You know what I do that grosses even ME out? I crack my back. And my neck. And my wrists and ankles and knuckles. When I say it grosses me out, I mean it makes me think, "OH MY GOD the human body should never, ever make that noise." It doesn't make me want to vomit or anything, but I can't vouch for the people around me who hear all the cracking of my bones. Sometimes after I crack my back, I'm surprised to find I have not paralyzed myself. True story.
Last night, I made myself go to the gym. I really did have to make myself. There I was, slouched on the couch watching my fourth episode of Friends, twirling my hair, with my mouth hanging open in an oh-so-intelligent fashion, having the following conversation with myself:
"Go to the gym. No. Go. I don't want to! Go. But this is a really funny episode! So go after this episode. But the next one is the one with the nap partners! I don't care. This is unfair. I know. You don't care about me. I DO care about you, that is why I want you to go to the gym. Whatever. JENNIFER LYNN YOU GET OFF YOUR LAZY ASS RIGHT NOW AND GO TO THE GYM."
That is essentially exactly the way it happened. Then I did the elliptical for so long that I thought my legs were going to fall off. You know that part in Bridget Jones's Diary (the movie) where she's riding the exercise bike and she falls over when she gets off? That's what I felt like. I didn't fall over, though. Good story, right? Want me to tell it again? Because I can and will.
Wanna hear something weird? Too bad. I have to eat my lunch in the same order every day. Granted, this is only if I'm EATING the same thing every day but I usually do. You may assume from my exciting adventures on this blog that my life is a crazy whirligig of fun, but it's not. It's very boring. That's entirely not true. Interesting stuff happens to me all the time. It's just that I am boring. Usually for lunch I have carrot sticks, a turkey sandwich, pretzels, and a snack pack. And that is the order in which I have to eat it, too. I don't know why. Also, I have to cut my sandwich is unequal halves so I know which one to eat first. Because I like to eat the smaller one first. Again, I don't know why. Oh, and another thing? (God, Jennie, stop talking) When I'm eating pretzels or chips or something, I have to eat the broken ones first. I mean, I don't HAVE to. It's not like if I accidentally eat a non-broken one before all the broken ones are gone I have to throw it all up and start over again. But I PREFER to eat the broken ones first. This is all leading me to believe that I am slowly turning into my father, who has to make his sandwiches in a specific order and if he doesn't he sits there and says, "Oh no, I put the cheese in the wrong place. This sandwich is ruined." True story.
Let's see, what else, since I'm letting all my crazy hang out today. A little while ago I was trying to calculate how much of my life I have devoted to Pride & Prejudice. There's the book, which I've read at least five times. The six-hour miniseries, which I'm going to estimate I've seen at least ten times, probably more but who can keep track of that sort of thing? The new movie I've seen about six times, I think? Also, I have seen Bridget Jones's Diary approximately 87.5 times and since that is BASED on Pride & Prejudice, I think it counts. Better throw the book version on the pile, too, because I've read that, um, a lot of times. Then there's this book, which I've read twice. Then there was that time I devoted quite a few hours to developing my theory that all men can be placed into one of three categories: Mr. Darcys, Mr. Collinses, and Mr. Wickams. I think that should be updated, though, because how could I have left out Mr. Bingley and Mr. Bennet? Although, you could argue that Mr. Bingley is a Mr. Darcy, at least to Jane, and OH MY GOD here it goes again. Anyway. There's also all that time I've spent TALKING about Pride & Prejudice. Like when Amy and I got really drunk freshman year and there was a fire drill and we had to go sit outside until they let us back in? But the head RA or whatever he was called was standing by the elevator and we were scared we'd get in trouble, so instead of, I don't know, taking the stairs (although that would have been a loooong walk up those 10 flights of stairs), we veered into the bathroom where we spent at least an hour sitting on the counter talking about why Mr. Darcy was the perfect man.
Oh, and we can't forget the blogging about it. Or the writing of papers about it (I can't find a link for that, but I know I wrote at least two papers in college). Or the designing of t-shirts inspired by it. And yet, I can still never remember if it's spelled "Bennet" or "Bennett." I think I need professional help, but it's so expensive. I'm going to stop now. OK, bye!
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