversation you’ve been discussing terrorists.

This is what Etsy thinks I need to shop for.


Like for reals. It’s in my Google search history too. Targetted ads are getting interesting.

Don’t Talk to Me at the Gym.

I am a grumpy person. More so when it comes to doing things I don’t like to do, like dragging my butt to the gym for an hour. But I do it, because I want to get healthy, and that entails going to the gym on top of eating right.

Now, this gym is mostly empty when I go in the middle of the morning, save for the weightlifters that are on the first level, and the stick-thin suburban football moms who occasionally wander in to walk on the treadmills. I don’t mind them. They’re way on the other side of the cardio deck, and I don’t even have to look at them. The ellipticals are along the railing, with four of them against a wall. I take the very last one against the wall, because I get startled whenever the elevator opens and I feel too exposed when I’m not on the wall. I also get irrationally upset when someone else takes that elliptical, because I feel weird on any other machine. Does anyone else get attached to a particular machine at the gym? Let me know in the comments. When I go to the gym, I get on my elliptical, put in my headphones, and space out for an hour.

Not yesterday. No, not at all.

Yesterday, there was this woman. When I got to the elliptical, she was on the other end of the cardio deck, rocking out to her music on one of those machines that looks like the love child of an elliptical and a stair climber. She looked like she was living in one of those dancing-on-gym-equipment videos, and also a little like a nanny I had during middle school, who was a fire engine red haired ball of crazy.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her moving closer to me. She went from her stepper to a treadmill, then five minutes later, hopped right onto the elliptical next to me, and started talking. The horror. She reached out and tapped on my sweaty elbow, and like a damn fool I took out an earbud. She then proceeded to talk my ear off.

I learned that she recently started going to this gym, she originally went to the one across town but this one was just so much more convenient for her, and the locker room was just so much tidier and my word there are just so many young people at this gym, everyone at her previous gym seemed closer to her age and my goodness the gym fees are ridiculous here and her son who lives in California pays more for his gym but that’s California so what do you expect everything is so expensive there and apparently they are in a drought but so is everyone the world is just heating up and global warming and we just have to do our part to save the environment did you watch Blackfish that was such a good documentary but how bad can SeaWorld actually be I mean it’s just a zoo for water creatures and her husband has had an aquarium for so long does that make him a bad person and-

I put my earbud back in.

She kept talking.

I turned up the volume and went faster on the elliptical.

She kept talking.

I finished on the elliptical, got off, and went to the farthest away treadmill.

She kept talking.

Am I just a super grumpy person? I see people who come to the gym in pairs, and just chat to each other while they do their workout. I don’t see how they can manage that. I feel like if you’re able to carry on a normal conversation without sounding the least bit like you’re dying, you’re not going fast enough. I know I’m not crazy on that point, Desiree agrees with me, and she’s just as sane as I am.

Okay maybe I’m a little crazy.

But still.

All the more reason to not talk to me at the gym.

Normal Childhood Memories #3

A quick background for this one: in India, instead of wedding rings, many women wear a necklace called a mangalsutra, which signifies they’re married. It can be super elaborate or fairly simple,single or multistranded, depending on personal tastes.

So when I was around three, I went to India with my parents, and we were visiting my dad’s sister, my atya. He mother in law was visiting too. So while I was in the city with my grandma and my aunts, who all wore a single stranded mangalsutra, my three year old logic decided that one strand=one husband.Then I saw my aunt’s mother in law wearing a mangalsutra with five strands.

The gears started turning in my little head. In my piercing, high pitched little voice, I asked her, “Do you have FIVE husbands?!” Thankfully she was in a good mood that day and laughed, calling the whole family over to share what this impertinent little girl had just shrieked out.

So no, five strands did not mean she had five husbands.

#ThrowbackThursday…on Monday.

I know it’s not Thursday, don’t worry about my mental state any more than you usually do. 

I just got a bunch of Facebook notifications, because my mother shared this picture of me and all her friends were liking it:


and I figured I would show you guys. 

I had it captioned “#tbt to those three seconds I considered med school” because since both my parents are doctors, I constantly get asked “So, are you going to be a doctor like your mom and dad?” to which I eloquently respond, “lol nope.” 

Blood and guts squick me out. I can’t do it. Even when we dissected frogs and earth worms in seventh grade science class I would pair up with a guy and trick him into doing the dirty work while I perched on my stool and hid behind my notebook. In elementary school I fell off my bike, scraped my hand up, and vomited at the sight of my skin flapping around. Three months ago I had to have a skin biopsy and turned “a terrifying shade of pale” when the doctor put the needle in, even after he numbed the area.

So no, I am not going to be a doctor like my mom and dad, thank you very much.

But let’s all take a moment and appreciate what a cute kid I was, which is truly the spirit behind #ThrowbackThursday.

Elvis has fallen off the wall.

My dad greatly enjoys wall art. We spent fourteen hours on Saturday hanging up art pieces and family pictures with a rough combination of nails, picture hooks, and Command strips. One such picture was a large portrait of a tiger, and according to dad, the name of the tiger in the picture is Elvis. Okay. So we stuck four sets of special picture hanging strips to the back of Elvis’s canvas, and stuck him to the wall, holding him there for a minute just like the box said. And there he sat in his stripey glory. 

Until this morning. 

I was in the kitchen refilling my water bottle, and I saw my cat napping peacefully on the couch, right under Elvis, and I went to find my phone to take a picture to send to my dad. In the second I was looking, Elvis pulled off the wall and came crashing down, terrifying my poor cat. 

The cat jumped a foot or two straight up, and launched himself away from the noise, scrambling over the couch and endtable as fast as he could, knocking coasters and remotes in his wake. He finally paused in the middle of the kitchen, low to the ground, twitching his tail to assess this threat. Seeing nothing but me holding a water bottle, he sat up and commenced licking his ass, with all the grace and dignity afforded to the act of licking one’s own ass. 

Thunderstorms make my cats love me.

It’s pouring outside. House-shaking thunder, lightning, the whole bit. Just a little scene setting for y’all (I lived in Oklahoma, I’m allowed to say y’all). 

My dad’s cat is normally an evil psychopath with a vendetta against anyone that isn’t dad, so our relationship is just me setting down cat food and her swatting at me to walk away before she eats the cat food. She is five pounds of anger and fur.

At the first crack of thunder, the furry demon snapped out of her slumber (where she was plotting my demise, no doubt) and scurried into the study where I was, my 14lb behemoth of a cat scampering after her. My cat demanded to be held and cuddled, while dad’s cat perched on the desk, stealing furtive glances at me to make sure everything was okay without revealing how terrified she was. 

Because creatures of fire and brimstone are totally not afraid of thunderstorms. Duh. 

Conversations with my best friends: new military training tactics.

If you’ve read this post, you know who I’m talking about. For those of you too lazy to go read it (seriously, it’s like three short paragraphs and hella funny), the basic run down is that my friend Desiree and I both studied International Security and have a general contingency plan in place in the event that one of us (most likely her) gets kidnapped by terrorists. So now you know where we’re coming from and how most of our conversations go. 

This one started when I remembered it was graduation weekend at my university, so I texted her to say I was proud of her and that  wished I could be there.

Her: You and [Boyfriend] should have road tripped!

(note: her boyfriend lives on the east coast and would have to detour to Ohio to get me before going to Oklahoma)

Me: A road trip with me would prepare [Boyfriend] for an AlQ interrogation.

(He’s military)

Her: Haha he’d be ready for anything!

(See how she’s not concerned with the fact that I may take sandpaper and saltwater to her boyfriend? Best friend right there.)

Me: THAT’S how we should train the military. Send them on a road trip with their significant other’s best friend.

Her: And see if they make it out alive! Spec ops here they come!

(She’s totally on board with my plan. Someone call the guys in charge.)

Because what is more terrifying than meeting your significant other’s best friend? You know that once you’re out of earshot the hammer will come down. The fate of your relationship may hinge on that impression you make on that five-foot-two girl your girlfriend went to college with. Probably not, but let’s be real. The second you screw up, the best friend will get a text about it and will send eye daggers in your general direction. Real daggers if you’re especially unlucky. 

And Des, happy graduation. I know you’re reading this because I texted you the link. I’m so proud of you, and so glad you burst into my dorm fall semester of freshman year and camped out on my floor when you didn’t understand the Arabic homework. And when you dragged me and half the floor out of the study room because you wanted to go to Tea Cafe. And drove two days to get to Disney World to spend spring break with me. ❤ 

Also, happy birthday.