The Surprising Comfort of Spandex

In my quest to become a better human being, I've taken up cycling. Real cycling. Like streamlined helmets, reflective jerseys, shoes that clip into pedals, you're jealous because I can pedal faster than you can drive cycling. That's right.

And yes, I am the proud owner of three pairs of Spandex biking shorts.

I can distinctly remember when I was in junior high (a time when Spandex as a part of everyday outfits was, unfortunately, still relatively popular...of course, I was wearing stonewashed overall shorts and sporting a chili-bowl haircut, so I can't really talk) taking an oath with my closest friends...a geeky band/computer nerd that always wore flannel shirts and the six foot tall, 280 lb. girl that we hung out with for protection. We swore that we would never own a single scrap of Spandex. Ever. In our eyes, peoples' troubles could all be traced back to the fateful day they chose to wear the mercilessly tight material.

Alas, I have broken the oath. This is not a good thing on all levels, as my ass is, well...large. I mean, I have hurt people (badly) just by turning around without checking my blind spot. So, wrapping it in Spandex and just putting it out there is somewhat equivalent to handing a box of explosives to the Joker: death and mayhem abound.

Despite the danger, I have grown quite comfortable in my bike shorts. I feel so aerodynamic. And super hero-like. And when I pass other cyclists I know that even though I'm not a real cyclist, I sure as hell look like one. Well, kind of.

Right now, I am riding only for exercise. I would love to take up cycling as my main form of transportation to grocery stores and work and the like, but with the weather as it is (104 degrees yesterday), I end up at every destination with a bright red face, wet clothes, and in desperate need of a shower. Last time I checked, Tom Thumb wasn't offering hose-offs at the front door (which is a shame, really). When the heat passes, however, I'm ready to break out my Spandex all over this great city. They'll never know what hit them.

Dark Knighty Night

I went to see "The Dark Knight" last night, simply because it has been touted as one of the best "Batman" films ever made. I went by myself, as all of my movie buddies are in far away places or have already seen it. I have been to movies by myself before, and most of them felt more than a little awkward, because, even though they're not, it seems like everyone in the theater is looking at you and whispering, trying to figure out why you, poor thing, are at the movies by yourself: Did she get stood up? No. Did she show up for the wrong showtime? Nope. Did her movie buddy really want to see "Mamma Mia!" and she just couldn't handle Pearce Brosnan singing so they decided to go separate ways? Well.... Did she for some reason cast aside all social norms and decide to come to the movie by herself just for the hell of it? Why would someone do that? Ummm....

This one was not awkward at all, though, due the sheer number of people that were packed into the theater excitedly talking about Heath Ledger and Maggie Gyllenhaal and whatnot. It's kind of like at a Star Wars premiere; when you show up, you instantly have so much in common with the other movie-goers, and nothing can break that bond (not that I've ever been to a Star Wars premiere). I got there early, got a good seat, and through the miracle of the iPhone read about the English cricket team getting crushed by South Africa while I waited for the magic to begin.

About four minutes into the previews (which lasted 17 minutes...no lie) a very large man tapped on my shoulder and asked if the two empty seats next to me were taken. I replied that they were all his, and he and his wife quickly took them. Resting atop the man's gigantic arms was a small child, a little less than a year old. I tried to suppress a groan. Sitting next to a kid in most any other situation would be fine, but I had just dropped nine freaking dollars on this piece of supposed cinematic greatness, and I was determined to enjoy it. And let's face it, you can't really get sucked into the Joker blowing people up when there is a tot cooing in your ear. That's right: cooing. If I was a 10-month old child and my parents brought me to the 9:15 p.m. showing of "The Dark Knight," not only would I have clown nightmares for the rest of my life, I'd be just a little upset.

And he was. The cooing stopped pretty quickly, and turned into more of a gurgling, rapid breathing, pre-crying noise. Like he was warming up for the big one. Those of you that know me well know that small children freak me out. Especially crying ones. This wasn't looking good. Luckily, seeing that I had pressed myself to the farthest edge of the seat, with the majority of my body spilling out into the aisles (which is a fire hazard--I learned that last night from a very nice usher ) the father sensed my discomfort and took the kid outside. The mother followed and I thought they had abandoned all hope of enjoying the movie. The father soon returned though (without the wife or the kid), and took his seat next to me. Apparently, the other two didn't want to see the last hour and a half of the movie.

And then, right at the climax, the Joker is running around like a madman carrying out all sorts of violent criminal mischief, and we're all on the edge of our seats, anxiously awaiting Batman to pop out of a dark corner somewhere. There is a brief silence to build suspense, and it is shattered by a bone-rattling snore. The man next to me has fallen asleep, because, come on, this is just not exciting enough. The audience giggles, and I'm wondering if the poor guy is having clown nightmares.

He started awake a couple of times and laughed or said, "Oh my goodness" in my direction just to let me know that "HEY! I'm awake! Just in case you thought I might be sleeping. Cuz I'm not." The movie turned out to be pretty good, and when we all walked out, there was a visibly angry woman standing just outside with a sleeping child in her arms.

Washington D.C.

I took off to Washington, D.C. pretty soon after school got out with some of my old youth back in Austin. The trip was incredible. A little stressful, but really incredible.

We met at the airport in Austin at 5 AM, and for people like me who don't really wake up until 10 or so, that's asking a lot. And yet, I managed to clear security despite almost falling asleep against the x-ray machine. Apparently, that happens a lot at 5 AM. Anyway, we made it to D.C. and David, Jill and I were dispatched immediately to go get the rental vans. And the fun started. After finding the first van in the long-term parking lot at the airport, the other two were a quick drive away. We gained entry easily, because the KEYS WERE IN THE TAILPIPE (this was the method insisted upon by the renter). I felt like I was in a Sopranos episode that was going to end badly. After we checked the vans for drugs and dead people, we went back to pick up the youth.

It was immediately apparent that these vans were not good things. Not at all. The lack of A/C, the constant shaking, the still plausible idea that these vans had been used for illegal activity weighed on our minds heavily. Which is how we ended up with FIVE mini-vans. Imagine a parade: ticker-tape, brightly colored costumes, the band playing something patriotic, and five vans weaving through the street, filled with eager youth and Twizzler-munching adults. Except it's all at 50 miles per hour, with taxi cabs cutting in, lights turning YELLOW! and then RED!, iPhone directions that just don't cut it, at least 12 illegal U-turns per hour, and cops all over the place just waiting for a reason to turn on their lights. We named our van the M.O.D. (Mini-van Of Dreams) and there were strict rules about the radio volume, a dance party (go Club Fuel!), and a constant supply of Twizzlers.
















We spent the week doing several things, including working at kitchens, sorting clothing donations, preparing and delivering meals to the sick, and moving chairs. Hundreds of chairs.

You really have no idea of the amount of chairs.

We spent every afternoon with a Vacation Bible School-type camp being held in the church at which we were staying. There were probably around fifty kids between the ages of 5 and 16. Someone thought it would be a good idea to start giving piggy back rides, and before we knew it, EVERY KID was asking to be carried. Not just the ones that weighed twenty pounds. And bear in mind how many chairs we had already carried. Somehow, with several animal noises and a few snacks, we made it through every afternoon. We danced, sang, learned "Yo, peace out, yo yo peace out!," played Simon Says and football, and one of us even got thrown up on (way to go Elizabeth).

Every evening we went to a different monument or memorial. I had been to D.C. back when I was about seven, and all I remember is carrying around a red pillow because it wouldn't fit into my suitcase, and I had to have that red pillow. This time around, I toted around my camera instead of the red pillow, which I think worked out a little bit better. All of the memorials were pretty incredible, but my personal favorite was probably the FDR Memorial (I didn't even know there was one). We sang and goofed off and celebrated birthdays and cried and ate tongue tacos and played Spades and danced and made cat noises. Like I said, it was incredible. :-)

Update!

Oh, dear. Well, it has been a long while since I last posted. And what a time it has been. I think I'm going to start publishing regularly again, so wish me luck.

In the meantime, let me get you caught up:

Last summer, I moved to the Dallas area and started my new job as a high school Chemistry teacher. I still don't know how I managed to land it. I got a great apartment, and my mom, who loves me dearly (or so she says), was more than a little happy to have me, my stuff, and my two pee-happy cats out of her house. I started applying to law school, and by November, had sent in applications to 17 different schools. I was accepted to a few schools, and spent my Spring Break in Portland, Oregon visiting Lewis and Clark University. Between the trees, mountains, almost incessant rain and affinity for recycling, I fell in love with the place. I came back home, and after three weeks had a quarter-life crisis, and decided to stay and teach for another year before moving up to Oregon in the Fall of 2009 to study Environmental Law. Summer is upon us, and I have yet to spend more than four days at home.

Whew, that's all.

So, you're caught up, and ready to read the rest. Ever the procrastinator, I'll start posting the good stuff tomorrow.
Happy Thursday!