  One hit away from triple digits this month! Yee-haw, patrons! Took advantage of the quiet afternoon to catch up on the sleep I missed out on last night. That, and to avoid the defeat of being on vacation yet having no more than ten bucks to my name with which to have a good time and get out and do all those things Id responsibly avoided while being busy with my classes. Aching hands and chest, tears never far behind, I took my chances that by sleeping the day away Id feel somewhat better when I woke up. Maybe by sleeping more I can work out more.
Maybe I can turn this into an advantage and kick my ass into better shape. That or break myself in half searching for an endorphin high to overcome much more than a passing melancholy. So Im in the gym this morning. one of those days where youre so in the zone that an hour on the elliptical felt like five minutes, and if it werent for the fact that youve finished all the reading you brought and watching the telly on those little monitors would exhaust your patience more than the workout, youd be powering away until you pass out. Speaking of going champions-style, check this out  people are always leaving their CDs in the machines after their workouts, creating endless fun surfing through an unmarked burned creation. But what I found this time?
The fucking soundtrack to Rocky! Isnt that adorably pathetic? First of all that someone would buy the thing. Secondly, that after this many years since the movies came out and subsequent pop culture references to it have faded into obscurity heres some shameless dope that still finds the music inspiring. So swept up in imaginings of jogging through Philly punching at the air in a fabulous sweatsuit circa 1976, this guy left his precious CD in the machine. Now what?
Hum Survivors Eye of the Tiger to himself? Dude, I wasnt even born yet when that movie came out. Guess it is a slightly different demographic at Frogs in Encinitas than any one I can claim as my own. And to be fair, Ive been known to listen to my share of Heart and the like. Most are horrified to see what things Ive accumulated on my hard drive. Things far too awful to pay for.
So I walk into the locker room admiring the scenery once again, careful to look down so I dont trip over someones shit in the forest of discarded towels and makeup bags. Theres this woman talking about her kid (of course! What else would she be speaking about? ) and about getting him tested for admission to the GATE program in his elementary school. IQ tested, something that if he did well enough would allow him special schooling, bragging rights, all that good stuff. Hell, I remember taking mine vividly.
Not so much for the experience but for the result, the tricky dual-edged sword of having such a thing measured in what some believe to be a pretty reliable quantification. You dont take the test unless youre pretty sure youre not the average clown. Am I right? Even if you are pretty stupid, most people are inclined to think theyre sharper than the average Joe. But not everyone wants this kind of knowledge. For two reasons.
One, its about expectation. You fuck up on the test, and no one expects you to do much more than work on your hands and knees with elbow-length kitchen gloves for the rest of your life. On the other hand, if you do wonderfully, from then on youre destined to be a disappointment, never quite filling the shoes your parents so generously gave to you. (i haven't quite decided what happens to "normal" people) The next problem with knowing is about one-upping. Get a little self-inflated, and just remember that theres always going to be someone who dwarfs you in comparison, so its best to shut your mouth and act as if you dont have the information at all. When this stupid woman gleefully relayed the information that her little Johnny scored a, get this, a 120 on the test, eyes a-twinkle with good old fashioned Mom-pride, I couldnt help but smile smugly to myself and fantasize about pissing on her parade with my superiority.
Yet still, her announcement elicited the kind of praise that only a roomful of identity-dependent young mothers would give in the face of a situation where their childrens achievements seem to reflect on their own sense of self-worth. Ooohs and Ahhhs all around. I bit my tongue. 149 and I live at home. Nough said. But man, can I clean a toilet. 
