A good friend is in town for a conference, so we decided to meet for lunch. Sounds easy. Sounds normal. Until you realize that this lunch was in a complex of buildings spanning several city blocks and connected by enclosed walking bridges. And even that sounds kind of nice and comfy (shelter from the crazy end-of-April winter we’re having, and all) until you realize that my friend and I were chattering about everything that’s happened since we saw each other last (which was in grad school, by the way), and had never stepped into this maze of shops and offices and restaurants before, and were mostly unsure of where we were going in the first place.

I’d made a mental note of the parking level we were on (Level B), and was pretty proud of myself for remembering that. I also remembered how many of the bridge things we’d crossed, and even what shops would indicate we were in the same building as the parking ramp. But the one crucial piece of information I’d neglected to remember was exactly how we got from dear old Level B to those landmark shops. So after a pleasant lunch of excellent sushi (man, I wish there was a good sushi place in my town) we wended our merry ways back to the landmark shops and then drew a complete blank. She remembered riding elevators. I didn’t. I remembered an escalator, but there weren’t any right there. So we tried the elevators, but there was no Level B listed. There was C, D, E, F, and G, but no B. So we got out of the elevator and took the stairs down. … E, D, C…. Level 2… EXIT. No Level B in sight. And when we asked a shop keeper how to get to Level B, she looked blank and pointed toward the elevators.

At this point, we went outside and I pointed my friend toward her conference hotel, which was only about 6 blocks away, so that she’d make it in time for her opening keynote. Then I returned to the mysterious elevators and punched the button for Level E. If I’d misread the sign, an E looks more like a B than any of the other possible letters do.

The elevator dinged and ejected me into the gloom, the ever-present roar of the exhaust fans, and row upon row of unfamiliar cars.

In my mind, I mentally drove into the parking ramp and parked, remembering the angle of the ramp and of my parking space and the placement of nearby columns. Then, taking a deep, calming breath, I began walking downwards through the parking structure, circling and descending, circling and descending, reminding myself that I was lucky not to be out in the 30-degree weather and the lacerating wind. Whenever I arrived on a ramp with the correct slant to the floor, column structure, and parking angles, I’d press the “unlock” button on my key fob and look around expectantly for flashing lights.

E… D… C… B! There WAS a Level B. It simply wasn’t included on any of the stairwell door markers or elevator buttons!! And then the moment of truth as the parking ramp’s floor tilted downwards to the next lower level, the columns took on a familiar formation, and the parking spaces slanted off to the left just so. I pressed “unlock,” and nearly sprinted to the flashing yellow lights that greeted me cheerily. “We’ve been here the whole time!” they seemed to tell me. “We’re so glad you’re back.”

And I thought navigating the one-way streets was going to be the biggest adventure of the day…

Spring is coming in fits and starts. One day it’ll be 70 degrees, the next it’ll rain, and the next it’ll snow. The sky hangs low day in and day out with thick gray clouds that reach their damp fingers into my neck, my hip, my foot, my mood. But my plight pales in comparison with the poor earth worms’ worries.

Yesterday as I went to my car I had to step carefully, picking my way through worms struggling away from their water-logged holes. How could they know they were stretching toward the opposite fate? How could they know that the pavement would fry them as soon as the rains stopped?

Unable to watch them reaching toward certain death, I started collecting them and placing them on higher ground, away from puddles and asphalt. Worm after worm protested in terror as I picked it up, and then it’d wriggle away as soon as it hit the moist earth. But there were too many. I could have spent all day rescuing worms just from my driveway. So I finally satisfied myself that I had cleared away the worms that had been in my car’s direct path and then drove away to work, trying all the while not to think of all the worms littering the streets between myself and my office.

And the rains have continued. Now the whole town smells of spring, moist earth, and crushed worms.

Our new apartment manager, Mr. Fonts&Colors (any guesses what his memos look like?), has decided that it will be easier on everyone if he restricts parking in our parking lots to residents only. Aparently, they’ve had trouble with a couple of families either storing friends’ cars on our lots, or letting other people live with them and park in the parking lot, or something similar.

So this morning I had to go during the newly restricted office hours (seriously? you don’t open until 10? Do you think most of your residents don’t have jobs?) and sign several papers in order to receive my brand new parking permit. He had to take down my car information (which, by the way, I’ve supplied three prior times… apparently record keeping is not as fun as font-full and colorful memo creation) and file my signature and permit number and various other things with all the other things on file about me there.

All of this record generation and file reorganization gave me ample time to contemplate the ironic reasoning behind these extreme new procedures. Rather than talk to these few offenders, Fonts&Colors has made us all register our cars and receive permits to park in front of our buildings. He will now hire parking attendants who, beginning next month, will circulate the parking lots keeping an eagle eye out for non-permitted cars and promptly calling to have these cars towed. He will also issue visitor permits to residents who, heaven forbid, have people in their lives who like them enough to come visit. And because I caused a stink, he will also give me my very own temporary permits to hand out to my weekly dinner guests.

That sounds like less work than talking a couple of residents. Totally worth it.

I did it. I survived my first 20-minute workout (which was actually more like 25 minutes because I had to read instructions and stuff before each exercise).

Now I can hardly lift my arms.

I hope you’re happy.

After a winter spent basically hibernating, unable to make myself move when even the weather couldn’t muster the get-up-and-go to supply me with more than about 45 minutes of sunlight per day, or temperatures above zero, or really any sign that it cared for my well-being, I’ve decided I need to jump start my exercise routine for Spring. By pure luck, I’m not a blimp right now, but I do have a wedding to be in this Spring, and I’d prefer to look really good for that. After all, there will surely be pictures taken, and I’m not above a little petty vanity.

So yesterday I bought a book that my mom recommended. It promises results if I do it’s 20-minute routine twice a week. If there’s one thing I hate more than being weak, it’s exercising, so this sounds like a pretty enticing promise to me. And besides, my mom says it’s working really well for her, so I can glibly gloss over the “Wow! Only 40 minutes a week!” reaction and concentrate on the “It’ll make me really strong” reaction, right? I thought so. And because it’ll make me really strong, and because that’s good for my health, and because almost anything is worth it when it comes to health (don’t question that… the logic works perfectly, thank you very much), I shelled out the big bucks for the hardcover book that will teach me the exercises I need to know.

Unfortunately, I also need weights and an exercise ball, so today I went hunting and gathering for those items. Target had some exercise balls, but no really good colors, which was disappointing. (Don’t ask why the color of my exercise ball is important to me. I’d tell you if only I knew.) There was a drab grey ball with a huge company name plastered across one side. That was out. There was a deep red one, and I like deep red, but again the company figured I might not get the full value from the product unless the company name was prominently and gigantically displayed on said product. Still… it was deep red. But then there was a light green ball with only the smallest company name stamped unobtrusively on one side. I didn’t like the green quite as much as the red, and the green one also came with a stretchy band and two DVDs, so it was about twice as expensive as the red one… but it didn’t yell its company affiliation at me, so I bought it, DVDs and stretchy band and all.

This just left the weights. I was looking for 5-pound weights to complement the 10-pounders that I already own. But Target only had stupid weights. Sure, they had 5-pounders, but they were “designer” weights or something. They had special plastic holes where your hands go, or they were oblong, or they were multi-colored in pink and fuchsia. Seriously, I’d never be able to look directly at pink/fuchsia oblong designer weights. So I left with only the exercise ball and went to K-Mart.

I’ve only ever been to K-Mart once before because I get sad just by walking into the place. It sits like a forlorn little island in a sea of empty parking lot, and it’s insides make it look more like a loading dock than a store. It’s even given up caring that most of its shelves are only partially stocked. But it did have two brands of weights for me to choose from: the “I’m a weight; got a problem with that” brand with the octagonal metal ends on a metal bar, and the squatter dumbbells covered in foamy stuff. Of course, the foamy ones are twice as expensive, but the 5-pounders were also deep blue, and I like deep blue. I’m trying to concentrate on the fact that they’re also easier to hold. Surely that’s why I shelled out 6.50 for them rather than the 2.99 for the stripped down version.

Well, now I’m home, have successfully inflated the exercise ball (which took half an hour, even with a bicycle pump, and which I’m counting as my cardio for the day), have decided that the light green isn’t a bad color after all, and have laid out my deep blue weights neatly next to the 10-pound weights. (By the way, Pippin does not approve of the exercise ball.) But the magical exercise program says I should plan on doing the routine on Mondays and Thursdays, and today is Wednesday. The way I see it, there’s nothing for it, I’ll just have to kick back and relax for the evening and wait until tomorrow to start. And anyway, I’ve already inflated an exercise ball today, so that should count for something.

Somebody please pass me the cookies and the remote.