and on this, most depressing day, I have in fact learned the most DEPRESSING thing EVER.
At the gym this evening as I was walking uphill at a rapid pace in the back row of the treadmills (to have precisely 6 rows of tighter booties than mine for inspiration) I was working out just in time for a VH1 guilty pleasure of mine, The Fabulous Life Of (insert whomever). Usually this show doesn't even outrage me anymore, because I read blogs. I see magazines. I know that people who can afford a Prada dress (which is a life goal of mine) can afford a hundred Prada dresses, and pay a nice lady to cook them meals with no calories and march them all around Hollywood to keep them skinny. I am nonplussed by britney spears' fortune equaling 400 Corvettes with personalized "federline" rims on them and having a choice of 7 driveways to park them in while those respective houses fill up with diapers, bling, and cheeto bags. I get it. whatevs.
Today, I learned, on this particular episode, which just so happened to be The Fabulous Life Of Kelly Ripa, that she makes (ahem) as much money in one hour in her "Live! With Regis and Kelly" gig than I do PER YEAR. I'm sure, in TV-land, that's a mere pittance when you think that Linda Evangelista didn't get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day in the late 90's. In the post-holidays/new year/restaurant week financial slump I am in, this was my ruin. For each working day of the 52 weeks in a year, Kelly Ripa gets to coquettishly berate Regis and look skinny. If I were that skinny, I could work ONE DAY A YEAR AND GET BY. And to think! She has other TV engagements, as well as pantene pro-v commercials and that short-lived stint doing commercials for that 7-up-that's-trying-not-to-be-soda-but-some-sort-of-health business.
JEEEBUS. This was the wrong place to let VH1 hit me where it hurt. I literally had to stop the treadmill and catch my breath while all the other uber-fabulous gayer-than-thou clientele at Results were wondering if that girl in the off the shoulder t-shirt CLEARLY IN THE BACK ROW WHERE SHE BELONGED suddenly realized that it wasn't 1984.
Maybe their egos were secretly curious if it was one of the 30 asses in in the 6 rows of wiggling that caused the state of profound shock. There are some tight asses at that gym. I look at them. sometimes, there's a sigh involved. usually, i let it go. Soon, I shall wiggle amongst them! Learn their language and decipher their rituals! live among them and report back about the plastics!
in other news, fibrous news, I have selected a pattern for the knitting Olympics of nerd fibrous fame. google it, I swear. It's nuts. From Midwestern stay-at-home-moms to the tattooed hipsters who work at the black cat, it's go time for preparation for the nerdiness. The pattern is from my trusty copy of Stitch 'n' Bitch, which i often flip through but never draw REAL inspiration from. Listen to me, like my dabbling in i-pod cozies is something that warrants INSPIRATION.