1) I am sunburned as fuck. Someone at the tanning salon was less-than-accurate in her appraisal of how long I should stay in the state-of-the-art body toaster. I like to think she was just being stupid, rather than maliciously deceptive.
2) I don’t care and I will still go back again. After all, I paid for a monthly pass.
3) Ballet class summary: You know those teensy, tiny, near-imperceptible little movements ballerinas make with their feet and heels and toes? The ones nobody pays attention to because we just want to see them jump and swing? We practiced those. On Thursday. I am still extremely sore from it, all over my body. It is possible that ballet is the most physically taxing athletic activity in existence. (Except for dodgeball.) But I wore my leotard and skirt and ballet slippers and leg warmers and I looked PRECIOUS. I also noticed for the first time that I have really nice shoulder muscles. Shout-out to my trainer Kristen on that one.
4) The inviolable rule of Internet dating: If you post anonymously or under a pseudonym but describe yourself reasonably accurately, your former flame will send a desperate-sounding reply within the next five minutes. He will send it from a fake account as well. You will know it is him because he sends along a picture of just his chest, and you recognize his chest instantly, because it has a distinctive feel, a tightness and a smallness and a roughness and a pinkness around the abs — it’s a non-classic but still perfectly sexy chest — and also you recognize the bookcase in the photo behind him. You stare at the photo for thirty seconds, knowing that it’s him, before you read the email, the one that contains his real name. He stopped returning your calls a couple months ago. You look again at the picture of the chest. You miss him. You respond with a joke, calling him out. He will text you later in the night, he will invite you over. You will decline politely, and you will sit impatiently through dinner with the date you’ve selected instead, and you will hurt his feelings when you leave before dessert because all you can think about is this chest. You will text him, this chest, as you peel away from your date. “I’m sorry. Can I come over?” He replies kindly, “I’m going to bed. Let’s talk next week.” You are crestfallen, and you wish he hadn’t reappeared like that. You wish you hadn’t been so hurtful to your date. You wish none of this had done any damage. You just miss him, and you want to lay against his chest again.
5) LA trip, baby. Looks like I’m going the last week in October for the #140conf, a conference on all things Twitter and social media. Mostly I’m there to network and see my old LA friends and hopefully appear on the “Police chiefs that Tweet panel” and it would be a huge bonus if I get through the whole thing without punching Justine Ezeriak in the fucking face. I’M JUSS JEALOUS!
