Clubbing

Okay, I lied. I said I would take you with me to my glucose test and I didn’t. The office didn’t have wi-fi, well at least not wi-fi they would give to a jacked up pregnant woman.  So I live tweeted it. It was finally summed up with this:   And then I went to work, and slept under my desk for about 30 minutes. I passed it. It’s bullshit. I’m convinced it’s bullshit. Glucose tests have the same intrinsic value as the PSAT.  But, for what it is worth, I passed it. So suck it sugar. Suck it hard. Since then I’ve had a little side project that I’m enjoying quite a lot. Turns out there is something in the water here in Tampa because the whole damn world is getting themselves all Knocked Up. This realization brought out a characteristic in me that is worth explaining/exploring: I have a fascination with clubs. Not the sandwich with an extra slice of bread in the middle. Not the kind you kill baby seals with and not the kind you go with your girlfriends to so you can hook up with a guy that has the same name as a state and then find yourself at 5 a.m. sneaking out of his apartment and realizing, “Oh shit, I’m wearing his skinny jeans, not mine…” and you swear to stop hooking up with guys that have slimmer hips than you so that this can stop happening and how does this keep happening? I mean… Oh wait. I’m sorry, I went back to my “unhappy time” for a little bit. Let me take a moment to thank Mr. Forty again for saving me from myself and not having slim hips. I love you. Okay, so… clubs. I like the clubs that have a specific membership. I don’t mean “no girl’s allowed” exclusive, or  “the elite aliens that protect the President” secretive. I just mean I like groups of people who have similar interests or lifestyles or hobbies. When I was young I was forever creating clubs that I would force my poor childhood friend, Dena, to join. I would make her a membership card, and explain to her the complex dues structure, and my ideas for building a  2-story clubhouse out of refrigerator boxes in the backyard. (“But what happens when it rains?” she would ask. That Dena, no vision. I hear she makes six figures as an auditor for one of the big accounting firms. That’s… impressive. Perhaps I should have listened to her more). I wrote manifestos for my clubs, I priced out die casting decoder rings (very pricey on a 7-year-old’s allowance), I joined other clubs I found in the back of comic books (I still have my membership card to Cracked, back when they were a Mad rip off and had a papery thingy called a magazine). I appreciated the ideas of secret handshakes and passwords and clubhouses. In high school I excelled at clubs. I joined ALL THE CLUBS. When I graduated, I was an officer in no less than five clubs (Thespians, Youth In Government, Omega Service Organization, Latin Club, and National Honor Society – and yes, that made me super popular and really cool just as you might imagine).  Then I went to college and it kind of fell apart.  I tried. But it turned out I was kind of a shit sorority girl (I still maintain that Birkenstocks can be “dressed up” if matched and...