I love the way groups of friends create their own lexicon.
If you are friends with a particular group of people for a long enough time,
you will most likely have inside jokes that just become part of your day-to-day
terminology. For my friends, one of those terms was invented while on a weekend
long trip to see a Red Sox vs Mariners series in Seattle circa 2004. We had
arrived at the Renaissance hotel in Seattle on Thursday evening for what would
prove to be 72 hours of nonstop drinking and exploring. When I say “nonstop”, I
fucking mean it. I woke Friday morning at 8 am to one of my friends, still
dripping wet from his shower, doing naked jumping jacks on my bed. This trip
was akin to “liver crossfit”.
Usually we tend to be a loving group. We drink, and flirt
with each other, and we will inevitably end at least one evening with a drunken
declaration of our love for each other.
This trip was a bit different. The previous weekend two of the people on
the trip had been involved in an incident at a bar in LA. Friend 1 (We will
call him “DJ”) felt that friend 2 (we will call him “Twah”) could have avoided
the melee had he just kept his drunken mouth shut. Therefore, we spent the
first 24 hours of the trip listening to these two idiots bicker. DJ was not himself. He could not be subdued.
Also, while on this trip, we kept running into this one
group of women. We saw them at the hotel, at two of the bars we went to, as
well as at the restaurant we went to for breakfast. They were easy to pick out,
because they all three had matching red jackets with “Canada” on the front. It
was a running joke that every bar we went to, we would be on the lookout for
our Canuck stalkers.
By the time we were headed to Saturday evening’s game, we
were a wreck. We had spent 48 hours trying to create a gin shortage in Seattle.
We had to be on the buddy system. If we realized one of us had been gone long
enough, we had to make sure a search party went out to track him down. Sure
enough, with in the first two innings, Twah was nowhere to be found. I got up
and started to roam the stadium, before I found him standing by concession
stand working his way through a drink. As I wandered over to wrangle him in,
Twah and I both saw our red jacketed friends from the north, and without saying
a word we walked over to see them. Twah being the only single guy in the group,
I knew he would need my help as his wingman. The only issue being, that as we
walked up to the group of women, DJ happened to wander up as well. And he the
look of bad intentions all over his face.
We began the conversation the way these conversations always
begin. We did our best to present a series of worthless statements in as
charming a way as possible, and they did their best to humor us and not roll
their eyes at the drunken onslaught. This time was a bit different though. The
women were chuckling, and seemed genuinely engaged. Twah was making real
headway. The only problem was, I could see an inverse relationship between how
happy these women were that Twah was being so charming, and how angry DJ was
that Twah was having success. As the conversation went on and on, I could see
DJ becoming saltier and saltier. His comments were matching his disgust. I knew
we were heading for an ordeal. At some point Twah asked the women “whats up
with the matching “Canada” jackets”. They told us that they are from Canada, and
had been on a trip across the western part of the country, before coming to
Seattle. Seeing as how it was summer, they hadn’t thought to bring jackets, but
with Vancouver BC and Seattle both being next to bodies of water, they found
that the evenings were chilly, and when they bought jackets they thought it was
funny to buy matching touristy jackets. “Oh you are from Canada” DJ inquired, “Where
about”. When they answered “Regina”... a quiet calm fell over the crowd. I
looked at DJ thinking he would make some sort of lazy “bro dude” play on the
fact that Regina-Vagina sound so much alike. While I had applied all of my will
into silencing D in order to not block Twah’s efforts at fleeting affection
that night, little did I know Twah would jump on the cock block grenade himself.
I heard Twah mumble out “That’s funny, DJ’s had a sandy Regina all weekend”.
The women were not impressed. Twah had sacrificed a potential hook up for the
greater good of the group. This is heroism at its finest. Of course, as can be
expected, the women soon found a reason to escape our witless tractor beam. I
was sure Twah would have remorse at what he had cost himself, but that wasn’t the
case. I have never seen anyone find so much success in their own failure.
This was 14 years ago, and we still refer to one of us being
cranky as “____ has a sandy Regina”.
Fast forward to
Wednesday. Wednesday, I had a sandy Regina. I couldn’t seem to break out of
my funk. Work didn’t go my way, and when I looked in the mirror that morning I
felt like the worlds fattest man, and one of my kids was texting me that he
needed me to bring his lunch to school because he forgot it, and I was sore
from Mondays workout, and… and… and… and.. Basically the whole day had turned
me into a salty dog. My sandy Regina had turned me into an uncomfortable and
agitated asshole.
I really didn’t even want to work out. I wanted to skip so
badly. I started my workout by sitting in the parking lot for probably 15-20
minutes judging all the pretty people that were entering the gym. When I
finally entered the front door, I was greeted by some dummy who said “happy
humpday”. It took all the restraint in my body to stop from spitting in their
face. There is nothing dumber or more insulting than canned small talk. If I
ever say “high” or “how are you” to you, and you feel the urge to respond to my
greeting with
-
Working hard or hardly working
-
TGIF
-
Living the dream
-
Happy hump day
Or anything resembling this canned idiocy, instead of doing
this… just stand really close to me and scream “I have no interest in talking
to you. Go FUCK yourself”. Canned responses are a waste of our time. It is the
least sincere form of communication. You are not obligated to talk when you don’t
want to talk. I wont be offended if you give me a nod of acknowledgement and go
on your way. But if you DO drop one of these responses on me, it will
absolutely aid in my anger.
I think I was also salty, because I smelt stupid. My workout
was hard, and I was sweating profusely. The type of sweating that leaves a huge
lake of saturation down the back of your t shirt. While I didn’t have BO, I
definitely smelt like someone who didn’t know how to properly clean their own
body. I didn’t smell good, I didn’t smell bad…I smelt, well, too stupid to
properly clean myself is actually spot on.
All of this being said, this is all the more reason to be
happy I worked out. Accomplishing anything is easy under ideal conditions. Its
days like today that I am most proud that I got in to the gym. My entire goal
is to rewire my brain to have my default setting to include physical activity.
So on days that I get up off my ass to work out, even though every inch of my
being was boycotting this call to action, are the most important days. These small
successes will lead to me changing my lifestyle for good. I also found that
getting out and sweating, really getting my blood flowing, is the number one
thing for improving my mood. Its days like this, that I am glad I go into the
gym with a plan. Had I been left to my own devices I would have left after
10-15 minutes. Overcoming my sandy Regina and forcing myself to workout, is going to be really good for me long term.
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