Don’t thank me for the blog today. Thank the genius that ran and hid in a train tunnel when asked for his ticket at a traffic control downtown, ultimately leaving me waiting one hour for the train in the first cold morning in weeks. The silver lining: as my mind weighed the risks of taking a bus and hoping the train doesn’t come right as I leave the station, it also drifted to ideas for a new blog….
As many of you know, my days sitting around in Spain, eating fried restaurant food every night have taken a toll on me. I think Spain is the only season of Survivor where the contestants actually gained weight. In Badajoz, if food isn’t fried or drenched in 2 inches of oil, it’s not served. So naturally, My, Maria and my waistlines suffered. While we were able to joke around and sing “I don’t think you are ready for this jelly” wherever we went, I thought to myself this is alarming for a number of reasons. First, before you roll your eyes, I know I’m thin. But this weight-gain marks the age at which it appears my black hole metabolism has finally thrown in the towel. I don’t blame it, and we’ve had some good years, but I can’t help but worry to myself, “How big can I get?” Well, despite how much I know Jiro would love the fat jokes, I don’t intend to wait and see. Second, my clothes don’t fit. I don’t particularly mind a few extra lbs, and my mom thinks I have the face of a cherub now (thanks mother cherubs are fat) but the biggest problem is that Norway is about as expensive as Donald Trump is annoying. So I can’t buy anything new. Not to mention the fact that simply buying one size up is a slippery slope. As the current situation entails me having to scope out my jeans to determine which ones are looking most forgiving and then hop around, eventually making slithering motions to squeeze into them, I am aware that something has to give. Since my wallet isn’t expanding like my ass there is only one other option because let’s face it, no matter how small you are, muffin-tops look good on no one.
So, I now know what death feels like. Never ask a competitive weightlifter to write a workout plan for you, and if you are dumb enough, do not be too stubborn to quit. On the bright side, I keep missing Maria on campus, but I sure enough get to see her everyday at the gym fighting the fight as well.
With how worn down I am on a daily basis, it is no surprise I keep losing at ping-pong. Surely, that’s my problem. My department on campus as an X-mas gift received a ping-pong table which has provided hours of entertainment. Recently, a tournament has started and as I feared it appears everyone is about as competitive as me (or more). So, of course, we have been practicing for the last couple weeks. I started out doing well and winning some (particularly satisfying) games against my phd student supervisor Jo. But then something changed. While I spend the end of my day at the gym, he has been spending his nights hunched over his computer looking at tips on youtube. Now he has been using me as a punching bag building up his confidence for the tournament and turns out will be my first match. Suck! He is so cocky now that he even made a one-way bet where “if somehow you beat me, you can have something with a value up to 300nok.” Barf. He should be careful because everyone loves an underdog story and I’m holding him to the bet. I’m just hoping he wears his murse to the game and then I like my odds. Anyways, what will I buy with my 300nok you ask? Booze…or new pants.
Ps. A special thanks to my editor Marc.
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