I Got Nuthin’

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Do Jellyfish Eat Oreos?

There’s a reason that there hasn’t been a running post on here in a while.  I’m not running anymore the only running you will see on this post from now on are run-on sentences.  As much as I loved it, my ankles, knees, and back did not.  I’ve had to face the fact that my riding accident ended joint pounding athletics for me.  Osteochondral lesions, potential surgery, months of physical therapy, and the thought of unattractive fashion choices among hospital gowns that leave my ass exposed are some of the things that have led me to this difficult decision.  And difficult it was.  For a while, I convinced myself that I could continue.  However, hobbling home after what should have been an easy three-mile run convinced me that grinding my joints to dust would not be in my best interests unless I wanted to spend my life as a jellyfish.  As appealing as floating around my apartment consuming everything within reach of my grasping fingers may be, I do not want to end up with my own TLC program, The Jellyfish Woman, sandwiched between showings of The Woman with the Talking Tumor and The Man with Three Brains.  That last show is fascinating. As we all know, men usually only have two thinking organs.

I can walk.  I can use the elliptical machine.  But no running. What has surprised me is how the news that my running days are over has affected me.  We’re talking depression, folks.  Woe is me and all that shit.  I have been cranky, moody, and weepy.  Ordinarily I run when the cRazY strikes.  But that is no longer an option.  So I go for a walk.  Well, dye my hair blue and call me Hazel!  All I need is a velour tracksuit and a few stories about my home in Boca and I’m all set.  As I power walk in the park, runners pass me and I wonder if they think I’m lazy or lack the mental toughness it takes to be a runner.  Because I am not lazy.  I am a procrastinator.  There’s a difference!  Laziness is sitting on the couch in the dark because you don’t feel like getting up to turn on the light.  Procrastination is . . . well, I’ll tell you later.

Ironically, since I’ve started walking as exercise I’ve lost four pounds.  Four pounds!  In one week!  What the hell?  When I was running it would take me weeks to lose four pounds.  I like to think that it has something to do with my awareness that consuming a Starbucks Luscious Lemon Tart has greater repercussions on the circumference of my hips now that I’m no longer doing five mile laps in the park.  Believe it or not, a pack of Oreos has been sitting in the kitchen sniffling and whining about loneliness for over a week.  But I resist, muttering protective spells and making the sign of the food pyramid.  Instead of reaching for the chocolaty double-stuffed goodness, I grab an apple. 

The Cougar was up visiting last week and helped me stock my kitchen with healthy food.  I’ve been cooking healthy meals but grazing snacking sabotages me.  I need things that can be prepared quickly and eaten on the go.  Or in front of the TV.  So The Cougar and I went grocery shopping. “Do you like bananas?” she asked, holding up a yellow crescent-moon shaped object.  “Ba-na-na?  What mean this thing ‘ba-na-na’?” She was not amused.  “Fruit, you need to eat more fruit,” she insisted.  Now, I’m no stranger to fruit, I eat the garnish on my frozen alcoholic beverages.  But fruit all on its own?  With no margarita to accompany it?  Who does such a thing?  I loaded my cart with apples, grapes, oranges, and berries but put the kibosh on unsweetened fruit cocktail.  My idea of a fruit cocktail is a gin soaked olive.  Anything else is just obscene. 

So, I’ve been walking and reaching for fruit and veggies, leaving the Oreos to whine plaintively on the shelf.  I miss running.  I miss the endorphins, I miss the zen of breath and body, and I miss the freak parade and my fellow runners , but I think I would miss my joints and cartilage more. 

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I’m Lovin’ It

A lot of good stuff has happened recently.  First and foremost, I graduated!  But don’t think you are off the hook.  Although my wailing and moaning about the thesis has ended, a new era of bitching is about to begin.  I’m going to apply to Ph.D. programs and I need to get a good score on my English Literature Subject Matter test to get into the schools I’ve chosen.  The studying and whining will commence now tomorrow after the Law & Order marathon this weekend. 

Mr. Dingo has been very supportive with this decision.  Actually, it wasn’t really a decision.  If I don’t have a Ph.D. I’ll never be able to be on the tenure track at any university.  Except for McDonald’s Hamburger University.  While I find black pants slimming, I just can’t make peace with wearing a visor every day; it would crush my curls and I’m sure that the polyester would make me break out along my hairline.  I also think that 3½ years as a flight attendant was more than enough to show me that my strengths do not lie in customer service. 

The second good thing that happened was that classes started this week!  I’ve missed teaching and it looks as if I have some pretty good students this semester. So far they seem very animated and chatty.  I’d rather reign in conversation than do everything short of lighting my farts on fire just to get a response.  I swear, there were times last semester when I wasn’t sure if I had walked into my class or the cadaver room at the nearby medical center.

The first day of class was this past Tuesday.  I gave my big “Plagiarism:  Don’t do it or I will fuck you up” speech.  It was a big hit.  I had one student, however, who came up after class and claimed that she had some sort of psychic ability and that sometimes the stuff she writes has already been written.  It’s not plagiarism though, she promised.  She’s just channeling other creative energies.  Riiiiight.  You’ve got to give it to the girl, to make up an excuse like that takes crystal balls.  While I was thinking “Great, I’ve got the Ghost Whisperer in my class,” I responded professionally by informing her that I am also psychic because when I smell bullshit, it’s a sign that a plagiarized paper is nearby. She didn’t show up today.  She must’ve seen a giant floating F in her future.

Annnddd…I know you’ve been wondering what’s up with the lack of running updates.  Quite simply, I haven’t been running.  With a knee injury in October that required six to eight weeks of healing, the thesis madness of November and December, and a severe case of the Lazy Ass Can’t Even Get Off The Couch To Find The Television Remote, my running was non-existent.  But I’ve started up again.  I’m at a run/walk now.  It’s a little frustrating to know that I was running 14 miles just a few months ago and I’m run/walking one measly mile now.  But it’s good to be moving again.  It’s good to be out there.  Unfortunately, I don’t have any comments on the usual running freak parade.  With 20 degree temperatures, anyone out there running is the freak parade, myself included.  Who runs in 20 degrees?!  I do. And the guy who runs in a puffy jacket and jeans with a Marlboro hanging from his mouth. 

The only sand in my panties this week is the ongoing construction next door.  Aren’t we in a recession, Innernetz?!  Didn’t Home Depot just lay off a gabillion people?  Then why are the construction workers still working?  I am praying to Sweet Baby Jebus that they soon run out of nails, drills, and what sounds like a broken accordion because my sanity depends on it.

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Rainy Days and Mondays

Forgive me for my absence, Innernetz.  I’ve been in a funk lately (two points for everyone that just started singing “Give up the Funk” by Parliament) and kicky new rain boots just haven’t been able to lift me out of it.  In fact, my kicky new rain boots mock me.  They mock my pain.  Mockers.  Mocky McMoccasins.  You see, my new rain boots are Chooka’s rockin’ turquoise Tattoo City.

For those of you too lazy to click over or who get distracted by the champagne fountain of never ending linkage on every web site, I’ll describe them for you.  What?  Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about.  The champagne fountain?  If you’ve ever been to a wedding with a champagne fountain you know that it starts innocently enough.  You take a glass from the top of the cascade and two hours into the wedding reception after you’ve slaked your thirst following the Electric Slide, deftly dodged the bouquet toss, and worked your way to the bottom tier of glasses, you are so drunk that you forget where you are or why your tongue is down the throat of a guy dressed in a valet parking uniform.  That’s not just me, is it?  IS IT?! 

Anyway, to prevent a linkage meltdown that will have you on some page featuring ambiguously dressed boy bands from Thailand, I’ll describe them for you.  They are turquoise.  They have various tattoo related images stamped all over them.  Oh hell, that description doesn’t do them justice.  Just go look at them but come right back.  No linky-linky!

Well?  What did you think?  They rock, right?  How could they not cheer me up, right?  Because, Innernetz, they remind me of the tattoo that I’m not going to get.  You see, I told myself that after I finished the marathon I would get myself a tattoo.  I have a cool one designed by Mr. Dingo himself.  He rocks almost as much as my rain boots.  I don’t have any other tattoos and this tattoo, this post-marathon tattoo, was going to have a lot of meaning for me.  Alas, I don’t think it’s meant to be.  My short runs (eight miles or less) have been great. I feel strong, I feel invincible!  However, for the past three weeks my long runs have been disastrous.  I’m not going to give you a blow by blow of my 14 mile run because, basically, it blew.  Determined to finish the run, I hobbled the last 5 miles.  I got to the front of my building and had to call Mr. Dingo to help me up the stairs to the apartment.  He swooped down and carried me away.  It was an Officer and a Gentleman moment.  Without all the kissing.  I can’t really blame him.  With my face red and puffy from crying and snot hanging from my nose, I made a less than attractive romance movie heroine. 

My leg was a mess.  With my knee swollen to Saturn-like proportions and unable to bend, I dashed off a poor me e-mail to Lesley, my bloggy running guru, at JustRunJustLiveJustBe.  Lesley gave me some great advice and even helped revise my training schedule.  A week to recuperate, a few fantastic short runs, new running shoes, stretching exercises, Advil, and a mental pep talk and I was on my way!  NOT.  My 16 mile run tonight was aborted at mile 9.  Mile 9!  For those of you not mathematically inclined, that’s 7 miles short of tonight’s goal and 17.2 miles short of an actual marathon.  Yes, it was my knee again.  Not only that, but in my obstinate persistence to complete the 14 miles from the week before, I think I sustained a stress fracture to my foot.  I’ve had stress fractures before.  Years of soccer, horseback riding, and lodging my size 8 ½ up people’s asses has made me thoroughly familiar with the throbbing and sharp pain associated with the injury.  In short, Innernetz, my marathon dreams are fucked.

I have only four weeks left until the marathon and it’s simply not enough time to recover.  I knew after my 14 mile run that things were not looking good and it sent me into a mild depression that I have been trying to fight all week.  I was depending on tonight’s run to give me the mental and physical boost I needed to make it to the marathon.  Instead, after having Old Man With Walker almost lap me on tonight’s run, I’ve been sitting in my nasty running clothes crying, “Why me?! Why me?!” wondering if Tonya Harding had somehow managed to whack my knee with a tire iron when I wasn’t looking. 

This past week, none of my usual storm cloud dispersers have been able to lift me out of this funk.  Not my favorite massacre scene from 30 Days of Night, not teaching, and not even walks with Dingo Girl.  For some reason Dingo Girl has decided to turn over a new paw and instead of having to beg and plead just to get her to walk around the block, she wants to RUN!  Run everywhere.  Run downstairs.  Run around the block.  Run to the park.  Run, run, run.  See Dingo Girl Run.  Run, Dingo Girl, run! 

So, that’s where I am these days.  It’s not like good things haven’t happened to me this week.  The Cougar came for a visit, I got a gift certificate to a fantastic spa, blah, blah, blah.  I didn’t want to write a whiny post but that’s just where I am right now.  I feel defeated.  I feel like a quitter. 

And now Dingo Girl needs to go for a walk run.  It’s raining.  And my new rain boots are still mocking me.

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I Should Run With A First Aid Kit

I haven’t written much about my marathon training lately because, well, it just sucks.  Trying to fit it into my schedule has meant running in 80-degree heat and pouring rain.  But, on a good note, I bought new running shoes!  They’re the same brand as my old shoes but instead of the run-of-the-mill (what the hell does that mean anyway?) blue and white, I got silver and yellow!  Oh yeah, I’m looking like Flash Gordon these days.  Although sometimes I wonder, if I looked like Commissioner Gordon would Christian Bale come rescue me around mile 12 when I’m floundering and my pace has the waddling, decrepit gait of The Penguin instead of the breezy gazelle like leaps of a jogger? 

Mr. Dingo mocks my running belt, which holds 40 ounces of water and fruit-punch-flavored Gator-Aid, four packs of energy Gu (delicious Vanilla Bean), keys, and my homemade emergency contact information card.  Well, it’s not really a card.  More like a post-it note with my name, address, and a message that says, “If my prone, desiccated body is found sprawled on the side of the road, please touch up my hair and make-up before contacting the media.  Oh, and call Mr. Dingo.” But the running belt really is cool, if a bit heavy with all that liquid.  In fact, although Mr. Dingo mocks my belt, he admits that there may still be enough room between some of the water bottles to attach a grappling hook and a flashlight that would emit the Bat Signal.  He laughed but I am scouring the internet for just such a thing.

Since my running schedule has changed, I haven’t seen the usual freak parade.  Mr. Jazz Hands has been absent but he could just be off mourning the closing of Rent.  OLWW hasn’t been seen for weeks.  She probably finally succumbed to heat stroke.  In her place, however, is some guy who looks as if he was trying to get to the Bingo tournament at the Home for the Aged and Infirm but made a wrong turn at the cafeteria and ended up at the hilliest part of Central Park.  Unlike OLWW, his walker is motorized.  He just can’t seem to find the speed controls.  The last time I passed him going downhill, his walker was about three steps too far ahead of him.  He had a panicked look as his sweaty, gnarled fingers began to slip off the handles.  I would’ve offered to help (Shut up!  I would have!  Maybe.) but just then his walker decided to veer off to the right into the curb effectively stopping his downhill plummet.  I figured if he was still there on my second lap I’d steal his walker because by then I’d need it I’d offer some assistance. 

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, that I’ll stop to help a dog but I won’t stop to help another human being.  I suppose this isn’t the time to mention the guy who had a dufflebag and picnic basket precariously attached to the back of his bike.  As he slowly pedaled up the hill the picnic basket would swing widely to the left.  And then widely to the right.  The guy looked like a tightrope walker as he swayed back and forth trying to keep his balance.  All the other runners gave him plenty of room because it was just a matter of time before he fell over.  And he did.  The picnic basket spilled all over the road and the dufflebag made a loud CRACK! sound.  Oh!  Did I mention that there was also a little girl strapped into a child seat on the back of the bike?  And I do mean strapped.  In lieu of a seat belt the guy decided that duct tape was an appropriate restraint.  The little girl wasn’t hurt so I didn’t stop.  No, really!  She wasn’t hurt!  In fact, she was laughing so hard she was crying. 

The fact that I was close to tears myself made me a little less open to whatever terror she was feeling.  Brat, you don’t know the meaning of terror.  Terror is having already gone eleven miles with your legs aching, blisters forming, and knowing that you have two more miles to go.  That, my dear whiny kid in your Hello Kitty bike helmet, is terror.  Pick up your spilled apples and smushed PB&J and shut up.  Get back to me when life gets really hard and then we’ll talk.

So, the marathon is a little over a month away.  Mr. Dingo and I have made our reservations at a cute little bed & breakfast.  I don’t know how much I’ll be able to enjoy either the bed or the breakfast as I’ll be too nervous to eat and then too sore to care.  I’m excited though.  I never thought I’d be able to get this far and I don’t think I would have if it weren’t for Mr. Dingo and you, my dear Innernetz.  I keep thinking of the great party and all the gifts and money you are going to shower me with when I complete the marathon.  Gifts + Money = motivation.

I’m right about the gifts and money, right?

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