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To read my column this week for In Utah This Week click here!

All summer long I’ve been making excuses why I can’t go swim in AK and Mrs. AK’s swimming pool.  The truth is that I haven’t felt comfortable in a swimming suit since 1996.  I know I’m not obese, but I’m certainly not fit enough to walk around in a two-piece.

I’ve wanted to attend some personal training sessions for years, but truthfully I’ve always been too self-conscious,  But this year I’ve decided to get over myself and do what it takes to finally be comfortable with my body.  I looked into the options my gym offers, but was less than impressed.  The Yuppie suggested his friend Tracey, who is a personal trainer.  I knew he wouldn’t recommend someone I would hate, mostly because he knows I’d bitch about it until his ears bled.

I met with Trainer Tracey this week and loved her.  She wasn’t intimidating at all, yet fit enough to kick my ass when I need it.  Which I will, since I’m lazy and really hate to sweat. The first session was a body and fitness assessment.  Saying I was pleasantly surprised with my results would be a complete understatement.  When she told me my body fat percentage I wanted to kiss her hard ON THE MOUTH!

My body fat was significantly lower than I expected.  I didn’t believe my results since they qualified me into the “athlete” category.  I asked her to double check, but she got the same results. I have bruises from those stupid skin fold calipers, but dammit those are the best bruises I’ve had in quite some time.  Yeah, I’d kill for some decent sex bruises, but that’s another post for another day.

Trainer Tracey and I decided to focus on endurance and toning, which I have a feeling will kick my ass since I was sore the day after a simple fitness test.  I’m forcing myself to stick with this for the next couple of months.  If only to reward myself with fitness prizes.  No, I’m not kidding.  Doesn’t every girl who loses a few pounds deserve running shoes covered in Barbie pink glitter?  I thought so.

When in the country it’s key to look country.  Jack Daniels in your glove compartment does the trick!

I assure you this whiskey wasn’t mine. No really, it wasn’t; I’m a vodka girl.

When Tim died I inherited his books.  I’m a book lover so it make the most sense for me to take them.  Last weekend I pulled his Allen Ginsberg book from the shelf to read.  A picture fell from the book into my lap.  It was a picture of Tim holding AK’s baby.  As I gently picked the picture up I was overwhelmed with emotion.  I tried to fight the tears, but finally gave up and allowed myself to cry.

Why do my tears always have Tim’s name on them?  As I think about it 80% of the tears shed over the past four years have been Tim tears.  He’d be so pissed at me for that.  I can just hear him lecturing me that crying only dehydrates you.  He was such an emotional bad ass.  Nothing affected him.  Or so we thought, and then he took his own life.

Death is funny.  Not funny ha-ha, but peculiar.  I’ve cried more over Tim’s death than I have over my own grandmother dying.  It was her time; she had lived a full life.  Tim hadn’t, but he could have.  He just chose not to.  Idiot.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Tim the remainder of the weekend.  So many Tim stories were running through my mind.  I jotted as much down as I could so I’d remember to write about them later.  It wasn’t until Monday morning when I noticed the date that I realized why Tim had been so prevalent the last few days. August 11th is Tim’s birthday. After seeing the date I panicked.  I couldn’t remember how old he was, and then it hit me: Tim doesn’t get older.  Tim is gone.  And guess what… it’s really hard to have birthday cake with the dead.

Happy birthday Motherfucker, I miss you.

Last night while walking Daisy we walked past a basketball court near my house.  There’s always a pick-up game going on, and last night was no exception.  Though typically there are only a couple playing, but this time there were close to twenty guys. 

I know this because, despite wearing headphones, I could heard the echo of twenty men laughing at me.  I still don’t see what the big deal was, so what if I was singing way too loudly to Dr. Dre on my iPod while wearing an “I recycle boys” tee-shirt as I half danced/half walked down the street. This happens to everyone, right?  RIGHT?!

Things that make me happy:

Seeing that Willie Nelson is following me on Twitter is pretty much awesome.  Sure, it’s not really him, but who cares.  Although it does serves a reminder that I didn’t buy the Willie Nelson doll at the concert Ben and I went to.  I still covet that damn doll and regret the decision not to buy it.

Things that make me unhappy:

Seeing my face tossed aside into a gutter pisses me off.  First of all, I hate when people litter, and second I absolutely detest being turned into gutter trash.  People, at least have the decency to let me find my own way to the gutter.  Come on.  Given enough time I’m nearly positive I’ll end up a gutter girl.  Have faith.

Yesterday was a complete waste of my time.  No wine and cheese mixer, just a lot of waiting around in a lobby that thinks children’s books are far more important than gossip magazines.  Puhh-lease.  I’m all about seeing stars in the bedroom, trust me, but this isn’t typically the way I go about it:

Sadly there were no hot cops like you people suggested. Proving you cannot believe everything you read on the Internet. The Internet lied to me. Again. First you let me to believe I could learn to be a master in bed by reading one email, or grow my penis six inches with a vitamin; then you lied and told me the F.B.I was patrolling Facebook. Internet, I’m starting to trust you less and less every single day.

The good news is I have forgiven you, but someone still owes me a hot cop. Get on it.

I’m 32 and single–there is a reason for this.

On the outside I look like a great catch. I’m cute enough, I’m smart enough, and I’m certainly funny enough. My problem isn’t on the outside, my problem in on the inside. It’s there that I’m completely screwed up. I don’t know how to show love. The people I care for the most are the people I end up hurting. Coupled with insecurities on his part, this behavior pattern helped destroy the most significant relationship of my life.

I’m a junior high school boy on the inside, without the raging boner. I tease those I care about. Sure, we all tease, but I always take it way too far. A funny bit turns into resentment and hurt feelings that no amount of passionate kissing can fix. This is my love life.

I know exactly the reasons why I am the way I am. As cathartic as it would be to write about, I don’t think it’s fair to continue to point fingers at other people for my problems.

I absolutely want to change, and if I ever want a healthy relationship I have to change, but I have no idea how to go about doing that. Therapy is undoubtedly an option, but frankly I can’t afford to sink money into therapy when I’m trying to put myself through college.

Not only am I that junior high school boy, I’m also a scared little girl. So until I figure out how to solve my issues on my own, I’m going to remain a bitter girl who claims she doesn’t want a relationship. Just don’t tell anyone I actually do. It’s our little secret.

Dear Internet,

I’m likely going to die in a fire this weekend.  I only tell you this because you’ll miss me.  I know you will.  You, my mother both, and possibly Ben.  RLO, however, will not miss me.  I can’t blame him at all.  In fact upon my death RLO may bloom into the lovely person I won’t let him be.

I just took out the batteries of every single fire detector in my apartment.  Not because I have a death wish but because I couldn’t figure out which one was the cause of the low battery chirp.  I’d rather risk death than risk chirping-induced insanity.

Internet I will miss you.

Love,
Sarah

I saw them again today at the bus stop. Once again my heart melted, which is good because it proves I had a heart in the first place.