There was a staff picture today at work. It was emailed to everyone. It wasn’t my prettiest day. Ill-fitting clothes, dough-white legs, dried strawberry smoothie in my hair that I wouldn’t find until about 4:30. The smoothie didn’t show up in the photo, but the ill-fitting skirt really, uh, highlighted the ole midsection.
Reminding me why I’ve been getting up at 5:30 and doing a kickboxing workout video* in my garage for the past week. And damn, am I uncoordinated. But I’m doing it alone, before anyone is stirring, and when that little muscle-bound Australian smiles at me from the screen and says, “Yew deed grite!” I’m all like “F-YEAH I DID EFFING GREAT” and my mornings start to feel a little bouncier. Hopefully my midsection will soon feel less so.
And now, the story you’ve been waiting for
I’ve started buying dried beans instead of canned. And when you eat as many beans as I do, that’s actually worth mentioning. The thing is that I’ve been buying them, but usually bail out or plan poorly and turn to a can in a pinch. I finally had the foresight to soak 2 cups of black beans all day yesterday only to realize as I started dinner that I was looking at another couple of hours to COOK the damn things. I ended up going to Ghetto Grocery (which smelled suspiciously pukey) for a can of beans, and all told, the big pot of beans caught up with the pot of canned beans and they all finished cooking at the same time, which is to say that I have a veritable shitload of black beans in my refrigerator. And which is also to say that while you may pay half as much for dried beans, they’re going to require a nice, clear page in your planner.
* I let A. preview the kickboxing video with me. The line I hear about a hundred times a day, in an exaggerated Australian accent? “Yer riddy feh anything. Lit’s jump some raope!”