Extra vs. Excess

Is there such a thing as too many? Yes. There is. at ASlobComesClean.com

Everyone needs an extra pair of tennis shoes, right?

It only makes sense.



Yard work, muddy camping trips, the (very real) threat of falling off the boat while on a fishing trip. Life happens, and it’s good to have an extra pair of tennis shoes.

But what about an extra extra pair?

Every time I buy new tennis shoes I feel like I’ve made a HUGE purchase. Like, comparable to buying a car or a house. Part of that is because my frugality doesn’t exactly match my extra-wide, high-arched footsize. Cheapo workout shoes aren’t worth it. (Especially since I’ve actually been working out.)

As I was getting our gameroom back in order after the summer, I had to work on the Sea of Shoes in there. And that was when I realized I now had two extra pairs of tennis shoes. No, this didn’t occur to me when I bought my new shoes and started wearing them instead of my old (but not old OLD) ones.

But as I filled up the shoe-shelf (a CONTAINer), I realized my space available hadn’t increased with the purchase of new shoes.


Only the number of shoes in my house increased.

Double duh.

Oh, don’t worry, I came up with all sorts of scenarios where I’d be glad to have that extra, extra-nasty pair.

But then I realized that in all of the time when my now-old pair was my new pair, I never once cried over not having an extra extra pair.

Which means I don’t need to keep the extra extra pair.

Extra is fine. Excess isn’t.



Driven. Stubborn.

Stubborn. Driven.

In the quiet darkness, it sounded.

The irritatingly melodic sound of my alarm.

I knew what it meant. I knew the time. And yet I lay still.

My only goal was to stay one with my bed for a few more minutes. If the oneness continued for too long, the sound would come again. In 9 fleeting minutes.

Around minute 7, I grunted internally and allowed self-pity to have its moment. It was time.

And just as I was about to push my body out into the cold . . . a voice said, “Are you going?”

And I, before the final “g” on “going” had been uttered . . . I scream-shushed, “SHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!”

No moment was taken to consider how best to respond. The psycho-shush came spewing out with no warning.

And what does that uber-shush mean?

Well, basically . . . I’m stubborn. And even though I have been hearing that blankety-blank alarm at 4:45 a.m. each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for more than a month and a half now, I don’t like to be told what to do.

I like praise. I like encouragement. I like it when Hubby brags on me and comments on the body changes and admires my sweat when I get back home at 6:10 a.m.

I even like the workout.

But I do NOT like pressure. Not once have I missed. Not once have I stopped that idiotic electro-chiming and rolled over to sleep for another hour and a half.

Praise me, but don’t tell me what to do.

Mmm-kay, so I have issues.

And sometimes they come out in really-scary-shushes in the early morning.

I think this is why I had to do this deslobification process my way. On my terms. Driven by being able to say what I did instead of being told what to do.

I know. Not the world’s best quality, but it has served me well in other areas. When I’m directing a play, I believe that the craziness of my eyes and the level of fear experienced by those around me is directly proportional to how good that production will be.

It makes me think of the statement I often made regarding the amazing intensity-of-purpose demonstrated by my own toddlers. “If we can channel this stubbornness, he’ll/she’ll do great things someday.”

So, is this a common trait among those who share my “issues”? I feel like it is.

I’m asking you. If you’re reading this, you just might share my “issues” and I’d love to know how stubborn you are.


And since several of you have actually asked me to talk about exercise (???), I’ll share what I’m doing. I’ve been going to Camp Gladiator. It’s a boot-camp style workout, and the class I go to is at 5 a.m. Outside. In the cold or wind or whatever. It’s crazy-talk, but I love it. Here’s the link to the main website since it’s a lots-of-different-states thing. And if you happen to decide to try it, please (pretty please) use my email ” aslobcomesclean@gmail.com ” as your referrer. Any CG contender (as they call us) can get referral credits and I’d love to get some!

P.S. When I workout, I look nothing like the people in the pictures on the website.


Half a Second or Half an Hour. My Choice.

Should I spend half-a-second now or leave it and spend half-an-hour later? at ASlobComesClean.com


Poor little me had a band-aid on my poor little finger last week.

Crazy Weather = Dry Skin = The Side of My Thumb Splitting Open = Kind Of Hard to Type Which Is a Big Ol’ Part of My Job as a Blogger

So I used a band-aid. And then took a shower. And then the band-aid fell off.

I felt it fall. I saw it on the floor.

And I walked right on by.

And then I stopped to stare off into the future. The future which I know exists due to my past.

I saw myself FINALLY getting that blankety-blank band-aid off the floor. In the vision, I’m wearing rubber gloves.  In fact, I’m all decked out for bathroom cleaning. My forehead is glistening/sweaty and my countenance determined.

I’m on my hands and knees. I’m using various tools and substances to peel, then scrape, then scrub and clean what is by then a gooey, sticky black stain. A glue-based stain. A glue-based stain that has attracted dirt and hair and other such bathroom-related disgustingness. Ick.

And then I see my Future Self look straight into my own Right Now Eyes. And I say, “Don’t wait. Do it now while it’s just a band-aid.”

Finally, the Right Now Me gives in, bends over and takes the half-second required to pick up a not-yet-stuck-to-the-floor band-aid and throw it away.

Even though Right Now Me knows that Future Me was being a little dramatic, her incessant drama is exactly the reason why she/I/whoever would have put off this task until it took waaaayyy more than half a second.


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