The Disappearing Virgin

Hey hey folks, just a flying visit, like boom, here's my news, I'm gonnnne!

There's a trend in the States, where poor demented Christian girls, torn between the demands of older men in their church who tell them their normal sexual urges make them sluts and that they'll burn in Hell forever if they have sex, and the demands of the men their age, who say they're not programmed to wait until marriage, have decided that, in a Clintonian leap of logic about what does and does not constitute sexual relations, decide that anal doesn't 'count,' so they can satisfy the competing demands of all the men in their lives and still come out of it with some mathematical shred of self-respect (at least till they discover feminism and realise it was all appalling sexist bullshit).

That's kind of like me this week. I'm a technical Disappearing Virgin, because I've biked every day so far, as promised in my piecrust pledge, but I'd be lying if I said it had been for a full hour every day, as I also promised. The pledge is alive in spirit, because I've committed each day to the activity, but not in the particularity of fact, because I've broken the specific terms. I did indeed have exercise relations with that bike, but they were not as extensive as they might have been.

I have done correspondingly more walking than I'd thought I'd have done by now though - most days this week I've done at least six miles, and at least one day this week, between the walking (9 miles) and the biking, I ended up tipping the 15 miles of self-propelled travel mark in a single day. So now we wait for the inevitable proto-blisters, and in the meantime, we carry the hell on - I'd done about 3 miles of toing and froing today by the time I decided to head down the trail. The irony being that me stopping and writing all this down has now severely cut into the time I'll be able to spend on the bike tonight. See - Ahem...it's all your fault, really.

Unofficial weigh-ins have been kind so far this week as a result of the imbalance, in my favour, of exercise and calories. The weekend is always inherently trickier, but let's see how things go. Annnnd I'm outta here, hopping on the bike.

In the meantime, in illustration of what was, I admit, an absolutely horrible anal-ogy, I leave you with this comic song from Garfunkel and Oates. Not safe for work. Hell, not safe in any way, shape or form, but both funny as hell (and likely to lead there?) and terribly tragic.