Dream On

I don’t even want to TALK about Mossgate 2010. No longer do I have the hopes of bumping into Randy Moss at the gas station and striking up a conversation and then being asked to hang out with him at the mall. He’s gone. And much like the first time he left us, it just makes me sick. Stupid coach and his stupid terrible coaching…

But, I digress. Okay, so you know how nothing is more boring than listening to someone recap a dream? Well, last night, I had a crazy dream and I want to tell you about it. In my dream, I ran a marathon. Like, it was a weekend-long type thing. And I didn’t even break a sweat. Right before I finished the race, though, I got bored and went to wait on the corner for a girl (who I don’t even like) to come pick me up and take me swimming. So, when I woke up this morning, I was like "Whew! What a workout!" But I had been doing nothing but laying down. I think I was almost sore.

Has anyone ever done a study of whether or not dreaming about working out has any effect on someone in real life? I mean, sometimes when you dream, you work out problems in your head and you think clearer the next day. So, does working out in your dreams have the same effect? ‘Cause that would really rule. That seems like such a typical "American" thing to ask…"Is there a way to sleep while working out?" Basically, I want to know what I’d need to do to workout without actually DOING anything. Ideas? And don’t suggest yoga. Yoga scares me. I listened to a dude fart allllllll the way through a yoga class, and I just don’t have the kind of stamina to last a whole class without laughing at that.

I used to belong to the YMCA by my old apartment. It was pretty ghetto, and I loved that place. It was stinky, and nobody washed down machines, but it just felt right to me. There were frequently people working out in jeans, and for the most part people just kind of minded their own business. I rarely ever saw the kind of person who "gets ready" to go work out. I hated that more than anything at the gym I belonged to before the Y. It was a snooty, snobby person’s club. I did NOT fit in there. I will never, for the life of me, understand how a woman can work out with her hair down wearing big hoop earrings and expect to get anything accomplished on the treadmill. Or why a ginormous muscle-head would toddle around a weight room flexing and drinking creatine. Don’t these people have jobs? I like to put on sweats and a tank, pop in my headphones, and stare blankly at an issue of People from September 2004 and then get home.

What I really need is to find someone who is less or equally as coordinated as me to take a kickboxing class together. Something about all that punching and kicking just really appeals to me. I have no doubt I could be good at that. Though, I also assume I’d be very good at break dancing, so who knows?

I just know that the winter doldrums are already kicking in, and my whole house is as cold as it is outside. So, I’m going to need to get out of here and get into a place where I can sweat my butt off. The question remains though: Is that place in my bed while I sleep, or in front of a punching bag? Please say bed, please say bed, please say bed….