Who gives a SH#@!?

When heading for a workout on the elliptical machine, two basics are a must- my ipod and a good read. Having as much distraction as possible to get through 40 minutes of repetitive upper and lower body movement is essential to even consider stepping foot near the gym. And speaking of that good read- I'm not talking about Time Magazine or the latest Eckhart Tolle novel but instead something much more thought provoking and worldly like an US Weekly or People. The combination of eye candy plus deafening music certainly make giving up after the first 15 minutes a lot less probable.

On a recent workout session I spotted the latest Star magazine and discretely snuck it back to my apartment. Giddy with excitement- I began to envision how I'd spend the next 60-90 minutes. I imagined brewing a pot of coffee, hanging a "Do not enter or ELSE" sign from my bedroom door, and delving into the latest gossip, photos, and love trysts of the rich and famous. Some people, like my husband- find comfort in watching non stop ESPN or those God awful poker tournaments but me....just a pile of smutty magazine and I'm in heaven. So, armed with with a cup of java, warning sign posted, and a comfy seat- I dive right in. I flipped through articles on Robert Pattinson's new look, Tiger Woods' infidelity, and even take a stab at the crossword puzzle. An hour later and after re-reading stories I had skimmed over initially, i tossed the magazine on the bed and felt surprisingly...unsatisfied. Hearsay, half truths, and tangled webs are typically the cornerstone of any girls existence and perhaps prompted my preference for tabloid verses Tolkien but today, I found myself thinking, "who cares"?  


Bewildered by my unenthusiam of the juiciest celebrity scoop- it occurred to me that I've got my own problems to worry about nevertheless to fret about the likes of Tori Spelling or Jessica Simpson. With my own dreams to fulfill and debacles to tackle- I have neither the time or energy to think about alleged affairs and botox injections. And though having wads of indispensable cash and a treasure trove of celebrity galpals would be just divine- I still wouldn't trade my puny set of circumstances like my Mini Cooper or watching endless hours of volleyball in a sweaty gym for stints in rehab, eating disorders, and a marriage based on convenience and a million dollar bank account. I'm happy knowing that my mistakes will only affect the few whom I care about and any missteps will be far from front page news. And you...what do you care about? Do tell...