Backstreet's Back

Don't call it a comeback. 

I recently watched "Fleishman is in Trouble" on Hulu and it's probably one of the most thought-provoking shows I've watched in a while. The gist: There are two characters going through a divorce, so the husband revisits past moments from the relationship and how it has evolved over time. I feel like a lot of series' have attempted examining divorces and relationships in the past, but this was done in a really witty, emotional and introspective way -- so much so, that after each episode, Eric and I would stop and talk about our marriage, how it's changed and what's missing. 

 Anyway, the reason I'm bringing up the show is because one of the contributing reasons for the characters' divorce is that the wife feels like she has lost herself over time -- through a terrible pregnancy experience, a disconnection from the priorities of her marriage, and the constant caretaking cycle of kids -- and she's become a shell of the person she was in the past. After watching the series finale, Eric turned to me to say, "I don't want to get divorced. How can we get you back to who you were?" 

 A few days later, I was still thinking about that question, and I went to Facebook/Instagram to look at some of the pictures from when I was 'peak-Amara' in my 20s and early 30s, and then I remembered this blog. It took quite a bit of internet sleuthing to figure out the name of this site, as well as my username and password. But in the 'peak-Amara' era, I was an internet-detective-extraordinaire, so I resurrected those skills for this new life purpose (i.e., not stalking exes, girls I was incredibly jealous of, or potential dates for my friends). 

 As I re-read these blog entries, I was like "wow, I was so fun and funny. I don't even remember that me anymore." So I made it my resolution to restart my blog (Note: This is NOT a new years resolution. Per my earlier blog post, I still agree with my 20-something year old self that new years resolutions are for the birds). 

 As if that wasn't enough of a sign to restart my blog -- in the past 7 days, I have had my neighbor accused of being a rapist, relived childhood trauma during my son's "Family Share" day and was asked to do coke in the bathroom of a bar at a fellow parent's birthday party. So I have plenty of material for the next few weeks. 

Look out - Backstreet's Back.

P.S. Just a quick disclaimer -- A lot has changed since I was in my late 20s, but I don't know how to change my profile on this thing.  I am NOT socially liberal and fiscally conservative.  I am just liberal.  That was a misinformed and embarrassing political view of my 20s that I no longer am aligned to. The rest is legit. Oh minus, I am also not an engineer anymore.

Maturity at its finest.

Miriam and I usually have our most meaningful conversations pre-9am (and if you know either of our schedules, you are well aware that we have both been awake for at least three hours by this point, even on a Saturday). So, a few weekends ago, around 8am on a Saturday, we were discussing the reckless things we used to do when we were in college – things that we would be disgusted and unable to do at our now, significantly more ‘mature’ age.

Reckless Example #1: Using the Rinse Cup at a frat house’s beer pong table.

If you have ever been to a frat party in college, you are well aware of the communal beer pong tables that you use.  As if being present in a frat basement isn’t disgusting enough, now add on the fact that you are playing beer pong at a table where about seventy people you may (but most likely do not) know have played before you.  Your ‘rinse’ cup, which is supposed to contain clean water to rinse your ball off when it rolls off the table and around on the atrocious floor of the basement of the frat house, is most likely vomit-worthy. If you look into the cup, there are dust balls and miscellaneous solids, probably fecal bacteria and a lone strand of hair (or two) floating around inside. And yet, without fail, you dip your ball into the rinse cup to ‘clean’ it off.  The ball subsequently falls into your beer a few moments later, and you then chug the components of your cup without a care in the world.

Reckless Example #2: Running to a frat party in the middle of January in a wife beater, denim skirt and flip flops.

Not to say that the aforementioned outfit itself is not atrocious enough to outgrow at our ‘mature’ age, but the thought of running from the dorms to a frat party wearing close to nothing in the winter, makes me want to die as I now approach thirty.  I’m not going to lie, I remember why we did this. It was to prevent ourselves from having to throw our only winter coat into some nondescript pile on some bacteria-ridden couch in the frat house, only to never see it again after that moment. So we decided it was a much better option to chance pneumonia and frostbite and then trooped onwards through our college career in our flip flops and wifebeaters.

So, as Miriam and I discuss these embarrassing examples of ‘immaturity,’ we fail to remember what we had done just that night before.

Flashback to Friday night.

We are on a Santa Bar Crawl. Dressed as [extremely attractive] zombie Santas (obviously). And several shots, a bottle of champagne and a few mixed drinks later, we end up at a dive bar where we proceed to order some combination of cheese fries and buffalo wings.  Sitting next to us, is a random group of people also at a table with food.  We were instantaneously drawn to a specific condiment that came with their food order –something that looked like a cross between duck or sweet and sour sauce, but with lots of garlic. And so we asked to try it because of how incredible it looked. But what’s worse, is that we didn’t ask to just try it. We asked if we could pour some of their condiments into our tequila shots.  They agreed and we took this shot. Let me reiterate: We poured random people’s USED condiments into our shots and took them. And just the next morning, we are discussing how we would never do the things we used to do in college.

Sometimes I think I am a lot more mature than I actually am.

Starting again.

Blogging is for the birds.

I suck at it. I can’t consistently write in this for the life of me. I’ve been spending my weekday evenings reading and working out and whatever time is left, has been sucked out by winter time television.  So now that I’ve officially been unimpressed by this season’s creativity [Dear Homeland Writers - Seriously. Wtf.  Zooey Deschanel - please let New Girl die this season. Just kill off your character, and while you’re at it, Nick’s character too. Winston and Schmidt - please create your own spin-off. Something about an Ebony/Ivory Version of Single Men in the City and perhaps I will watch. Mindy Kaling, you are the sole carrier of network television.  Ok I’m done with this sidebar for now.], maybe I can finally start writing again. Just maybe.

I’ve done some local traveling, but I feel like local traveling isn’t much to blog about. I spent a few days eating Mexican in Dallas in March, wings in Buffalo in April and crabcakes in Baltimore on Memorial Day weekend.  And while all of those experiences were nothing less than enjoyable, there also wasn’t a whole lot to talk about.  Oh, and I also went to London in August, but going to London is just like going to New York City for me. It’s fun for new-timers and to see people I love, but after a while, it’s just another city. But on a more positive note, I booked a trip to Cabo in February, so I have something new at least to look forward to! Woop woop!

I guess what I have been doing lately is trying a bunch of fitness classes to help change up my work outs.  Last year, I pretty much spent all year running and doing little to no strength training (i.e. no strength training).  So this year, Kendall and I joined a yoga studio, a pole dancing studio, I started salsa dancing again last fall and then I kept up with my regular dance classes. The personalities that different teachers of different fitness forms develop amazes me and I wonder if it’s really their personalities that push them into these specific activities or the activities that make them develop these personas (the chicken and the egg phenomenon of twenty-first century fitness trends, so to speak).

Yoga teachers, for example, all have the same soothing, soft-spoken voice where anthropomorphic metaphors just roll off their tongues as easily as everyday conversation. “Imagine your sits bones rooting firmly into the ground like a tree roots to the earth and open your chest and sit up tall as you envision each tree growing taller and yet remaining just as strong with its roots planted so firmly in the ground.”  “As you flow from your cat to your cow positions, inhale and exhale slowly and deeply, while imagining the gentle formation of a wave in the ocean during your inhale and then the strong release as the wave breaks into the ocean during your exhale.” These metaphors baffle me. Like it took me probably a good five minutes of typing and erasing and re-typing to even come up with the past two, let alone 75 minutes worth of unique metaphors in each class. I would love to sit through a yogi training course so I could see if calming anthropomorphic speak is part of the curriculum. Or maybe I just need to re-watch the “Pray” part of Eat, Pray, Love.

And then, take our pole dancing class instructor. As Kendall and I are squirming and cringing in pain while trying to use every muscle in our thighs to hold ourselves up on the pole, our teacher is laughing and shouting “If you want to get better, there’s going to be much more that burns than those thighs!” Touché, pole instructor lady, touché.  And then of course there are the normal descriptions of how much skin needs to be exposed to maintain a better grip and which body parts are to be in constant contact with the pole, which confirms my need to take an extra few alcohol wipes before each class to thoroughly wipe down the equipment.

So I’ve been working very hard (between several bouts of tonsillitis) psychoanalyzing these teachers, while also trying to lose my last few pounds and I’m at this party last month where this [extremely skinny] girl was telling a group of people that she’s scared to join the gym because she’s nervous that she’s going to lose more weight.  Woe is me. At which point, I wanted to shove a bag of snickers bars through an IV into her. If someone can just pay for some liposuction for me before November 29^th, 2014 to make my weight loss as easy as hers, I would greatly appreciate it. Please and thank you.

Dear Kanye West

I wrote this letter to Kanye West back in 2010, and Julie resurrected it for me from her old email inbox so I feel like although I haven’t been writing in this much lately, this is definitely worth a blog entry. So without further adieu, here is the email I wrote to Julie on March 4^th, 2010:

----

So I'm driving into work today.. And I was listening to that Beyonce & Kanye West song "Ego," which was on the radio. And in Kanye's lyrics he says something like how his rap lyrics are explosive and how he spits so much propane that he's what's raising the gas prices. So, I decided I am going to write him a letter…. 

Dear Kanye West, 

As an oil enthusiast, I would like to let you know that your lyrics don't make any sense.

Number One: First of all, if you increased the supply of any commodity (e.g. propane) by as much as you claim you do, you would actually lower the prices, not raise them. Basic law of economics.

Number Two: Propane is not a constituent of gasoline; it is way too light and would throw the vapor pressure of gasoline off-spec. Butane is the lightest component of gasoline. Basic law of oil refining.

In the future, please be mindful of the accuracy of your lyrics.

Sincerely,
Amara Sriranganathan,
Hip Hop Groupie/Oil Refining Extraordinaire

Final Destination.

I think I’m going to change the theme of my blog to ‘The trials and tribulations of an-above-average-BMI female.” Very Mindy Kaling-esque.

The most ridiculous events happen to me when I’m trying to eat healthy. Ok, yes, the cupcake/macaroon fiasco of the past week was probably more of my own doing, but I swear there are external factors or should I say, the universe’s influence, that also contribute to my difficulty in maintaining a good diet/exercise program. And last night was proof.

So I’m sitting normally at my desk at work, successfully having only eaten 600 calories as of 5pm, and having more than enough calories left for my dinner because I am doing great at my calorie-counting, exercising, etc for the day. And then my phone rings. It is a delivery guy saying he has food outside. So I was like “Sorry, Sir, you have the wrong number.” He hangs up. My phone rings thirty seconds later. I answer. “You have food outside.” Again, “I’m sorry, you still have the wrong number.” And then he’s like, “Are you Amara?”

…

Uh, yes.

“Do you live on [he says my address]?”

Yea…

“There is a large pepperoni pizza here for you.”

I’m at work. I didn’t order this.

“Maybe someone at your apartment ordered it?”

No, I live alone.

“Well, it’s already paid for.”

Well, I’m not home to get it. I don’t understand how this happened.

“I don’t know, miss. I’ll bring it back to the pizzeria and figure out what’s going on.”

So then the pizzeria calls me.

Well, apparently, their computer system somehow magically generated an order for me since I was a former customer. A large pepperoni pizza actually. And they told me that the pizza was available for pick-up free-of-charge if I was so inclined to pick it up after work.

Like WHY does this happen!?

Of all their customers in Center City Philadelphia, how and why did they pick me?! It's like there is some radar that exists to find my weaknesses and subtly exploit them to make me fail.

It's like not only do I get magic free delivery, but also, this mysterious computer decides that the perfect order for someone who is trying oh-so-hard to lose just five more pounds is obviously, a large pepperoni pizza?! If this Higher Power wanted to make life just a little better for me, why would he/she/it not have delivered a side garden salad (ew, gross) and a diet coke to my door? Or maybe a gift certificate for some lipo.

It’s like I can’t anymore. I give up. I can’t fight destiny. 

This is some Final Destination ish.

I am meant to forever be an above-average BMI female. I'm just going to eat a cupcake and a macaroon, oh, and my large pepperoni pizza, and call it a day.

Hey Universe, you win.

Like A Crack Addict.

I am out of control. I’m like a crack addict. Or a dessert addict rather.

I’m not proud of this story, but I feel like I must share it for the sheer ridiculousness of it.

So beginning January 1^st, a coworker and I decided we were going to eat healthy [see post on ineffective New Year’s Resolutions below] because she is getting married in the fall and I am in a “Boys Don’t Like Fat Girls” weight loss competition to shed a few extra pounds from the holidays.  Well, she is a LOT better at this weight loss thing than I am. She always eats healthy, works out routinely, etc. Whereas, I NEED a cookie, a piece of cake or chocolate on a daily basis [I’ve blogged about this in the past before too]. And whenever I consume such things, I get a disapproving look or a shake of the head from her, which makes me feel guilty, especially because she always has the willpower to withhold from such amazingness. We also take lunch walks every day together so we’re not just confined to our desks and get some exercise.  But lunch walks in the city are awful for weight loss - smelling delicious things, walking past bakeries and ice cream shops and street vendors making gyros and all kinds of yummy goodness, KILLS ME.

So today on such a walk, the smells of lunch time in the city, made me REALLY not look forward to my cold hummus and cucumber flatbread sandwich and orange I had packed for lunch. I, therefore, decided to engage in a little white lie so that we could make an impromptu stop during the walk.

Ok, so I told her I had to get a cupcake for my friend’s birthday today. Except I don’t really have a friend whose birthday is today. It was mainly because I really wanted a cupcake. So we walked into a French Patisserie; I didn’t think they had cupcakes, but I always wanted to see the inside of this place… and then I find out they have French macaroons, which are my absolute FAVORITE dessert!!!  I was like crap, I HAVE to get two macaroons [pistachio and red velvet] because they are my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE, but I already told my coworker I had to get a cupcake for a ‘friend’s’ birthday.  So I bought my macaroons and we went onwards to Crumbs for a cupcake. I’m already kinda mad at myself for not having the willpower to hold off on the macaroons since I was already getting the cupcake.  But, my coworker suggests I get the ‘birthday cake’ cupcake for my friend since we don’t know what ‘she’ really likes [except that I do know that she does not like chocolate cake, only yellow cake], so I reluctantly agree on the ‘birthday cake’ funfetti cupcake…. And I bring it up to the register and the lady asks me if I would like a candle. My coworker is like “You should get a candle, that’s cute!” So I get a birthday cake cupcake with a candle.

For myself.

Oh, and two macaroons.

Now I’m walking back to my desk and contemplating how I can possibly eat this cupcake without my coworker walking by my desk and seeing it. And then turning an awkward situation into a MUCH more awkward one.

So I told Valerie this story, of course. She cracks up, tells me she can’t talk to me anymore and that I’m ridiculous. We forget about it and she proceeds to tell me a crazy story, to which this happens:

me:  LOLOL

you are out of control

i cant be your friend anymore.

Valerie:  umm...scroll up and re-read ur insanity

u lied to a co-worker

made up a friend

made up a friend's bday

lied to a shop owner

purchased a cupcake w/ a candle

and will eat it in SECRECY

not even the same level

I seriously have problems. I can’t even.

To quote Harvard Sailing Team [FYI - YouTube the video ‘Boys Will Be Girls’], “I love myself and I hate myself. But my diet starts tomorrow.”