Adventures in a Body of Lies...

Nope, I'm not talking about the movie Body of Lies that's full of A-list actors. I'm talking the actual body of a B-list blogger. 

Last week, I had one of those days where I managed to actually find my way to the gym. As I was stretching out after the workout, (actually, I was laying flat on my back wondering if the sweat pooling under me would leave a crime-scene style outline on the floor when I stood up), I overheard a trainer offer this advice to someone:


Just Listen To Your Body.

We've all heard this advice at one point or another, and unaccountably, people seem to think it's good advice. Either everyone is in denial, or I happen to be living in a defective body model. Why? Because my body lies to me. All. The. Time.

After all, it was the mouth in this body that told me a 2nd slice of pie would be a really good idea, and that a bowl of ice cream makes a great breakfast. It was listening to this body that landed me at the gym in the first place...and that same body shouts at me when I exercise.

It's not just about food and fitness. My other body parts lie to me too.

It was my legs, back in the '80s that said, "I wanna run free - neon orange Hammer Pants are the pants for me!" In fact, most of my appendages have been lying to me about fashion  for decades.

What? My body told me this was a great beach look!

Sometimes, my body parts even collaborate and come up with tag-team lies. This morning, my nose and my brain got together and created an elaborate falsehood.

Two hours before my alarm went off, my nose woke me up by smelling something odd. "Wake up! Something's burning!" it said to me. My nose then tagged out, and my brain jumped in the ring. "Yes! Wake up! Keebler Elves are burning flour in your kitchen. The cookies will be ruined!"

Wait...what???

Thanks to my body's lies, I was fully awake before realizing that there was no Keebler cookie emergency. There were no cookies involved at all. It was just a bad pollution day here in Chiang Mai, and the only thing burning were farmer's fields, 30km away.

Next time someone tells me to Listen to my Body, I'm pretty sure my right foot is going to tell me to kick a nearby shin. Unfortunately, the way my body communicates, it will likely tell me to kick my own shin. And I'll listen to it.

Adventures in New Kids on the Block...

No, I'm not having '90s boy-band flashbacks. Sorry to disappoint those of you who still insist that Donnie was waaaaay dreamier than Danny. I know who you are, and I know you were looking forward to reviving a rousing debate on the subject. It's not going to happen on this blog. Not now. Not ever.

Okay, fine. You can decide who's dreamier. I don't care.

While I was doing some research on exciting things in the world of writing, I checked to see where this l'il ol' blog pops up in search engines...and discovered TWO other blogs that share my title, "Adventures in My Shoes." Both of them have only been around for a year or so - and obviously their authors were blissfully unaware of this aging behemoth slumbering in the cavernous bowels of the internet. I don't blame them - half the time even I forget it's here.

Still, it came as a shock to discover that my shoes are no longer the only ones having adventures. It also made me take stock and realize that I don't even really wear shoes anymore. Since moving to Thailand, I've traded in my cupboards full of fancy footwear for a few unassuming pairs of flip flops.

"And to think, I coulda been a Jimmy Choo..."

And yes, I did just go outside, line up all my flip-flops and tell them to say "Cheese!" I think the impish little pair in the back may have said "Toe Jam" instead, but I let it slide, especially since my neighbours were already beginning to look alarmed.

Now, back to the question of the New Kids on the Block - Jordan was definitely the cutest. No, wait, the other new kids on the block. The ones who really are having adventures and wearing shoes. And they probably have real shoes, and real adventures.

One of them can't spell International Border properly. (Unless she actually trod upon  a tenant or surfer when she said she walked across an international boarder.) Whatever the truth of that statement is, I suspect she was wearing actual shoes at the time.

The other is telling the world she's pregnant, which is certainly an adventure, although misogynist folklore tells me that shoes in her case are optional.

I assume that in spite of their poor diction and pictures of baby bumps, they're probably very nice women. They might even have interesting things to say. (Unlike someone I know who's still rambling about boy bands...)

The Canadian in me wants to welcome them to the neighbourhood and offer them some poutine. On the other hand, the crotchety old woman in me (who is old enough to remember too many of the words to Hangin' Tough) wants to wave my fist in the air and shout, "Get off my lawn!"

Maybe I should change the name of my blog to more accurately reflect my reality. Or, I could lace up my one remaining pair of real shoes and go have an adventure. (Who am I kidding. We both know that I'm going to post this and then go watch NKOTB videos on YouTube...in my bare feet.)