Random Fact.

Best song ever written - “The Boys of Summer.” Fact. Much obliged, Henley.

Save the Racquet

“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

● O. Wilde

I’m not a Federer fan (clearly), but could we cease eulogizing the fellow? No need to solicit his opinion about the Djoker-Rafa rivalry... he’s still a legend. Have a little respect, hmm? Yes, he’s thirty-two or whatever, but he is not yet dead, that’s the best that can be said, he is not... Whoops, sorry; wandered into Spamalot for a moment. Bloody hell - I’ll have that looped in my cranium for the remainder of the day.

For all that I violently deplore facebook, I’m addicted to twitter - have I mentioned? (: I’m @legalruffian and @adreamabove. Anyway. One of my friends forwarded this, and it’s so epically fantastic I had to pay it forward... Rafa, Rafa, Rafa!

 

Today’s French Open Pros: Ferrer advanced. Serena advanced. Milos advanced. Seems Radwanska will triumph (she’s on now).

Today’s French Open Cons: Federer advanced. But I suppose that’s to be expected.

I have not even acknowledged Djokovic’s existence for the tournament. Presume he still lives? Don’t care. I’ll deal with him later; or, rather, Rafa will polish him off when the time comes. I suppose I’m only involved tangentially.

Our gyms have not yet managed to emotionally navigate the concept of air conditioning for the summer season, meaning I find myself utterly ensconced in the residue of fat crying (sweat) roughly halfway through my run and have to kind of awkwardly siphon the stuff off of me at random intervals. It’s not quite as hellish as the Kissimmee gyms, wherein I find myself forced to ignore propriety and decorum entirely and run in a sports bra to preclude the possibility of fainting, but close. Not a fan. On a scale of one to Chip ‘n’ Dale, how nutty would I seem bringing my own fan in and aiming it directly at me to preclude this result? Don’t answer that.

This bloke who lifts at the NS gym spotted me DT on Memorial Day and bid hello. Somehow he knows my name and greets me with it every morning when we encounter each other, which makes me feel a profound turd because I cannot for the life of me remember (a) introducing myself, (b) when he started saying hello, or most importantly (c) his bloody name. People’s monikers just elude me in general. Unless I find the person profoundly attractive and their name sears into my cranium, I meet someone, chat with them, and at the end find myself thinking, “Oh, I’m sorry... did you have a name?” The travails of the right-brained.

The Powers That Be (read: boss) have charged me with the task of selecting a color for our redo of the Bar. Whoa. That means the end of my blog post and the inception of investigating Tuscan colour schemes.

Talk about a random smattering of halfway-sensical rambles. I have to clock some sleep at some point. Have to.

Sadistic Eels

"My hovercraft is full of eels."

- Monty Python

Two days ago I developed a twinge in my upper left shoulder, roundabouts the trapezius muscle. That's where I have always gathered my tension, throughout college and law school. Yesterday by mid-afternoon it had spread to both sides and down into whatever other muscles cluster in that area, and I experienced extreme difficulty turning my head whilst biking. By sundown I found myself spread-eagle on the floor with my arms outstretched and could barely move my neck. With the assistance of Advil and nine hours' slumber, I have upgraded to functional but remain incredibly stiff. 

Usually this transpires around final exam time, but I (obviously) am spared that stressor and really have nothing else pouring down on me at the moment. I don't know what's bothering me. Could this be a side effect of withdrawing from pharmaceuticals? A psychosomatic manifestation? The only brief respite I have devised is the child pose of yoga, and variations thereof. 

I'm journaling like mad trying to get whatever it is out. This is so bizarre. It descended out of nowhere. 

And thirteen days of magnificent Slam tennis glisten on the horizon! Why so profoundly annoyed, psyche? 

And they're off!

Your darkness belongs to you, just the same way your light does. 

– Mickey Mouse

Raise your hand if you're too fatigued to manage any semblance of inertia today! *thrusts hand blearily aloft* No, seriously; required an hour fifteen to plod through my fifty-minute weight regime. Could not even enumerate why, precisely; simply dawdled, inadvertently. Sufficient ammo to accommodate my customary trajectory eluded me. Bizarre. I have managed eight hours for the past two evenings. Always seem to peter out by Sunday, tho; perhaps I ought to integrate it as a quasi-rest day. Just pop in on a class and write the remainder off as a wash.

Serena conquered her first round of Rolland Garros (she fell in the first last year), and seems poised to dominate. Marvelous. Keep your eye on the blonde, Mademoiselle. 

On the men's side... FedEx occupies his own half of the bracket. With Murray out in deference to his (legitimate, persistent) back issues, and my two other favorites felled by the usual (Del Potro, virus; Fish, heart ailment) he seems a shoo-in to secure a position in the final. Which is really just a shame, because he's one of the most fundamentally boring players in history. Del Potro scrambles like a man half his size, and trips over his tremendous heart. Fish is cute as all hell (sue me for being a girl and having the occasional lopsided priorities). Federer... Zzz. 

Providing Ferrer does not fall to Berdych, it should come down to him and FedEx in the semis. He just might best Captain Conceited, particularly in light of the latter's recent "injuries" (convenient, mercurial reports that only surface after a poor performance). 

In an ideal world, Rafa and Ferrer would combat in the finals. Someone has to topple the two biggest egos in tennis. Why not the Spaniards? Honestly, tho - anyone except Djokovic. I would even root for Roger, if necessary. And, I cannot say that I would particularly mind yet another Fed-Rafa final. Canst thou sayest "Wimbledon, redux!"

And now, a completely boring holiday awaits. Despise holidays. 

Countdown to Rolland Garros 2013!

“So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them.” - S. Plath

The Nelly remix of Florida Georgia Line’s “Cruise” makes me want to stab someone with an ice pick. Why infringe upon something so near perfection? The video is embarrassing. Literally makes me horrified to ever have endorsed that band. Gah. No reason at all for that to have crossed over to pop radio. If you’re that greedy, just kick up the bass a bit. You don’t need a rapper kicking the song repeatedly in the face. No.   

Gym A is less than five minutes from my house. I can roll out of bed at 5:15 and be dressed, caffeinated and on the floor by 6:00am, before I’m sufficiently awake to realize what’s happening and still retaining the sleepy optimism and detached excitement only a morning can inspire. But it’s populated by pernicious, self-important housewives who cast criticizing glances at you when they believe you otherwise engaged and gossip in the locker room and generally chisel away at my faith in humanity. Plus I’m just about the only single person in the entire facility.

Gym B is a regrettable twenty-five minute drive downtown, though literally three minutes from work. I require a total of thirty minutes in transit, and have to rise in sufficient time to avoid the morning commute traffic. Around eight o’clock, it literally becomes a ghost town. Everyone vanishes, and I’m one of the only folks on the entire floor, meaning I’m lonely and infused with the restless sense that I should be somewhere. But, it’s blissfully devoid of snotty housewives, and there’s a cute boy I enjoy encountering.

Le sigh. Will attempt, yet again, to rise in sufficient time to trek downtown tomorrow.

TWO DAYS UNTIL FRENCH OPEN 2013!!! Cannot. Wait.  Rafa will prevail.