Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Just one of many great Valentines on someecards.com. Browse away! What's your favorite?

Exercising in pink: Hot or not?

In college, I developed an overwhelming dislike of pink workout attire. Well, not just pink workout gear, but matching pink workout gear. White sneaks with pink Nike swooshes, yoga pants with pink trim, and cute tanks with pink accents. All at once! And pink hair ribbons? Don't even get me started. Is the gym really the place for a fashion show of femininity?

Well, if the gym is entitled the Estro-gym, as Williams College's all-cardio equipment workout area was woefully named, I suppose it is asking for just such a display. Unsurprisingly, this is also where my dislike for such a wardrobe began. But doesn't being in a space called the Estro-gym deem such a show unnecessary? Testosterone, be damned! Just walking into this space apparently demands that the entrant possess a pair of X chromosomes. Aren't the ensuing pink trimmings simply reinforcing what is already known and expected?

Moreover, has any male ever entered the Estro-gym? These women are essentially declaring their femininity to the other women in pink tanks, reading Cosmo on the other ellipticals. This is quite literally fruitless.

But surely, there must be a time and a place for some pink workout gear. Every woman likes to feel feminine in her own way, and for many, this involves some harmless color association. I am not above this. But where and when would this practice hold the most value? I fancy myself to have found an answer.

I joined a boxing gym a few weeks ago and immediately faced a dilemma. What color handwraps to buy? Black, red, yellow, or ... pink?

Pink handwraps? But that would go against my deep-seated hatred of combining pink and sweat. And trust me, I have never been more aware of how many pores are on my hands, than I am at the end of a boxing workout. To wrap all of that sweat up in pink is a mind-blowing visual manifestation of all things Estro-gym. Could I really bring myself to that?

Yes. Yes, I could. The Ring is just the space for feminine flair. With 215-pound John and 185-pound Juan to my left and right, and Athena's rock-solid delts in front of me, I rather enjoy a subtle reminder (to myself and to others) that I am, in fact, a woman.

A boxer's hands make the final movements in an exertion of torque that produces a powerful jab, cross, hook, uppercut, or some combination of the above. The hands get the final say. Mine are drenched and callused, yes -- but pink.

Boom.

Say Yes to the Dress meets Jersey Shore

Ever since I blogged about Things I Can't Blog About, I've spent a lot of time not blogging. This comes as no surprise.

I have also spent a lot of time moving across town, getting my car started by AAA, shopping for a wedding dress, and boxing. Yes, boxing -- no, not in the ring, but yes, with gloves on, and yes, with muscular men. And obviously I wear sleeveless tees. Oh -- and, no, the wedding dress was not for me. But I did get to watch several brides-to-be find the dresses of their dreams.

I know you've all seen MTV's hit, Jersey Shore. Don't be ashamed -- it's almost obligatory to have seen an episode at this point, to be able to partake in any sort of conversation that involves pop culture. And we all know how important those conversations are at dinner parties. I submit that one who does not enjoy making fun of Snooki will never enjoy life. Don't you want to enjoy life?

Probably significantly fewer of you have seen TLC's Say Yes to the Dress, which follows brides-to-be through a day of shopping at Kleinfeld, Manhattan's gown kingdom. Kleinfeld houses the largest selection of wedding dresses in the world, and an afternoon of shopping there is an experience in itself. I tagged along with a college friend, Sam, on her trip to Kleinfeld last weekend, and got to leave the real world, rife with disarray, disappointment, and JWows, behind -- to enter an all-white, no-blemishes-allowed dream, where happily ever after was the next step for all. A bride goes there to find a gown that she can admire for a lifetime. A mother goes and weeps as her daughter finds a dress that mimics her beauty and innocence.

We -- the bride-to-be, her mother, aunt, and bridal party of four -- went out to brunch beforehand and enjoyed a few mimosas, while chatting excitedly about dress and wedding details and ideas. We arrived at Kleinfeld and admired the classical decor and chandeliers as we waited for Keisha, Sam's bridal consultant, to usher us onto the floor. Once there, we took a seat on one of the plush sofas, admiring the racks of beautiful gowns with their lace and tulle and satin, and whatever other materials wedding dresses are made of.

My daze was abruptly interrupted when the bride at the platform next to Sam's came out of her dressing room in a "gown" with a see-through, lace corset top, and long, tulle skirt. Lace? Normal. Tulle skirt? Normal. See-through? Normal ... for lingerie. As this bride took her place in front of the mirror and adjusted her boobs, her party ooh-ed and awe-d and exclaimed, "How traditional!"

This begged the question, to what sort of tradition were these women referring? Surely not the abovementioned version of tradition that the other brides at Kleinfeld seemed to seek. Could this party have been referring to some sort of tradition exclusive to those on the Jersey Shore? My heart pounded, eyes aglow, as I realized the value of my seat as audience to this bridal party's podium. This bride could only be from the real-life Jersey Shore and she was clearly sent to Kleinfeld to entertain me.

I watched as her bridal consultant approached her, and tugged on the long tulle skirt, which fell off to reveal a barely-there mini skirt. Reception-ready!* I could only imagine what the mini-skirt would tear away to reveal. Bedroom-ready! Three-in-one combo! The best wedding dress is obviously one that can double as a tool of seduction in the honeymoon suite. Right, mom? Dad? Dad??

I thank you, Jersey Shore, for another 30 minutes of irreplaceable, unpredictable, can't-make-it-up, entertainment.

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* Lower-right image

Things I can't blog about

The blog-o-sphere is a strange land. I find myself stumbling through this new space, as I discover exactly how to best navigate. What is the best time to blog? How many posts per week can I manage? How can I get more followers? What is the best place to blog, kitchen or coffee shop? How much "blooper" and how much "real" should each post contain?

Most importantly, though, the question that every blogger faces, every time they post: what makes the best blog topic? What am I comfortable posting on the internet, up for all to view, judge, and (gasp!) discard? My name is on my blog, and my readership of approximately nine includes some family, friends, and co-workers. Anonymity is not mine. There are real consequences to what I post to the internet; do I want everyone to know what my Saturday night was like? Do I want people to know my failures, my successes, what makes me just like them, and what makes me different? How personal should I go?

As I negotiate the answers to these dilemmas, I pass up dozens of hilarious potential posts. I am finding that the topics with the most comedic potential can also be the most personal. Here is a brief list of them*, and my lamentations on their exclusion from The Blooperrealist:

• I will not blog about the dumb thing that you said yesterday, or the crazy outfit you wore last weekend. But know that I noted both. Duly.
• I will not blog about how great I think I am. Though, that my blog exists already blows that cover. I suppose now it has been directly and indirectly acknowledged.
• I will not blog about workplace issues. Because there are none.
• I will not blog about my "texts from last night." Considering peoples' obvious propensity to laugh at others' follies, this is a particularly tough loss for The Blooperrealist. If only I could check my shame at the door. Oh, the material I surrender here.
• I will not blog about dates I want to go on, or have had. Because then you'll send them the link and I will be alone forever. On a similar note, I will not blog about ex-boyfriends. Because you know them.
  
• I will not blog about life epiphanies that I have. Because you probably realized the same thing, but, like, five years ago, and now I'm stupid and slow.

The hilarity of these topics makes me contemplate launching an anonymous blog. If I do, you probably won't hear about it (until I become rich and famous and my blog has become a book and everyone in the world, not just you nine, knows how stupid and slow and shameless and egotistical I am. Ah, to dream).

I guess some things are meant for Sunday brunch discussions. See you there.

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*For every bullet on this list, there are, of course three more that did not even make this cut. Let your imagination wander.

I did, in fact, elf myself

I did several things to prepare for the Santa Speedo Run. These things did not include eating light and healthy foods for the week or two before race day (in fact, I had bacon-wrapped meat on two separate occassions in the past four days). Also absent on this list was visiting the gym at all in the past ten days. My preparation focused on finding two important, and delicate, balances, both of which centered around my warmth.

The first balance that I pondered was with regard to my outfit, which would dictate my "outer warmth". The powers that be at the Santa Speedo Run headquarters stipulate the following attire guidelines:

• Obviously, a Speedo-like bathing suit is required. Holiday colors are preferred. Please, no thongs! We know you have the body to pull it off, so why prove what's obvious?
• Santa hat, beard and other holiday flair at your discretion

Since my dreams of parading down Newbury Street in a velour/faux fur thong were crushed, I focused on preparing an outfit that would strike the appropriate balance between keeping me warm, and still appearing Speedo-like. All that, with holiday flair. Delicate indeed.

My original vision included a Will Ferrell-inspired elf costume, because, well, smiling is my favorite, too. And because then I'd get to wear tights. I opted for knee-high, red and white striped socks that called attention to my glue-gun and felt elf boots. I attempted to add a bell to the points, but the weight of the bells crushed the formless felt. Unfortunately, I did not get to jingle while I ran. The outfit itself consisted of a green sports bra and a short skirt I sewed out of a t-shirt. Warm(ish), Speedo-like, and festive. Success.

The second balance that I toyed with was with regard to my "inner warmth." On race day, this x-factor was directly related to pre-race libations. How much Jim Beam was necessary for a holiday tingle that would distract me from the 20-degree wind chill? How much would be too much? An attempt to control one's humors is always delicate, and this case was no exception. It did end in success.

In all, time well spent in preparation for a hugely fun outing. The only thing missing were the bells. Next year.

It is time

Sequined argyle: Hip or hypocritical?

I am going to the Lady Gaga concert in Boston on Tuesday. Fame Monster, here I come. You may be thinking, "Oh my God! What are you going to wear?" Survey says that this is the most popular thing for a person to ask me after I've delivered this news.

It is beyond me why the first question is never, "Oh my God! Why did you waste your money?" Let's be real. The live version of "Paparazzi" will be half as good -- no, let's go with twice as bad -- as the studio version. Will she or won't she lip sync? This is the most pressing musical choice Gaga faces.

I would be stupid to go see Gaga expecting a musical showcase. Half of her lyrics (and even her name) are complete jibberish. Instead, I am expecting a more circus-like performance, in which -- let's be honest -- motley's the only wear. Clearly, the main point of this outing is to look and act like a fool. Or, at the very least, to witness others' -- namely, Gaga's -- follies. What will she do next? What will she wear? Will she be a man or a woman? It's almost Shakespearean.

Costume and over-indulgence will abound and I, for one, will enjoy my view. I can't brag about a fabulous costume or outfit, but I do have a shirt selected that will be subtly entertaining. It is black, with black and silver sequins on it, in an argyle pattern. Yep, sequined argyle: Preppy school girl meets night club. Pretty sure that's what the Scots had in mind.