This week has truly been a failure of adulting.
A week ago I decided to actually pay real money to a real gym (I have never done this before in my life) and take exercise classes in an attempt to look less like an amorphous blob and more like something that has, I don’t know, curves? A general shape? I’ve so far taken three intense classes in one week and managed to both gain weight and discover that my arms are weaker than noodles. (The exercise coach kept demanding the girls use a minimum of 15 pound weights, meanwhile I’m huddled in the corner barely lifting my measly 8 pounder wishing it was a quarter pounder, if you know what I mean). Not only that, I’m so sore it hurts to walk downstairs, upstairs, and on level surfaces.
These exercise classes have ruined my life in more ways than one. After the second class, I changed into my work clothes and realized I forgot to bring clean underwear. I was forced to wear sweat-soaked, olfactory-sense-killing, weirdly stained underwear the rest of the day. (The day went by without anyone mentioning the smell or fainting in my presence, which I considered a victory). When I got home, I discovered that the deodorant I had thrown in my backseat after working out had melted in the extreme heat and left a large stain on the upholstery of my car. My 6-month-old leased car. My 6-month-old leased car that my dad helped pay for. The same dad who is coming to visit me in a week and who will ride in my car and inevitably find the stain as parents are wont to do and will be forever disappointed. I have already cried in the car, begging the stain to go away and feeling in general like a stain on planet Earth. My boyfriend (bless his heart) has since hired a car cleaner who specifically deals with stains that will disappoint your parents — the guy set to work this morning and is still trying to scrub the stain out as I type this. He is baffled by the tenacity of the stain and is going to come back on Tuesday with new and stronger chemicals. It is assumed to be a demon stain of an unknown variety.
To top it off, we have a high school intern at work who I keep trying to impart wisdom on, hoping she won’t notice the way I’m hobbling around from being too sore, or the fact that my underwear smells like I shit in it and then fermented it and then wore it for a week straight, or the fact that I have a weird stain in my backseat. We were picking up lunch the other day and I was doing my civic duty of teaching her how much wiser I am because I have lived seven more years than her, when she points out that a meter maid is giving me a ticket TWO MINUTES after the meter expired. As I tried to fight it, he shrugged and said, “Once I start writing the ticket, I can’t stop.” The intern gave me a look that said, “If I’m doing this much better than you and I’m only in high school, I’m gonna be a millionaire by your age.” Too right, intern. Too right.