Michael Phelps is A Mouth Breather

Holy smokes, folks. After a very tame, but productive weekend, I'm about to get wild like I promised. Yes, I spent much of my weekend watching the Olympics (Dara Torres - hi, amazing), running (10.3 miles just over the weekend!), juicing (bought some cheaperish apples, et al at Trader Joe's), and getting ready for my vacation. That's right; I'm going to the Bahamas on Sunday. Now, I know when you all think of me, you automatically think of me on a beach with very tan people in Club Med, MTV Spring Break style. It's just so me. Um, not really, but it will be a good time. I bought 3 bottles of sunblock, lots of protein bars, and in homage to the Olympics, bought a racer style swimsuit at City Sports because I realized that I was sick of having to rearrange my bosom in flimsier, cuter suits and just wanted something that I could get my swim on in without worrying about bottoms being whisked away by the tide. Besides, as evidenced by this weekend, my prayers have been answered - the stress of making it in Chicago has made me an asexual being. Hooray!

I say "as evidenced by this weekend" because I had a few opportunities to chat with seemingly interested gentlemen and dismissed myself from the situation to enjoy my own company. Saturday night: I'm browsing beach reads at the Brookline Booksmith (got 2 books for $9.45 total. YES.) and I head over to J.P. Licks for some coffee fro yo topped with an ungodly amount of hot fudge. I sidle into a booth and begin to read. Despite being acutely aware that it's 9 something PM and I'm eating ice cream alone on a Saturday night, I don't really give a shit, because I'm in my own blissful zone. All of the sudden, a dude comes up with his laptop and asks if I'm waiting for someone. Nope, I say, and he then asks (very politely) if I would mind if he sits down. I glance around and there are plenty of empty seats (though surrounded by sugared-up children) and say "no problem." He sits down and starts talking about how he's sorry to be rude, but his boss emails him all the time and this is the only place that has wifi that works, etc etc. I tell him not to worry about it and continue to eat my fro yo in my own zone. He keeps asking me questions and striking up mini conversations. He's very nice and actually quite attractive. The mention of his boss lets me know that he is actively employed, which is cool. He was enjoyable, attractive, polite, and seemingly interested despite the fact that I could've come off (though I didn't feel it) as pathetic. In an unprecedented turn of events, I wish him a good nice, excuse myself, toss my fro yo (I had finished), and away I went. He was even trying to chat with me as I was halfway out the door. I could scarcely believe it myself. I did feel a little badly about it as I walked toward the T, but the guilt of feeling like I should be engaging with eligible gentlemen on a Saturday night in a big city, was overshadowed when I realized that I had 15 minutes to get home to witness mouth breather, Michael Phelps, make history. The plot thickened as I walked home and, in the middle of Harvard Avenue, quite a busy thoroughfare, I spent a good 5 minutes kneeling down trying to move a huge slug from the middle of the sidewalk (I was convinced he was going to get stepped on) into a bush. This definitely elicited stares from normal 20-somethings who were headed OUT for the night. Ah.

I've booked my plucky, exploratory, I-hope-this-works-out-sweet-Jesus, trip to Chicago (10/04 - 10/12). Fingers crossed that I make some serious headway (hello, like a million job offers), because I might even have to take unpaid time for this trip because I'm so low on vacation time. Some might say that this is unwise, but it's worth it to me. I'm moving in November, job or not, so I better get a lay of the land up close and personal. So far, I already have two interviews, and am busting ass to get more and more. Moreover, it's nicely timed, as I will come back and run the Tufts 10K the very next day, hopefully feeling super triumphant because I'll have a job (run, run, run)! I'll also have three besties' birthdays (Amber, Veronica, and Abbey) that week, as well as a fated ticket to the coveted Madonna concert that my lovely and wealthy Texas friend Zach procured because he "want(s) to go with someone fun." I'm fun! Pick me! Oh wait, he already did. So, fingers/toes/and everything else crossed that I can come back from Chicago employed.

Hooray for Michael Phelps. He made history! That's grand. Listen, Michael, you went to UMich, so I at least expect you to be able to form complete sentences (he can't) or start an interview without the use of "um, you know..." (he can't). His bod is hot, but then you've gotta wake up the next morning and have a conversation about what you're gonna name the baby, and that shit could get difficult if all his head thinks is "kick, kick, paddle, paddle, wave." My main man is still Frenchie, Alain Bernard. How are you so tall and muscular and can swim so fast? I'd very much like to find out. Speaking of painful, in an effort to save money ($70, to be exact), I did my own bikini wax. Let me tell you something - I no longer fear child birth or foreign torture. Having to hold your own skin taught while you pull wax to rip out the tiniest hairs is excruciating. I bled, I whimpered, I took a shot of brandy (which only made me sweat, which made things worse), but in the end, I got 'er done. Swimsuit ready and money still in my wallet.

Mwah mwah mwah, little darlings!