Crazy People

A little bit crazy ⁴

The other day, Scott and I were discussing a couple we know from…uh…let’s just call it a “previous life”.

Scott: I don’t know if I like them. They’re too…well…normal.

Me: Yeah…they’re definitely very normal people, but you can’t deny that they are so incredibly nice. I enjoy spending time with them.

Scott: Okay. Maybe it’s not that I don’t like them…it’s more that I feel like they don’t like me.

Me: You always think people don’t like you.

Scott: Yeah…but this is different. They’re both just so incredibly perfect. Their lives are perfect. I suppose I feel like they’re constantly looking at me and rolling their eyes. You know…laughing at all the weird stuff I do or the things I say wrong.

Me: I think it’s all in your head.

Scott: Katrina. They unfriended me on Facebook.

Me: Okay…maybe it’s not all in your head.

Scott: Whatever. I mean…I don’t really care all that much. I guess I just don’t understand people like that. They’re just so…flawless. They never say the wrong thing or make questionable decisions. They’re the picture of success and the American dream and those douchey Scott Disick pants that have the lobsters embroidered all over them!

Me: I kind of like those lobster pants.

Scott: You would. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that they’re just so impeccable and…I don’t know…boring.

Me: Exactly! I was just thinking about this the other day. I’ve begun to realize that I’m naturally drawn to people who are a little bit crazy.

Scott: I could have told you that years ago.

Me: And I don’t mean crazy in a mentally unstable way–although I don’t really have a problem with that either–I’m just talking about people who are quirky and a little bit off. You know, someone who isn’t afraid to date a nineteen-year-old gogo dancer they met online or wear a sketchy looking cheetah jumpsuit in public.

Scott: I’m the same way. Pretty much all of my friends have a little streak of crazy in them. Plus, I married you.

Me: See? It’s really not all that surprising. You and I both have a little streak of crazy…it makes total sense!

Scott: Yeah, I guess. I’m just sick of all the non-crazy people casting judgement on me.

Me: But here’s the thing: Those people act like they’re judging….but I think they’re secretly jealous. Living vicariously through other people’s random acts of craziness, if you will.

Scott: Hmmmm. Are you sure you aren’t just in denial?

Me: Think about it! How many times have one of your “normal” friends asked you to rehash one of your crazy stories to them? In my experience, those people are always fascinated with the random crap that makes my life a little bit…well…bizarre.

Scott: It’s true. They’re not experiencing those things for themselves, so they feel the need to hear about it from us!

Me: Precisely! And then they roll their eyes and pretend to be disgusted as a desperate attempt to cover the longing they have to be crazy themselves!

Scott: I don’t know if I would go that far.

Me: I would. Regardless, I’m starting to learn that life is too short not to be a little bit crazy. I don’t want to get to the end of my existence and wish I would have had the balls to compete in that ridiculous beauty pageant or publish random videos about dessert on YouTube, you know? People with the crazy gene have way less regrets.

Scott: Um…I don’t know about that.

Me: Fine. But I would rather regret a crazy decision that regret not having the courage to actually make the decision in the first place.

Scott: You know what? I’m glad we’re both a little bit crazy.

Me: Me too.

****

I’m not saying you have to be crazy to have a terrific life. Are you completely normal? Awesome! You’ll probably be allowed to run for political office one day!

(My dad still thinks I should get into politics. Uh…I’m pretty sure the things I’ve written on my public blog would definitely make that impossible, Dad.)

(Plus…someone who would make naming the chihuahua as Minnesota’s new mascot their first official duty probably doesn’t belong in public office.)

What I am saying is that it’s important to own who you are. Are you one of those orderly, normal peeps who never does anything questionable? Embrace it! Secretly, us crazy folk wish we could be more like you, sometimes.

And if like me, you have a streak of crazy coursing through your veins, don’t be ashamed! Life’s too short to ignore our urges to wear the ridiculous jumpsuit or compete in the beauty pageant for grown women! Crazy is interesting, fun and memorable. I challenge you to own your inner-crazy and celebrate your quirks!*

*Unless owning your inner-crazy involves running for public office. It’s not that I don’t think you’d be fabulous…it’s more that I don’t need any extra competition in my race to become the mayor of Smalltown.

**We are so getting a chihuahua on our state flag.

***I’ll also make Scott legally required to wear douchey lobster pants at least once a month.

____________________

Psst! I want to assure you the couple we are referring to is NOT you! I know for a fact they don’t read this blog, and probably don’t even remember who Scott and I are…despite our many attempts to leave our crazy stamp on their oh-so-normal memories.

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This is why they make dressing rooms ⁶

After teaching a ridiculously sweaty workout class last night, it was my job to stop by the supermarket and pick up some groceries.

To my credit, I did pick up the groceries…after taking a slight detour through the women’s clothing section at my local Target, of course. I knew Tar-jay would have plenty of spring stuff on display, and thought gazing at coral colored tank tops might help me forget, if only for a few brief moments, that it was still thirteen degrees below freezing outside.

(It totally worked.)

As is always the case, my arms were quickly filled with a heavy pile of items I wanted to purchase. The Prabal Gurung line was on clearance and they had three dollars off pullover sweaters…can you blame me? Amidst an obnoxiously bright pair of cropped floral pants I desperately needed and a pale blue sweatshirt tunic I simply could not live without was this adorable little skirt.

A-line skirts have always flattered my small waist/big hips body shape, and this precious little thing was on clearance for fourteen dollars. I simply couldn’t say no!

(The fact that I work from home and thus never have an occasion to wear fancy, twirly skirts like this is obviously irrelevant.)

Much to my surprise, the Target of Smalltown still had every single size in stock. That’s rarely the case when it comes to clearance items. The only problem was that I couldn’t decide which size would fit best. My waist has been shrinking thanks to Weight Watchers…but is it that small? And a generous A-line silhouette can only hide so much…would the tinier size be too tight for my child-bearing-despite-the-fact-that-they-may-never-actually-give-birth hips?

It was clear I needed to try the skirt on. The problem? I was still in my sweaty gym clothes. Not only that…I was still actively sweating. And my hair? Let’s just say it looked like I had just hopped out of a very salty swimming pool without using a towel. I debated trying the garment on anyway, before ultimately realizing there was no way the fitting room attendant would let me into a room to rub my perspiring body all over a brand new, albeit clearance priced, Prabal Gurung skirt.

The time had come to get resourceful.

Fortunately, I was wearing a pair of compression leggings and a slim-cut workout tank. My exercise gear is so fitted and lightweight, I may as well be naked! I could simply remove my jacket and then slip the skirt on over my leggings to see if it would fit. Sure…the skirt might get a little sweaty, but it would still be far less contaminated than if I were to sneak my hot, sweaty mess of a self into the dressing room and actually try it on. With this totally rational conclusion as my motivation, I began to step into the skirt, smack dab in the center of the women’s department.

The good news? The smaller size totally fit. Even on top of my workout clothing!

The bad news? One of the women who participates in my Turbo Kick classes happened to be shopping just one rack over, and decided to take this opportunity to come and say hello. I’ve mentioned before that most people from the gym don’t recognize me in public as I look entirely different with my makeup on and hair styled. But being that I was fresh from class, my sweaty ponytail, bright red face and signature workout gear made me instantly recognizable.

Turbo Kick Girl (Let’s call her “Lucy”): Hey, Katrina!

Me: Oh…um….hey! (I can’t remember her name…which is always awkward. It’s also why we’re calling her “Lucy”)

Lucy: Did you…er…just get done teaching a class?

(At this point I remember I’m wearing the skirt, which explains the strange glances she’s directing towards my lower half.)

Me: Ha! Yeah…can you tell? Hang on…let me just…uh…take this skirt off.

(Naturally, the skirt is stuck. After 30 seconds of uncomfortable fidgeting, I admit defeat.)

Me: Eh…whatever. I’m just going to leave it on. I…uh…you know…didn’t want to wait in line for a fitting room!

(FYI…there’s never a line for a fitting room at the Target of Smalltown. Lucy is kind enough to nod her head in agreement anyway.)

Lucy: Oh…um…yeah. Cool.

We make small talk about the weather, the gym, and a new local restaurant for about five minutes. She pretends to ignore the skirt and I pretend to not be crazy.

We part ways, I buy the skirt (and let’s be honest…seven other fashion items that were absolute necessities to my Spring 2013 wardrobe) and finally head over to Wal-Mart for the stupid groceries. Ten minutes in, I find myself in the condiment aisle, jumping up and down with all my might so I might see if they have my favorite brand of stone ground mustard in stock. (It was on the very highest shelf, which is way above my line of sight.)

After at least eight different jumps, I had once again begun sweating. I also felt a pair of eyes burning a hole in the back of my skull. Glancing over my left shoulder, I saw a young woman staring at my with a bit of confusion, but mostly just concern.

Of course, it just had to be Lucy.

Something tells me I just lost all credibility as Turbo Kick Instructor…even though my jumps to see the mustard demonstrated excellent form.

The real tragedy is that they didn’t even have my favorite brand in stock. If Wal-Mart is going to place their best products way out of reach, making their customers look crazy in the process, they could at least have the decency to carry Grey Poupon stone ground mustard!

(And yes…I’m blaming this entire thing on Wal-Mart.)

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Like Elle Woods, only sweatier ⁶

In the land of Turbo Kick, we have a little autumn tradition known to as “TurboWeen”. As I’m sure you can guess by the oh-so-clever title, TurboWeen involves showing up for Turbo Kick in full on Halloween costume.

Chalene Johnson, creator of Turbo Kick, sporting her 2012 TurboWeen ensemble.

Photo courtesy of Chalene’s Instagram @chalenejohnson

As one of Chalene’s Turbo Kicking minions, I felt it was my civic duty to host my own TurboWeen in Smalltown. As I don’t have a Turbo Kick class that falls on Halloween, we decided to celebrate a day early.

Or perhaps more accurately, I decided to celebrate a day early.

The lone Turbo monster. (See also: “what Katrina would look like if she were bald.”)

You can see the full costume here. (FYI — the giant furry legwarmers didin’t make it past the Turbo warmup.)

I announced our TurboWeen celebration a week prior, but failed to produce any fliers, reminders or other marketing materials. Let’s just say I had a very strong feeling I’d be the only one honoring the TurboWeen tradition. In fact, I nearly said “forget it!” and ditched the costume altogether.

But what if one of the participants did dress up, and I left them hanging? The only thing worse than a lone Turbo monster is a lying Turbo hypocrite. Not wanting to embarrass anyone who actually did remember to sport a costume, I begrudgingly slipped into my tutu and headed toward the gym.

Because it wasn’t technically Halloween yet, several people were quite confused by my fashion statement. Aside from an elderly gentlemen who was kind enough to tell me I looked “fancy” as our paths crossed in the parking lot, my monster gown was met with giggles, pointing, and lots and lots of staring. Naturally, I did what any other lone Turbo monster would do — stood up straight, stuck my butt out, and shot everyone a look that said “Why aren’t you wearing a tutu? It’s TurboWeen, after all!” While I think this probably confused people even more, it at least made me feel more secure in my decision to dress like a Purple People Eater with a passion for aerobics.

By the time class started, my fears had been confirmed. I was literally the only person in costume. Luckily, everyone seemed amused (in a good way…I think?) with my getup and no one gave me a hard time. (Still, it would be lying to say there weren’t a few moments where yelling into the mic while air-jacking in brightly colored fur made me feel somewhat vulnerable.) All humiliation aside, we had a great workout, which is truly what TurboWeen is all about in the first place.

Plus, now I can totally empathize with how Elle Woods felt when she showed up to that frat party in the bunny costume. (Aside from the whole Broadway star with really slender thighs part.)

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Meow! ³

Today’s musings double as my daily blog post and my day 5 entry of The Outfit Project. Let’s take a look at today’s ensemble, shall we?

Top: Go Jane, Necklace: Premier Designs, Douchey fake glasses: Target, Jeans: Target

I had every intention of wearing long sleeves today. You see, I spent Sunday afternoon shooting guns at a hunting club, and wound up with dozens of scabby bug bites on each of my arms. Long sleeves clearly would have been the wisest choice.

And yes, you read that right. I shot a gun.

Proof.

Let’s just say I’m way better at ordering cat t-shirts online than I am at handling a firearm. I shot this rifle (Is it a rifle? I think it’s rifle…) exactly one time before screaming and making the very kind man in the photo take it away from me. Truly, it was probably best for all parties involved that I didn’t have control of a weapon.

But back to the cat t-shirt. It arrived via UPS this morning, and I just had to abandon my long-sleeved agenda for the day. I’ve literally been counting down the hours untill this ~~puppy~~ kitty showed up at my door, and not wearing it seemed like a crime.

So why did I order an abstract cat graphic tee? (Not that 80s-inspired, tribal themed cat clothing needs justification or anything.) That’s easy. I ordered it because it looks like the cat is singing.

To explain the importance of singing cats, we must travel back in time to November of 2009. Scott and I were living in Upstate New York, and had decided to spend a lazy Saturday afternoon watching the Nebraska Cornhusker football game. During a timeout, the band began playing a familiar song that I don’t actually know the name of. I do know that for whatever reason, Scott began meowing the tune in his very best cat voice.

I immediately joined in as cat meowing happens to be one of my more advanced talents. I attribute this rare skill to the countless hours I’ve logged listening to my own personal copy of ”The Jingle Cats Greatest Hits”, a gift from my father circa Christmas 2004.

Long story short, the habit has stuck. Every time we hear that song we meow it out, note by note. The ritual has even become a go-to form of amusement during long, boring car rides.

Oh, who am I kidding…we even do it on non-boring car rides. Or grocery shopping. Or while trying to fall asleep at night. As it turns out, playing musical cats is actually kind of…fun. We’ve also expanded our repertoire to include recent hits such as Call Me Maybe and the entire Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack. Lately we’ve been working on learning to harmonize.
While I’m too ashamed to record our musical stylings and share them publicly, I will tell you that we sound strikingly similar to my Jingle Cats CD. I’m not entirely sure if this is a good thing…

Want more Jingle Cats, complete with subtitles? They happen to have their very own channel on You Tube.

You’re welcome.

****

Four-hundred and seventy-four words later, you finally understand the reason behind my “meow” t-shirt. You also know the reason Scott and I have decided we’re not yet mature enough to procreate. Our children would probably show up to kindergarten meowing their ABCs and licking themselves at nap time. And that’s not even taking the possibility of a cat nip addiction into account.

And with that, I think this blog post has officially made my otherwise bizarre cat t-shirt seem totally normal by comparison. Although now that I think about it, it probably would have been better just to let you assume my t-shirt was just weird.