There Ain't Cure for Love. And That's Okay.

"There ain't no cure for love."
-- Leonard Cohen

The lament is gone.

My love isn't. I'm still smitten when we're together and, at least at the moment of separation, heartbroken down to my bones when we part - if anything, the love of you that fills my throat is richer and more complex.

But nonetheless, the lament is gone. The keen and the protest are done. In short, I give up. You are not mine. I don't know that you love me. I do know that you certainly love someone else. It doesn't change my feelings and they still don't matter. I should love who I'm with. Accept it all or go mad.

At long last, I have.

I'm the Woman Over There in the Corner, Pinned Under a 15lb Dumbbell.

I am not a gym bunny. I'm more of a "library bunny" or a "cocktail bunny." Nonetheless, I get uneasy once my hips start pinballing off of door frames and furniture edges that they used to glide past. I don't need to wear a size 4, but I do need to not, well, ooze.

I had to get back to the gym - but not my old gym, the inexpensive but overcrowded Bally's, no, no. My NEW gym, the self-proclaimed "mecca of bodybuilding," Gold's Gym in Venice.

Wait, what? Me? Gold's? That woman over there on the left works out at Golds. I, Library Cocktail Bunny, do not. Except that my gym bunny boyfriend Aurelio trains there & we've decided to start working out together. Aurelio is an unfailingly consistent, conscientious person - sometimes to my dismay, though usually to my benefit - and short of hospitalization, he trains three times a week. Mondays are leg day, Thursdays, back, shoulders & biceps, while Sundays are chest and triceps. And don't forget the thirty minutes of cardio each time.

I have to tell you, I was not thrilled to be doing this initially. I didn't want to spend twice as much on a weight-lifting gym membership (to Hell with strong, give me skinny!) nor did I relish working out in the company of big burly types as they strutted in singlets and grunted over stacks of weight plates. I was also certain that decidedly squishy me would be terribly out of place there, amidst the oiled muscles and fake breasts. And to some extent I am, though I'm not alone. Sure, there's a high quotient of thick-necked "supplement" fiends (male AND female), not to mention the more mortally proportioned exhibitionists who prance & pose in workout garb that's coordinated right down to their shoelaces - but therein lies the fun! Forget the muted televisions, there's a parade of Venice Beach characters who give the Average Joes something to watch while laboring under our modest dumbbells. Juice or no juice? Pre- or post-op? Gigolo or trustafarian? The people watching is top notch.

A month into things, I've come around to weight lifting (though my triceps are taking some cajoling) and I kind of like the gym bunnies. They're generally either oblivious or actually friendly - my favorite person is a tiny lady in her sixties who lifts 90lbs with EACH leg on the incline leg press. The occasional celebrity wanders in (including a barefoot and dazed Luke Wilson about a week before his suicide attempt) and you can't beat the ocean breeze through the big roll up doors out back. Now if only they had a post-workout cocktail bar and a library...

Blog as Phoenix

I've decided to start blogging again - not for my broad readership of one or two people (including myself) but for the relative formality. And the cumulative effect of seeing ones writings pile up on the virtual page.

There are a few bits of writing I'd like to salvage from an old blog, and I think perhaps I'll begin working on my long dormant writing project.