The Life of Pie

I’ve been eating so much pie I’m turning into one. In many ways it’s the perfect food-equivalent of fall: flaky as the autumn leaves, sweet with fruits of the harvest, spiced like the slight smoky musk in the air, and assembled with the unceremonious blorp of the pile of garbage I feel like after stuffing my piggy face.

In other news, I’ve recently started a half-assed routine of taking my exercise at the gymnasium. I got a membership at In Motion, bought a collection of skin tight lycra blends and boob-torturing sports bras, a pair of really fast looking reflective sneakers, and a fancypants bicep phone holder. I feel pretty proactive toward my health after throwing all that money at it, so I’m going to reward myself with MOAR PIE!!!!

Really though, the gym is going to take some getting used to. For one thing it’s enormous, which can be a little intimidating for me (that’s what she said). There’s also overcoming the social anxiety of being the noob in a place packed with what I can only assume are professional weight lifters and treadmill runners. My greatest fear is sidling up next to one of them all suave-like, and somehow pulling the lever that causes the machine to transform into a rampaging robot that tears everyone limb from limb. It’s the second most common cause of injury in gyms, behind tripping over your own feet and knocking over every machine in the place like a set of giant dominoes.

So far the worst thing to happen has just been accidental eye contact. I like to stare at people, which usually isn’t a problem because everybody but me tends to mind their own business, but once in a while there’s that super awkward moment of eye-lock. I never know what to do when that happens. Part of me is like, “what kind of an asshole perv stares at people while they’re working out rhythmically in slinky painted-on outfits?”, and then I’m like, “Oh yeah — that’s what I’m doing.” The unwritten rule (up until now, since I’m writing it down) seems to be looking away with quiet acknowledgement that we are both dirtbags.

Tags: , ,

Managing Editor for Synthesis Weekly. Amy likes to make clothes, plant flowers, and chase butterflies.