Heinous Weather.

This is a post about this heinous weather. Mainly because I'm freezing and mainly because my stories have been too embarrassing lately to post.

Let's start with all these guys walking around campus. Either they look like they're going to a picnic and the snow/wind/wet/freezing doesn't bother them, or they look like they are literally dying as they walk. I followed a group of guys out the door and when coatless guy #1 walked out he said, "Man, it feels good out here." His posse had the most hysterical looks. They looked like they were debating on if they should try to match his dumb macho attitude or rag on him for blatantly lying. They went with the first option. I silently went with the second.

Later, I passed a girl and she said to her friend, "I wish I didn't exist right now." Amen, is all I can say.

Walking back to my dorm was like debating on how I'd like to die. If I put my head down to block the wind I would inevitably run into something. Most likely an oncoming car. If I tried to speed walk, I'd slip. If I walked carefully aka slowly, I'd freeze to death. If I didn't go outside I wouldn't get to eat, so I'd starve to death. And that is NOT how I want to die.

I went with running into something then freezing to death. And now here I am, an hour after de-frosting. Telling you it's bad out there.

Stay warm.

Today I blushed.

In case you haven't hit up my About Me page, I hate blushing. With a passion. Here's what happens, I turn red not when I'm embarrassed, but when I start to worry if I'm going to blush...I know, it doesn't really make sense. Here's the deal, I'm not that easily embarrassed. However, blushing embarrasses me. And I blush a lot. I don't really know why I blush so much. All I know is that the minute I start feeling like my face is turning the shade of a flame, I lose all train of thought, any type of normalcy, any type of wit or humor and turn into this bumbling babbler who can't make sense of anything. It's awful. And people (and by people, I mean the male type of people) get the wrong idea. And my communication skills are just gone. Totally.

So, here's what happened today. I got a notice in my mailbox that I had a package (and may I just say that those little pink slips just make my life). So, I turned on my walking music, put in my purple earphones, and walked to the post office feeling legitimately like a superstar with the breeze in my hair, base turned waaaay up, and the gangster walk that probably looks ridiculous to those who can't hear the beat I'm walking to. I finally reached my destination. I turned off the music, opened the door and lo and behold, what is standing there?!? Guys. Problem number one...they're cute. Problem number two...they're well...guys. Somebody help me. My first thought was Crap, I'm gonna blush. I don't know why this popped in my head, but it did. Anyway, I tried my very stinking hardest to just walk up to the counter and not turn unnatural shades as I handed in my ticket to my package. (May I pause here and say I was FINE for a good minute.) The first guy tells me my package is the last one on the shelf today and my reply was that I was honored. And here comes the problem, another one of them actually tried communicate with me. He said, "But, are you really honored?" "Oh, of course," was my highly intelligent reply. Then the kicker comes, he smiles and says "Prove it."

I read in wikiHow once that if you take deep breaths you'll get more oxygen to your head and the red should go away, so I started trying to breathe as deep as possible cause there it went. Bye-bye to witty. The awful color, the blazing heat that attacks my face and makes my stinking brain stop. Never fear though, he didn't. He started giving a hilarious monologue of "I'd like to thank the people who were so kind to send me this package...and my mom..." By this point I was doing good to sign the little machine thing with the right name while still trying to remember how wikiHow said to breathe. All I could think was that my face was red. Really, really red. But, the frustrating and ridiculous part was that I wasn't even embarrassed about the situation. I was just embarrassed that I was blushing. I thought everything else was hilarious, but my dumb face didn't cooperate and I started sweating. And the only thing that came to mind that I finally mustered out was, "Well, as long as I have a disco ball." The first guy looked at me confused, "Someone sent you a disco ball?"

Oh gee, smart one Linds. I don't have a clue where in the confused world disco ball came from, but I looked at him (well, kinda him, slash the floor) and clarified, "No, I need the disco ball for my speech! No one sent me a disco ball. I need the disco ball for my speech to prove my honor...Duh." The duh must have come from my inner sixth grade self because I don't typically use those three letters to strangers. GOOD GRIEF. Thankfully, I think I left everyone in a state of confusion that I told myself it didn't really matter what my parting words were. I just grabbed my package and left. Still blushing.

You now have no more questions why I'm single.

The Problem with Nicholas Sparks (don't get me wrong though, I love this guy)

In case this isn't painfully obvious....I'm single.

I don't have a mile list of all the exciting dates I've been on. I've never been kissed on New Year's Eve. Or any other holiday for that matter. My hand is not attached to my phone because there's some adorable stud on the other end of cyberspace. Roses aren't waiting for me to get home. I've never been called "baby." I've never used that term either. Well, at least not with someone over the age of three.

You get the point here.

But, here's what I do know. Josh Duhamel exists. And because he does, us single girls have a major problem.

My friend and I went to see Safe Haven a couple weeks ago, and we walked out looking for any guy that looked like he could produce a canoe and bashfully invite us on a date to the nearest body of water that is magically unoccupied (except for birds) and then ask the clouds to let it rain. It worked for Safe Haven, and it worked for The Notebook. Let's be real here. There's a theme. Well, here comes the boom. There was no guy that looked like Josh Duhamel to whip out a canoe. Forget the canoe thing, there wasn't even a guy. The only ones we saw were the un-responsive ones being drug from the movie theater by their lovely girlfriends who had forced them through the lovey-dovey movie. Talk about depressing. For me and them.

So thank you Josh Duhamel for being adorably attractive and completely unrealistic. And Nicholas Sparks, thanks for getting me stuck on stupid canoes.

No Eye of the Tiger. What is wrong with this world.

I'm sore all over. Why? Because I tried kickboxing for the first time in my unathletic life. I had to walk up six flights of stairs today to get to class and I literally thought I was going to die. There were people behind me and I almost asked if they would mind simply catching me, but then I figured it'd be smarter to fall forward because I could at least catch myself with my hands, but then I remembered that my arms have been giving out recently because they too are stinking sore, so that would be dumb. Basically, I came to the conclusion that I should try my hardest not to fall because there was no good way to do it.

Back to kickboxing. Would you like to know the most depressing thing about that class? It was a great class, don't get me wrong, but let me tell you I was pretty disappointed because they didn't play the ultimate song. The one and only, "Eye of the Tiger." WHAT?!?! is probably what you're thinking right now. I know, everyone knows that's the universal song for motivation, especially in boxing. My poor soul sang that song in my head ALL DAY waiting for the moment when I would really be a boxer and then everything would be perfect as I expertly retracted my right arm and kicked focusing on my heel with "IT'S THE EYE OF THE TIGER, IT'S THE THRILL OF THE FIGHT" playing inspirationally in the background (the caps lock meant I was belting it out...well, in my head). This didn't happen.

Instead, I couldn't hold the dumb plank stretch for 30 seconds and some song I didn't know was playing. Disappointing. However, I am consoling myself with the fact that I have ran up those stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art where good ole' Rocky ran. That should be enough.

So no worries. I'll go back to boxing class next Thursday and have a grand ole time sweating and singing in my head. If you ever get the chance to take one of these classes, you really should. Minus the music catastrophe and the soreness, it was great.