Celebrity Crush

9.58 am
Neil Gaiman and Amanda Palmer are getting married. They announced it to the world last night. With snoggage.

This makes me inexplicably sad, and even a bit jealous. You see... well it's sort of been like... not that it really means anything... but I've had a celebrity crush on Neil Gaiman for a while. Really, how can a lit chick not have a thing for a certain tousle-haired, dog-loving, always-wears-black-and-blogs-about-not-being-able-to-fit-into-his-skinny-jeans-author? The simple truth of the matter is that Gaiman is like kryptonite for the literary minded girl.

9.58 am
I'm a little embarrassed to admit this, but I even had a celebrity fantasy to go along with my celebrity crush. It went something like this:

I would be at a signing. I would slide my book across the table. He would take it, open it to one of the blank pages near the front, and look up to ask me my name. At that point, our eyes would meet. Violins might even start playing in the background. I'm pretty sure there would, coincidentally and spontaneously, be fireworks in the background.

Anyone who has ever been to a Gaiman signing knows this is complete and utter nonsense. Most of the time, he doesn't even do signings. Instead he'll sign a whole pile of books beforehand, which you can purchase at the venue. This, I have been informed by bored event-workers, is because if he were to sign for all the people who show up to see him in the Berkeley area, he would be here for several weeks.

When he does an actual signing, there are line-minders who go up and down the line with index cards or sticky-notes who take your name, spell it properly upon the index card or sticky-note, and insert it in the page that he has indicated beforehand he will be signing. When you actually get to the table, you put down the book, he opens it to the marked page, signs his name and maybe even scribbles you a little doodle, says thanks for coming, and then you're done.

Notice the lack of any chance for him to look up and meet the eyes of an infatuated fan at any point during this process. Pat Robertson will praise gay marriage before my celebrity fantasy ever occurs.

10.16 am
Congratulations to Mr. Neil and AFP. May your years together be filled with laughter. And snoggage.

6.17 pm

The post-workout-high abruptly departed somewhere around 150th Street. I decided to start going to the gym not so much as a New Year's Resolution but more of as a "You know, I really feel better when I spend some time moving around instead of sitting in front of a law book or the computer all day." I got my RSF membership last semester, but then only ended up going about twice because i always had too many things to do. With any luck, that will not happen this semester.

This afternoon was a bit intense. I did my 30 minutes on the elliptical and was almost done with my 30 minutes on the bike when one of my journal buddies walked by. Which was odd, because I'd just been thinking that I wanted to ask him about a good workout using weights, which I know nothing about.

"Come get me when you're done," he said.

I looked down at the timer and told him I was just finishing. Which wasn't really a lie, since I only had about 30 seconds left. He told me he didn't actually use weights, but instead did exercises that uses the body's own weight. Which is all the better, since that's the reason I like Yoga. It's more difficult (but still possible) to hurt yourself that way.

So he has me do pull ups, and dips, and something I don't have a name for that involved being underneath a metal bar, with my feet on the ground, my butt in the air, and my hands on the bar, and puling myself up. Then there were handstands and pushups.

I finish all this. My legs are already hurting. My arms now have that lovely burning sensation. My heart is pounding. Breathing is not painful, but I have the feeling that it might be soon.

My gym buddy looks up at me and grins. "Now you do this four or five more times," he says.