Stumbling Toward Health

Okay, you may not believe this, but I wasn't exactly a gym class hero during my school years. A competent scientist and mathemetician, a natural in English and social studies - yes. But once I donned those ugly shorts and stood in line, waiting to be picked for some team sport activity... well, I'll just say that I stood in line longer than every other kid (except Stacy B - Stacy, wherever you are, bless your slow-beating heart!).

Sadly, the absolute dread and bitterness I felt during those many years of mandatory gym classes have packed some pretty powerful aftershocks. For a very long time, I thought exercise was evil. But then I remember in the Autumn of 2000, when I was feeling particularly zesty and free, I came to the logical conclusion that physical activity is good for me. I'm not exaggerating. I had so long associated a pumping heart with failure and humiliation that I was blind to the benefits of exercise. Even after I figured that out, I wasn't willing to actually work out. I didn't need to. I was in my early 20's and could live off a diet of Doritos and Camel Lights and still manage to breathe.

Reading as I write, I realize that this sounds completely insane, but this is how it was. I quit smoking when I was 25 and gained a bunch of weight (damn that mid-20's weight gain! such a humbling experience when you've only been young your whole life). Then I moved further away from downtown and walked everywhere and simlutaneously started smoking again. And suddenly, I was skinny.

I quit smoking, again, this past August (hooray!) and moved to a place where it can be rather unhealthy to walk, especially after dark. And so, I am a little fat, once more. But, I'm also living in one of the most obese cities in the US, so I'm still hotter than 90% of the population. I know that sounds vapid and vain (because it is), but try being fat in a college town. It isn't fun.

More importantly, I like the way I look and so does my man, so I don't feel pressured to change my shape. Yet, miraculously, I have recently had a yen to work out. I would like to lose some weight, because they don't make cute clothes for big ladies, but mainly I'm interested in my own physical health. I want to breathe better and lift heavy things.

So for the first time in my life, I willingly worked out at a public gymnasium. Yes, I was stair-stepping with strangers and no one laughed at me or called me a loser. And considering that I did this activity in the very place where I had the worst job interview of my life, I'm proud of myself. I was eager for my next visit and my upcoming introduction to bodybuilding.

That was last Monday, the day before Dan got the sore throat. I started feeling it Thursday and the soreness lasted for four days. Today is Wednesday and my head feels like a brick, but on the bright side, I feel the least shitty compared to the last several days. Mind you, this is part of a larger arc of physical discomfort. Two weeks ago, when we were driving home from a Florida vacation, we both got hit with a nasty, albeit shorter-lived bug, which made those Ohio blizzards even more fun to traverse. A few days later, I slammed my head on pavement when I slipped on ice (the bump has just receded). As Catherine O'Hara said in the film Orange County, "What can I say? It's just one shit storm after another".

But enough of my whining. After days of feeling like a dirty mucus machine, I'm very excited to work out again. My desire to be healthy runs stronger than ever before. It's just funny to me that once I finally have the balls to conquer my most debilitating neurosis and get in shape, I immediately rebound into my worst physical condition. And since this now strikes me as more funny than aggravating, I know I'm on the mend.

Premier Ponderings

A bit about me

I grew up in Dearborn, Michigan - a remarkably unpleasant place for a young lady to come of age. When I was 20, I escaped to Ann Arbor. A2 is a quaint, tree-filled, heinously expensive little town populated by adult-sized children who attend, teach at or work for the University of Michigan. I studied at the U for a few years before dropping out and then just sorta...stayed. Eventually, I found employ at a beautiful, not-for-profit historic theater and worked my way up from manager to super-important manager. That was nice for a while, but I steadily grew tired of living in a self-absorbed community that seemed to shrink upon me. Ann Arbor is similar to New York City or the State of Texas in that its residents are constantly aware of that place being their home and that “there-ness” seems to be a part of every conversation and consideration. The rest of the world eventually fades from existence or never really exists if you spend your whole life there. But unlike NYC or Texas, Ann Arbor is special because it is much smaller (and I am using "special" as a euphemism for "retarded").

All of this came into focus at the humdrum finale of yet another bullshit relationship, so I began formulating an escape plan. The destination wasn't as important as getting away from Ann Arbor. And then, quite unexpectedly, I met my man, Dan, who is easily my favorite person ever. He had just moved to Detroit to do field work for his sociology dissertation and so I followed him to the D. And here I am.

I began writing a blog on myspace when I first moved to the city because I was unemployed and bored. I didn't expect that I would love doing this. I've kept journals on a consistent basis for the past 14 years but I had forgotten how satisfying it is to write for an audience. This is my primary motivation and thus far, my collection of essays has no thread or theme. I just want to entertain you with a few cleverly worded thoughts every now and then. And hopefully, by moving from myspace to here, I can reach out to more of you.

But, enough about me. Let's talk about...

T-McC’s Tutorial on Tipping in the 21^st Century

I am a waitress. I’m fairly new at this gig, but I am good and I get better every day. I am paid $2.82 to schlep food and beverage for those who are too lazy or incompetent to do that for themselves. I am paid this low wage because it is expected that my customers will tip me. Some don’t most do but many of those who do do it poorly.

I recognize that tipping is generally a learned practice and many of us were not raised to tip or tip well, but you can change. Why bother? For one thing, you may avoid a bad reputation and unwanted server saliva in your meal (though I am not so crass, I cannot vouch for my brethren). But really, decent tipping is essential to participating in civilized society. If you do not figure tipping into your dining-out budget, then you shouldn’t eat at restaurants. You look bad, not just to me but also to your dining peers. In short, bad tippers don’t get laid as often as good tippers.

If you did not know, 15% of your total bill is the standard rate for tipping. I never tip less than 20%. This was my practice long before I waited tables. I find that when I frequent a food service establishment, I get great service because I’m known for tipping well. But percentages aren’t all you should consider when figuring a gratuity. Please consider the following:

• What if the total bill is $7 or less? Where I work, $7 can buy you a lot of food. Are you really going to leave a single dollar bill for the person who brought you your food, refilled your beverage, packed up the leftovers to go and cleaned up all the crumbs you left behind? Would another buck really set you back? If not, it would make a big difference to your server. That’s twice as much money for the same amount of time he or she spent tending to you.

• How long did you sit at your table and how busy was the restaurant? Most servers are assigned a section of tables to wait upon throughout their shift. Suppose a server has 5 tables and the average customer or group occupies their table for 45 minutes. Suppose, also, that you sit at your table for 1 ½ hours. You are decreasing that worker’s earning opportunity by 20% during an average meal time. Sit as long as you want, but just remember that other paying customers may be turned away or seated in another server’s section. Figure that into your tip.

• Do you use pennies? Neither do I. Then why the fuck did you leave those for me?? I like bigger tips but I can do without the extra 2 – 20 cents. It isn’t worth the amount of time I spend scraping copper off the table.

• Did you bring your small children with you? Yes, I know that parenting is a challenge, which is probably why you are such a dick/cunt to your server. But waiting on your tot is no treat either, particularly when drinks – or worse, bodily fluids – spill. If you expect your server to assist you in rearing your children during your family dining experience, then your server ought to be paid a lot more like a nanny.

• What time is it? Most civilized people do not begin dining during the last 15 minutes a restaurant is open. While it’s true that we restaurant workers have plenty of prep work to occupy us at the end of our shift, most of us are able to knock off those chores in the last half hour of business . The longer you sit there, the longer we have to stay. This is a perfect example of when 15% is too little.

• Are you a pain in the ass? Do you order the special and then make alterations? Do you want extra crap and then some other bullshit on the side? Restaurants are able to produce large amounts of food quickly in part because the menu items are uniform. Most of the food you order has been prepped many hours in advance. The mashed potatoes are not made to your order, so there will not be any “extra creamy” or “slightly lumpy”. And if we can accommodate your myriad changes and particular requests, it is at the expense of efficiency. If you cannot be reasonable, then you ought to pay more for being persnickety.

Of course, bad service shouldn’t be rewarded. If I spill a beverage on a customer or forget to bring some of their food or serve them a dish that contains their explicitly stated allergen, I’m not disappointed when there is no tip on the table. But truly, those people are not the problem. The bad tippers and the non-tippers are usually the people I give great service. And don’t believe that they all belong to a particular race, ethnicity or age group. The culprits come in all shapes and sizes. Aside from being demanding, inconsiderate and unpleasant, their only common bond is that they are not getting laid.