Beer, It Isn’t Just for Breakfast Anymore

Oh my holy hell, y’all, I have a stock tip for you.  Ibuprofen.  Yes, sales of ibuprofen are going to go through the roof within the next few months.  When I’m lying on the apartment floor after a run, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m practicing my visualization — you know, “seeing” myself completing the marathon, imagining having a great workout, all that New Age mumbo jumbo that scientist begrudgingly admit is important in helping us achieve our goals.  So far, my visualization has included picturing myself getting off the floor and going into the kitchen for a beer.  What usually happens is that I end up begging Mr. Dingo for some ibuprofen with a beer chaser.  What, you think that beer is not an appropriate workout beverage?  I should be swilling Gatorade perhaps?  You forget, my friends, that I will be running this marathon in Florence.  Beer is just the first step in my post-marathon training.  I need to be able to hold my liquor when I go out for the celebratory binge meal after the race.  I would hate to embarrass you, my fellow countrymen, by falling face first into my plate of pasta after only one cask bottle glass of wine.  So, in order to prepare for the post-race festivities, I am chewing ibuprofen and chugging beer.  Why beer?  Because, really, who drinks wine at 7:30 in the morning!?  What, do you think I am an alcoholic? 

My training plan is great.  Before actually training for distance, the training manual I’m using prepares your body and your mind for the rigorous workout to come.  Visualization and gradual increases in running time are on my agenda for the next few weeks before training for distance and speed.  Right now, I’m running for five minutes and walking “briskly” for five minutes.  I think briskly means slightly faster than a zombie lurch but slower than the mad dash during the Pamploma Running with the Bulls.  Next week I jog for ten and walk briskly for five.  You see the pattern here?  This is the training plan that Wheaties used and now look at her — she’s competing in the Ironman in October.  While I am immensely proud of her, the only Ironman I wanna do is Robert Downey, Jr.

Anyway, I’ve discovered that ibuprofen is my friend.  I’ve already gone through a bottle and have sometimes wondered if it would ease my aches and pains faster if I ground it up first and snorted it through a dollar bill.  Side note:  I read that 80% of all paper currency in the US contains trace amounts of cocaine.  Think about that the next time you are going through airport security and one of those friendly looking drug sniffing dogs comes your way

As I’m lying on the floor visualizing the ibuprofen levitating from the medicine cabinet into my hand, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m meditating.  But I’m not.  I’ve found religion.  Yes, those “visualization” moments on my floor are actually prayers.  I’m bargaining with God. 

Me:  God, if you just let me move my legs, I promise I’ll stop making fun of the woman who runs in high heeled sneakers.  But I can’t promise that I won’t stare. 

God: 

Me:  Just a toe, God.  If I could just move my right big toe, I’ll stop cursing the stroller mom who thinks it’s okay to talk on her cell phone while pushing her damn double stroller in the running lane taking up the entire path so that I have to go into the grass to go around her. 

God:

Me:  Okay, since you’re God, you know that I’m lying.  I won’t stop cursing her, but I will stop cursing in that fake under my breath way that’s loud enough for her to hear it.

God:

Me:  I got nothin’ else.

God:

So, marathon training is going well.  I’m actually enjoying it.  To tell you the truth, I never thought I could run for five seconds and now I’m zooming along at the speed of erosion for five minutes at a time.  I freakin’ rock!

(Get it?  Erosion?  Rock?  Oh come on!  That was funny!)

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The Last Supper

I don’t know how it happened, one minute I was emailing my friend Wheaties about our upcoming trip to Philly and the next I was committing myself to run a marathon with her in November.  “With” should be translated to mean, we’ll both be running on the same continent.  See, Wheaties has been a marathoner and triathlete for years.  She runs, bikes, and swims — for fun!  The only running I do is for the subway and I consider life sweet if I’m swimming in a good bottle of Pinot Noir by the end of the evening.  As for bikes, I haven’t ridden one in years.  Biking in NYC is out of the question unless you’re a courier.  NYC couriers have balls of steel.  It may make sitting on their bikes a bit uncomfortable but it also enables them to dart between buses and cars within an ass hair of death without batting an eye. 

With all this in mind, the thought that once the race started I would actually be within shouting distance of Wheaties is laughable.  But, the thought that I could actually train for and run a marathon by November appealed to me.  As did the marathon location: Florence, Italy!  Yes, the marathon is in Florence, Italy.  If that’s not motivation to get off my ass then you really need to just stick a feeding tube down my throat and turn me over every two hours so that I don’t get bed sores.

On Saturday, I went to Barnes and Noble and got a great book on training for marathons.  I then headed to Paragon Sporting Goods, the mecca for all things athletic in NYC.  The crowds were insane and intimidating.  All the customers seemed to know exactly what they were looking for and did not mind pushing me aside to get it.  And then, a ray of light from heaven showed me the way.  His name was Carlos.  Carlos was fantastic!  I told him my goal (26 miles through the beauty of Florence) and my current level of activity (pub crawls through Little Italy).  After trying on at least eleven pairs of shoes, I finally settled on the white and blue Saucony Progrid Guide.  They feel like air.  Or at least as if my feet have wings.  I am Mercury!  If I don’t run the marathon, I can at least deliver flowers for FTD.  Carlos gave me some running pointers and I was on my way.  It was a gorgeous day and, on my way home as I strolled through the farmers market in Union Square smelling the flowers and avoiding the temptation of home baked goods, I felt that anything was possible — even running a marathon. 

Later that evening, Mr. Dingo suggested that we go out for my last calorie-laden, trans-fat saturated, no holds barred meal.  We went to Brother Jimmy’s.  Yes, there are better places for BBQ in NYC but Brother Jimmy’s is located a few blocks away from the real culinary goal of the evening — Cold Stone Creamery.  Brother Jimmy’s is a loud, crowded, twenty-something hang-out but, when the smorgasbord we ordered appeared, all the noise faded into the distance.  It was like a romantic movie scene where the lovers spy each other and the focus is narrowed to their dreamy faces as everything around the edges gets all fuzzy and out of focus.  It took me a few seconds to realize the Mr. Dingo was talking to me, “Dingo.  Dingo!  We’re supposed to share that appetizer platter!” Spoil sport.  Take a look at this and tell me: is there enough for two people?!?

There was this weird fire thingy in the middle.  I don’t know what it was for.  Mr. Dingo suggested that it was placed there to prevent me from reaching over and taking his share of the food.  Good idea, that. 

I was full, distended tummy full, by the time we finished the appetizers.  When the entrees came I made an attempt to eat, knowing that in a few days I would be looking back at this meal with longing.  I also had to save room for Cold Stone’s Cake Batter Ice Cream.  I made a valiant effort to eat but ended up with a rather large doggy bag to take home to Dingo Girl.

Walking to Cold Stone after that meal was painful.  I felt like Violet Beauregarde after eating Willy Wonka’s Three-Course Dinner Gum.  Just roll this ol’ blueberry down the street, Mr. Dingo!  My tummy hurt.  I think I got stretch marks from all the BBQ I ate.  Cold Stone was delish but I couldn’t finish.  My stretch marks got stretch marks.  Yes, it was an exercise in gluttony but at least it was exercise, right?

I know that the next few months will test my determination, stamina, endurance, and Mr. Dingo.  Wheaties is going to help me train via internet and I hope that, by the time we meet in Philly this May, I’ll be able to run a few miles with her.  One of my biggest hurdles will be overcoming my mental quirks.  I tend to take on too much but become frustrated when I just can’t seem to do everything at my top form, and then I grow discouraged and disappointed in myself.  Oh boy, is it fun to live with me then!  It’s like a constant state of PMS.  Mr. Dingo, however, is a trooper.  I am sure that his preparation for this Florence marathon will consist of lots of wine and whine — and I think you know who’s doing the latter. 

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Ow! Ow! Ow!

You would think that, knowing about this yoga class for the past week, I would have made sure I had my yoga clothes ready.  Was I wrong to assume that since I haven’t been to a yoga class since Paris Hilton was a virgin, I would have some clean, folded, and well-fitting yoga clothes just waiting for me?  Yes, I was.  With only twenty minutes to get to class, I grabbed what I thought were my gray yoga pants only to discover that it was actually my gray long sleeved T-shirt.  I eventually found a pair of amorphous black pants in Mr. Dingo’s drawer.  These were not the trendy sleek pants I envisioned for my first yoga class in almost a century, but if an opportunity for ninja-like stealth or martial arts combat arose on the way to the studio, I would be appropriately dressed. 

Sports bra?  By the time I contorted my upper body to get into the vise-like spandex and polyester torture device I found in the back of my drawer, I probably did not need to go to the yoga class after all.

Cute yoga top?  I found it behind the dresser covered in multiple layers of Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo hair.  I wore it anyway.  After a few swipes of the lint brush, it was a good as new it was going to get. 

I consoled myself with the thought that I wasn’t going to yoga dressed like a poser (although I wanted to).  Instead, I would sport the casual, relaxed attire I often admire in the tabloid photos of Reese Witherspoon and Jennifer Love Hewitt as they zip off to the gym in nothing more than track pants and a white T-shirt.  That hope was quickly dashed once I left the magical force field that surrounds my apartment.  Leaving that magical force field transforms items that appeared acceptable in my bedroom mirror into outfits that look as if I allowed circus clowns to dress me prior to dousing myself in honey and rolling around in dust bunnies and pet hair.  There were people snapping pictures of me as I walked down the street. I am sure those photos will find their way to some Yeti website.  I almost called it a day then and there and then I realized that yoga people are all New Age-y and non-judgmental, right?  So off to class I went.

The class was in a beautiful studio on Madison Avenue.  For those of you who know New York, Madison Avenue will conjure images of Upper East Side matrons with too much time and money on their hands.  I fit none of those categories.  When I stepped into the studio, I encountered other categories outside my usual realm of experience.  Botox, for one.  Hey, I said yoga people are non-judgmental.  I never said that I wasn’t judgmental. 

My class consisted of the instructor, a lithe charming brunette with pink toenails at the end of slender toes that she could clearly use to put her earrings on; a woman who fit all the categories previously mentioned; and me, in my pet-hair ninja costume.  Class was a blur of pleasure and pain.  I was more out of shape than I had thought.  My “straight” back rivaled Quasimodo and my hamstrings were constantly at war with my quads resulting in spasmodic twitching and grotesque muscular contractions.  At one point, surely mistaking my flailing for an epileptic seizure, my instructor asked if everything was okay.  I wanted to respond in the negative but my mouth was too full of pet hair dislodged by my desperate gasps for breath.  Sensing my distress, the instructor would gently correct my posture and positioning.  By “gently,” I mean that she would wrench my body into contortions formerly reserved for roller coasters and Gumby.  Meanwhile, my classmate moved with fluidity and grace.  I couldn’t tell if she was experiencing any discomfort because her Botox left her expressionless.  I also had a feeling that the wide-eyed surprised look on her face was less a result of the physical exertion than eyelid surgery and a rather vigorous brow lift.

By the end of the hour-long class I was getting into the groove of things.  My body was starting to relax and I was able to enjoy a level of looseness in my limbs that I hadn’t felt for some time. My muscles are slightly sore — but it’s a good soreness.  I signed up for another session for next Tuesday.  Sometime between now and then, I have to find workout clothes that do not make me look like an extra from Planet of the Apes.

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Me and My Peeps

Mr. Dingo left for a week-long business trip.  In Miami.  Yes, Miami.  I’m not feeling too bad for him.  It’s 40 degrees here.  It’s in the mid-70s in Miami.  Yeah, not feeling for you Mr. Dingo.  Part of me wanted to make this trip with him, but the other part of me, the part that can’t fit into my sassy pink bikini, is glad that I don’t have to put my ass-ets on display right now.  Mr. Dingo is a fantastic cook.  When he’s gone my dining options are limited to salads and sandwiches.  This is the perfect time to prepare for our trip to Vegas.  I’m going to use this week of salad and sandwiches to kick start my healthy living plan.  You know, the plan I talked about on Sunday.  You did read Sunday’s post didn’t you?  No?  Okay, I’ll give you a few minutes to scroll down and read it.

…Your’re back.  That was quick. Okay, so as part of my healthy living plan I’m cutting back on the sweets.  I’ve got a mad sweet tooth.  In the interest of full disclosure, Mr. Dingo left a Snickers Bar on his desk.  I snickered as I ate it.  But that’s it, I promise.  No more sweets.  Except for Peeps.  I love Peeps.  Those damn yellow chicks are sugary, marshmallowy, teeth-aching goodness.  Not only has the calendar screwed up my sleep with Daylight Savings Time, but it’s placed Easter and my healthy living plan in direct confrontation.  Good v. Evil.  Just between you and me, Satan would have had an easier time tempting Jesus in the wilderness if he had just offered him some Peeps. 

To thwart the confectionary allure of yellow chicks and pink bunnies, I stocked up on fruits and veggies yesterday.  I may pick at the fruit but I’m pretty confident that the carrots and red peppers will live to be an overripe old age in my rotter.  Admit it; you have a rotter in your fridge as well.  Oh, the Maytag and Kenmore PR machine may call it a “crisper”, but we all know that once those veggies hit that drawer, they never see the light of day.

I’ve also incorporated exercise into my healthy living plan.  I had to pick my dropped jaw off the floor at least one hundred times while watching High School Reunion.  That’ll do wonders for the abs.  Have you seen this train wreck show?  In a nutshell, fifteen high school stereotypes (the jock, the outcast, the spoiled girl, the popular girl, etc) are plucked from the 1987 class of a Dallas, Texas high school and whisked away to a beautiful mansion in Hawaii.  Drama ensues.  The drama is about as manufactured as my Peeps and not nearly as tasty.  You can click here if you want to know more but believe me, you don’t. 

What makes people attend their high school reunions?  I know I went to mine just to show people how much I had changed from the skinny, insecure, big-haired, brainiac they knew.  Isn’t that a dumb reason to spend two hundred dollars on a dress, more bucks on a plane ticket, and a sleepless night?  Why in the world did I care about the opinions of people I hadn’t seen in 10 years a long time?  I didn’t love high school but I didn’t hate it either.  I was definitely glad to move on.  I hadn’t thought about most of my former classmates in years, yet when the reunion notice came I broke out into a cold sweat.  Had I changed enough I wondered?  Was it a change for the better?  Will the pretty girl have just gotten prettier, making my carefully applied make-up look like spackle on a monkey?  Will the quarterback still ignore me, perhaps bumping my arm and spilling my watered down drink all over my new dress as he launches for a chest bump with his former wide receiver?  Will they think that I am still the brainiac and ask me questions to test me?  By the power of Peeps, I hoped not.  In the intervening years, I’d replaced vital, need to know facts about chemical formulas, historical dates, and word problems involving trains leaving stations and widget production with useless trivia:  elephants are the only land mammals that can’t jump, a mosquito has 47 teeth, Da Vinci spent 12 years painting Mona Lisa’s lips.  I could go on and on.  This info won’t help me on my English Subject Matter GRE, but if Alex Trebek calls, I may be able to forgo Ph.D. work altogether.  But I digress….

I went to my reunion.  It conformed to every stereotype.  The pretty girl was working on her third divorce and prowling the room to find her next sugar daddy.  The quarterback had reached manatee proportions.  He and the rest of the team sat in the corner nursing their beers and their broken dreams with constant replays of high school games.  The nerd made lots of money in the dot com boom.  What is the brainiac supposed to become?  I don’t know.  I think I defied their expectations.  I was voted “Most Improved”.  Most Improved?  Most Improved!? It was meant as a compliment and years ago I would’ve basked in the title and hoped it came with a glittering tiara.  But as an adult, Most Improved, my ass.  Who were these people to keep judging me and why did I fall for it again?  Hadn’t I learned anything in the intervening years?  Yes, I had.  And so I left the reunion snagging some chocolate-covered strawberries on the way out.  Snagging all the chocolate-covered strawberries on the way out.  Did you know that a strawberry is not a true berry because its approximately 200 seeds are on the outside?

So I watched High School Reunion, smug and snug.  Snug.  The tightening of my waistband as I performed another waist bend to scoop my eyes off the floor after a particularly robust eye roll — really, this show is that ridiculous — brought my arrogance crashing to the ground.  My healthy living plan — exercise and eating right was really a mini-plan (and, you may have noticed, not a very successful one).  A plan to make me sleek and bikini ready to sit by a pool in Vegas to be judged thin and pretty by people I don’t know.  And yes, this time I want to be judged Most Improved.  Apparently, my Peeps, in all their artificial flavors and coloring are the only things keeping it real. 

This hypocrisy is brought to you by the letter “H”.

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Bill Gates Owes Me

Daylight savings time.  I did a Google search to find out who decided that it was in the best interest of everyone involved to rob me of an hour of sleep.  The first Google entry says Daylight Savings Time Help and Support Center.  I am not a pleasant person when I’ve been short-shrifted some sleep and I am going to be an absolute monster for the next two weeks until my body and my mind get on the same schedule.  I need all the help and support I can get.  I expected an advertisement for melatonin or one of those daylight alarm clocks that wakes you up by simulating the effect of sunrise.  (I’ve always wondered how a snooze button would work on one of those clocks.  Do you tap a button to create a ten-minute solar eclipse?) Instead of taking me to anything even remotely useful, the link was to a Microsoft Web page.  Really?  I type in “Daylight Savings Time” and Bill Gates is the first Google entry?  Wikipedia, you let me down.  And damn you Bill Gates!  As if that stupid talking paper clip isn’t enough, he’s now cornered the market on DST.  Is there anything that man doesn’t own?  Whoever said that you can’t buy time never met Bill Gates.  Okay, how much is it going to cost me to get my hour back?

If we’re going to spring forward tomorrow, as my first-grade teacher liked to say, I guess it’s also a good time to do some spring cleaning.  Dingo Girl and I had a fantastic walk in The Ramble this morning.  The Ramble is my favorite place in Central Park.  With thirty-eight acres of hills, streams, paths, trees, flowers, and wildlife, The Ramble is as far away from the city as you can get while still being in the city.  It is the Calgon of New York real estate.  Remarkably, although I was less than a five-minute walk from Broadway on the West side, not a single city sound interrupted this morning’s walk except for my heavy stalker-like breathing as I dragged myself up yet another hill.  I have gotten out of shape in the last year.  Wait, let me rephrase, it’s not that I’ve gotten out of shape as much as I’ve acquired a new one.  A rounder one.  That I wear over my old one.  Muscle and abs have turned to mush and ass.  In spite of my labored breathing, I came home refreshed and Dingo Girl came home tired — chasing squirrels is exhausting work!  It seemed like a good start to Spring.  I was determined that the brisk walk up and down the hills would kick-start a new exercise and eating program for me.  Not only do I want to be healthy and live to a ripe old age but, as an added incentive, Mr. Dingo and I are headed to Vegas at the end of May.  I want to be ready to sit by the pool at the Bellagio in the same pink and more pink string bikini I wore five years ago.  I could fit into it now but I would look like one of those pork loins wrapped with kitchen twine.  I would be stretching the limits of the spandex and I wouldn’t want to injure anyone standing near me if my pink bikini decided to blow. 

All the optimism came to a crushing halt after a trip to the grocery store.  Gummi Bears, Mike & Ikes, and Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies are not exactly low-fat fare.  But it was yummy.  Never, never shop on an empty stomach.  So tomorrow — tomorrow I say! — I start a healthy eating plan.  It can be done and I will be the one to do it!  After I finish the cookies.  And, yes, the gummi bears, the Mike & Ikes, the ribs….  Oh, did I mention that we had ribs for dinner?  Anyway, after everything else has been consumed, I will be ready for my new body.  Dear, dear, dear readers, it would not hurt my feelings in the least if you submitted my name to the people at Extreme Makeover. 

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