This month, for those of you who live in the real world, is National Blog Posting Month. I’m only telling you this because I was going to join the legions of bloggers who commit to celebrating this ridiculous holi-month by posting to their blog at least once a day for the entire month. (Black Americans get the shortest month of the year, bloggers get November. Surely Obama will do something about that immediately.) As it turns out, I have no self-discipline, so that’s not going to happen. (And because I realized at 11:58 on November 1st that I didn’t post… and was too overserved at that point to rectify it.)

In my own defense I feel pretty strongly that The Half Truth of a Whole Life has made a place in the world because of quality, not ridiculous quantity. In a world where I could aimlessly indulge myself in one-sided banter about how much I hate it when the hubs fucks up and buys Cottonelle instead of Charmin even though there is a huge fucking bear on it so you know you’ve gotten the right one, or my current feelings towards Moose Spice and Big Papa , I refrain from such rants to bring you the kind of quality you’ve come to expect from HTWL. (I just made that acronym up. ) I don’t even have a direct URL, and I’m thinking I should be a daily blogger? Who am I kidding?

Or, I’m a lazy asshole who gets overwhelmed by the pressure of delicately exploiting myself to bring you some entertainment and the thought of doing it every day for a month literally gives me an eye twitch.

The good news is that while I’m not going to be posting daily, I am going to post today. And I’ll think about it again tomorrow.

The trouble with the holidays is that blog fodder, though seemingly random, is not at all. One might imagine that during the holidays there is no end to the things to talk about, but the truth is that it’s all too obvious. Caroline waking up in her front yard? That’s the entire punch line. There’s no subtle and mortifying humor to build upon. Everyone wakes up naked in their yard occasionally.

The best months for blogging are when nothing is going on. The expectation is low, and my friends forget to be on guard. Suddenly someone will reveal they’re antisemitic in a room full of Jews and it’s all I can do to sit their quietly and allow the whole thing to play out.

Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas… there will always be something to talk about, but it’s the same thing: alcohol + caroline = tearing through the streets of Boston assuming that everyone cares about what I have to say. Not true at all.

The good news is that I’ve stockpiled. For 24 years I’ve been stockpiling the horrifidy for the entertainment of cube rats across the land. (As well as the occasional non-friend who gets here via Facebook. Hey, we don’t care what brought you here, we’re just glad you’re here.) During the weeks and months to come there will be holiday-focused commentary, but it will likely center around deep emotional scarring and painful ineptitude, not singing Silent Night for sick kids. After all, if a Christmas passes without making you feel like your family has completely failed you, you simply weren’t paying attention. As for me, I can hardly wait.

For now, we have Lindsay. The she-trainer to the stars (I also made that up) who worked her tiny little tail off to make me a better me. Maybe you’re noticing the past tense?

We broke up.

It was a multi-fold decision, but hinged on the fact that Lindsay proved to be a very effective character here on HTWL, but not so effective in motivating me to live the life of a Barbie outside those walls. Perhaps we’ll see a reprise in my more lucrative years, but or now, unless one of my loyal fans wants to pick up her tab, we’ve had to say goodbye.

After our 12 + weeks together I should have known better than to tell her at the beginning of class. It’s not that Lindsay isn’t lovely and caring, I’m sure she just saves that sort of affection for her family. And I’m sure she’s been hardened by all the vapid fat asses to come before me. She can’t allow herself to get too close, to get too attached, otherwise she’d be heartbroken every time someone had to chose paying their mortgage over coming to see her. Mistaking me for a vastly stupider version of myself, she told me that the math was “like going to Starbucks” to which I could only respond with disgusted despair. Did she really believe that anyone in this cradle of a gym was forgoing on their grande mocha to pay for it? Furthermore, what the fuck does she think people are ordering that equals $800 a month? Not Tazo tea, that’s for sure.

Deciding to break up with her took me near two weeks (i.e. $400). I kept thinking I was going to ease into it between lunges (“God. I cant believe I cant afford to do this anymore. So sad.”), or maybe when she asked me about my holidays (“Always crazy. I probably wont be able to come in AT ALL.”– and then I would promptly switch gyms), but I never did it. I think it’s because deep down I didn’t want to see Lindsay dismiss me with such emotional vacancy. I didn’t want to know that I was just another $105. I guess I thought we were different.

What I hadn’t prepared for was my own stupidity. What idiot breaks up with their trainer at the beginning of a session? Lindsay knows I cant count, so she graciously keeps track of my reps, encouraging me with words like “two more” and “last set”. Not this time. I’ve learn over the last few months to keep track–vaguely– of my reps and as I passed the 20th rep on a 12 rep set I’d swear I saw Lindsay’s eyes glowing red. I was pretty certain that if she had her druthers, she’d just let me go. Until my arm fell off and thrashed around on the floor, blood pumping out of the tattered remains of my veins. “Opps” she’d say. “I think that was more than 12”. And then she’d kick my arm out of reach.

As The Last Session continued I could see that Lindsay had already moved on. She was mentally penciling someone else into my time slot. Imagining all the people willing to drink less latte in order to allow her to sculpt their wanting abs. I was like an orientation friend. A feigned BFF used only for the sake of not being alone, but someone you will never be real friends with. I was 16 minutes left on a time clock. I was an obligation.

I continued with my exercises. I started to think that I owed it to myself, to my maxed out American Express, to get the most out of The Last Session. Twelve weeks had yielded nothing, but these last 16 minutes were going to make the difference. I felt like Forest Gump running, on the edge of breaking free from my braces. When I emerged from the gym I was going to glow.

Then it occurred to me. Surely this behavior was a defense mechanism. Lindsay was masking her feelings about my departure, veiling them with trivial workout cruelties. She was a kettle bell away from tears and she was building her strength from my own. I owed it to her to be strong. To finish the workout. To never look back.

And then it was over.

I passed her in the locker room as I left to go to work. She looked at me with the eyes of a girl who saw me once in a picture, long, long ago. And then she greeted her 10:00 with all the love and longing I’d been hoping for.

As it turns out, she really just didnt like me.