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Thursday, June 30, 2005

14 Days

Well, the last three days in a row have been a bust for running. With a new job, new summer classes to teach, and bowling, I haven't had time to run. I know, I know, many running publications advise you to make time to run, but sometimes it's just plain hard to find the time. Unless of course, you wake at the ass-crack of dawn and get out there. But let me tell you a little something about myself: I am not one of those people.

Or at least not anymore.

I used to be that kind of person. When I was in high school and even in early college years, I used to get up at whatever hour I needed to to get the run done, but now I have to pry myself from bed when the alarm goes off. I'm not going to push it because I keep hearing that as you age, your sleep clock resets itself and you start to naturally rise earlier. Must be true, because my parents rise at the first peak of the sun on the horizon, and my grandpa can't sleep past six am. When I stayed with my grandpa last spring, my clock got set for grandpa hours, but I've got to let you know, when you get up that early, you're no good beyond nine/nine thirty at night.

And that's when it's time for two shots of Slippery Nipples! Well, it shouldn't be, but that's what time it was last night, and my goodness, I felt like poo this morning. And unfortunately, when you drink too much on a weeknight, as I am prone to do, you also completely abandon the ideas behind "portion control." That's why I practically swallowed those jalapeno poppers whole and scarfed down the last of the chocolate ice cream right out of the bucket (I practically licked the remains out of there!), and that my friends, is not the way to "watch what you eat."

Perhaps, I should try to refrian from excess, but it's just too hard! Especially when someone else is buying the shots.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Some days

Can't remember how many days I should enter as the title of my post, so I say "Fuck it," just stick with me.

Right now I'm waiting for my jalapeno poppers to finish baking. Right now, I'll admit to you, I'm drunk (it's no secret; the bartender, knows, my friends know, now you should know). I blame bowling, that evil institution that demands that you not only fling a ball down the lane at some innocent pins, but that you also consume buckets of beer. I love the novelty of "buckets." Who thought of that? A genius, that's who. Genius. A bucket of beer! That person deserves a Nobel Prize. Right next to the guy who invented the pitcher of beer. That guy also gets props. I mean, a whole pitcher! Wow!

Anyway, at this time of night, it's time to sit down to a little VH1 (thankfully some "Behind the Music" is on -- Green Day, awesome!) and you grab a bottle of water, and you heat up some jalapeno poppers. There is, of course, the internal pull to Taco Bell, but tonight I resisted, and that my friends, is progress. Four days without Taco Bell. I should get a gold star or something.

Anyway, I'm sad to report that I didn't run today, but I didn't have time, but with the bowling, I figure I burned a few calories and I actually bowled well tonight ( a 133! that's incredible! maybe I should go pro!), so I feel justified in skipping the run. Hopefully I'll get a run in tomorrow. I also hope to type this blog entry in while I'm sober. But, we can't all reach our dreams!

Check ya later!

Monday, June 27, 2005

16 Days

There must be something injected into the food from Taco Bell. Maybe cocaine. Maybe heroin. I don't know. But whatever it is, it keeps me coming back for more. I find myself sitting in the drive-thru like an addict hankerin' for a hit. My decision is quick and simple: beef chalupa, nacho supreme. It totals $3.65. Marvelous!

When I was in high school, I literally ate Taco Bell every day for lunch. My mom would give me a five dollar bill for lunch, and with Taco Bell's value menu (used to be items for $.59, $.79, and $.99 -- I guess inflation hits even the burrito business) I could order two hard shell tacos, and a nacho bell grande and have change. Of course, I never actually purchased a soda, just asked for a cup for water and then helped myself to all the fountain Mt. Dew I could guzzle. The change added up over the course of the week, and that, combined with the tips I received from my waitressing job, was how I bought the weekend's beer.

We only had 25 mintues for lunch in high school, so it was a race to the parking lot as soon as the bell rang. Several teenagers would pile into the designated driver's car and we'd speed off to the Taco Bell just minutes away. Naturally, we weren't the only ones racing for the border, so after waiting in line, ordering and receiving our Mexican fare, we'd have to gobble down our lunches on the way back to school.

There's only one thing harder on your lower intestines than Taco Bell, and that's consuming two hard shell tacos, a nacho bell grande and a cup of Mt. Dew in four minutes. (Fifth period almost always required a bathroom break.)

Despite my all-taco diet, I was surprisingly svelte as a high school student, but that's because I ran it off every afternoon at soccer practice where we ran for two hours every day. (Fact: the average soccer player runs 5 miles in a 90 minute game. You burn approximately one hundred calories for every mile you run. Soccer was the only thing keeping those South of the Border pounds off.) Unfortunately, the wood burning stove that was my high school metabolism came to a screeching halt in college, but I was relieved to discover that the Taco Bell in my college town sucked.

There, they hired every ex-con and high school drop out within a sixty mile radius. But they were still condescending as shit.

One day I was watching my nacho bell grande being assembled when I exclaimed my admiration for their sour cream gun. "Wow!" I said. "Where do you get one of those? Do you have to special order them, or is it just a restaurant item?" The girl with tatooed knuckles that read "Bad Az Gurrl" (one letter per knuckle, hard to believe she never got further up the corporate ladder) gave me a noncommittal shrug. I just went on, "Do you load special sour cream in there, or do you just dollop the regular stuff in and let the gun do its magic?" She shrugged again and then turned back to the TV mounted in the dining room. (Did she not understand the beauty of a gun that shot sour cream? Perhaps, I could just get a needle of fat and inject it directly into my thighs!)

It was because of the tatooed "Bad Az Gurrl" and because of their slow-as-shit service that I stopped attending that Taco Bell regularly and became enamoured of McDonald's and their golden McNuggets (later, "Super Size" would completely ruin me of that habit). Yet, when I moved to South Florida, I found Taco Bell to be immensely improved. Sure, the service is terrible, but almost all service is here, so I don't even notice, and yes, their food is loaded with all the worst things in the world for me (maybe even inlcuding anthrax and the ebola virus), but how can it be resisted? Especially after a few beers. It practically calls to you.

Maybe Taco Bell and Bud Light are in on it together. Bastards. They're completely undermining this whole project.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

17 Days

Okay, I just wrote a lovely, life-changing entry, then I tried to run spell check and the whole thing disappeared. I don't feel like writing a new entry, so you'll just have to get inspiration somewhere else.


Wednesday, June 22, 2005

20 Days

When I started running track in seventh grade, we all had to learn how to race the hurdles. As you can guess, I was horrible at them. I'm too short for hurdles and my legs are like mere stubs at the end of what's basically a stubby body -- not meant to leap over anything. I would watch as the taller girls gracefully glided over the appropriately placed fences admiring them as their feet cleared the tops every time. After my first unfortunate attempt (where my foot caught on the very first obstacle, thus hurdling me into the other runners), the coach excused me from ever competing in what was obviously not my race.

But at least the hurdles in track were stationary; here in South Florida, I have to dodge and dart around moving objects. Namely, lizards.

Here in Florida we have a plethora of lizards and lizard types. To begin with, there is a little known creature native to these parts known as the alligator (perhaps you've heard of them? occasionally they get a little newsworthy media attention). Now, if you're running and you come across one of these fuckers, it'll probably be too late anyway and you'll have lost far more than you're new pair of Nike Shox. I've never personally seen an alligator while running, but if you're the sort who likes to run in a swamp, at night, without company, you are likely to get your legs swallowed up. So if you come for a visit, stick to the suburban sidewalks.

Aside from the obvious alligator to keep an eye out for, there are millions of small lizards scampering about. Some get as large as a foot long, but most are less than three inches in length and have a suicidal tendency to dart out in front of you as you come lumbering down the path. If you have cat-like reflexes, you can side-step them in a move that you might have learned doing the foxtrot in seventh grade gym, but if you're not quick-like-a-cat, you'll inevitably squish one.

As I have.

Yes, I feel terribly guilty about it. The little bugger just jumped right into the anticipated path of my shoe, and before I knew it, he was part of my tread. When I returned from that run, I was nervously checking the sky for bolts of karmic lightening that might strike me, but my husband-to-be (couldn't think of how to get that little thing over "fiancee") assured me that murdering one lizard with my running shoe was nothing compared to the cows that have been sacrificed in the name of my blood thirsty zeal over a medium rare ribeye. He always knows how to calm me.

Today when I was running, I narrowly missed a teeny lizard (no bigger than some of the cockroaches roaming through our house) and I believe I clipped his tail. This made me anxious for the rest of my run, and because it was also starting to rain, I decided to turn back earlier than I had originally planned. If this running regimen fails, I'll blame the lizards. They're out to sabotage me, I know it. There's one watching me right now through the window in my office. He must be a scout.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

21 Days

The stats: I am five feet tall. Even. No bigger. No smaller. That's the height recorded on my driver's license, and, no, no one can re-measure me. Yes, I am a hobbit. I weigh 123 pounds as my scale reported this morning at 10:25 am. I don't think it lies. Although, that's a possibility -- I would lie if I were a scale and lying is what kept my innerds intact. According to an online BMI (body mass index) calculator, my BMI is 25. They tell me that a number anywhere between 20 and 25 is normal, but hanging out on the outside rim of that "normality" makes me feel like a fat kid with a mouthful of cupcake.

I am moderately active; meaning: I try to run when I have time, when the weather isn't too hot, too cold, or too rainy, when I haven't had a long, tiring day, or when I have just purchased new running apparel. Sometimes I do other forms of activity: I've been known to watch a lot of TV and that requires lifting the remote and pressing down upon the buttons; TV watching can also make one incredibly thirsty, so I try to punctuate my bouts on the couch with trips to the kitchen for bottled water and that requires not only walking but a little pulling and lifting as well. Lastly, what catapults me from being semi-active into the moderately active category is the fact that I bowl once a week in a league. Bowling burns calories and is considered to be a sport. Usually I eat a piece of pizza when I bowl and generally I consume three to five beers (light beers!), but I didn't mention the beer or the pizza on the site where I listed myself as moderately active; therefore, they don't count.

My goal for the next 21 days is to take this moderately active lifestyle to a whole new level where perhaps I will dare to call myself "active." I will strive to run on a regular basis (six days a week) and I will attempt to partake of a healthier menu. Will the experiment be socially changing like "Super Size Me"? I doubt it. Will I form a new habit? One that might make me healthier, stronger, more energetic? Will I finally work to achieve the longheld goal of running a marathon? I don't have the slightest idea. I count on myself to fail, or at least to fall short of my expectations, but I do guarantee that I will document my failure with the best prose I can compose -- and sometimes I will rhyme for you as well.