It’s probably a good thing that I don’t belong to a gym.
Because if you happened to have been in my basement this afternoon, you would have gotten to watch me in lovely Target yoga pants, a tank top, frizzy pigtails (stupid rain) spending an hour on the treadmill.
Not only that, but talking to myself. Because clearly, an hour? What else is there to do with that time but study? At first I was just reading my notes, but then I thought, dude, I’m in my basement. I learn better when I say things out loud, so dammit, I will talk. Yes. An hour of my fevered mumblings about Home Rule and the potato famine.
Deep, academic thoughts like “Okay…devotional revolution…Paul Cardinal Cullen…I know I’m going to call him “Edward” on the exam…massive building program…motto: what is good for Catholicism is good for Ireland”…stopped handing out Roman collars like candy…get off your girlfriend and read the Bible occasionally, Father…ooh! literacy! 45% in 1845, up to 90% in 1880…” and “Kitty shacked up with Parnell…Billy finds out she’s nailing Home Rule Boy…wants cash…old aunt dies…” and “2.5 million emigrate post-famine…most to the US…women work really hard…guys get drunk…number one criminal is the Irish male…except crimes of a sexual nature…possibly because they were drunk all the time…and they are pissed.”
Oh yeah. It was a whole new low for nerdom. But I should do well come Thursday.