Darkness

You know that song “Hey There, Delilah” that everyone, including my husband, loves? It makes me want to poke my eyes out with pointy objects just to get to an emergency room, where, for the love of all that is holy, they will not be playing that godforsaken song, and I can get new eyeballs in peace. What is it about the whiny teenage boy-sounding voice with pseudo-deep lyrics that has everyone so entranced all the time? How is it that this song has made it this far?

It’s as mystifying and upsetting as the very existence of Conor Oberst, but not QUITE as disturbing as the song “Face Down,” which is upsetting mostly because Jesus, honestly, I don’t buy it for a second, and that kind of insincerity really gets under my toenails. As abhorrent as domestic violence is, I can’t help but feel like this is the kind of song that dudes write to get chicks, because they’re so sensitive, although I’ll give them credit for artfully blending lyrics that feature both domestic violence and jerking off. That’s a worthy challenge.

And in other news, I have been mysteriously felled by shin splints, despite … well, despite doing everything right, according to every flipping running textbook. I stretch my face off, wear orthotics, don’t overtrain and … well, I don’t know, but I do know that I’m taking tomorrow off, and I welcome any suggestions, because I’m telling you, I haven’t done anything screwy! I haven’t! Except I’m resting, because the last time I got shin splints, I got a stress fracture, and boy howdy, if that wasn’t a bowl of cherries.

And I hate this, because I hate not be able to run and I hate that I’ve become one of Those People who hates not being to run. I’m not sure which is worse. Since one enables me to eat Turtle Chex Mix (salty AND sweet! Have you tried it?) while still losing weight, I’m opting for the former. I am That Person.

I am also That Person who tripped and fell into a fire ant mound last night while her dog ran circles around her in some sort of wild panic brought on by a skateboard, and if the fire ants weren’t enough — and dog owners will know what I mean here — her retractable leash wrapped around my bare be-skirted legs and sliced into my calves like a wire cheese slicer.

But back to the fire ants: oh my GAWD, y’all, I’ve been stung on a one-off basis before, but an entire mound is … well, it’s something hideous, is what it is, and my ankles look like the before photos of a ProActiv commercial, only this isn’t something Guthy-Renker can fix, no matter HOW pointy Katie Rodan’s chin is (seriously, can that thing cut meat, or what?) (Or am I the only one who is periodically transfixed by the informercials and Diddy’s appearance in them?)

And with that, it’s 9:45, which is inching dangerously close to past my bedtime, which is frightening on so many levels, not the least of which is that I’m totally getting up at 6 tomorrow, but since I’m not running, what the hell am I going to do with myself in the dark?

Also, special bonus question at the end!

Happy Tuesday!

***Peter Gabriel. Honestly, I’ve thought about this way too much, because I adore him in a slightly irrational manner, and today while driving to work, I was listening to Up and wondering really, what would I do if I ever ran into him? I considered this especially after reading about some celebrity encounters from Sundry’s commenters. My current celeb encounters are rather lame, and I’ve never met anyone who really made me swoon, nor could I think of anyone who WOULD make me swoon.

Except for Peter Gabriel. With him, I’m pretty sure the sad answer is that I would very likely fawn all over him and cry and become incoherent. No no, I would totally cry, because dude, I love him, and he’s a genius, and god, have you heard I Grieve? Here Comes the Flood? Family Snapshot? JESUS. And suddenly, all of those fainting Beatles fans made sense, because fainting is also a likely possibility. And there have been times that I’ve been frightened that something will happen to him before he puts out another album, and God, for there to be a definite end to his music would crush me.

That’s, um, rational. And right now, a team of Peter Gabriel’s protectors are drawing up the restraining order.

And so, I ask you, if you’ve made it this far, is there any celebrity you would faint/fawn over/otherwise humiliate and/or prostrate yourself in front of? Inquiring minds want to know.

40 comments August 20th, 2007