wait...finishing the remnants of my diet coke...mmmmm....I just knocked it back like a triple shot.  De-fucking-licious. Thanks for the correct spelling Alan. Anyways.  There is change in the air and it  comes in the form ofme being a work-out-a-holic.  No kidding, I wake up at 6:10am every morning, drag myself outta bed, wash face, brush teeth, throw on gym clothes, make oatmeal for takeaway breakfast, gather my belongings into two very large over-sized (yet delightfully trendy) leather bags and put on my glasses.  By this time it is 6:30am and I can hear the traffic start to hum along Sunset from my apartment and the sun has decided to commit to coming up.  I hustle it up the street to where my car (or rather my brother's car) is parked so as to avoid ticketing.  It's a mini warm-up for the impending sweat fest.  WAIT FOR IT...saccarine rush wooo! Caracking open a can of diet coke while I deftly weave my little blue stick shift into traffic is a skill as yet unmatched in my repertoire of 'anamoalous talents'.  I listen to NPR to nurture my mind and switch to the occasional Ryan Seacrest top ten diddy.  15 miles later, and usually on average a stop and go 40 minutes (early mornings are rockin' made it here in 25! A RECORD!) I arrive at the J. Paul Getty Museum.  I always park on P3, passing many an available space so that I can take the staris three floors to the awaiting shuttle bus that zooms us all up the hillside to the white marble edifices that I now refer to as 'the hill'.  I hit the gym, running my way into a zoned out oblivion, feeling the rush of adrenaline when a good rock song pops up on the ipod.  Hit the showers. Get pretty for work.  As I mentioned, I'm honing my style down to a repeated art- today it's Audrey Hepburn meets Sharon Stone a la 'Casino'.  Work for 8.5 to 10 hours (depending upon the week).  I get every other Friday off in an alternate work week and for example this week I must work 9 hrs, thus I am here 9.5 to 10.  Get off work. Hit the gym.  Yes, you heard me, again.  Weights this time, after a 10 minute cardio warm up run.  Shower. Shuttled back down to the garage where I get in my little car and prepare for the hellacious traffic that will likely ensue.  Truly, the reasons for my work-outs are to avoid the peak commuter hours.  I get off at 5pm or 6pm, I work out for an hour then, fingers crossed, there isn't much UCLA bullshit going on an my drive will be only an hour.  I repeat this scenario the next several days.  Then the weekends bring either a trip up to Northern California or as this weekend proved, a wonderful visit to the Hollywood farmer's market (much more like a street fair that's very very fun!), pilates class and a visit to grandma's house. 

That is my life.  Stop. Repeat. I love it. Routine is the stuff that discipline feeds on.