Don't ask me to be logical.

Something unexpected happened last night. A reporter and a photographer showed up at my ballet class. Apparantly, the reporter is putting together an article about adult fitness and wanted to include dance. During class, I felt a series of contradictory emotions regarding the presence of the photographer. I will summarize these feelings as "yes" or "no" votes for having my picture taken.

No: Please don't take my picture! I'd be so embarassed if my colleagues saw it.
Yes: Good thing Aunt Flow just left because I'm definitely feeling thin.
No: I have a hole in my tights and my face is red.
Yes: The photographer is taking pictures of the new girl. He has no idea that her broken wrists and flappy arms are actually bad form. This is a technique class, not Swan Lake. Wearing nylon shorts and slouchy legwarmers doesn't make you a dancer. Plus, I'm here twice a week all year and she just showed up last week.
No: I sweat enough for the whole class put together. We've only done three exercises and I'm already dripping. I don't need to expose my sopping wet self on the world through any kind of public news media. Seriously, it doesn't matter if I have a healthy endocrine system, it's gross.

Anyway, after ballet, I went home and took a shower, read a little bit, folded laundry, and packed my lunch for today. Sounds really exciting, doesn't it? Since my life is so boring, I'll skip to today's "Why can't people just do things my way?"

WCPJDTMY #4 -- Preserving Food Packaging
This will be the first WCPJDTMY that directly targets my husband. Sorry, dear, but I have to get this off my chest. No matter what kind of food packaging is involved, my husband destroys it. He rips cardboard cereal boxes so the little tab on the top flap doesn't have a slot to slip into. He mangles cereal bags so that cereal falls down into the box when I try to pour myself a bowl. Zippered plastic bags don't stand a chance--he tears off the plastic above the zipper, so I have to use my nails to open the lunchmeat or tortillas. Last night, I was standing in the kitchen when he was packing his lunch and I watched him destroy yet another lunchmeat bag. "Husband!" I said in an annoyed voice. He turned to me and said, "Are you serious?" (Translation: "Did I really marry such an annoyingly anal rententive person?") Rather than answer his question, I sulked out of the kitchen and started plotting my revenge on this blog.