I need to get out more

Warning: I may already be asleep as I'm writing this.

Here's a rough breakdown of my average day lately: roll out of bed at 7:45am wondering why the hell I'm awake, propel myself to work with caffeine, spend 8 to 10 hours smiling and nodding doing shit that no one else wants to do, jet to my evening box office job for 2 more hours of smiling and nodding, propel myself to the gym for as long as I can handle, get home around 11:00pm, eat cucumbers and tortilla chips and drink lots of gin, then finally collapse into bed. And then wake up and do it all over again. I'm starting to forget what day it is.

BUT, hallelujah, there is a moment of zen. OK, two moments if we count gin. Or three if we count sleeping on the subway. OK OK, but the TOP moment of zen is going to the gym. For reals. I know, I know, but I'm one of those weirdos who actually likes the gym, mainly because it gets out a lot of pent up aggression and gives me the illusion that I'm getting svelte. And and AND because... there are endless ridiculous music videos to watch.

That's right. I recently joined Crunch and, while at first I was mad that they don't have endless cable channels like my old YMCA, I have slowly become obsessed with their heavily curated music video channels. The top one by far is the "'80s Pop" channel. I can't tell you how many times "Nasty," "Forever Your Girl," and "The Metro" have powered me through a tough incline run. But then - oh wow - I saw the gem of them all yesterday: Sting's "We'll Be Together".

Oh crap, I don't know how to embed a video, but please please follow that link. It's amazing. Here's a screen capture teaser:

(PS: Kurt Cobain totally stole this look about 4 years later.)

The highlights:
- Sting wears a gigantic sweater with a picture of Olive Oyl on it.
- He plays a charmingly scruffy artist and faces off with a douchier version of himself for the affections of a lady who looks vaguely like Cate Blanchett.
- There are some amazing Paula Abdul-esque dance moves, including drunken-fight dancing. And chair dancing. And push-ups dancing. And chicken dancing. WIN.

WOW I need a social life. But don't you feel like having a dance-off now? I do. But I should probably try out this "sleep" thing instead.

**This just in: the more cultured and observant Andrea noticed that Sting's sweater does not have a picture of Olive Oyl, but TinTin. Either way... wish I had those knitting skills. Or any. I guess Drea wins a sticker or something. (4/2)

Aw shucks

Watch out internets: my friend Andrea has joined the blogosphere.

I'm sure I've mentioned her before - she's also known as Drea Drea, Dreaface, and Fancy Miss Sexypants (um... she doesn't know about that last one). I'm guessing fancymisssexypants.blogspot.com was taken, so you'll have to go to ohlordrun.blogspot.com instead. Go! Do it! I'm even adding her to my sidebar, that's how special she is.

I was going to announce her blog by jealously pointing out how often she writes (sometimes THREE times a DAY, people) and making up excuses for why I don't update often enough (I update Twitter instead! I'm working too much! I'm doing really important stuff!), but then I read this. She totally wrote precious compliments about my anti-social behavior! Awww, it feels so justified now!

Well, in return, Dreaface: I get totally baffled about all the people you know. You always have the perfect companion no matter what you're doing: brunching, biking, shopping, dancing, library-ing, sailing. Yeah, sure, sailing - you could even find an awesome sailor pal.

Yeah, sometimes it's great to do things by myself, but sometimes it's just as great when someone else is there to hang with you. I hestitate to invite people on my escapades because I often feel like my activities are too mundane or dorky. (Does someone want to come see a Czech movie and then go to Bed Bath & Beyond with me tomorrow? No? Really? You sure?)

So in summary: you're MY hero, Drea. Not only because of your vast social circle, but also because you know how to cut my bangs perfectly and you save all my drunken voicemails. If you ever do get a cat though, you better believe I will hide it in a coffee table.

Now: let's blog the shit out of this internet.