Strong As An Ox... Literally

Inspired by my frequent trips to the gym in the last few weeks, and based on the fact that I decided what I want for my birthday - abs and arms - I'd like to ruminate on something that plagues me as much as it would any (nearly) 21-year-old woman.

My Body.

I've never really considered myself an athlete, but I have always been somewhat athletic. Still, no matter what I do, my body insists on being what people might call "curvy" or "shapely." Whatever. Tomato, Tom-ah-to.

But I've accepted my curves and, in what seems to be a blog theme, have formulated a theory about them...

Pioneer Life. Some serious Oregon trail shit.

I'll explain. I'm strong and I'm healthy. I've never seriously injured myself. I rarely fall ill. I have an ample chest and hips that are the same size - hourglass, if you will. So what exactly does that mean?

It means that I am SUPPOSED to be a baby-making, log-hauling, covered-wagon-dragging, butter-churning, rabbit-shooting pioneer women. 

Seriously. I think I would fare well in the harsh terrain of undiscovered territories. These hips don't lie - I could probably have eleven children and nothing would snap. I could till the fields and shoot some game and I wouldn't even die of dysentery. Hell, if the oxen got sick, they'd probably strap me to the wagon and make ME ford the river. I'm a pretty sturdy woman.

And those curves? That hourglass shape? They would have been good for one purpose - attracting the attentions of some rugged, bearded pioneer man who would have seen in me all my potential for the aforementioned butter-churning, log-hauling, and such. Not to mention rockin' the log cabin all night long on a bearskin rug. (Okay sorry, that was a little gross.)

Which is why, when I stand in the weight room among a lot of smelly men, suffocating from the smell and competing egos, I feel a thrill of excitement at exercising my god-given wagon-pulling muscles. And when I awkwardly do lunges between the rows of nautilus machines, I think to myself "Well, these would have come in handy for leading the oxen up the mountains!"

Okay, maybe that's going a little bit too far. And don't worry, I don't wear my best coonskin cap on the treadmill (I save that for the stationary bicycle.) But the point is that I wasn't built to exist in this world where thin and breakable equals beautiful. And I'm just hoping there's some man out there whose primal pioneer instincts are still guiding him in my direction. A man who might spot me across a crowded room and think (albeit subconsciously), "Wow, look at those hips. I bet she makes a mean rabbit stew."

The Jerk Factor

Today's entry is a little bit different than previous entries. I'm not going to go so far as to call it a rant, but perhaps an exploration of something I've found true but nevertheless mind-boggling.

So here it is. The ultimate question: 

Why is a certain degree of douchebag-ness in a man sometimes (gulp)... attractive?

Ok, you got me, I just wanted an 

excuse to ogle Clive Owen.

Ugh, I hate that I even WROTE that sentence, mainly because I am a faithful proponent of nice guys everywhere. Nice guys, please don't misunderstand. I am steadfastly staying on your side. You know who you are. You're the men who respect women and woo them with real dates. The men who understand that compliments go a long way. The men who would offer to wash dishes if a meal was made for them. The men who hold doors. For people other than themselves.

I guess it's part of my newfound fascination with vampires (I know, gross) that brought this up. I mean, vampires are NOT nice guys. They want to suck your BLOOD for god's sakes. So why are women around the world all hyped up over pasty, cold men who may or may not want their next girlfriend to be their lover-slash-snack?

All I can say is that it's like a disease... some women have it worse than others. I won't name names (cough, my mother, cough), but I know women both old and young who have found the same information to be true. Symptoms can be as severe as spending years of your life with various men who are moody, tyrannical, and downright mean, or they can be way less pronounced. Like the ones I see in myself... hints that I'm not completely resistant to the gravitational pull assholes sometimes have. Hints that are frightening.

I have a few theories, although since my experience with jerks is (thankfully) low on the spectrum, I doubt any of them are very good. I would also like to say that for all of you covert WMWC readers out there (I suspect I may have some...) feel free to comment with your own theories.

Here they are:

1) The "Patron Saint of the Assholes" Theory.

It's been said, time and again, that women are often looking for a project (though, of course, we shouldn't be.) Sometimes I think we gaze at the handsome, brooding jerk and we think "Maybe... just maybe... if he fell in love with me, I could save him!" Oh, you mean turn him into the nice guy you really need? He doesn't need, or want, your saving.

2) The "Good In Other Departments" Theory.

This one doesn't need much explanation. Essentially, I think we subconsciously look at someone who's attractive and a terrible person and think "Well, he might be good at other things." Mostly we're thinking about, well, bedroom things. I personally blame the movies, since the "bad guys" in movies seem to fulfill this theory. Exhibit A: Vampires.

3) The "Accessories Make The Man" Theory.

Many stereotypical bad guys come with a lot of good visual accessories. You think "Good Guy" and you think... I don't know, khakis or something. Jeans that don't fit right. A hat their mom gave them. Glasses. You think "bad guy" and you think leather jacket, devil-may-care attitude, sexed-up car. Maybe if the good guys learned to dress themselves, we shallow women wouldn't have to outsource to their devilish nemeses.

And finally...

4) The "Clearly We Enjoy Suffering" Theory.

Falling in love with men who reek of "this-will-only-end-in-tears" is purely a sign of masochistic tendencies.

I know things aren't black and white, and that the entire species called "Man" can't be divided up into "Guys who will call you back" and "Guys who will wreak havoc on your life." But I think many women wouldn't deny the fact that there is a strange, exotic pull towards the men who are trouble with a capital T.

I, for one, will continue to ignore it.

Ugh, Birthday

I think I should be voted the person least excited to turn 21 in the history of America.

Wait, wait, wait, back up. Let me rephrase... I am ECSTATIC to BE 21. I can't wait to stand in line at a bar and not wonder, "Hmmm, will today be the day they notice the fact that my ID has no hologram?" I'll be legal, I'll have passed the final threshold. No more, "Well at least you can buy cigarettes and porn!" No more, "So where IS Largo, Florida anyway?" I'll be entering a world of unicorns and rainbows and "Hey, you're 21, right? The world is your oyster!"

Sounds great. Now can someone please transport me past March 31st (The Day) and straight to April 1st, when I'll be legal and old and no longer haunted by this whole birthday thing?

It seems like the older I get, the more my birthdays blow. When I was a kid, it was all about presents and my birthday meal made by my mom and narcissism and cake. In high school too, birthdays were pretty awesome. I had a boyfriend all four years who made me cards and bought me presents and treated me like a princess. Plus, my best friend from high school shares my birthday (which is a freaky coincidence considering how similar we are) so we would do the whole bring-each-other-balloons thing so we could feel loved and adored and super cool. 

Sure, one year in high school a pack of girls I didn't know came up behind me and my balloons and slashed them with what I can only assume was a knife, but who cares? I thought it was a testament to the kind of hard-knock high school I went to since beneath my pasty white exterior and naivete, I like to think I'm a little bit of a ghetto-ass bitch. I mean, I really like that "to-the-windows, to-the-walls" song and I do a mean ass-shaking. 

But I digress.

Contrary to what has been written, this post is NOT about my penchant for shaking my ass (seriously, I'm good at it). What it IS about is my birthday, which is rapidly approaching regardless of how I wish it gone.

Allow me to complain for just a second (because it is MY blog and, well, skip ahead if you don't like whiners.) My birthday is a Tuesday... the Tuesday before the Thursday opening of the show I'm in. Which means, of course, no drinking. No wild partying. It means tech rehearsals the weekend before, four shows the weekend after, and class all week. It means I will be stressed out of my effing mind and exhausted and just trying to muster enough energy to not be a total wreck.

Oh, and one other small thing... that whole calamity with The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend. Allow me to give you an analogy: It's kind of like I have this big, festering, pussing, throbbing wound. And now it's starting to scab over, which allows me to live my daily life without constant pulsing, agonizing pain. But it still hasn't healed and doesn't show signs of healing for a very long time. Which, of course makes it very difficult to... Oh, I don't know, have fun? Enjoy things? I spend too much time and energy trying to be all, "I'm not dying inside!" to attempt, of all things, a BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION.

Ok so let's recap: 

Ridiculously Busy Schedule. Check. 

Festering Emotional Wound. Double Check.

An Aversion to Spending Money and/or Consuming Too Many Calories. Check.

Ahhh, I forgot, one more thing. Last year's birthday? The big 2-0? Also dampened by heartbreak, the death of a relative, and, best of all, vomit clean up.

Woo! Let the festivities begin. Ugh*

*Okay, it felt wrong to end my blog post on such a cynical, F my L kind of note. So I'll make one admission: I AM planning on making cupcakes the day before my birthday to hand out at rehearsal. I'll sit and I'll decorate them and it will make me very happy to give them to people I love. And as long as people enjoy them, my birthday won't 100% suck.

A Cure-All

Because I like to think that this blog is a place for me to be refreshingly candid, I'm going to admit something to you all...

I just did the most ridiculously awesome rendition of "Play That Funky Music, White Boy" in my undies.

WMWC readers, are you feeling a little under the weather? Here's my suggestion:

1. Strip down.

2. Turn on something old school with a good beat.

3. Shake your moneymaker. That's right, shake it.

It works wonders.

Cock-Eyed Optimist and Lover of the Undead?

From Saturday to Saturday... 1,948 pages.

Yikes.

As of last night, I have officially read all four of the published Twilight books and have yet to find the movie for free online (although I'm afraid to watch it because even though I'm convinced that Robert Pattinson is, in fact, a real live vampire, I'm also convinced that Kristen Stewart's acting is, in fact, seriously awful.)

So, uh, now what?

What I really want to do is become a vampire, but since that's clearly out of the question (or is it???) I think I'll just have to turn to Real Life instead. Ugh, how boring.

However, Real Life has its perks.... like last night, for instance, when I had a REVELATORY theatre experience.

Yup, I cried during this part.

Yesterday evening, I was privileged enough to see Kelli O'Hara's final performance as Nellie Forbush in the Lincoln Center revival of Rodgers and Hammerstein's South Pacific. I'd never seen the show before, although I've read the script and sung much of Nellie's music because I'm pretty convinced R&H couldn't have written a character more like myself, minus the blatant racism (which she overcomes, of course!) and Little Rock hick-thing.

Honestly, I don't know if I've ever seen a more beautiful night of musical theatre.

Generally, musicals don't move me to tears unless they're West Side Story, but in my current emotional state (read: tumultuous and weepy) it doesn't take much. Add to that the fact that the guest I brought with me was not the guest I intended to bring (see previous post about TBU) and, well, waterworks were inevitable. But that explanation isn't meant to undermine anything about the performances, because they were sensational.

It was just so refreshing to see actors who could sing AND act, and who understood that the root of the story - the crux of it - was the honesty behind everything R&H wrote. I believed every word that came out of their mouths, every note, and I felt like I was intruding on very personal moments between fascinating people.

Not to mention the orchestra and the production value were both breathtakingly fantastic - but NOT needlessly spectacular.

And although Kelli O'Hara, bless her heart, was anywhere between 5 and 7 months pregnant, she did two full cartwheels during "I'm In Love With A Wonderful Guy," one of my favorite songs of all time. To her credit, I think I sobbed hardest (literally heaved... I would say I feel bad for the guy next to me except that he was an obnoxiously loud breather) when she was just sitting on a box in her bathing suit, singing about "the world famous feeling" she was feeling.

"Ahhh sister," I wanted to say, "I've been there." Of course I couldn't have, because I was crying too hard.

But now that I've recovered from my "Some Enchanted Evening"-induced emotional coma, I can simply say with sincerity that seeing South Pacific reminded me of why I love this art form so much and how powerful and relevant it can be. Broadway isn't dead, everyone... it's not even close. See something like this and you'll understand why.

How I Spent My Weekend

Or rather, with whom.

Cheekbones much?

I'm thinking about retitling this post "Why I Am a Detestable Human Being," but I'm not going to, because that might be a little bit harsh.

Last night around 6:30 p.m. I came home from 8 hours of rehearsal to find the most glorious presents sitting on my bed, looking epic and delicious:

New Moon and Eclipse. Eek!

For all of you readers who aren't, well, teenage girls, here's the gist. Those are books 2 and 3 of the Twilight series. Yes, that one. The one written by the Mormon woman who somehow sustains close to 2,000 pages worth of sexual tension between a mortal and a vampire over the course of 4 books. The one that's clearly written for 14-year-old girls who read magazine articles about "How To Kiss A Boy" (I was TOTALLY one of them. No surprise there.)

Still, I pretty much peed my pants when I saw them sitting on my bed in all their beautiful, bloodsucking glory.

*Clears Throat*

A Scene:

Door closes. A worn out Cupcake Lover dumps her purse and coat by the door, happy to be home, thinking she could use a shower after 3 hours of waltzing at rehearsal. She ponders what she'll do tonight, and although she knows she could venture out into New York City, her poor feet are screaming No! Let us be! It is at this moment that she trudges into her room and sees two shiny books. Hardcover. Ominous red and black cover design. Could it be?

It could!

Me: AHHH! HOW did these get here!? What? Where? How?

Editors Note: My roommate, BiddyLuddy, works at the Doubletree Hotel.

BiddyLuddy: I got them from the lost and found! They were left there in November! I saw them and I was like "Oh my God! She would love these!"

Me: I love you sooooo much!!

In that moment, Cupcake Lover runs to BiddyLuddy and embraces her, an action that is both sudden and out of character for the hug-averse CL. She soon returns to glance at her books, poring over them, wondering what fate will await lovelorn Bella and Edward and their Forever Vampire Love.

Ahh, Forever Vampire Love. At least, that's what I've decided to call the ties that bind the book's protagonists. In fact, I said it out loud like ten minutes ago when I finished book two and decided my life is lacking in two things:

1. Someone to clean my room for me.

2. Forever Vampire Love.

Okay, that's totally a lie. Vampires wouldn't be any fun to love, at least not the Twilight ones. I mean, sure, they're super sexy and broody and whatnot, and I guess it's kind of hot to think that someone might want to kiss you AND eat you at the same time. But I would eventually tire of someone thinking of me as a sex kitten while also seeing me as a big steaming bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, or whatever.

Anyway, the point of this post is not to dwell on the details of Forever Vampire Love, but to get this off my chest: 

I READ THE TWILIGHT BOOKS. There, I said it.

(But in all seriousness, maybe you should too.)