Hot tubs and (pl)anarchy

Planarchy. I've decided this is the perfect word to describe the juxtaposition of 1. how well organized I am when planning out my day and 2. how unruly and disruptive said day can be when he disregards all plans I have made for him.

I am quite the planner. I have approximately 12 stickynote to-do lists on my computer at any given time (each with its own category). I check my google calendar over and over and over again during the day and get a sense of satisfaction every time I add a new color-coded event. I usually have a pretty good idea of what I'm doing months in advance. The act of drafting out my day ahead of time, knowing whats coming next, planning it all out, makes me feel good. This, of course, also leads to a bad feeling every time the day doesn't follow the plan, which is of course all the time. 

Like today for instance. I had my day all planned out. 1. drive in the cold rain for an hour with barely functional windshield wipers while thinking about sitting in a  hot tub 2. Grade 90 exams confirming my student's complete lack of understanding of the Spanish language while wishing I was sitting in a hot tub 3. (the main event! the reward!) Go to the YMCA to workout, sit in the hot tub(!!!), and read my book.

You see I joined the YMCA fairly recently and did not hesitate for a second to pay the fancy price for access to the "ladies health club" which is essentially a slightly larger locker room with a hot tub and a tattooed lady that washes your towels for you. I go a few times a week, use the elliptical machine and lift a few weights, and then reward myself with a good, long soak. I usually wear my sports bra with some ugly, stretched out bathing suit bottom that's a bit too big for me, wrap a towel around my head, and read a few pages from some lady book that Oprah approves of. I don't really enjoy exercise like some people but if hot-tubbing were an olympic sport I would get all the damn medals. I can sit in one of those hot, bubbly, steamy, sweaty tanks of water for hours. Everybody else is like, "whew! I need a breather" as they get out to drink water. NOT ME.  I once opted out of a raging New Years Eve party because I knew there was a hot tub at the house I was staying at. I returned to the house alone and ended up at midnight, all by myself, drinking champagne and smoking a cigarette in my friend Claire's mother's hot tub. It actually felt very romantic.

My romantic partner, David, however, does not like hot tubs. He says they make him feel sick and he kinda sees them as giant, moist petri dishes full of flakes of skin and breeding bacteria. Someone once told me you can get herpes from public hot tubs. I can't be bothered.

This may be, however, why today, as I was describing my plan, David responded with "you're such a mom." I got mad and argued that me sitting in the hot tub should conjure up the image of a sexy party girl, like in a rap video, not of a "mom". David then started to rap (which he's actually quite good at) lyrics that went something like this: "Yeah baby, yeah, can't wait to go to the Y and get all fly with the ladies in the hot tub reading their novels".

Anyway, I got to the Y. I did my time on the elliptical. I lifted weights. I even did a few sit-ups. I went back to the locker room and changed into my saggy bathing suit bottom, gathered up my water bottle and my book. I grabbed a towel to wrap around my head. I went to the bathroom to make sure I wouldn't have to get out of the hot tub too soon. I was ready.

And the hot tub was "out of order due to maintenance." Planarchy, I tell you.

Anyway... thats the poopy scoop!