That Girl

Oh my gracious. It is with a heavy heart that I confess to sinking into the deep, pathetic pit of past "that girls." Today, I became "that girl" to which many a post on this very blog have been dedicated; I became "that girl" that rankles my ire; I've become "that girl" I despise.

I always, always, always bring a magazine with me to the Y (and it's always something light and fun - celeb gossip tabloid, fashion mag, Sports Illustrated, something enjoyable). I need to have something covering the display in front of me, and without it, I'm worthless. Enter today: I reach the lockroom and realize that I am sans publication. Never fear, I reassure myself, there is sure to be something remotely interesting in the public bin (this is rarely the case... National Geographic, Baby and TIME are the issues left stranded... but nonetheless I tried to fortify my flagging motivation).

I must have done something extra wonderful today, because my eyes feasted on issue after issue of Marie Claire (the two most recent), In Touch (also the two most recent) and Glamour (from May). As my eyes did a rather sketchy dance around the room to see if anyone was watching, I horded each and every issue for my own use. When other girls came and rifled through the bin, I wasn't a bit guilty that I had stockpiled five issues on my elliptical, while they walked away empty-handed.

After all... all's fair in sweat & war, right?