… Sunday, bloody fecking reading got a cold Sunday … in the TWILIGHT ZONE …

(It’s Sunday … and I’m going to spend the day reading – I think – yesterday was very TWILIGHT ZONE-y – hoping today is a bit clearer – anyway – here I am – sneezing and going …)

No, it's NOT me reading: It's Alexander Skarsgard - and since he's going to play the character based on me from my novel when the film is made - seemed the thing to do.

No, it’s NOT me reading: It’s Alexander Skarsgard – and since he’s going to play the character based on me from my novel when the film is made – seemed the thing to do.

This cold is a tricky thing – which only further supports my theory that it was given me by one of these cats. I thought I had almost knocked it out after just one day and was feeling all proud and “yay for healthy eating and obsessive gymming” about myself. I went out yesterday afternoon to visit my sister and then to the gym and it was as if I had travelled (LANGUAGE CURMUDGEON ASIDE: Listen Spell-Check, I REFUSE to spell “travelled” or “travelling” with ONE L – I was raised by nuns, and it requires TWO L’s – SO STOP NAGGING ME!) into the TWILIGHT ZONE.

The gym. It was 5p.m. on the officially final holiday Saturday of the summer, so I suppose I oughtn’t to have been surprised that the parking lot – usually crowded with hundreds of cars – was a stretch of prettily painted, rolling grid, almost empty of cars. It was like the TWILIGHT ZONE. Almost deserted. And inside too: There were less than ten people in the gym; the free weight section (into which I am unqualified to walk, as my neck and head are not the same width) was empty save for one lone fellow. Apparently, the act of pumping yourself into a testosterone-laden landscape of bulges and bursting flesh gets you very busy on holiday weekends as they were all somewhere out and about. But, I can’t imagine picnicking or frolicking with them; they can’t possibly have carbs, and there are no mirrors out of doors into which they can longingly, lovingly gaze at themselves after each grunting rep-set.

Oh well, not for me to worry. I was left with others like me; by which I mean, we who aspire to be able to – just once in our lives – undress with the lights on; we are people of shapes and sizes and ages and cohorts more likely to be featured in medical texts as examples of illness and decline as opposed to the fashion and exercise mag types with which the gym is all too often crowded.

I spent forty-five minutes on the bike, then circuited a few machines, then hit the treadmill, and then the sauna – by which point I was in a state of total exhaustion. The damned cold had returned with a vengeance. So, while in the sauna, when a youngish, not unattractive fellow came in and began to speak to me, I was polite, but not terribly engaged – because I was fighting nausea: NOT FROM HIM, from the fatigue. So, I completely missed the fact that he was trying to start something until he said, “Okay, well, if you’d rather sleep … fine.” And sort of stormed out.

Well, frankly, yes, I would rather have slept at that point – which, given my whining about my lack of dating prospects, PROVES the cold was bad – because rather than be annoyed with myself for having chased away a youngish man who didn’t look bad in a towel who had approached me when I was wearing only a towel –

(HORRIBLE LONG DISCURSIVE ASIDE -which – not to brag – is the second time in a week – I mean, I don’t know if these are just desperate men who also don’t wear their glasses in the sauna and so can’t see what I really look like – or, any port in a storm or what – but I haven’t EVER in my ENTIRE life been approached like this when there wasn’t a danger of the lights about to come on under a mirror ball and everyone around me a drunken fool – I mean – I LOOK in the mirror every so often and it is NOT PRETTY so what the fuck – OH NO – they have a thing for old me? A Daddy complex? UGH – SORRY for the breakdown – maybe I have a fever?)

-and so already taken us past hurdle of my terror number one over which I must hurtle – I was more concerned with whether or not my legs would have the strength to carry me to my car and home.

But, again, TWILIGHT ZONE. I did get to the car. I did get home. (CONFESSION: I STOPPED AT THE WINE STORE FIRST – I KNOW I KNOW BUT … IT’S A HOLIDAY) I walked in the house where I am pet/house sitting and – mother of all that is snot-filled unholy – someone had peed on the rug. I wanted – naturally – to blame a cat – but, alas, it was rather a large-ish spot for a feline, and – well, Gwennie was looking awfully guilty. Cleaned it up. Took off my pants. Poured a glass of wine. Hit the couch. And binge watched this season of “True Blood” (I don’t have HBO at home – so I depend on the kindness of house/pet sitting clients) with which I am not awfully impressed except – now, in addition to my already well-developed obsession with Ryan Kwanten‘s ass, and my determination that Alexander Skarsgard should play the lead-role when my novel is made into a film – I have fallen deeply, passionately and happily-ever-after in love with Robert Kazinsky, who plays the fairy-vampire Warlow. And the dream scene between Kwanten and Kazinsky – well, let’s just say – I wish he’d approach me in a sauna. WATCH THIS:

That’s Kwanten’s character, Jason, in his own TWILIGHT ZONE. Which, speaking of, why is it that when I got up this morning and checked my Twitter feed the posts went from “1 hr” ago to “17 hrs ago”? What? Did I somehow LOSE 16 hours somewhere? Did the whole gym and sauna and dog pee on the rug thing NOT happen? Am I not really here?

I can’t think about it right now. Too busy blowing my damn nose (come on oil of oregano and vitamin c – get working) and the Sunday New York Times is calling. Happy Sunday. Happy Holiday weekend.

Hope I can convince myself to skip the gym today.

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