5K Day

Well, this morning did not go well.

First of all, when I arrived at the park 30 minutes early, there was a huge line of cars waiting along with me to get into the park. One car at a time, we slowly inched forward. There were, of course, the requisite jerks, who were cutting in line as well, so that made it go a little slower. Some people, fearful they would miss the race, just parked alongside the highway, and ran into the park.

At the park's entrance, there was one guy, a kid really, about fifteen years old, who slowly made change for each car's required dollar. With ten minutes to spare, I made it past the teenage gatemaster and into the park. I quickly parked my car, threw my keys under the floor mat, hopped out, and promptly locked the doors. What!!! Yes, that's right, I had just lokced myself out of the car. I knew it right away, but I knew there was nothing I could do about it right then, so I jogged up to the registration table, and got the necessary materials and then walked up to the start line.

As I was stretching, the race coordinators announced that they would be delaying the race because of back-ups at the park entrance, and that instead of starting at 7:00, we would begin at 7:10. Ten minutes later brought another announcement: They would delay another ten minutes, and finally, they managed to get all those runners into the park and the scheduled 7:00 race began at 7:30. This may seem trivial, but that half an hour meant that the temperature rose about five degrees. Before we started, the race announcer warned everyone of the heat index (already a balmy 92 degrees) and advised everyone to take it slow and pace themselves.

It was hot, but I was running right at pace when I passed the 2 mile marker, and the clock read 20:23. Not bad for me since I typically run a ten to eleven minute mile (slow, I know) and that time was right on target for my thirty minute goal. But at 2.5 miles my head started to feel funny. My scalp felt tingly and then I started to see little spots. That's odd I noted, and then I felt the wave of dizziness wash over me. That, I knew was preclusive to fainting, so I slowed my run and started to walk. As soon as I started walking, I felt a surge of heat in my body and my head seemed heavy with blood. I swooned for a second, but kept walking, watching all those behind me run past.

I once fainted at a middle school track meet. It was a hot day in early May and I hadn't eaten much that morning, and just after I finished the 400 meter (what a bitch of a race), I told my friend and teammate that I needed a drink of water and then everything went black. I woke up in the medical tent with a nurse who smelled like orange peel; she was gently patting my head with a cool washcloth and it felt very quiet and peaceful there.

Anyway, I did not faint this morning, but for just the hint of moment, I thought I might. So I walked for about a quarter mile and then I jogged the rest. My time was a disappointing 35:45. Oh well. It was damn hot and I figure I'll do better next time, but my next task was to get into my car. Part of me hoped it would have just unlocked itself, but it was not that considerate, and I had to borrow a fellow runner's cell phone to call home and ask my fiance to come out and bring my spare set of keys.

I thought briefly that I might be able to jimmy the lock with one of my barretts, but I almost got it stuck in the keyhole, so I gave up on that idea and just waited. While I was sitting there in the grass, soaked in sweat, a horsefly landed on my ankle and bit me. That motherfucker did it just to piss me off I'm sure of it.

Spinning Class: Priceless

Number of minutes in a spinning class at my gym: 60

How many minutes it truly feels like: 1, 265

Amount of time I thought you sat in your bike's seat: The full hour

Amount of time you actually sit in your seat: About two minutes

Approximate level of difficulty of class on a scale of 1-10: 20

Sweat lost (in gallons): 2-3: It looked like I spilled my water bottle on the bike and on the floor

Point at which I thought the class was almost over because I was near death: 30 minute mark

Numberof old people who never sat back on their bike to peddle softly and take a breather: 10

Number of old people who know the words to Usher's "Yeah" and can sing it: 10

Number of old people in that class it would take to kick my ass: 1 (they're in freakishly good shape!)

What my legs felt like when the class was finished: A new born calf's

What my legs feel like today: An old cow's

Number of years class took off my life: 12

Would I take the class again? "Yeah!"

Abs of Steel

Yesterday, I took a class at the gym that was all abs for thirty minutes. Nothing but crunch after crunch. Plus all this stuff with those big inflatable balls, which are harder to lift with your legs than you might imagine, and then other exercises with our legs up in the air and so forth: It was absolutely hard. So today, of course, my abs are totally sore. I coughed this morning in bed, and it hurt. And my neck is sore too, not good -- you're not supposed to pull with your neck, but I'm like a draft horse -- pull, pull!

This week is going to be the week of classes. I've decided. On Saturday, I'm running a 5k and while I have gone running this week, I'm trying to do some cross training so my running muscles aren't tired, or bored. The last time I ran a 5k was around six months ago -- it took me thirty-two minutes and I'm aiming to either match that, or hopefully, beat that time. Last week I ran 3.1 miles (5k distance) on the treadmill and it took me thirty-five minutes, but on Sunday I ran that outside and it took me thirty mintues flat. So we'll see what Saturday morning is like, for one thing I'll probably have a bit of an issue getting up at 6 am, but that's okay.

Anyhoo, like I mentioned, this week I've decided to be brave and test out some classes. Yesterday it was abs, today it's going to be spinning, or riding a stationary bike for those unfamiliar with gym lingo. That class isn't until this evening, but it's supposed to kick your ass -- I'll give a full report. Then I will probably break tomorrow because everyone tells me that you should take the day off after your first spinning class; we'll see, what could be so hard about it? And then Friday, I plan on taking this class that's called "Resist-A-Ball"; obviously all work with those big inflatable balls that are all the rage. The personal trainer I met with last week, told me it's one of the best classes because it's all about "core" training.

Everyone's talking about the "core" lately in fitness magazines and in exercise books. Apparently, we're not psyched-out enough about how our abs look, but now it's been decided that they are the most important muscle group in the body. Basically it stems from the Pilates craze, which is now subsiding, that boasts that the core muscles (in your stomach and back) are the most important muscles because they ground and center all other muscles, so your stength at your "core" determines your strength all around. True? I have no idea. It sounds like good, sound logic, but who am I?

But I'm crazy to have good looking abs, so I'll take what measures I can. But that ball is kind of tricky; it requires all this balance, which is part of what it's supposed to develop, and balance is not one of my key features. I'm always sliding off or slipping to the side. But hey, if it can help cut me like an underwear model, I'm all for it.

Ouch! I just sneezed and it hurt! Damn core!

Insomnia

I can't sleep.

I tried. Or have been trying for the past hour and a half, but I'm just laying there staring up at the ceiling. I once read that if you're not asleep within a half an hour of trying to go to sleep that you shouldn't stay in bed; I usually give myself a little longer.

Usually I am a very good sleeper, but sometimes I just can't drift off -- no reason, just don't feel sleepy when I should feel sleepy. Sometimes these spells last a week, other times just one night, or every once in awhile, months. There's no real cause, except perhaps an excess of caffeine on some days, and nothing in particular cures it either; it just passes.

When I was a kid and couldn't sleep, my dad would tell me to picture my fort. I had to think about every last detail in my fort: Where would it be? What would it look like? Who would I allow in it? The idea, of course, was that once I focused on every detail, I would eventually relax and fall asleep. Which was mostly true, but sometimes the exercise kept me awake; I'd become so enamoured with my imagined fort that I'd be making actual plans for its consturction, and I'd get caught up in those thoughts and they would keep me awake.

So that's when I would read. My parents were very flexible when it came to my late night reading. Their rule: My brother or I could stay up as late as we wanted as long as we were reading. I paid the price on some school mornings when I was forced to get up to catch the bus after I'd been reading until the early morning (you know, when you just have to finish a book). But overall, I would read for an hour or so and then I'd be out. However, sometimes, when the fort business overtook my consentration, I would turn my bedside lamp back on and pick up whatever I was reading.

As long as the light didn't bother my brother (we had to share a room for much of my childhood), and as long as I didn't bother my parents, I could read until the eyeballs popped out of my head.

My favorite book as a kid was Bridge to Teribithia -- awesome story -- about this girl and boy who meet and become best friends and they build this fort together across a small stream and call it Teribithia. It's their escape from an imperfect world and the problems both kids have at home and at school. But one day, when they have planned to meet at Teribithia, the girl can't make it, but the boy goes alone and while crossing the stream, he falls in and drowns. It's a very sad story, and I don't know what kind of kid it makes me that it was my favorite book; I guess I was attracted to tragedy.

Anyway, aside from the dead friend, Teribithia was exactly the kind of fort I wanted: something secluded, something special. That's why it was so hard trying to think about my fort in detail and why the exercise never really put me to sleep. As an adult, I sometimes built my dream house as an exercise for falling asleep, but once again I would get caught up in the details and end up wide awake trying to decide what color I would paint my perfect kitchen. That's why I try to just read a book to get to sleep.

The reading habit has carried into adulthood, and I usually read every night before I go to bed, as I did this evening. But tonight I can't get comfortable and my brain won't stop working, so I suppose I'll settle into the couch with my new book and read until I feel truly tired. I had planned on getting so much accomplished tomorrow, and now I see that that may not be possible.

Smells Like Teen Spirit

Today the gym smelled like glue.

I am familiar with the glue smell, and have been intimate with glue in the past. My love for the sticky stuff began in kindergarten when I discovered that Elmer's had a slightly sweet taste to it, and I used to literally throw my head back and pour the white substance down my gullet. I wasn't the only one, half my class was eating glue, and the teacher had to put a stop it. She probably shouldn't have told us that it would glue all our insides together though because some of us freaked out and told our parents that soon everything from our pancreas to our gallbladders was going to be one solid organ, and that teacher went somewhere else (probably out to the "country" -- that's where our bad pets went).

After I stopped eating glue, I started inhaling it. In fifth grade art class, the teachers decided we were mature enough to begin handling rubber cement, and we all discover the joy a little sniff could give us -- it made Algebra bearable for me, but did not make it passable. Of course, the way we inhaled was a slow, dreamlike sniff, so none of us got truly high. No, it wasn't until middle school that I learned how to do that: It's called "huffing."

My friend Heidi and I discovered huffing in middle school art class when we would take a bottle of rubber cement into the supply room and huff away. Huffing works like this: You cup your hands around whatever you're inhaling so that no fumes escape, and then you take really fast, short breaths until you feel a tingle in your brain -- that means it's working. Pass the stuff along to a friend and let the fumes do their work, then when it gets passed back to you, take really long, slow intakes of air, (all should be done through the nose) the kind that you can feel filling your lungs -- this will ensure that the initial tingle that started with the quick breaths will last.

One night, months after we'd discovered the true joys of rubber cement, Heidi and I were hanging out with some boys down the block who we were close friends, and often troublemakers, with. One of them, Jesse, was the first to introduce me to Tequila -- he dared me a dollar I wouldn't take a shot of his dad's stuff, but I did it and was a dollar richer. He, Joey, Heidi and I were always hanging out and usually getting into trouble. (It was also Jesse who first showed me Penthouse; his dad was single and had all kinds of stuff for us to get into.)

So, this one night we are just laying around Joey's house watching TV when Heidi starts bragging about our glue huffing. The boys mock us and Jesse says, "If you really want to get high, you should huff some real stuff."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Gas," he said quite simply.

So the four of us go outside to the shed behind Joey's house and pull out the gas can stored in there for the lawnmower. The boys carried it into the field next to Joey's house and we all took turns huffing and puffing. The next thing I knew, my fingertips were humming with an electric buzz, and I was laying in the field on my back watching the stars. The others lay around me and their voices floated over to me as if they were from far off planets. I don't know how long we laid like that, but it felt like years.

Later, Joey reported that a teacher had told them in science that huffing was the worst thing you could do to your brain -- it kills more brain cells than any other kind of drug, and because we were interested in keeping as many brain cells as possible, we all laid off the stuff. But sometimes when I'm filling up my car with gas and I take a deep breath, it smells pretty good to me, and today in the gym, when the whole place smelled like rubber cement, I was taken back to those early memories.

Smell is the strongest tie to memory.

Breakfast of Champions

The first thing I think every morning when I wake up is: How much longer can I sleep? In order to sleep longer, I usually start cutting things from my planned morning. As I have mentioned before, a scheduled run or other exercise is the first to go, but right behind that is breakfast. I've never been much of a breakfast person because I often don't give myself much time for breakfast, so it gets eliminated before it's really given a chance.

But the personal trainer emphasized the other day, as so many nutrition experts have repeated for years, that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Why? Well, several reasons I guess: One, it kick starts your metabolism -- the sooner you introduce food, the sooner your body starts burning it. Two, if you introduce food right away, you won't be so hungry later and that way you won't over eat at lunch or dinner. And three, if you start your day right by eating healthy you are more likely to continue that pattern throughout the rest of your day.

The trainer really pushed eggs for breakfast because they are obviously high in protein and if prepared effectively, rather reasonable for calories, but they are high in cholesterol and fat. But my relationship with eggs has always been touch and go. When I was a kid, I hated eggs. It had something to do with the color of the yolk; it was so unnaturally yellow. When I asked my mother how the yolk got to be that color she explained that it was the extra proteins and nutrients the baby chick needed to grow that made it so richly colored.

“Baby chick?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said matter-of-factly, “Eggs are where baby chicks grow, but these eggs haven’t been fertilized so a baby never lived in there, but if he had lived in there, he would’ve needed all that extra protein. Instead, you get to enjoy it.”

That was the end of the eggs for me. I was too scared to crack open an egg and discover a baby chick curled up inside. I imagined his closed eyes and matted feathers glued close to his body, little feet tucked into his chest. The thought disgusted and revolted me, and I didn’t eat eggs for years. But in college I decided to give them another go, and I found that I liked them and didn’t really think about the baby chick anymore. I didn’t become a regular breakfast eater with eggs and bacon, but I did come to enjoy them occasionally and always thought of it as something special. But something for everyday? I don't know about that.

Personally, I like to have either yogurt or some fruit for breakfast -- they feel lighter, less filling. Eggs are so rich. And besides, I'm probably not as concerned about adding weight as the trainer is (men are always trying to add weight and woman are always trying to lose it). My brother is the same way; he eats a lot of eggs too -- the baby chick issue never bothered him.

Plastic Surgery

On the radio, on TV, on billboards, and in the newspaper, there are ads for cosmetic surgery. I suppose South Florida is a ripe market for these businesses since the whole southern tip of the state is saturated in image consciousness. There are plastic surgeon's offices everywhere, even in the small shopping strips right next to your neighborhood grocery store. So, theoretically, you could get your Botox and then get your bread all in one stop. That's convenient!

Mostly I mock any sort of meddling in cosmetic surgery for pure vanity, but there is one thing that I would do if I could, and it is so "vein." I would have those damn spider veins lasered off the backs of my thighs. They are so embarassing -- big purple streaks across the dimpled flesh -- they're an eyesore. And I've had them since I was a teenager. They just popped up one day along with the thighs themselves and boobs.

I have also developed new ones since adolescense because I've had many jobs that demand hours upon hours on my feet, and the pressure there has sprouted a few more pronounced veins. Most of them are pretty faint, and to be truthful, you would have to be examining my legs up close (as I do) to even notice some of them, but there is one vein that stands out. It's dark purple and runs along the length of my fatter leg (isn't that strange how you can be so misproportioned?) for about an inch and a half. And every time I put on my bathing suit, which is often here in Florida, I look at that fucker just taunting me.

My concept of the "lasering" means they just pass a few shiny lights over you, and viola! They are gone. But I think reality might be a tad more complicated. I think they actually remove the vein with instruments, and that freaks me out. Plus, I think you have to wear these super tight stocking for a couple of weeks afterward until your other veins make up for the lost veins and you don't lose any circulation. When my grandpa had heart surgery, they took a vein out of his thigh, and he had to wear those terrible socks for weeks after the surgery and I can tell you from personal experience that they're a bitch to pull on and off. And they make you itchy and hot -- ick! I don't even like regular panty hose!

I guess I just have to accept the unsightly veins that map my legs and I'll probably develop more as the years roll on, especially if I ever have kids (I think preganancy can help develop some). But perhaps in the future they'll also have a very advanced procedure that will be just like my imagined light show to remove them. So I'll wait a few years and see what those scientists can put their minds to.

Personal Trainer: Part 2

So, yesterday after I wrote my blog, literally minutes after posting, the phone rang and it was the personal trainer. He apologized for our previous misses and promised to meet with me this morning. I didn't hold my breath that he'd actually be there, but he was, so I started to believe that perhaps my blog has powers -- I type, and viola, results! Maybe if I write about a million dollars, some of those dollars will come knocking at my door: what do you say dollars?

Anyhoo, I just returned from my session with the trainer and my arms are literally so tired that I can barely eek out these words, it's hard just to lift my fingers for typing -- I'm pooped!

It made me realize that when I work out, I run or lift until it's tiring or uncomfortable or boring and then I'm done, and I don't really push myself that hard. Like today, we were doing bicep curls, and I was tired at eight, but he told me to do two more, so I did two more and then he made me do one more and hold it and then slowly return. I would never make myself do that. There were many more reps and sets on other machines and with free weights, and then there were the abs. My god, the abs! On the big ball, with a medicine ball, with the legs, my goodness, my little stomach muscles were burning! At first I thought he was a kind of gay Nazi, but then I started to appreciate the push.

When I played high school sports, we had coaches yelling at us to run faster or longer, and to do just one more sit up, etc, and of course, we all did them. When you have someone pushing you, you find the strength to go ahead and do what you didn't think you could do. I guess I need someone to boss me around: Like a boot camp instructor! No, I don't want someone yelling or blowing a whistle in my face because I just might rip that fucker right out of his lips, but it would be nice to have a workout partner or a trainer to help me go a little further than I would push myself -- firm yet fun. This guy seemed like the perfect combination.

But then our date took a turn for the worse.

We were chatting in between sets and he was asking me about myself, and I told him that I teach at a community college and he asks, "How old are you?" (Very common question by the way, I am the size of an Oompa Loompa, so many people think I'm twelve.) I told him I am 27. "Oh my god! I thought you were like 20 or 21!" he exclaimed. I smiled at this because it's one of my favorite misconceptions about me. But then he elaborated, "You're aging very well."

What? Aging? Isn't that what you say about middle aged people or old people? Maybe it just slipped out because he probably works with a lot of old people (the gym in chock full of them). Or maybe because he was only about 19 or 20, he figured it was flattering wording, but to say someone is aging well, is to say "Well, your age spots are hardly noticable! And look at your papery thin skin; why, that's magnificent!"

After that, our relationship went downhill, and I don't know if we'll see one another again. I doubt I'll call him and I'm not going to wait around for him to call. Aging! My god.

Personal Trainer

I was supposed to meet with a personal trainer at the beginning of my membership at the gym, but the first day we were supposed to meet, he called and cancelled the time because he said the gym would be too busy. So we re-scheduled, and then he called again and left a message that we would have to re-schedule again. I called him back and left a message, but that was three days ago and he still hasn't called me back to find a suitable time for us to have a date.

That's okay, I don't need no stinkin' trainer.

I actually do feel pretty competent with both cardio machines and the weights. In college, and in high school, I took weight training as a class, so I know how to pump some iron. Except I am a little frightened by the free weights, not because I don't know how to use them, but because there are always these hulking men over there who are grunting. They scare me. It was that way in high school and college as well.

In high school, it was just me and one other girl from my soccer team in that weight class. Other girls I knew were in weight training, but they were in different periods than ours. So, it was me and the "bearded lady" -- that's what we called my teammate. She literally had peach fuzz on her face and she had thick sideburns, which was a little ironic since the hair on her head was really very stringy and thin. Poor hairy thing. She was also very muscley, with huge quadriceps, and massive calves, big, strong shoulders and defined biceps. Needless to say, she was a good athlete and a great soccer player, but I'm pretty certain she was a man (which would leave me as the only girl in the class).

Because we had to have partners and she was the only other girl (those were either boobies or very defined pecks), she and I became partners. This meant I had to spot her as she benchpressed weights heavier than me. Meanwhile, I worked up to adding little five pound weights to each side of the bar, so that by the end of the semester I was bench pressing the massive weight of 55 pounds. I was a bit weak, but I really hated that class. For one thing, I had the bearded lady for a partner, and for another the teacher for the class was the wrestling coach and he was all muscled up and angry -- always yelling, "One more! I wanna see one more out of you!" Most of the guys in the class were his wrestling team (a third distraction; I thought some of them were the cutest ever, so it was hard to look all sweaty and gross in front of them), so they considered the hour in the upstairs gym another practice and they dutifully gave him one more. I, on the other hand, stopped when I felt like the weight might crush me; he would shake his head in frustration, but he must have felt sorry for me because I still got an A in the class.

My college class was deja vu. Again, with the very few girls and the abundance of guy athletes, and again with a coach (football this time, adjunct faculty). Thankfully, a friend and I had taken the class together, so we were automatically partners, but while I liked my friend, she was the opposite of the bearded lady -- she was a chatty Cathy who was just in the class so she could walk around in her sports bra and chat up the cute guys lifting weights. Naturally slim, she really didn't need to work out that much and looked good in her workout outfits (she had outfits, I had sweats I picked up off the floor). Over the course of the semester, she found several dates and even a serious boyfriend, while I was left alone to struggle with that 45 pound bar; yes, I took a step back.

But, the one thing I can say after those two classes is that I do know how to lift weights -- when, how much, how often, how many sets, reps, etc. So I really don't think a personal trainer could teach me anything new. However, I was hoping he might have been keeping the magic secret about my key to improved running hidden away in his back pocket, and if he wasn't going to give it to me, my plan was to steal it when he wasn't looking. Maybe I should try giving him another call, I'd hate to let that secret get away from me.

Burn Baby Burn

Weight, whether you are concerned with losing it, maintaining it, or gaining it, is all a matter of simple arthimetic. If you burn more calories than you consume, you lose weight. If you burn less than you consume, you gain weight; and finally, if the two numbers even out, you maintain your weight. That's why we all here a lot about calories, calories, calories. But while we hear a great deal about them, it's hard to truly understand how many calories you're consuming and how many you're expending.

Personally, I've never been a calorie counter; instead, I am what you might call a calorie estimator. Usually I underestimate how many calories I gobble up and overestimate how many I burn. This seems easy to do: working out is hard and eating is easy. I know, logically, that I need to either burn an extra five hundred calories a day or else eat five hundred fewer calories a day in order to lose one pound in one week (approximately). Yet, at eleven o'clock at night I find myself reaching for that ice cream sandwhich (190 calories, or a 1.9 miles on the treadmill). So while I don't know if I'll ever be able to resist the foods I love, I look to the burning method for weight reduction.

Running is my obvious choice of exercise, but it's not the only way, or even the most efficient way to burn calories. In a mile the average adult burns about 100 calories per mile (I say average because depending on your weight and fitness level you could burn more or less than that). Doesn't seem like much, huh? Well, add some of your other activitites in there and you might be burn more.

I looked online for some activity comparison, and it seems that swimming comes out on top as far as calories burned, makes sense because you're using your whole body, and not just your legs. Bowling ranks pretty low on the calorie burn, and those are definitely cancelled out by any beer you drink. Sex ranks averagely, but all the calorie adjusters time everything in either 30 or 60 minute bouts, and not even porn stars go for a full 60 minutes. (Watching porn earns you the same calorie burn as watching TV does -- about 15 calories an hour -- you actually burn more calories and use more brain activity in your sleep.) Cleaning can be quite the workout, which I already knew, but so can going to the grocery store or washing your car.

The recommendation? Add activity wherever you can: hand wash your car instead of going to the car wash, hand wash dishes instead of loading them in the dish washer, park further away in the mall parking lot and walk, take the stairs versus riding up in the elevator, and mow the grass with a push mower instead of a riding unit (which, by the way, the crew that cuts the grass around our condo has a cool lawnmower that you stand on! It's like a futuristic ride -- it looks super duper fun, but I don't think they'd let me test it out).

So I guess I've got to go and mop the floor on my hands and knees. Nothing like adding a little hard labor to my day! Ta-ta!

Bad Fruit

I had a plum this morning that was not so tasty. It wasn't that sweet and it had a kind of grainy, almost mealy quality to it. I barely choked it down.

I'm trying to eat more fruits and vegetables, because that's what you're supposed to do if you want to be a healthy little eater, so I've bought some fruit which I try to fit in for my breakfast (because skipping breakfast is supposed to be a bad thing as well). The hard thing for me about consuming fresh veggies and fresh fruit is their freshness. I like them to be very ripe -- at their peak juiciness, but I also want them to last awhile because I don't want to be running to the store every other day. So I usually run into one of two problems.

One, the fruit goes mushy and soft way too fast and before I know it, it's modly and unedible. Sometimes this really does happen fast, and sometimes it's a matter of perception. I stick that fruit in the crisper drawer of the refridgerator and completely forget about it. Then I'm wondering where that awful smell is coming from and I am searching for the home of all those flies. I once forgot a bag of oranges in a crisper in this way and they all turned a snowy white. It looked like a bag full of snowballs.

Two, my other problem, is that I eat all the fruit right away -- within a day of buying it because I'm afraid I'll forget about it. Then I have no more fruit and I've got to run to the toilet every half an hour (that fruit goes through me faster than the green tea).

So I'm trying to pace myself this week with what I bought and so far I'm doing alright, but I was really disappointed with that plum, which makes me look askew at the one remaining plum in the kitchen. Will it be just as bad? Tasteless and strangely textured? I hope not. I always loved plums when I was a kid; the really juicy ones that would run all over your hands and arms as you ate, and your mom made you eat them outside because they were so messy. Those were great. That's kind of what I was looking for in these, but maybe they don't have those anymore.

Reunion

Yesterday I got an email notifying me that next summer will mark my high school graduating class's ten year reunion. Granted, the email was from Classmates.com, and it was not from an actual classmate (I was pleased when I logged into the site to see that I was actually listed as one of the "missing"; I like being mysterious). I knew that I was coming up on ten years out of that jail cell, but it has crept up faster than I expected it to.

I partially want to go for these reasons: I would like to tell people that I am married (or will be by then), that I own a house, that I managed to harass my instructor's into giving me a master's degree, that I have run a marathon, that I am a drummer in a band, and that I have also published a book.

Why I don't want to go: I have not actually accomplished the last three things on that list. The drumming thing should take action any time now. I just need to get some rhythm, a drum kit and some lessons, then I'm all primed to be a rock star. So, that one is easy. Publishing a book? Hmmmm, well I've tried my hand at that, and let us just note that it hasn't yet happened, but I am working on a new project, so you never know. However, the possibility that I could have a book in print a year from now is slim, but I might be able to say "I have a book coming out in blah, blah, blah." That would be satisfactory.

Now, we come to the running. We know I'm working on that one, but it's slow going. I plan to run a 5K in a few weeks, and my goal is to run Miami's half marathon in January. Will a full marathon be a possibility by next summer? Possible. It's just so mentally intimidating; I mean, it's so many miles, and even if I were in top shape and were able to run it in excellent pacing, that still means FOUR HOURS of running! My god! Today I ran three miles, and my head nearly popped off. (Seriously, I could feel all the blood in my body coursing through every single vein and the pressure in my head was quite unbelievable -- I looked like a tomato!)

And yes, I'll admit that part of my "get in shape" motivation is thinking about that reunion -- which I may or may not be invited to since I did not reveal my whereabouts, and I doubt anyone will be able to track me down (I did not leave any breadcrumbs). I would love to return all glorious and beautiful. My hope then would be that some of those girls who were mean and catty have gotten fat and their skin has distorted itself so that it is ghastly. And I pray that all those guys on the football team who never asked me out (I don't know why not; I'm perfectly lovable) have also gone to seed.

Yes, my reasons are completely selfish and vain, but what other reason would you have to go to a reunion? To see old friends? Re-live the "good old days"? No thanks. I hardly liked many of those people when I was sixteen, I can't imagine they've become any more interesting. Now, there were some drinking friends in college I'd like to see again: That would be a good time.

The Diet

I don't diet well, I know this. I can exercise like a fiend in the gym: running and lifting weights, but then I'll go home and eat a bowl of ice cream, or stop by the Taco Bell drive thru. I completely undo all that hard work by gorging. I especially can't help myself at night. I think it's because I'm just laying around reading or watching TV in the evening and that's when I go for the good stuff.

So, through my new gym, I get to go to their website and they have all these shopping lists and meal plans that you can use to try and eat healthier. However, accompanying these meal plans are all these other worksheets to that you're supposed to fill out to help you contemplate the way you eat. Those are a bunch of malarchy. "How do you feel when you look in the mirror?" "Do you feel like people treat you different because of your weight?" "What do you feel when you eat too much?"

All those "feelings" make me want to puke. I feel full when I eat too much and I usually curse myself. I feel that people think I'm awesome and I don't really think anyone notices how tubby I am because they're all thinking about how tubby they feel. I'm the only one who really thinks I should lose any weight. And the mirror? Well, my mirror has been bribed to lie to me. It requires a healthy chunk of income to keep that mirror happy (he's a selfish bastard), but some of us do what we have to do -- I'm no Snow White.

Perhaps I could actually lose some weight if I bought into the weight loss cult mentality, but I both embrace and reject all its rhetoric, and those kind of ambivilant feelings are not what will take off the pounds.

Maybe I just need better clothes.

Vitamita Vegimen

If there's one healthy thing I've done over the past ten years, it's been vitamins. Every morning when I get up, I get a glass of water and I swallow one of those horse pills. I have to push them to the very back of my throat; otherwise, they will be rejected and I gag and heave and that's no way to start the morning. I have found that they go down much eaiser with a thicker substance, like, milk, but in the morning milk doesn't always sound good to me. A couple of times I have taken a vitamin with my Diet Pepsi, but it fizzed weird and I had a notion that the two might be counter active.

When I was a kid, my mom had us take our Flinstones vitamins every morning along with our breakfast. One morning I asked her what would happen if I didn't take my vitamin, and she told me I didn't need to take it if I didn't want to, but that then my bones would get soft and mushy, and my skin would get papery and might peel off. Plus, my hair would lose its shine, my eyes wouldn't be able to see as well, and since my bones would be mush, I could forget about running around outside after school -- I would just have to lay in bed and watch the other kids having fun. It seemed reasonable, therefore, to continue to chew my little Fred or Wilma every day. They were tasty anyway. Personally, I lived for the mornings when I got Dino.

My mother conintued to insist that we take vitamins every morning until I was in high school. By then she was giving me two Flinstones (perfectly acceptable according to label standards), but the vitamins made me feel like a little kid, so I asked to start taking adult vitamins. The first day I saw one of those horse pills sitting next to my breakfast plate, I nearly hurled. How was I going to swallow that?

My mom was sooo satisfied when I balked at swallowing that. "That's the kind of vitamin adults take," she said with her hands on her hips and smile winking at the corners of her mouth. I'd had a similiar problem when I went from baby aspirin to adult aspirin. It had reached a ridiculous point where I was chewing up six or seven of those baby aspirin for a fever, and my mother had had enough. "You have to learn to swallow real aspirin," she'd said. Well, when I coughed up the first one she tried to force feed me, she resorted to crushing them and letting me take them with a spoonful of orange juice. Eventually, we discovered that the gell caps slid down smoothly, so I got those and I've never looked back.

So I wonder, why can't they gell coat vitamins? They'd go down so much better. Anyway, that morning when I faced that huge pill for the first time, I realized it was a showdown, not between the pill and I, but between my mother and I, so I just went ahead and shoved it as far back into my mouth as I could, and quickly gulped down the pill with a glass of water -- it's a technique that hasn't been improved on in a decade, but it gets that fucker down my throat.

Once in college, when it was suddenly cool to revert to kindergarten behavior, I bought some of those Flinstones because I recalled their delicious flavorings and I figured I could just go back to chewing up two of those a day instead of forcing that adult vitamin down my throat. What I discovered is this: Flinstones taste like ass. They're terrible: bitter and chalking and they leave the taste in your teeth and on you tongue all day. I found myself swallowing just as much water with those to rid myself of the flavor as I did to swallow those big vitamins. So, since then I have just resigned myself to the adult vitamins, and every morning I gag a little when I swallow one.

Arggghhh!

I hate computers! I just wrote a very funny entry with references about my new gym membership that were hilarious! (I'll just let you know there was a joke about a live chicken!) But now it's all gone! Gone! Blasted computer. I went to publish the entry and then I lost all that wonderful prose.

The Internet has been slow all day and now this. The gerbil who's powering the wheel that's supposed to give me "high speed" Internet is in trouble. Maybe he's sick or something, but that's no excuse. I need fast, reliable connections and if I try to publish this entry and it fails to go through, I will have my vengence!

Sweat Monkey

When I work out, every pore of my skin becomes a sweat factory and by the end of, say, a run I am literally dripping sweat. I use a little towel to dab myself down when I'm at the gym, but my shirt always gets soaked, my sports bra is saturated, my shorts are all sticking (and thus, riding up), even my ears are sweaty and my ear buds have a hard time staying in -- particularly my left one -- why is that?

When I get home, I have to peal my clothes off before getting in the shower, and I wonder about balling them up and throwing them in the hamper (will they sprout some sort of fungus?), but I do it anyway and pray that the washer will cure them of any grossness. But the reward for all this sweatiness is a nice, hot shower. There's really hardly any better feeling, except well, you know that, and a really satisfying sneeze. Personally one of my favortie things is to take a really hot shower -- I mean hot, where the water stings your skin and you turn a little red from the heat -- but then at the end of the shower, when you're rinsing off the conditioner and body wash, you turn it to cold water. It's so refreshing! And the contrast feels really good and is, actually, supposed to be good for skin (probably not the really hot part, but rinsing yourself in cool water is good).

I love to shower; there's something about the whole process (maybe because it's so formulaic, always the exact same steps, and routine comforts and soothes me) that feels as if I not only accomplished something but that I've also relaxed in the process. There have been times in my life when I suspected myself of EGD (excessive grooming disorder -- you know, where cats clean themselves so much they actually lick off patches of hair). When I waitressed, especially days when I pulled a double, I would shower three or four times a day: once in the morning before work, once in the afternoon between shifts because that's often when I went running or else just so I would be fresh when I started the evening, and once either when I got home or once I got home from the bars. Often I would shower before I went to the bars and once I got home.

In Minnesota, where there's still smoking in bars, going out means you sacrifice your clothes, your skin, and your hair to cigarette smoke, so when I got home I almost always showered because I didn't want to roll around in my sheets and get them all dirty and smelly. This often resulted in falling down in the shower because it's hard to manuever in there when you're drunk, but I always have mysterious bruises anyway (I bump into many things even when I'm sober). It's also very difficult to remember whether or not you've shampooed when you're drunk, so I went through a lot of shampoo in that time, aside from the excessive showers.

Now I stick to a basic one, sometimes two, showers a day. It depends on my schedule, but I always, always, always have to shower after I work out. I am way to gross to not shower, I mean, I have ear sweat! Ewww!

Baby or Alien?

Yesterday at the gym I was forced to decide between reading Golf Digest or Fit Pregnancy while I was using the eliptical machine (a good break from running); They really need to introduce some variety in their magazines. So, I chose Fit Pregnancy because I might one day be pregnant and I can't really picture myself one day interested in golf -- but I better not bet on it. From my selection I learned all kinds of things: tricks for getting a good's night's sleep in the third trimester, appropriate and necessary forms of exercise, as well as some methods for child rearing. But the most interesting article, and frankly the funniest, was one that was meant to reassure expecting parents in case their baby looks a little bit like an alien.

Personally, I have always said that newborns look like aliens. I mean, they have misshappen heads, their skin is often red and blotchy, or it can even be very white and be peeling off in papery flakes, their eyeballs are huge when compared to the rest of their proportions (quick Trivial Pursuit knowledge: a human's eyes are always the same size, but your other features: nose, ears, lips, etc, grow and change over time), sometimes they have big bushy heads of hair, sometimes they have no hair at all. Let's face it, it would take a parent to love some of these kids. But apparently new parents are sometimes freaked out by these alien-like characteristics too, so the article was meant to soothe them and let them know that their baby is not an alien.

But I think there should have been a follow up article on how to actually spot an alien posing as your baby, so in my alien experience I went ahead and devised a few tell-tale signs of alien-as-baby features to keep an eye out for.

Spit up is, of course, normal, but if they spit up a green mucus and that has a rubbery texture, be suspicious. If they have a tail, particularly if the tail is prehensil, watch out -- could be an alien. Strangely translucent skin is sometimes normal on a baby, but if he or she has a light purple tint or glows at night, especially after having been exposed to a florescent bulb, be aware. And lastly, keep a look out for fangs or other sharp teeth or claws. Real human babies should not have teeth when they are born and their fingernails are very soft and delicate, but if they have teeth, particularly if they have sharp teeth, you might want to notify the authorities right away. You don't want to lay what you think is your precious baby down for a nap and wake later to find he or she gnawing away at your leg. That will probably make it much harder to run for the phone.

But all in all, an alien should be easy to distinguish from a human baby, but you can be thrown off: they smell similiar, sound alike (those strange gurgles can easily be alien language), and often look alike, but by being properly informed and appropriately vigilant you can tell them apart. You'd hate to be responsible for introducing an alien to Earth.

A good night's rest

The three elements Runner's World outlines for being a strong runner are: good nutrition, regular training, and lots of rest. And if there's any one area I have mastered, it's the rest. It is generally recommended by experts that the average adult needs eight hours of sleep a night, but many conclude that different people need different amounts. I am one of those people who needs lot of sleep. Sometimes, I think I could sleep all day.

To uncover your natural sleep pattern you're supposed to go to bed when you feel sleepy and let yourself sleep until you wake up naturally (best to do so on the weekend when perhaps sleeping until you wake naturally won't interrupt your workday). In this manner, I have discovered that I sleep approximately nine hours on the nose (give or take fifteen to twenty minutes). If I receive any fewer hours, I am groggy, and let's face it, a little mean. I am not a morning person. I don't want to talk with anyone first thing in the morning and I don't want to exert myself in any possible way. I prefer to rise, pee, get a drink of water, turn on the tv and stare at it motionless for a few uninterrupted minutes.

Slowly I'll work into my day and I'll wake up, but it's a long process, and I shouldn't be chatted up by anyone in person or on the phone, which is why it annoys me so much to hear the phone ring first thing in the morning. Especially if it's before nine a.m. Because I will assume someone is dead or bleeding to death. So if I jump out of bed, run across the room, and pick up that phone early in the morning, I better hear that tragedy has befallen someone near and dear. In college, my roommate's mother once called early on a Saturday morning and when she asked if my roommate was up yet I replied nastily, "Well, I guess she is now."

I'm not nice.

Anyway, aside from night sleep, I also like to sneak in an afternoon nap when time allows for it. There's no sleep better than an afternoon nap on a comfy couch with a fuzzy blanket and a cool breeze (preferrably from a fan, none of that natural shit, I like the steady hum of machinery at work). It's best to take a nap after you've been lying on the couch reading and you can feel your eyelids getting heavy and you just fold into it -- ahh, so luxorious.

So, if there's one area of health I excel in, it's rest. I am plenty rested.

Spaghetti Smorgasboard

There was a spaghetti eating contest on ESPN today. I caught the live action as I was running at the gym. The irony that an eating contest seemed to qualify as a sport on ESPN must have only struck me because the network covered the competition just as it would any other sporting event: interviews, comentators, a graph demonstrating each athlete's prowess. I knew ESPN's definition of a sport was far-reaching, but I had no idea it also embraced gorging oneself as sport.

So, the first head-to-head that I caught was between an older woman and a middle aged man, and that lady kicked his ass! She woofed down three plates of spaghetti (with sauce and meatballs!) before he'd made his way through his second plate. I watched in amazement as plate-replacers jumped in to take away the empty plate and add a new one filled with pasta. It reminder me a bit of those ball fetchers in tennis who jog out onto the court hunched over so as not to interrupt anything and grab the extraneous balls. (Who are those ball-fetchers fooling? We can all see them -- they're not made invisible by crouching down low.)

I believe the woman advanced on to a more difficult round (where I guess they introduce more difficult food -- maybe steaks?), but it was a little hard to follow because then I got wrapped up in the other featured head-to-head competitions, one of which featured this guy who painted his face and seemed to be in really good physical shape -- they had clips of him lifting weights in the gym, all of which seemed contradictory to his sport, but I'm not an expert. They also focused on an young Asian man who was stretching and preparing for his event just as any other athlete would: He looked so intent on his mission, so dedicated.

I don't think I'd last long in an eating competition. Sure, I sometimes eat the cake right out of the pan, but all in all, my stomach is pretty limited in its capacity and just watching that first round of spaghetti eaters made me want to throw up (something I was waiting for from the competitors); I actually felt a little bile in my mouth. I think I'll just stick to the sports where you sweat, bowling remaining the exception.

The Reluctant Member

I sorta joined a gym. I went in and took the tour, heard the spiel, and sat down with a sales person to discuss the terms and conditions for my soul. Thankfully with this gym I can go month-to-month and I don't have to commit for three years; however, it's slightly more expensive if you go month-to-month and you have to pay money down. I had to ponder the deal. The sales guy could sense that my resolve was slipping, so he offered me a free eight day trial period in which I could come in as many times as I pleased within eight days and see if I liked it.

I've attended the last four days in a row. Super fantastic, isn't it?

Despite the eerie feeling that I'm being observed (working out in front of others makes me very self-conscious), I think I'll probably go ahead and make the leap: I'm ready to commit. But even though I like the gym (for the air conditioning alone -- although, I think they should cool it to somewhere around 50 degrees; that's the perfect workout temperature, nice and cool; sure the employees may get a touch chilly, but they can wear sweaters) and I've had great workouts (it's amazing how much easier and more enjoyable running is when you're not over-heated or mosquito ridden), I have seen some strange behavior in the gym. People are weird.

Yesterday, for example, I watched these two old guys on treadmills and they both had the incline set at the steepest rise. Any steeper and these guys would need to be Spiderman to be able to walk at that angle, but they were dogged in their determination; you see, they were both hanging on to the bar in front of them for dear life, quite nearly dangling from it. I had the feeling that if either let go of that bar they would go tumbling off the back of the machine. I don't think that's what you're supposed to do on an incline; I'm fairly certain that the dificulty lies in trying to walk that incline as if it were a hill in nature, and so far, I haven't seen any bars in nature that help you up a hill.

Wait, I totally take that back. That's how I got up the side of the bunny hill for years as a kid -- the tow rope. Damn those things, you almost always flipped over into the snow because the pulley was too slow and a ski would get bogged down in some fresh powder, and oops! Down you went. And if you were a kid like me, you'd still be hanging on to the bar because your mitten was frozen to the metal so you couldn't cut loose, and your body cut a wide swath of snow as you were dragged up the hill. Ahhh, there's nothing like fresh mountain air and a snowball up your nose to really enjoy a day at the slopes.

So aside from ski tow ropes, I think you're just supposed to climb your way up a hill side, not hang on and be pulled up the hillside. I think both those old men would have been better off settling for a flat walk. The gym staff would also probably feel a lot more at ease; I wonder how many old people they have to scrape off the floor of the gym every year?

Those two guys (who might or might not have been racing one another) were funny to watch, but the other strange behavior I witnessed not just yesterday but this morning as well, was less humorous and more disturbing. You see, I like my space when I exercise and when I use the toilet. That's why when I walk into a communal bathroom, I am careful to choose a stall that leaves at least one empty stall between myself and another user. That's just common curteousy. The same idea applies when I'm choosing a treadmill or an eliptical machine or whatever; I like to leave at least one (preferrably two) machines between me and any other exercisers. Seems like common sense.

Must be only my sense.

Today, I took the time to carefully select a treadmill in the middle of the second row of machines (that way I get a better view of Jeopardy!). There was plenty of room around me and in the row ahead of me when an old man jumped on the machine directly to my right. I gave a quick "What are you doing?" sideways glance, but he didn't catch on; in fact, he started talking to me. Did I think it would rain today? Wasn't it humid outside? Did I like watching Jeopardy!? My answers: It always rains, yes it's terribly humid, but we live right next to the goddamn equator, and yes, I like Jeopardy! and I really wanted to play along.

He either tired of the walking (he did not opt for the mountain hike as is popular with the elderly gentlemen at the gym) or he decided to choose a machine next to a more suitable walking companion. (Quick note: I'm not much of a conversationalist if I don't know you. I don't like to chit chat with cashiers, sales clerks, haristylists, mechanics or other people I don't know but society expects us to converse with. I'm terrible at small talk and would rather sit in the chair at the salon in silence rather than ask about my hairstylist's children or her new puppy. That's just not me.) I was very much relieved when he left, but then his space was quickly filled by a middle aged woman wearing jean shorts and Keds -- not ideal workout gear, but she was quiet, so I didn't care. But then I was joined by a third companion on my left. This time a disturbingly fit young man (my use of "young man" just made me sound about forty years older than I really am) who looked like he was about 21.

This, in my opinion, is even worse than the chatty-Cathy old guy. Guys just like this one are the reasons I hate going to gyms -- I'm totally intimidated and feel like a 'tard. While guys like this one are grunting and lifting weights, I am quietly pedaling away on the stationary bike in mouse-like fear. So in order to feel like I belonged on the treadmill, I started upping the speed, and pretty soon I was literally sprinting and gasping for air. All red in the face, and sweat dripping down all sides of me, I re-adjusted the speed and decided to ignore the pretty man next to me. I still hated him though: He was so speedy.

After complaining to myself that perhaps this place wasn't for me -- so many people and I like to be solitary when I exercise, I re-thought the situation. All these odd people and machines are just the environment of working out in a gym and really, they're probably just as interesting to watch as the stuff is outside. Plus, in there, I don't get hokned at and I've yet to smell a dead animal (although the possibility of that can't be ruled out just yet), so I think I'll sign up. But I'll milk my free days for as long as they'll let me.

Maximum Help in a Maxed Out World

It seems contradictory that the Food Network is advertising for Dexitrim and other diet pills. Is it fair to wave all that gorgeous looking food in someone's face and then tell them that they need to be thinner and that they should eat less? Especially since I've been watching this Italian cooking show that I like (can't recall the name of it) with this big -- has a keg for a belly -- cook; apparently he doesn't buy into the six ads for diet pills that I've seen during the course of his hour long show. Which, by the way, airs at lunch time every day.

I actually used to take diet pills when I was in high school and for the first year I was in college. I was totally freaked out my freshman year of college that I would gain the "freshman fifteen" so I worked out like a maniac and took those diet pills, but I still found that I gained the dreaded weight. Probably because I consumed thousands of calories in beer every week and after the beer orgy, my roommate and I would always come back to our cramped little room and order pizza or Chinese or subs coated in mayo. Sometimes when it was too late to order anything, I would just bury myself face deep in my box of Lucky Charms.

I had an unnatural love for Lucky Charms growing up but my mother never let me have them because they were too sugury and we weren't allowed sugury cereals. So when I got to college, I ate cereal for every meal for about three straight months -- it was delicious. In the dining hall, they actually had a Lucky charms dispenser; I should have taken that home. But once you've barfed up those magical shapes, and you've witnessed how how those marshmallows transform in your stomach, the cereal becomes less appetizing. I can't touch the stuff now.

It's not hard, therefore, to understand that despite munching down speed (that's all those diet pills are anyway; they have a shitload of caffeine in them) I still managed to gain a little weight that first year of college. In my sophomore year, when I was still depending on those pills to help me stay up and study, my boyfirend at the time discovered that I was chewing them like baby aspirin and found my behavior dispicable -- he also didn't approve of many other things I felt were harmless, i.e., shoplifting, drugs, and alcohol abuse -- what a stickler! Anyway, he convinced me to give them up, and I have to admit that the shaky, anxious feeling I constantly had in my stomach eventually went away and it was glorious! However, I did go ahead and pack on the rest of my destined tubbiness: Weight I didn't lose for years after that.

Anyway, my Italian show is over and I don't know what the show is that follows, but I just heard "two cups of lard" in the ingredients, and I have to see if the Dexitrim commercials air during this program. So far, nothing, but they have had three commercials for reducing cholesterol: Makes since if your viewers are scooping up the lard.

Something Bit Me!

Last night when I was running, I was viciously attacked not once, not twice, but three times by killer mostiquitoes! Usually here in South Florida I don't have a problem with mostquitoes; I believe they lay down a heavy fog of pesticides to keep the terrible beasts at bay, but maybe the bugs are beginning to mutate -- maybe they're using the pesticides to become bigger and stronger. I don't know, maybe there is no prtective coating of poison floating through the air, maybe the pollution normally keeps the buggers dead. At any rate, last night I was taken down in the prime of life.

I felt the first hit on the back of my thigh and I quickly stopped in mid-stride and smacked that sonofabitch dead, but I didn't catch the second or third fucker, and they both got away unscathed. I also spotted a mostquito in the house the other day (always relieved to see a mosquito over a coakroach) and I smashed that one in the air.

I'm a pretty decent shot when it comes to mosquito smashing; I lived in Minnesota for eight years, so you either get real good at smacking those damn things, or else you get eaten alive. Thankfully, in Minnesota, they're a little fatter, and therefore a little slower so they're a touch easier to smack. But because they flock in such large numbers, they will certainly overtake you, so really the best protection there is to go outside wearing a beekeeper suit.

But those bites last night made me feel itchy all over, and it was hard to fall asleep without scratching those bites right off. It's kind of like finding a tick on you and then you can't stop feeling like something is crawling all over you (but the worst feeling is to feel like something is crawling on you, and then you discover that something truly is crawling on you; trust me, you won't get to sleep after that). Now I have probably left you feeling itchy and scratchy all over and you're probably doing a quick scan for a creepy-crawly thing. Good luck with that -- you can be vigilant and they'll still get you -- sneaky fuckers.

Barfy Barferson

Last night I fell asleep on the cold tiles of my bathroom floor curled around the toilet in a protective embrace. I'd never noticed the ticking of the bathroom clock before, but early this morning if I'd had the strength, I would have stood and ripped that goddamn thing off the wall and thrown the batteries away. Every tick-tick mocked my pain and felt like a dull thudding against my throbbing skull. The bathroom, I have come to believe, does not make a good place to sleep, excuse me, to pass out.

We were celebrating a 21st birthday, so everyone was paying attention to the birthday girl, making sure she was paced appropriately, providing her with ample glasses of refreshing water, and going easy on the shots. But we were all so busy watching her, everyone forgot to watch me, and by the end of the night I was being pulled off the bar (where I was trying to dance thank you very much) and told that it was time to head home. Once I was in the car, I knew I was in trouble. I could hear the rumbly in my tumbly, but I like to think of myself as a seasoned drinker who can hold her alcohol, so I swallowed hard, opened the window and tried to think non-pukey thoughts.

It didn't work. And to make a potentially long story short, I ended up yaking out my window as we drove home, so today my car wears the spray of my dinner along its side.

Once I got home, more puke followed (but I did manage to shower somewhere between boughts because I'd gotten a little barf in my hair as I puked out the car window at 60 miles an hour) and finally I just curled up on the floor and made camp. This morning every muscle was stiff and sore from lying on the hard floor and my neck and shoulders were tense from the rather forceful hurling (my eyeballs nearly pooped out of my head from the energy behind some of those barfs). Around noon today I managed to choke down half a McDonald's cheeseburger, but it's approaching midafternoon now and I can tell you I still don't feel right.

I don't think a run is in the forecast today.

About six months ago I bought this training journal that is supposed to motivate me to write down the time, distance, pace, etc of when and how I run. I'm a little bothered by the graphic of the runners on the cover -- I can confidently say that the image was snapped about twenty-five years ago because the running clothes are so ridiculously out of style and the woman has her hair in a french braid tied with a scrunchy and she's wearing a Swatch (I was sad to see those go out of fashion -- they were awesome -- I had a whole bunch of different bands that I could interchange with the face: what genius! How did the Swatch company lose their touch?). The little journal boasts on the cover that over 200,000 copies have been sold, so you'd think the publishers could afford to update the cover with a depiction of some more modern day runners.

I blame the campy picture on the cover for not keeping me motivated to record my running within its pages. Plus, I think the woman in the picture might be a man; she has huge calves and meaty arms and there's a certain squareness to her jaw. She can't fool me with that gold necklace: I know the truth.

However, recording your running is supposed to be one of those tried and true methods for improving your running and for motivating you to stick with it. Just like diets always encourage you to keep track of the food you eat in a food journal, but honestly, how does this help? On days when I know I ate too much I can tell because I lay on the couch with my distended belly groaning in misery. That's usually a good indication that I overate. And as far as my running goes, I also know when I have run and how far I have run in a week -- it's called a long term memory. It's this amazing aspect of my brain chemistry that enables me to recall events from days, weeks, months and even years ago: fascinating.

So part of me thinks I should just pitch the runner's journal and swallow the fact that I shelled out $9.95 for it, but another part of me is reluctant to let go of something that should help me improve. Perhaps I will use it to start filling in ludicrous entries about my running; oh wait, that's what I do in this blog. Sonofabitch, it's going in the trash.

Disclaimer

Alright, I was taking the time to read through some of my previous posts, and I was embarassed to find so many typos. So I would like to take a minute and apologize for the mechanical errors in the writing; generally, I pride myself on being an A+ writer, but I guess there are times that I suck. Please overlook any mistakes.

Thank you.

Bally's Total Ripoff

It's somewhere around 1,000 degrees outside and everything is sagging in the heat. The upholstery in my car singed the backs of my thighs and the steering wheel bears my fingerprints. Even the lizards look hot and tired out there: They look at you like, "Dude, it's fuckin hot out here." (I always imagine that lizards have voices in Latino accents, so try to utilize that accent when reading that line in your head.)

Not pleasant weather for exercising outside.

I've been thinking about joining a gym so that I can run on a treadmill during the day in the comfort of central air, but I hesitate to sign up at any gym because of the contracts, the fees, and the fact that I usually stop going anyway. Statistically, I think gyms actually count on members to stop attending, that way they can continue to make money from you, but can also continue to recruit new members without worry of overcrowding. The last gym I joined bound me to one year's membership, several hundred dollars, and my soul. The soul I was happy to hand over (what am I going to do with it anyway?), but the money and the committment? Whoa, that was a lot to agree to.

But the day I signed up I was feeling like a tugboat, so I handed over a check and sealed the deal with my Herbie Hancock. Unfortunately, I failed to read the fine print of the contract, so after a year was up, and I hadn't been attending for about six months, and I had moved to different state, I found that I was still being billed for my time there. Well, I got sufficiently worked up and sent them an angry letter complaining about the bills. They in turn calming informed me that I had failed to notify them that I would terminate my membership (something you have to do sixty days before your contract is scheduled to expire), so I had to pay several months worth of membership fees, plus late fees, plus a fee for being snarky with them. In the end, I spent half a year's membership for months that I lived 2,000 miles away from any of their treadmills.

That experience pissed me off enough to make me feel jaded and cynical about gyms for quite awhile, but now that the temperature makes running outside so difficult, and running around my house just isn't practical, I now return to the idea that perhaps I should scout out a place. But I am, of course, completely indimidated by gym people, so I don't like to actually go in there -- I just know they'll rope me into a deal with their quick talk and flashy spandex. So I like to do a little reconnaisance work; essentially, this means driving slowly by the establishment and trying to catch a glimpse of the envrionment through their windows. This is tricky because many places don't have a lot of windows, in which case I try to gauge the other clientele by the cars parked in the lot.

If there are a lot of Beamers, Mercedes, or other shiny vehicles then I know it's not for me: too expensive and the people working out there probably have designer workout clothes. But if the lot is empty, but I can see a lot of people inside, this means it's most likely chock full of old people who hitched a ride there on the city bus, in which case, I don't want to go there either. Old people are likely to piss me off at the gym just as much as they piss me off in the grocery store (say what you will about respect for the elderly, but when you're stuck behind an old woman haggling with a cashier over a $.60 can of green beans, you'll start to hate them as well). I just know that an old person would be on a coveted treadmill forever, walking, when I want to run on it.

So I look for a place with the parking lot filled with economy cars and the people heading inside look averagely tubby and who are wearing sweats and t-shirts. I also like to see a lot of middle-aged people -- I may be young, but I don't like to be compared with people my age, that makes me feel like poo; however, I do look good when compared to someone who's forty or fifty years old. So I have one place in mind; it scouts out pretty well, but I haven't yet gathered up the courage to go in and face their recruiter because I know that once I committ to stepping through that door, I've committed to that gym, and I'm going to have to hand over some money, I'm going to need to sign something, and I'm going to have to forge the certificate for my soul -- the original is in a vault belonging to the aforementioned gym.

Singin in the Rain

Last night when I was running, the sky opened up and began to pour rain, which was weird because there weren't any discernible clouds. I felt just one or two scout drops and suddenly I looked up and it started to come down in heavy sheets. I was only half way through my route, so by the time I reached home I was soaked. But I didn't mind too much; running in inclement weather alwasy makes me feel like a real Runner (that's right, capital R, grrrrr).

It just makes me feel like I'm really an athlete, like the kind they make movies about where the star is running and there's an inspirational soundtrack and he or she has that look of determination and you just know they're going to win in the end (since sports movies are always about winning, and sometimes about not winning, but feeling good about yourself). But despite the grit-your-teeth-running-through-the-rain-or-in-the-early-morning-hours, you don't see too many running movies. In fact, the most memorable running moment in a movie for me is when Rocky finally runs up the steps to Philadelphia's Library and he's so happy that he made it, and he's jogging around with that idiot smile on his face with his arms raised in triumph. That's a good running moment -- stairs! Jesus, they're hard, and he deserves snaps -- but that's a boxing movie, not a running movie.

Maybe there aren't many running movies because running isn't all that exciting. There's not any conflict (unless you dig deep and discuss the internal struggle), there's no "big" game or fight to highlight in the end, and there isn't a team to pull together (even in boxing movies, there's a coach and a trainer both of whom kind of make up a team with the actual boxer). Maybe running should be re-vamped to get a glossier image, one that people could make movies about. We could make running a contact sport -- runners can wear little belts with plastic flags and other runners can strip them of their flags, or perhaps we can go for full-out tackling. You could form teams in select cities and people could pay money to gather in stadiums to watch them run and tackle one another, but for excitment purposes maybe there should be a ball; you know, something they have to get across a finish line.

Oh dammit, that's football. No wonder there's so many movies about that sport: it's got some good elements!

Sorry running, you'll just have to be happy with the Boston and New York City marathons, and I guess we can give you a large portion of the summer Olympics. But Hollywood doesn't want you.

Painting

I don't how painting compares to running in terms of calories spent, but I do believe it's a damn hard workout. Maybe I'm rollering away like a maniac (I do manage to get paint in my hair and all over my clothes), but when I'm painting, I'm sweating and breathing hard. Plus, you have to contort your body into some of those strange positions -- where one foot is on a step ladder and another is on a window sill and you've got the paint balanced carefully on the step ladder while you reach to get that one spot in a top corner of a closet that no one will ever see because junk will pile up there anyway -- and I always end up feeling sore the next day along my sides and in my arms and shoulders. There have been some weeks during our remodeling project that the palm of my hand has actually been sore from holding paintbrushes, scrapers, or sanders.

It's tough work and I can't help but think there's a better way to do it, like with elves or night gnomes. Can't they be hired or rented out for this kind of labor? Surely there must be some kind of indentured servant who can scrape wallpaper, putty, and sand just as well as I can; maybe the zoo loans trained monkeys for projects such as this.

I need someone to do it, aside from me of course, because after an afternoon of painting I really don't feel like running. I just want to take a shower, get into bed and watch re-runs of Seinfeld. I especially want to get into bed today though because we just bought a new bed, and I have to tell you, it's wonderful.

I don't know about you, but until yesterday I had managed twenty-seven years of my life without ever having to go matress shopping, and I hope it's another twenty-seven years before I have to do it again. All the mattresses I've slept on in the past years have either been hand-me-downs or have been purchased second hand, so I've never been educated on "spring coil technology" (which sounds strangely similiar to the sort of language they use to sell me things at the make up counter) and I had never before thought that mattress retail would be so similiar to buying a used car. However, despite the lack of plastic flags lining the perimeter, the experience of mattress shopping was almost identical to that of buying a car, so be prepared to negotiate. Otherwise, you're being robbed! You may feel out of place or uncomfortable walking into a store, laying down on some beds and feeling as though you are entitled to discuss prices, but if you too need a new mattress, this is what you will find yourself doing. I never thought I would have to argue over prices while lying in bed (because I never really aspired to be a hooker); but sure enough, I found myself in a strangely compromising position: haggling with the salesperson while stretched out on a mattres that felt like heaven.

Be strong with your resolve to get a good price because that Pillow Top will do a lot of talking itself, and your body may not be so eager to bargain. Thankfully, I enjoy a good argument and I whittled one manager down to a point where I think she was ready to include her first born child with the mattress, box spring, and frame, but she still wasn't willing to drop the price as low as I needed her to go. In the end, we did find what we were looking for, for the price we wanted, and we even got to bring it home right away -- a big selling point for me; I'm inpatient and when I decide I want something, I want to get my grubby little hands on it that day. So, we got it home and set it up, and immediately I was intimidated by the size. It was way bigger in our room than it was on the mattress showroom floor.

I'm a small person, so when I tell you that the top of the mattress comes up to my waist, it really doesn't mean much, but when I had to take a little run and hop to get into bed, I feared a bit for my life. What would happen if I rolled off and cracked my head open? Would my fiance even notice I was lying on the floor bleeding to death? Probably not because the new mattress is supposed to reduce the amount of distubance you get from your sleeping partner, so in reality if I fell off, cracked my head open, and screamed bloody murder as I drifted off into death, he would most likely be so sound asleep that he'd never hear my wails.

However, the new bed was so comfy last night that my fears quickly evaporated in a wonderful night's sleep on what felt like a cloud. And ever since I was forced to leave that nest this morning, I've been longing to return. So now that I've finished paiting, and my muscles ache from the exertion, I am seriously thinking of taking a hot bath, having a cup of tea, and getting back into that new bed. But I have resolved to be good runner this week -- totally committed to the effort, so I suppose I'll delay all those wonderful rewards until a little later.

Bug Booger

I was sluggish and slow when I headed out for my run this evening and the heat didn't help. It's so hot and humid outside, it's like stepping into a sauna ( or like vacationing in hell in August), and to try and pep yourself up to run in that kind of heat is a bit difficult. But I did it, and despite the temperature, I was thinking that it was a lovely evening -- good summer smells, twilight air -- but then I saw This Couple approach me.

They were jogging along in perfect synchonization, both pairs of long legs hitting the sidewalk in exact unison. They were both making the stretchy shorts look good, and he was shirtless -- tanned muscles tight from the exertion of their challenging, yet satisfying run together -- and she, she was in just her sports bra and she had those chiseled abs that I sometimes poke around for on myself to see if they're under there hiding. They both glided along the surface of the pavement with their matching iPods belting out the same song I'm sure -- perhaps a soulful jazz riff; I don't know, but they both looked so peaceful.

Meanwhile, I was just working up to full chugging speed, so I was already pouring sweat and I'm sure my face was the beet red color it gets when I exert myself (they were artfully flushed, and I assume perspiring, but truly they looked like running ads for a skin care line). My t-shirt had the ring of sweat around my neck, and I could feel the boob sweat creeping down my non-so-flat stomach, and my shorts (gray cotton ones that bunch up between my thighs) were starting to get all moist from the sweat and they were balling up.

But I was thinking, fuck it, I'm just as good as they are, I'm just as much a runner. Maybe I don't look pretty, but dammit, I'm working hard out here. So I was feeling alright about myself despite the pretty people who weren't sweaty in the devil's heat.

Then a bug flew up my nose.

Now, I'm no strangers to bugs up my nose, but this son of a bitch went in their like a fighter pilot. It actually stung a bit when he made impact and my eyes began watering right away. He went straight up there into my left nostril. I started flailing my arms in front of me helplessly and I was choking and snorting. I coughed and sputtered to a stop and the models for "Runner's World" jogged on past as I bent over next to the path and tried to exhume the gnat's corpse from deep inside my nasal cavity, but I couldn't fish it out, so I believe the bug went somewhere straight up into my brain. (Reminds me a bit of the time my step-brother, Timmy, sniffed a Hot Wheel tire up his nose and we had to go to the emergency room. But that's a story for another time.)

I decided right then and there to cut the run short and walk back home. I still have an itch in my nose; I'll probably blow it tomorrow and see the small, black body of that doomed gnat. Poor little fella, he probably never knew what hit him

Massage

Two days ago I got a massage and the masseuse told me that I had knots that were so hard it was like rubbing bone. It kinda hurt, no wait, really hurt, the way she kneaded and pounded those knots out of me. I was like the metaphorical putty in her hands, and she beat the shit out of me. At times I wanted to concede and yell "uncle," but I just gritted my teethed and tried to think of flowing brooks and so forth so that I could relax -- which is what I thought a massage was supposed to be about.

After she was finished and she'd done everything short of pummle me with rocks, I actually felt kind of good. I had an strange tingling in the tips of my fingers, which I assume was increased blood flow, and I felt a certain relief of pressure in my neck and shoulders, and presumably more blood was flowing to my brain. She said that I should try to take a few moments a day to take some deep breaths and relax -- apparently I'm just a ball of anxiety.

But two days later, and I'm still sore. I expected to see visible bruises the day after, but there was no sign of her physical abuse (although I ususually carry the marks of a few errant bruises anyway; I run into a lot of furniture and used to fall off a lot of barstools). My muscles still feel clobbered, but I guess that just means it's working. She said I need to come back more often and get massages regularly so she can fully knead me into pliable dough.

All this rubbing is supposed to make my muscles stronger and healthier, so I can run better and won't be sos sore, but I can't help but think it may just make them lazy. Tension helps keep them taunt -- I don't want them to think they can just relax and get flabby. I'll have to give this torture artisit some serious consideration.

Sleepy Day

The paper clip icon who is a part of Microsoft Word on my office computer is currently sleeping. He was perky when I first turned on the system and got things going, but he quickly slumped down against the sheet of lined paper that shadows him. He's even emmitting little snoring sounds. I clicked on him a moment ago just so he could feel like he had something to do, but he merely raised one penciled eyebrow at me and asked if I needed to search for something. Since I really didn't, I clicked out and he looked a little miffed at me. Now he's disappeared.

But I don't blame him for feeling sleepy. I'm all tuckered out as well and, of course, did not rise early to run today. At night, I have these grand ambitions about getting up an hour early and running. In the evening it doesn't seem like it should be so hard, but when that early alarm goes off first thing in the morning, I immediately regret thinking that I could get up. Ineveitably, I just reset it and go back to sleep for the remaining hour.

Something tells me that I might have more energy and pep if I actually responded to that early alarm and heaved myself out of the deep comforts of bed, but I just don't have the will. Usually, I run at night, but right now, I have classes two nights a week and bowling one night a week, and when I get home from either, it's too dark and too late to tie up the running shoes.

Sometimes I read about people who run or work out on their lunches, but I'm hungry on my lunch so that's really not for me. I don't know how to do it, but I need to find a way to give myself a window of time for running; otherwise, it doesn't get done. I read an article in "Runner's World" last year with our beloved President George Dubya (a pretty committed runner) about how excuses for not running aren't legitimate, and that people who say they don't have time for exercise are the same ones who say they don't have time for their families. I hate that bastard. So, I figure if that fucker can find time to run, so can I, dammit.

8 Worst Running Songs

It would be too balanced to write a "five worst running songs," so I have chosen eight, at random, as I chose most things. So, here they are in descending order:

8. "Simple Pages" by Weezer
Okay, personally, I love Weezer, huge fan, but even though their songs sound fast-paced and upbeat, they're actually kind of hard to run to. Even some tracks from their new album, which I love listening to in my car, come off as flat in my MP3 player while I'm running, and I just fast-forward through them. I do, however, always recommend Weezer when you are drunk or high -- there's no better Weezer then, especially "Island in the Sun"! Dance around drunk to that!

7. "I Will Survive" by Cake
Now the Gloria Gaynor version may be more appropriate for running because there's that disco beat, but Cake's version is just not for running. But it is an excellent song, escpecially if you've just broken up with someone and you want to give the big metaphorical "fuck you!" The lyrics don't get any better than: "I shoulda changed my fuckin locks/ I shoulda made you leave your key!" I used to live for the Tuesday nights at Hard Times in Bemidji when Junction 51 would play this version! Yeah, that's good revenge music, just not good running music.

6. "Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel
Now this may seem obvious to some, but for many of us it's hard to seperate the songs we truly love from the ones that we want to run to. I grew up on this song. It doesn't get any better than John Cusack standing outside Ione Skye's window in "Say Anything" with that boom box blasting this song. Now that's love, with L-O-V-E! But, it's not a running song.

5. "Harder to Breathe" Maroon 5
Once again, I'm a fan of Maroon 5, no matter how much flack I may receive from the boys, but I like them. Anyway, I love the beginning of this song with its hard drum intro, but after that, it really doesn't have much to keep you going. I think Maroon 5 may be better suited to long car trips, and then, only if your boyfriend/husband/significant other will let you.

4. "Whole Lotta Love" by Led Zeppelin
Okay, the classic rockers are really made for drugs, not running. And this song is certainly more fast tempoed (gotta be the most awkward musical term in history) that let's say, "Stairway to Heaven" -- which definitely is not a running song -- but it still doesn't work. Almost, but not quite.

3. "Senorita" by Justin Timberlake
Now, generally I'm all about J. Timberlake, yes, I'll admit it. But so many of his songs are dance songs, and even though that sounds like it will be a good running song, that's not actually true. Boo for Justin. Sorry, dude.

2. "Feel Like Makin Love" by Bad Company
It's for "makin love"! Jesus, do the instructions have to get more clear than that! Don't load it in your running file!

1. "Colorblind" by The Counting Crows
I totally recommend this song if you're thinking about staying home on a Friday night, lighting a few candles, taking a bath, and perhaps feeling sorry for yourself. If you want to include a few qualudes and a razor blade, this song is perfect for that. It's the most depressing song ever, not necessarily because of the lyrics (which are actually quite optimistic) but because of the slow, quiet piano which dominates the song. So, while it's good for feeling truly blue (or, really "red" as Holly Golightly says in "Breakfast at Tiffany's") about yourself, or perhaps good for a quiet afternoon alone, it is not good for running. Don't use it. But do listen to it -- excellent song, I give it four and a half out of five stars.

So, those are the eight. Eight seems like a nice, round number. But now I must trot off to bed. Hmmm, what would be good bedtime songs so I can rest and get up in the morning and run songs?

Top Five Songs

Here's my top five songs for running:

5. "Two Step" by Dave Matthews Band
Normally I think DMB would make an odd choice for a running song, but this song is fast-paced and energetic -- especially the beginning.

4. "Body Movin'" (remixed version) by The Beastie Boys
This has some of the necessary beats and rythyms that make running seem so much easier; you can practically feel your feet trying to pound out the song as they hit the pavement. This song is also a key track because it's long -- nearly ten minutes -- so if you can keep up with it, you've probably gone about a mile (depending on your pace). The only problem is that the lyrics are repetitive, so if you're someone who tires of the redundancy of "Body movin', body movin..." then perhaps it's not for you.

3. "Special" by Garbage
I love Garbage, and they actaully have a lot of songs that work well for running, or exercising in general, because they have such a techno underscore (right musical term? I have no idea). But this song is particularly good for running. Just try it. You'll like it.

2. "Hey Mama" by The Black Eyed Peas
You can't go wrong with the Peas, and this song is great in a lot of settings: for dancing, for driving, but also for running. I often like to start with this song -- it sets the mood.

And lastly, drum roll please, my number one running song:
1. "Pain" by Jimmy Eat World
A. The title just says it all. B. Who doesn't like Jimmy Eat World? Boo, to any sceptics that think they were a one hit woner several years ago with "The Middle" -- I love them.

So, those are my picks for running, perhaps tomorrow I'll list the worst songs for running!

Non-Runner's World

Even when I'm not keeping up with the running, I still like to read the Runner's World that I get in the mail. It makes me feel like a professional athlete, and I like to believe that the mailman is impressed with my magazine choice. Perhaps he wonders what kind of hot, athletic girl I am. But sometimes I find that Runner's World is inaccessible for the beginning runner. Sure, I enjoy articles on health and how to get a better mile, but I'd also like to some articles on how to even run a mile.

Let's face it, Runner's World has a target audience, and I believe that target audience is runners who aim to run upwards of thirty miles a week and who train religiously for marathons, and the newest form of masochism, the ultra-marathon. But what about the rest of us? Those who are struggling to establish a running routine or those who are working toward 5 or 10ks, don't we deserve a publication as well?

So here's what I would do if I ran "Non-Runner's World":

1. I would totally re-vamp all the pictures and use some everyday looking people, not the models or super-duper tri-athletes they currently scrape up out of nowhere (seriously, where do all these people come from?); no, I don't want trim, fit looking women in their state-of-the-art sports bras and stretchy shorts -- which aren't as form fitting as you are led to believe by those pictures, mine hike themselves into my nether regions and make running a little difficult. I want all ages of men and women in their sweat pants and too large t-shirts and sports bras that are running threadbare on the sides. I also want to see running shoes with grass stains, paint splatter, and lizard guts. I don't want abs of steel, I want to see a little of that spare tire hanging out over the sides, and I definitely want to see how normal people look in those stretchy shorts (just to confirm that I'm not a genetic freak; you know, the only one they look terrible on).

2. No more action shots of runners with their MP3 players perfectly poised on their toned biceps, earplugs in place. Instead, I want to see a picture of an actual runner sweating and struggling to keep that one damned earpiece in (the one that keeps flopping out onto your shoulder) and is either tugging on the fucking armband strap to pull it up or to loosen it so that they can get some blood flow back to their brain. I mean, I love to listen to my music when I run, but between the fact that my earplugs literally have a 12 inch discrepency in cord length and that my arm strap digs into my plump flesh or else just sags into my forearm, I usually end up leaving the thing at home rather than fight with it all the way. I have enough to fight with while I run (refer back to my comment about those motherfuckers, the stretchy shorts).

3. Also, I want an end to success stories. Sure, I know they're inspiring and crap, but I'd like a few more stories about people who feel like they hate running. I need to read stories about people who thought they might die of exhaustion, or who threw up, or who were almost run down by a busload of old people. I want stories about the clouds parting and rain falling in torential sheets, but just on your running route. I want stories about carloads of hooting teenagers and stationary construction workers (they, appartently, like the stretchy shorts). I want tripping, slipping and falling stories -- I want to hear about the bruises and see the scars from the rocks that are still embedded under the skin. I want stories about salespeople at the running store who lift their one trick eyebrow in mocking condecension when you request a watch to record your times or when you ask if they have any shoes for your child-like feet. And dammit, I want stories about the people who come in last place in a race, or else had to sprint the last hundred yards just to tie with an 80 year old man who walked most of the way. I want stories of failure and half-assessed attempts at success. I want running as I see it when I pass by store windows: It's not pretty.

4. Lastly, my final change in my new periodical. I want to know what kind of drugs will help give me more energy and run longer and faster. I know, I know, the real Runner's World does not promote the use of any kind of stimulant (blah, blah, blah), but I want to know what I need to really get out there and be the speeding bullet I know I can be. Do I need a little speed? Heroin? Cocaine? Can I use some old-fashioned caffeine or perhaps an anabolic steroid? What will do the trick? Because I'm tired of reading about how running in and of itself will give you more energy, or how eating healthy will give you a lift. I want to know the dirty little secrets of the real runners. C'mon, give us the scoop. (I was listening to someone who was telling me that she didn't like to put "poisons into her body" -- mind you she was eating a cream filled donut from Dunkin Donuts while she said this -- and said she didn't even like to take Tylenol. My response? Repressed laughter and finger pointing. Who doesn't need some toxins? Fuck, load me up. The green tea washes it all away anyway, right?)

So, these would be the basic changes to my new running magazine. Maybe the publishers of the real Runner's World will be willing to provide me with the funds to launch just such a magazine. Somehow I doubt it. Probably I'll have to underwrite it myself as well as publish it from my basement. Will you buy a copy?

Fatty-fatty two by four

That's what they'll call me soon: I haven't gone running all week and I feel like a tub of goo. I'd like to go today but after cleaning and working on the house all day, I really gotta say that I don't feel like it. Maybe I need a little of that magical green tea.

Green Tea

These days you hear a lot about how green tea cures everything from a headache to a touch of cancer. Magical stuff this tea. Now, it is reported (as the surely accurate "Woman's Day" boasts) that green tea can help you loose weight. A quick search on the internet will reveal that green tea practically burns the pounds right off of you. So, you might be asking yourself, is this for real? Can tea really do anything to change your metabolism, let alone burn the pounds off?

As a girl who just dropped a Cheet-o headed for her mouth, I'm counting on that cup of tea a day to melt the pounds off. And as I stare into my mug now and study this mysterious green concoction, I begin to feel a specific answer float up out of the depths of my brain: I hope so.

I first started forcing the tea down about three months ago when I went to stay with my grandpa. He doesn't touch the stuff, says it's awful, but my aunt had bought some because the nurse had advised it for my grandfather's sore throat. Let me advice those of you who aren't tea drinkers, green tea is the nastiest tasting tea out there, it's kinda like swallowing gulps of warm, liquified grass, but once you begin to make it routine, it starts to taste good. (But who am I? I used to try my horse's oats when I was a kid, and after awhile, grew quite fond of them.)

Anyhoo, the first real benefit I noticed from the tea was regularity. (I write this portion now with caution both for the sake of my reputation, and because I am composing at work, so excuse me if I refer to the almighty "poo" with some euphemisms.) Granted, this B.M. came in the form of various shades of green, but some of us take what we can get. But I found the color didn't matter, what did matter was size. Goodness! The size! Initially, I must have lost two or three pounds just in shit! That alone seems to justify a cup of the green stuff.

But the second thing I noticed about drinking green tea was that it truly did perk you up, and it's not caffinated (which for someone who's been addicted to caffeine since in utero, this is quite a desirable trait). True, it's not the shot in the head that an Excedrin Migraine tablet is, but it's still perky. So both the poo and the perkiness make green tea a valuable commodity on its own without these supposed weight loss miracles.

However, if this stuff somehow balances out the Cheet-o consumption, I'm all for it. After all, I haven't been very vigilant about the running and something should be counter-acting the over-eating and drinking (again, too much to drink after bowling last night), and I believe in the power of green tea almost as much as Tom Cruise believes in Scientology. Don't worry, I won't tell you that green tea will heal depression.