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Cut, cut. - 2007-02-09

No, really... how are YOU? - 2006-10-23

And now, finally: something (ish) - 2006-07-27

What Happened to March and April, eh??? - 2006-04-25

Well hello there, February. - 2006-02-16

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< L DykeWrite3 # >

2003-05-07 - 5:40 p.m.

Wednesday’s are total wipe-out days for me (not in a “surfing/cowabunga” or "very thorough personal hygiene way), but in the HOW CAN I POSSIBLY EVEN FUNCTION AFTER THIS-- kind of way.

Wednesdays.

Not Rainy Days and Monday’s, but Literally Any Weather and WEDNESDAYS.

My Wednesdays’ actually start late Tuesday night.

I begin thinking about my Wednesday and how tired I’m going to be. Seriously. I sometimes think, “Why even go to sleep now, Wednesday will be here so damn soon—and I know how tired I’m going to be. Why not just sit up and flip through the channels, pausing briefly on all the soft porn (Red Shoe Diaries, etc) just long enough to see a clichéd soft porn moment (Semi-Aroused Man embracing a woman from behind, while fondling her huge, fake breasts; Woman in business suit with “nerdy” eyeglasses, letting her hair down and ripping open her blouse exposing her huge, fake breasts; One woman “accidentally” spilling wine on her female dinner companion, then attempting to help her wipe the stain off her huge, fake breasts;). Eventually I fall asleep (but not a a restful sleep, and certainly not having benefited from the cavalcade of huge, fake breasts that were my bedtime story.”

Back to my Wednesdays.

Wednesday’s begin with one of my 3 times a week early-morning “Workouts” (okay, 8am isn’t THAT EARLY, but still, considering the late-night TV viewing and the titty parade, you can imagine I’m exhausted).

My trainer, we’ll call him “Doug”, is a good guy, and I actually pay him to:

Count for me

Hold my feet

Let me steady myself on his broad, manly shoulders

Tell me to breathe

Tell me not to use my hips

Remind me to relax my face

Tell me “only 3 more.. you can do it”

PLUS I get bored easily with the different routines, so, poor “Doug” constantly has to “mix it up”. That’s right, in addition to my WONDERFUL girlfriend/lesbian-lover/same-sex partner/meal-ticket; you can now feel sorry for “Doug, the trainer”.

So, “Doug” kicks my ass for an hour and a half 3 times a week and my ass certainly appreciates it.

However, on Wednesday’s, right after my 90 minute “ass-kicking”, I go directly into my 60 minute “soul’s ass-kicking” with my “therapist” (ish).

The first 10-12 minutes with my “therapist”(ish) is spent on small talk, gossip and general water-cooler-type stuff while we wait for my inner-child to arrive on “the special bus” full of intimacy. My inner-child always arrives at least 10-12 minutes after my current-neurotic-rambling- adult-self.

My inner child and my therapist(ish) then spend the remaining 48-50 minutes hashing/rehashing/exposing/over-exposing/healing/revealing and, once again, being reminded to breathe.

Recapping, that’s 90 minutes of “ass-kicking”, followed directly by 60 minutes of “soul-ass kicking”. At the end of that (pause while I do the math)

Time elapsed: 15 seconds.

At the end of those 150 minutes, I’m exhausted. Spent. Spent for the day. Spent and it’s only 10:30 a.m.

You don’t want apiece of me on Wednesday’s. It’s slim pickins’

Only 6 days until next Wednesday. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.