Western Electric. 1974.

That top photo is giving me a panic attack.

How to be a theater person:

1. Repeatedly check your score and sing along with the cast recording to memorize your music for a show as you fold and put away three weeks of unfolded laundry.
2. Have three weeks of unfolded laundry because you’ve been in another show.
3. Stumble on your souvenir tearaway thong and souvenir backup tearaway thong from said previous show as you’re folding all that (clean! I swear!) laundry.
4. Instead of figuring out where the hell to put your souvenir tearaway thong and souvenir backup tearaway thong (DAMNIT, AUTOCORRECT! Not once in the last four tries have I intended to type thing!), artfully arrange them with the score of your new show on a bed of unmatched socks to post them dramatically but tastefully on Facebook.
5. Panic that you’ve already forgotten all the music you’ve reviewed and learned as you’ve folded and put away. Because your mind is clearly too busy trying to figure out where to put your souvenir things.

Second day. More advanced.

When Rob and I met Monday morning for our first-ever chest workout together at my new (but his old) gym, we quickly managed—despite our Don’t-Strain-Yourself Barbie(R) weights—to savagely rip our moobs from their moorings, force them mercilessly into a wood chipper, and spend the next 48 hours woefully unable to punch Nazis. Which is gymbro talk for “we had a good workout.”

I came back tonight fired up to show the same unholy cruelty to my back, biceps and babdominals (alliteration runs rampant!), and now that the carnage is over I’m typing this as fast as I can before the rigor sets in.

The good news: I’m pretty sure I’ll be unable to roll over in my sleep tonight.

The other good news: Nobody will be able to steal my wallet from my locker.

The reason for this jarring non sequitur: I discovered that I didn’t have it with me at Target on my way to the gym tonight. As an impatient line of people waited behind me and the cashier had to call for help canceling all the purchases she’d rung up and I sweated bullets mentally retracing my every step over the last 17 years to see if I could remember where I might have lost it.

The good news: I called my folks and they found it on my bedroom floor.

The bad news: I didn’t get to buy those super-cute track pants I’d found.

The second non sequitur in this rambling post: WHY ARE ALL THE GUYS AT THIS GYM SO HOT? And why won’t any of them volunteer to come roll me over in my sleep tonight after the rigor sets in?