[ahy luhv rok uh nd rohl]: Jett was touring England as a member of an all teenage girl group called The Runaways when she discovered this song. She wanted to record it with The Runaways, but the other members didn’t like the song and made the mistake of passing it up. So, in 1979, Jett recorded it with Paul Cook and Steve Jones of The Sex Pistols and released it as a B-side. Finally, in 1981, Jett recorded the song with her band The Blackhearts, resulting in a monster hit.
So yesterday I was in the bathroom looking at my hairy legs. They are funny how the hair on my legs grow… they look like shin guards soccer players have. They were long and I don’t mean “Oh my God I have a date tonight” girl long, but I mean like dude at 15 years old long.
I was so oddly proud.
“Look at my legs!” I said while smiling in my proud like grin.
“You just have stopped caring.” she said while walking out of the bathroom.
I have stopped caring, and to be honest… I have no idea why.
I used to care about being in shape. I competed in Swimming. I went to the gym 5 times a week and cycled 40km a day riding from and to work every morning. All in different periods of my adulthood (of course no one has the time for all three at the same time and a life). When I was in the army I was rock solid, and when I was in High School I made varsity in 2 sports in one year.
Now I am the master of excuses. I have my daughter. I have to watch the dog while my wife goes and plays football. Where is the time for me to train? I tell myself.
Then I wrestle with the fact that I always tell myself that as soon as the gravel gets cleared every spring that “Yes! I am going to take those two bikes I have that are worth over 1000 dollars a piece out for a ride everyday”.
This year it lasted once, I got tired and so I gave up.
So I would love to tell you that I am going to dust off that gym card that sits in my wallet and hit the gym, but I know that my discipline is gone like the wind.
Maybe someday I will try to be better at it, but now I don’t care. It has gone so far that I even lie to my doctor about it so he stops nagging me with statistics about how people with bipolar feel much better and are less likely to be depressed.
I am not depressed so those stats don’t impress the lazy me.
I can hate my body so it is not like there is no blowback for not exercising I used to be small… now I have to curve my body in odd positions to see under the classic over 40 tube one has around their waist.
I silently sit in fear of muffin tops and hanging arms that are nearly as toned as they were… so a part of me does care, but not care enough.
I dress like a monster. I wear jeans, a t-shirt that (is plain and does not have to match) over my various brightly covered sport bras and a Superdry sweatshirt from my various collection. Oh and of course my scuffed Doc Martens I bought in 1994 (those shoes are older than some of my colleagues I mentioned in my earlier post here)
So I wear designer clothes, kind of half of designer clothes, but I still look like a slob and never am like noticed over.
I am awful at plucking my eyebrows, putting on make-up. It all feels like so much work. I work at a jail. There is no one there to impress.
I should perhaps be better at caring more about my wife, it is her that I have decided to piss in the toilet while she is in the same room.
That is jus bad manners. That is not caring.
BUT… this is the same person she sees in the morning looking like a rabid dog with toothpaste all around her mouth.
OR… has to listen to me and my tick of gagging while I brush my teeth.
OR EVEN…like yesterday listen to me puke (as I do sometimes for some odd reason) in the toilet.
I bite my nails after I let them grow too long.
The skin on my heels is hard as stone while hers are soft like cotton.
The only thing I am fixated about is lotion… lotion on my hands. That I do at least two times a day at least.
I hate getting my hair wet (I do it everyday anyway) because I know I am going to have to jerk around with a hairdryer for like 5 minutes of my life to hide how curly my hair is. I hate that my hair is not growing faster so I can stop having to worry as much about it.
I have this thing where I try to look in the mirror as little time as I can so I do not have to look… because I like many woman hate how they look.
It has nothing to do with what society thinks. I physically cringe when someone says they think I am beautiful because I KNOW it just is not true.
The one thing that makes me feel beautiful is writing, being the person that looks like me that can make a room stop and think. That is beauty. That is fucking awesome. Better than any drug, and that is ok to say I am beautiful about because that comes from deep in my head.
It is the real stuff. The stuff that makes me feel beautiful.
So yes if I could just lock myself in a house and live like a recluse and never need to leave and just write I could not care and just write.
Then I would be beautiful. Then I wouldn’t care, or stop caring… but it seems like I haven’t stopped caring.
I once had a boss tell me that the place I work at was like elevator music and that I am rock in roll…
So… I love rock and roll, just maybe not all the time, or how you see it.