Is that what doctors are like here, or is this guy just a judgemental ass who thinks he knows everything because it says "Dr." in front of his name? Should I just make sure I always see another doctor from that practice? It's much easier to get the healthcare you need when you don't have a completely adversarial relationship with your doctor.
Showing posts with label exercise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label exercise. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Doctor Who-Do-You-Think-You-Are
So my first interaction with the medical system here didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I went in this morning to get my prescriptions here, because they don't transfer when you move countries. And in all fairness, I did get them written for me, at least enough to cover this month. But not without a long lecture about how no one should be on depression medication long term, from a man who 1. had only met me about three minutes earlier; 2. isn't a specialist in mental health; 3. hasn't reviewed any of the records from my previous doctor; 4. has no idea what it's been like to live with me these past few months while I've been freaking out because I have literally changed every single thing about my life; 5. has no idea what I'm like without medication. He said, with no basis whatsoever, that I needed to look into some alternatives - alternatives he didn't bother to specify or ask me whether I was already doing, but which I assume would include the exercise I already take four or five times a week, the meditation I do, and the friends I turn to when I need to talk. Apart from not eating a healthy diet, which is never going to happen because, let's face it, Doritos are DELICIOUS while green vegetables taste like pee, I'm doing all the things you're supposed to do. Oh except seeing a psychiatrist here, but when I asked him for a referral, he told me that psychiatrists in this country don't treat "minor problems" and it's really not for me unless I'm on an anti-psychotic (he did eventually give me a phone number).
Friday, November 08, 2013
Back At My Home On Whore Island
As I've mentioned before, I live on an island in the Thames on the outskirts of a very posh town I clearly don't belong in. The island is populated mostly by retirees and posh lunatics, or posh retirees who are lunatics. And it's not just an island, it's a community - there are organized functions and progressive dinners and notes slipped through your door inviting you to "supper". I was sure I was going to get thrown out.
Until Sunday, which was the day of the island's official bonfire party. £5 buys you a chance to stand next to a large fire, a sausage roll, and all the mulled wine you can drink. The fire wasn't lit yet when we got there, so we went to get some mulled wine and said hello to our next door neighbor - a 93 year old man who just spent most of the summer driving around France on his own, going from pub to pub, meeting new people and generally being more adventurous than I was at 20. He introduced us to another neighbor, an older lady who he claimed owns 10 Alfa Romeos but she corrected him - she has pared that down to "only" two. We chatted with them for a while until we noticed someone had lit the bonfire, so we walked over to check that out and to laugh at the men in charge of it, who were busily throwing all the things in the piles of wood meant to feed the bonfire through the night into it at once.
In the 15 minutes it took them to use up all the fuel for the fire, it had started to rain pretty hard, and people started wandering back to the garage where the wine and the sausage rolls were being distributed. It was there that I was introduced to the pilot. The pilot is a woman who does not live on the island, but just across the bridge from it so is kind of an honorary islander. As per my naming her the pilot, she flies passenger jets for a living. That's what she does now anyway; she used to be a veterinarian. Which is a hell of a career change, I thought, to which she replied, "Well, once you've wanked off a dog for 30 minutes to find out why none of his mates are being impregnated, you realize it might be time for a new career." I decided to just stand next to her all night. This turned out to be a good decision: I got to watch her give a sex education lecture to a grown man using his sausage roll ("You have a sausage, and I have a...roll.") (also, I got to add, in answer to his query of what the tomato sauce* represented, "Oh, that's just a timing issue.") and hear how much she loves Chicago (she used to fly there when she did transatlantic flights).
And then, somehow, and I swear to Xenu you guys, I was NOT the one who started it, there came a point in the conversation where she told us of her wish to learn to twirl nipple tassels in different directions. Obviously it was my obligation to tell her both that I knew exactly how to do that and that it was actually much easier than getting them to twirl in the same direction. And obviously they wanted to know why and I explained about the burlesque and the student show and that I even knew how to make them myself. The pilot was VERY excited, and before I knew it two things had happened: she'd told virtually everyone on the island that I was an expert at stripping, and she'd gotten half a dozen retired and semi-retired women to agree to a girly night at her house wherein, it seems, I will be teaching them to make and twirl nipple tassels. There was also some talk of me teaching them a general burlesque workshop and/or a basic burlesque class at the fitness center just next to the island.
So..... that happened.
I think I might fit in here better than I thought.
*ketchup.
In the 15 minutes it took them to use up all the fuel for the fire, it had started to rain pretty hard, and people started wandering back to the garage where the wine and the sausage rolls were being distributed. It was there that I was introduced to the pilot. The pilot is a woman who does not live on the island, but just across the bridge from it so is kind of an honorary islander. As per my naming her the pilot, she flies passenger jets for a living. That's what she does now anyway; she used to be a veterinarian. Which is a hell of a career change, I thought, to which she replied, "Well, once you've wanked off a dog for 30 minutes to find out why none of his mates are being impregnated, you realize it might be time for a new career." I decided to just stand next to her all night. This turned out to be a good decision: I got to watch her give a sex education lecture to a grown man using his sausage roll ("You have a sausage, and I have a...roll.") (also, I got to add, in answer to his query of what the tomato sauce* represented, "Oh, that's just a timing issue.") and hear how much she loves Chicago (she used to fly there when she did transatlantic flights).
And then, somehow, and I swear to Xenu you guys, I was NOT the one who started it, there came a point in the conversation where she told us of her wish to learn to twirl nipple tassels in different directions. Obviously it was my obligation to tell her both that I knew exactly how to do that and that it was actually much easier than getting them to twirl in the same direction. And obviously they wanted to know why and I explained about the burlesque and the student show and that I even knew how to make them myself. The pilot was VERY excited, and before I knew it two things had happened: she'd told virtually everyone on the island that I was an expert at stripping, and she'd gotten half a dozen retired and semi-retired women to agree to a girly night at her house wherein, it seems, I will be teaching them to make and twirl nipple tassels. There was also some talk of me teaching them a general burlesque workshop and/or a basic burlesque class at the fitness center just next to the island.
So..... that happened.
I think I might fit in here better than I thought.
*ketchup.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
More Video Goodness
StereoNinja finished editing my last batch of spare notes last night, which I uploaded to YouTube in the middle of the night because I had dance class earlier in the evening and then promptly came home and slumped to the floor in a heaping pile of pain and exhaustion. I had assumed advanced class was called that because it will culminate in solo performances where we each take off all our clothes to music at the end of June, as opposed to the beginning and intermediate classes where you just take some of your clothes off as a group in class instead of on stage. What it actually means is "HAHAHA you think those abs are in pretty good shape, do you? Let's see if you can do all these exercises without literally breaking into two pieces then you weak, stupid fool." To be fair, pain and exhaustion were a welcome change from how I felt after my "Tricks of the Tease" class on Monday night, which is when we did nothing but turns for an hour and Madame Spinny McVomitpants over here (thad be me) ended up sitting out the last 15 minutes of class to avoid painting the floor with my dinner.
None of which is the point, really. The point is the latest Fifty Shades video is up on my YouTube channel now:
and it should be followed in a few days by the video where I review the Fifty Shades of Grey party game that we are all going to get together to play in March when I'm back in the UK. And holy god, you guys, it is hella ridiculous.
Tonight is bar night so I'll be reading the next batch of chapters and probably tweeting about how much I'm not enjoying myself. Please go out and enjoy yourselves tonight on my behalf.
None of which is the point, really. The point is the latest Fifty Shades video is up on my YouTube channel now:
and it should be followed in a few days by the video where I review the Fifty Shades of Grey party game that we are all going to get together to play in March when I'm back in the UK. And holy god, you guys, it is hella ridiculous.
Tonight is bar night so I'll be reading the next batch of chapters and probably tweeting about how much I'm not enjoying myself. Please go out and enjoy yourselves tonight on my behalf.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
No Pain No Gain
I can't move. I mean it. I can't. fucking. move.
The new session at the place where I take aerial classes started this week. I didn't really dig silks so much in the last session and I want to switch back to trapeze which I loved, but I'm going to England in a month which means I'll miss two weeks of class, and more importantly I'll be sleeping with half the country so I'd like to show up with nice soft hands that don't look like I lost a battle with a rogue cheese grater. That's why I decided to put off trapeze until the next session and take something new this round. This is actually how I make decisions.
The class I settled on is called Beginning Stretching and Flexibility. It seemed like a really good idea, as presumably it would enhance my abilities in trapeze AND at the burlesque studio AND that whole part I just said about my intended behavior overseas. Which in the long run, I think it will. But that day is not today.
My teacher is a laid off electrical engineer and accomplished gymnast named Char, who has the magical ability to be incredibly tiny and built like a monster truck at the same time. She has also broken her back from gymnastics a double digit number of times, so while she is happy to demonstrate every other stretch, she calls on a volunteer to show us the correct positioning for bridges. She is awesome.
The class consisted of 30 minutes of dynamic stretching that involved a lot of kicking our way across the room and me constantly being told to straighten my knee, 30 minutes of static stretching that left me wondering if I just dreamed that part of my life where I could do full splits with ease, and 30 minutes of partner stretching, which I did with a girl from North Carolina who was so good at it and so positive in her reinforcement that I was "doing so great" and "almost done" that I suggested she could make a ton of dough being a labor and delivery coach. It was great and I left tired and sweaty and just knowing that I was already going to be a better dancer by Wednesday just from the one class.
I woke up the next morning slightly sore, which I was expecting. For some reason, standing in first position seemed to alleviate the pain in my hips, so I stood around like that most of the day at work and while washing dishes after dinner to the extreme amusement of the bartender. After dinner I worked a little bit on some choreography I was supposed to do over the weekend, feeling mostly fine, and then took what I felt was a well deserved break and sat on my couch to watch a couple hours of Shark Week. Then I got up to get a drink from the kitchen.
And failed.
Everything was sore. EVERYTHING. I had no idea you could even have that level of pain in your hip flexors. I ate a fistful of aspirin while I laid there watching interviews with people who had been attacked by sharks and convincing myself that having my leg bitten off mid thigh didn't really sound so bad (also reminding my roommate that sharks have two penises, which is my favorite part about Shark Week - having an excuse to engage people in conversation about shark dicks).
This morning I woke up and it was 100 factors worse. I ate some more aspirin and grabbed the muscle rub, but short of bathing in it I didn't know how it could possibly help. Plus I couldn't bathe in anything because there was a centipede in the bathroom, but regardless. This is the level of pain I find myself in right now. I am sitting at my desk at work moaning. I get up every so often and walk around because moving is better than sitting still. Walking makes me look like a monumentally constipated duck. Standing up straight is not even an option at this point. Every time I want to adjust my legs under my desk, I am physically picking them up WITH MY HANDS because engaging any leg muscle makes me want to Aron Ralston all my limbs. My abs, which had been ok earlier, are now starting to ache because they are compensating for the fact that the only other muscles I can move in my body without screaming are the ones that control my face. Oh, and my dance class starts in two hours, so I have that going for me.
I'm not sure if it's rampant masochism or just endorphins from the pain, but I am kind of loving this. Except for when I try to move. Also when I try not to.
The new session at the place where I take aerial classes started this week. I didn't really dig silks so much in the last session and I want to switch back to trapeze which I loved, but I'm going to England in a month which means I'll miss two weeks of class, and more importantly I'll be sleeping with half the country so I'd like to show up with nice soft hands that don't look like I lost a battle with a rogue cheese grater. That's why I decided to put off trapeze until the next session and take something new this round. This is actually how I make decisions.
The class I settled on is called Beginning Stretching and Flexibility. It seemed like a really good idea, as presumably it would enhance my abilities in trapeze AND at the burlesque studio AND that whole part I just said about my intended behavior overseas. Which in the long run, I think it will. But that day is not today.
My teacher is a laid off electrical engineer and accomplished gymnast named Char, who has the magical ability to be incredibly tiny and built like a monster truck at the same time. She has also broken her back from gymnastics a double digit number of times, so while she is happy to demonstrate every other stretch, she calls on a volunteer to show us the correct positioning for bridges. She is awesome.
The class consisted of 30 minutes of dynamic stretching that involved a lot of kicking our way across the room and me constantly being told to straighten my knee, 30 minutes of static stretching that left me wondering if I just dreamed that part of my life where I could do full splits with ease, and 30 minutes of partner stretching, which I did with a girl from North Carolina who was so good at it and so positive in her reinforcement that I was "doing so great" and "almost done" that I suggested she could make a ton of dough being a labor and delivery coach. It was great and I left tired and sweaty and just knowing that I was already going to be a better dancer by Wednesday just from the one class.
I woke up the next morning slightly sore, which I was expecting. For some reason, standing in first position seemed to alleviate the pain in my hips, so I stood around like that most of the day at work and while washing dishes after dinner to the extreme amusement of the bartender. After dinner I worked a little bit on some choreography I was supposed to do over the weekend, feeling mostly fine, and then took what I felt was a well deserved break and sat on my couch to watch a couple hours of Shark Week. Then I got up to get a drink from the kitchen.
And failed.
Everything was sore. EVERYTHING. I had no idea you could even have that level of pain in your hip flexors. I ate a fistful of aspirin while I laid there watching interviews with people who had been attacked by sharks and convincing myself that having my leg bitten off mid thigh didn't really sound so bad (also reminding my roommate that sharks have two penises, which is my favorite part about Shark Week - having an excuse to engage people in conversation about shark dicks).
This morning I woke up and it was 100 factors worse. I ate some more aspirin and grabbed the muscle rub, but short of bathing in it I didn't know how it could possibly help. Plus I couldn't bathe in anything because there was a centipede in the bathroom, but regardless. This is the level of pain I find myself in right now. I am sitting at my desk at work moaning. I get up every so often and walk around because moving is better than sitting still. Walking makes me look like a monumentally constipated duck. Standing up straight is not even an option at this point. Every time I want to adjust my legs under my desk, I am physically picking them up WITH MY HANDS because engaging any leg muscle makes me want to Aron Ralston all my limbs. My abs, which had been ok earlier, are now starting to ache because they are compensating for the fact that the only other muscles I can move in my body without screaming are the ones that control my face. Oh, and my dance class starts in two hours, so I have that going for me.
I'm not sure if it's rampant masochism or just endorphins from the pain, but I am kind of loving this. Except for when I try to move. Also when I try not to.
Monday, June 25, 2012
The Last 5k I Will Ever Run*
Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you. There will be a new 50 Shades review up tomorrow. I simply didn't have time to read this weekend: - I was being chased by zombies, driving across middle America and practicing how to be a stripper.
I ran my second Run For Your Lives zombie chase/obstacle course/5k on Saturday in Indianapolis. It wasn't any better than the last one, despite the fact that I did actually train this time. In fact, I finished the highly touted Couch To 5k program and I can say with confidence that I could probably run a straightforward 5k without wanting to die (though I would still hate it. Pretty sure nothing is ever going to change the fact that I HATE running). Unfortunately, the skills required for running a 5k are worthless for this particular 5k. What little areas there were for open running without an obstacle or zombies seemed to almost always involve either running through water or running through sand, both of which blow and are a complete energy suck. The rest of the time, we were sprinting. The zombies in Indiana are way more aggressive than the zombies in Maryland - they run faster, chase further, and work together to chase down the people who still have flags left. At one point, we gathered a large group to try to overwhelm a massive field of zombies. We got to the end, crawled through some murky water under a bridge and were greeted on the other side with ANOTHER huge field of zombies.
The obstacles were harder than last time as well. We crawled army style through a field of gravel, from which my knees are now cut to shreds. I climbed up the cargo net fairly well, but my decision to try and slide down the opposite side was, in retrospect, a poor one. I had been extremely confident going in about the one obstacle we knew about, crossing monkey bars over a pool of blood and entrails, due to my trapeze classes. I shouldn't have been. There was one thing I hadn't accounted for: at trapeze class we have chalk. At a zombie race there is nothing, plus your hands are wet from climbing up there due to people who fell in before you, plus your clothing is entirely soaked from all the previous water obstacles so you can't dry your hands on those either. I got about a third of the way across before I realized it wasn't happening and let go, justifying that decision to myself that the blood pool would feel soothing on my cargo net rope burns anyway.
I when I finally crawled under the electrified fence (seriously) and crossed the finish line, I was ecstatic. Not just because it was over, but because it was over and I WAS STILL ALIVE! I had one flag left at the end of the race, thanks to the amazing H-Town who ran interference for me after she'd lost all of her flags, and also from a spin move I used to get away from a zombie who had me wrapped up.
And that's it. I am never doing this again.*
After the race, I faced a five hour drive back to Chicago so I could be at rehearsal for my latest student burlesque show first thing Sunday morning. Just a quick word about driving across the state of Indiana, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure: It's fucking terrifying. If you're like me anyway. Because I do not blend in there AT ALL, and as the bartender just said to me "In Indiana, the motto is 'If it's different, shoot it.'" The first thing you see when you cross the border from Ohio into Indiana is a giant cross made out of aluminum siding. Jesus approves of weatherproofing your home. Immediately after that are two billboards, these two, in this order:
Sitting in my tiny rental car with absolutely no one looking at me, I have never felt more like I was being judged. Until I got out at a rest stop to recaffeinate, my turquoise hair shining like a neon sign flashing "MISCREANT" and "FORNICATOR", and had to have a very uncomfortable staring contest with the man behind the counter before being allowed to purchase a Coke Zero. I felt safer surrounded by zombies.
On Sunday I went to rehearsal for the Studio L'Amour Student Showcase, which is July 1st at Joe's on Weed if anyone is interested in attending. I do not have photos of this part of the weekend, though I do have this one of me in (part of) the outfit I'll be temporarily wearing:
My hope is that by the next student show in December, I'll be dancing solo instead of in a group with 15 other girls, but I will be in the front row this time so I've got that going for me.
So that's what I was doing instead of reading more dubious "literature" all weekend, though there was a bit of H-Town reading it aloud that I wish I had video of. I do expect to finish it this week, and then I may be willing to entertain reading the next one for you, but only if you give me some time off to read something decent, do the actual work that I get paid for, and keep saying really nice things about how amusing you find my rage.
*Until H-Town asks me to do another one. I am weak.
I ran my second Run For Your Lives zombie chase/obstacle course/5k on Saturday in Indianapolis. It wasn't any better than the last one, despite the fact that I did actually train this time. In fact, I finished the highly touted Couch To 5k program and I can say with confidence that I could probably run a straightforward 5k without wanting to die (though I would still hate it. Pretty sure nothing is ever going to change the fact that I HATE running). Unfortunately, the skills required for running a 5k are worthless for this particular 5k. What little areas there were for open running without an obstacle or zombies seemed to almost always involve either running through water or running through sand, both of which blow and are a complete energy suck. The rest of the time, we were sprinting. The zombies in Indiana are way more aggressive than the zombies in Maryland - they run faster, chase further, and work together to chase down the people who still have flags left. At one point, we gathered a large group to try to overwhelm a massive field of zombies. We got to the end, crawled through some murky water under a bridge and were greeted on the other side with ANOTHER huge field of zombies.
The obstacles were harder than last time as well. We crawled army style through a field of gravel, from which my knees are now cut to shreds. I climbed up the cargo net fairly well, but my decision to try and slide down the opposite side was, in retrospect, a poor one. I had been extremely confident going in about the one obstacle we knew about, crossing monkey bars over a pool of blood and entrails, due to my trapeze classes. I shouldn't have been. There was one thing I hadn't accounted for: at trapeze class we have chalk. At a zombie race there is nothing, plus your hands are wet from climbing up there due to people who fell in before you, plus your clothing is entirely soaked from all the previous water obstacles so you can't dry your hands on those either. I got about a third of the way across before I realized it wasn't happening and let go, justifying that decision to myself that the blood pool would feel soothing on my cargo net rope burns anyway.
 |
| Survivor. Yes, I do know my hair matches my shirt. |
After the race, I faced a five hour drive back to Chicago so I could be at rehearsal for my latest student burlesque show first thing Sunday morning. Just a quick word about driving across the state of Indiana, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure: It's fucking terrifying. If you're like me anyway. Because I do not blend in there AT ALL, and as the bartender just said to me "In Indiana, the motto is 'If it's different, shoot it.'" The first thing you see when you cross the border from Ohio into Indiana is a giant cross made out of aluminum siding. Jesus approves of weatherproofing your home. Immediately after that are two billboards, these two, in this order:
 |
| Hell = The Hotel California |
 |
| Jesus = The Dude. He's had a rough night and he hates the fucking Eagles, man. |
On Sunday I went to rehearsal for the Studio L'Amour Student Showcase, which is July 1st at Joe's on Weed if anyone is interested in attending. I do not have photos of this part of the weekend, though I do have this one of me in (part of) the outfit I'll be temporarily wearing:
 |
| Not pictured: waist cincher, hand fan, sense of propriety. |
So that's what I was doing instead of reading more dubious "literature" all weekend, though there was a bit of H-Town reading it aloud that I wish I had video of. I do expect to finish it this week, and then I may be willing to entertain reading the next one for you, but only if you give me some time off to read something decent, do the actual work that I get paid for, and keep saying really nice things about how amusing you find my rage.
*Until H-Town asks me to do another one. I am weak.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Good News, Everyone!
As you can tell from my last post, I am all signed up for the zombie 5k in Indianapolis this June, which I will again be running with H-Town and this time we will be joined by her brother E-Town. This week I start training again, which I assume will suck just as much if not more than it did last time because I haven't run since the last race in October and despite this El Nino miracle weather going on, it is still way the fuck colder outside than when I last trained for this sort of stupidity in September/October. I have downloaded a shit ton more of The Prodigy from iTunes to help me in matching my running soundtrack to my white hot anger about the fact that I am running.
So what's the good news, then? Well, since you asked, the good news is that after June I am never doing this again. I know I said that last time, but this time it is for real because this time I have a completely legit reason. I was discussing how much I hate running with some of the other women in my dance class last night and as we were talking, the great Michelle L'Amour began making a grimacy sad face at us. "All right," she said in a tone of voice that indicated it wasn't remotely all right, "but please make sure you stretch really well before and after. Running really shortens your hamstrings."
RIGHT THERE. Did you see it? Running shortens your hamstrings. And I am a dancer now, and I need my hamstrings to be long and flexible so I can do cool sexy bendy things. AND I already sit at a desk all day long which is also REALLY BAD for your hamstrings. So you see? I should not be running. At all. Ever. My dance instructor told me so and that woman can bend herself into a very sexy pretzel. I am done with any and all running after June. Instead, following in the footsteps of Mrs. Sizemore, I will be starting trapeze lessons in the spring. Yes, yes I will.
So what's the good news, then? Well, since you asked, the good news is that after June I am never doing this again. I know I said that last time, but this time it is for real because this time I have a completely legit reason. I was discussing how much I hate running with some of the other women in my dance class last night and as we were talking, the great Michelle L'Amour began making a grimacy sad face at us. "All right," she said in a tone of voice that indicated it wasn't remotely all right, "but please make sure you stretch really well before and after. Running really shortens your hamstrings."
RIGHT THERE. Did you see it? Running shortens your hamstrings. And I am a dancer now, and I need my hamstrings to be long and flexible so I can do cool sexy bendy things. AND I already sit at a desk all day long which is also REALLY BAD for your hamstrings. So you see? I should not be running. At all. Ever. My dance instructor told me so and that woman can bend herself into a very sexy pretzel. I am done with any and all running after June. Instead, following in the footsteps of Mrs. Sizemore, I will be starting trapeze lessons in the spring. Yes, yes I will.
Training Advice From Heather
H-Town: hey - when are you going to start training for zombie time in June?
me: ugh, i think i should probably start next week actually
i need to be in at least decent shape a month from now because my friends in england have promised to chase me up hills
H-Town: and then reward you with sexy times
me: haha, well some of them
H-Town: tell them to stand nude at the top of said hills
that'll motivate you
"Here I am naked - sure wish someone would come up here and totally do me n stuff"
me: they'll be like "but it's march"
and i'll be like "do you want this piece of ass or not?"
and then they'll be like "it's arse you idiot."
H-Town: "We've secretly replaced Amber's bed with giant hills topped with hot naked people. Let's see if she notices."
me: oh my god we so need to film me not noticing the difference
me: ugh, i think i should probably start next week actually
i need to be in at least decent shape a month from now because my friends in england have promised to chase me up hills
H-Town: and then reward you with sexy times
me: haha, well some of them
H-Town: tell them to stand nude at the top of said hills
that'll motivate you
"Here I am naked - sure wish someone would come up here and totally do me n stuff"
me: they'll be like "but it's march"
and i'll be like "do you want this piece of ass or not?"
and then they'll be like "it's arse you idiot."
H-Town: "We've secretly replaced Amber's bed with giant hills topped with hot naked people. Let's see if she notices."
me: oh my god we so need to film me not noticing the difference
Monday, October 24, 2011
BRAAAIIIIINNSSSSS!
The zombie 5K was this weekend in Baltimore, and I am proud to announce that I survived. Well, actually I didn't, I died. But I lived through it. I'll explain in a minute.
My training can best be described as "half-assed". Actually, half-assed may be a slight exaggeration. Quarter-assed is a bit more like it. As you may remember from previous posts, I HATE running. And while I started out with the best of intentions, no amount of progress in my abilities was enough to convince me that I liked it. In fact, I think it made me hate running even more. I started to rationalize reasons why I didn't really have to train. "I had dance class on Tuesday, that should count." "I totally did cardio-kickboxing for 10 whole minutes, that's exactly the same as running for 20 minutes." The last couple weeks I didn't bother to train at all, telling myself even more lies: "The adrenaline of being chased will carry me through it." "I should just sit on the couch all week - I need to conserve my energy."
Despite the nagging feeling that I was woefully under-prepared, I was getting very excited. A few days before the race the organizers sent out a tantalizing e-mail. There would be mud, red dye, strobe lights and four feet of standing water. We should "use our best judgement" in the event we had a seizure disorder, or an allergy to latex. Oh, and could we also print out and sign this wavier indicating that we understood we might potentially die? It was starting to sound awesome.
Race day came, and H-town and I got up at the ass crack of dawn to drive out to the race site. There were actually three of us who would be running together: me, with my half- to quarter-assed training, H-Town, who also hates running but had trained diligently, and Callie, who is a maniac and does this sort of running shit all the time. We discussed our training regimens and reactions to it on the shuttle from the parking lot to the race site. I reported my reaction the same way I always do: I am never, EVER running anywhere ever again.
On arrival at the actual race site, we got our race packets, put on our numbers and our flag belts and got in line to check our bags. Each of us was in a different line, but we all had a similar experience of being given tips by people who had already completed the race. We already knew there were two kinds of zombies - "theatrical" zombies who were for show, and "athletic" zombies who would chase you and take your flags (this was the zombies' job. If you finished the race with none of your flags left, you were dead, and weren't eligible to win a prize). We were advised to look out for zombies who looked theatrical, but would turn around and chase you after you'd passed. We were also given advice for the "four feet of water" we'd been warned about, namely that it was way more than four feet deep, it was very cold, and we should grab the ropes to pull ourselves across rather than try to swim it. We all met up at the starting line and compared our notes. And then the race started.
We were not prepared.
Our various levels of training made no difference as we quickly realized that no one had actually trained properly at all. Running at a steady pace on relatively level, always dry, usually concrete surfaces is in no way at all adequate preparations for running through the woods up and down ridiculously steep hills, the surface of which had been reduced to a muddy slop, while being chased by zombies. In hindsight we should have been practicing running up and down various inclines and a fuck ton of suicide sprints.
We first realized this when we encountered our first obstacle - giant piles of hay we had to climb over. We reached the top and looked down to find a sea of zombies waiting for us on the other side who were sprinting after people trying to get their flags.
This would become a theme - go through some arduous task like climbing up a cargo net or clawing your way up a muddy hill, and face the waiting zombies on the other side/at the top. Also, for something that had been billed as a 5K run, there wasn't really a whole lot of actual running. Sprinting away from the zombies used up most of your energy so that when you did get to a zombie-free straightaway, you were usually too spent to run it. Which really didn't matter anyway because those sections were almost all so incredibly muddy you couldn't possibly have run through them without constantly falling. Still, it was pretty cool and we were having a ton of fun.
Until.
The water obstacle was to swim across a pond. There were two ropes stretched across it to help in pulling yourself along. We scrambled down the embankment and stepped into water up to our waists. It was stunningly cold, but seemed manageable. For five seconds, until we took another step. We all found ourselves submerged to the neck in 40 degree pond water. There is no way to grasp exactly how cold that is without actually doing it. The shock of the cold hit me like an anvil to the chest. FUCKING HOLY HAIRY NUN TESTICLES, I thought, but didn't say, because I was too stunned to speak. The bottom of the pond was nowhere to be found. We pulled ourselves along the rope hand over completely numb hand, urged along by H-Town, who was the only one with the ability to speak and was channeling her inner Dory - with Tourettes- all the way across. "JUST KEEP FUCKING SWIMMING!" she screamed. "FUCK YOU, NEMO!" I had a sudden moment of clarity remembering the text of the waiver I had signed - I could actually for real die in water that cold if I didn't get out of it as quickly as possible.
Somehow we all managed to get across to the other side and pull ourselves up the steep embankment. With two miles to go we were now cold, tired and soaking wet. Additionally, my saturated hoodie added another 10 pounds of weight for me to try and run with. We got to a very steep downhill that I almost ended up tumbling down, only to be faced at the bottom of it with an even steeper and higher hill that we would need to climb, which was also a river of mud. Climbing it took just about everything out of me, so when the zombie who had been sitting on the ground giving people high fives as they came over the hill suddenly jumped up and snatched away my last flag I barely even reacted. It actually turned out to be more fun once we had no flags left to worry about (it's not like we had any shot of coming in the top 3 anyway). We started deliberately messing with the zombies, trying to hug them and get them to high five us. We also did our good deed for the day and started running interference for the runners who did still have flags, blocking the zombies from being able to reach them, or tricking them into thinking we still had a flag on us somewhere.
The end was now in sight. Cold, wet, exhausted, filthy, lungs on fire, we could see the finish line (chain link fence that you had to crawl, or as H-Town did, slide under), and Callie led the way for the three of us, who were all determined to finish the race actually running. We babbled to one another excitedly while we got our medals, developing the strategies that would have been a lot more useful to us if we'd thought of them during the race. We grabbed our bags so that we could change into the clean and dry clothing we had brought, pausing first to have our photo taken together while we were still a hot mess, and giving the photographer and her friend who had yet to run all the advice we could think of. The shoes we ran in were all destroyed and we threw them away with great ceremony. Then we went off in search of the free beer we had been promised and something to eat.
The beer was like the nectar of heaven. The cheeseburgers H-Town and I procured were the most delicious either of us had ever had in our lives and we ate the crap out of them. We said goodbye to Callie, who is insane and was teaching a yoga class later in the day, and decided to head down near the course to watch some of the next wave. We stood near the first obstacle, the giant piles of hay, with a number of other people who had also finished the race, and watched as the next wave crested the hay and headed into the sea of zombies. We'd been through it before and knew that the direction they needed to run wasn't readily apparent, so the entire spectator gallery began shouting at them and pointing "To the right! THE RIGHT! Head for the trees! Go towards THE TREES!" After the wave passed by us, we went to the section between the maze and the downhill, where a ton of zombies waited in ambush all the way down the hill. Again, we used our knowledge to help the runners. "Wait for a group! Go in a group! There's too many of them, you'll never make it by yourself! Everyone go together and overwhelm them!" Most people took our advice, and a few of them even gathered around a leader who would get them all geared up Braveheart style and then all together make a break for the zombie gauntlet shouting guttural war cries. One who didn't was a guy dressed up as Superman, who actually did manage to get past them all without losing any of his flags, although one of the more enterprising zombies managed to steal his cape.
We drove home in absolute exhaustion, extremely pleased with ourselves for choosing an early heat when we noticed the traffic backed up for miles along the two lane road that led to the race (the traffic turned out to be a huge problem and quite a few people unfortunately didn't get to run). We got home and spent 15 minutes excitedly relaying to H-Town's lovely wife all the details of our adventure before passing out.
I hate running, you guys. I really, really mean it. But there's just something about being chased by zombies. So despite the fact that I still swear I will never run again, when H-Town turned to me on Sunday afternoon just after we came home from dinner and suggested that we might want to sign up for the zombie run next year in Indianapolis I agreed that we were kidding ourselves if we thought there was any chance that we won't.
My training can best be described as "half-assed". Actually, half-assed may be a slight exaggeration. Quarter-assed is a bit more like it. As you may remember from previous posts, I HATE running. And while I started out with the best of intentions, no amount of progress in my abilities was enough to convince me that I liked it. In fact, I think it made me hate running even more. I started to rationalize reasons why I didn't really have to train. "I had dance class on Tuesday, that should count." "I totally did cardio-kickboxing for 10 whole minutes, that's exactly the same as running for 20 minutes." The last couple weeks I didn't bother to train at all, telling myself even more lies: "The adrenaline of being chased will carry me through it." "I should just sit on the couch all week - I need to conserve my energy."
Despite the nagging feeling that I was woefully under-prepared, I was getting very excited. A few days before the race the organizers sent out a tantalizing e-mail. There would be mud, red dye, strobe lights and four feet of standing water. We should "use our best judgement" in the event we had a seizure disorder, or an allergy to latex. Oh, and could we also print out and sign this wavier indicating that we understood we might potentially die? It was starting to sound awesome.
Race day came, and H-town and I got up at the ass crack of dawn to drive out to the race site. There were actually three of us who would be running together: me, with my half- to quarter-assed training, H-Town, who also hates running but had trained diligently, and Callie, who is a maniac and does this sort of running shit all the time. We discussed our training regimens and reactions to it on the shuttle from the parking lot to the race site. I reported my reaction the same way I always do: I am never, EVER running anywhere ever again.
 |
| Callie, H-Town and me, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead. |
On arrival at the actual race site, we got our race packets, put on our numbers and our flag belts and got in line to check our bags. Each of us was in a different line, but we all had a similar experience of being given tips by people who had already completed the race. We already knew there were two kinds of zombies - "theatrical" zombies who were for show, and "athletic" zombies who would chase you and take your flags (this was the zombies' job. If you finished the race with none of your flags left, you were dead, and weren't eligible to win a prize). We were advised to look out for zombies who looked theatrical, but would turn around and chase you after you'd passed. We were also given advice for the "four feet of water" we'd been warned about, namely that it was way more than four feet deep, it was very cold, and we should grab the ropes to pull ourselves across rather than try to swim it. We all met up at the starting line and compared our notes. And then the race started.
We were not prepared.
Our various levels of training made no difference as we quickly realized that no one had actually trained properly at all. Running at a steady pace on relatively level, always dry, usually concrete surfaces is in no way at all adequate preparations for running through the woods up and down ridiculously steep hills, the surface of which had been reduced to a muddy slop, while being chased by zombies. In hindsight we should have been practicing running up and down various inclines and a fuck ton of suicide sprints.
We first realized this when we encountered our first obstacle - giant piles of hay we had to climb over. We reached the top and looked down to find a sea of zombies waiting for us on the other side who were sprinting after people trying to get their flags.
 |
| Holy Fuck. |
This would become a theme - go through some arduous task like climbing up a cargo net or clawing your way up a muddy hill, and face the waiting zombies on the other side/at the top. Also, for something that had been billed as a 5K run, there wasn't really a whole lot of actual running. Sprinting away from the zombies used up most of your energy so that when you did get to a zombie-free straightaway, you were usually too spent to run it. Which really didn't matter anyway because those sections were almost all so incredibly muddy you couldn't possibly have run through them without constantly falling. Still, it was pretty cool and we were having a ton of fun.
Until.
The water obstacle was to swim across a pond. There were two ropes stretched across it to help in pulling yourself along. We scrambled down the embankment and stepped into water up to our waists. It was stunningly cold, but seemed manageable. For five seconds, until we took another step. We all found ourselves submerged to the neck in 40 degree pond water. There is no way to grasp exactly how cold that is without actually doing it. The shock of the cold hit me like an anvil to the chest. FUCKING HOLY HAIRY NUN TESTICLES, I thought, but didn't say, because I was too stunned to speak. The bottom of the pond was nowhere to be found. We pulled ourselves along the rope hand over completely numb hand, urged along by H-Town, who was the only one with the ability to speak and was channeling her inner Dory - with Tourettes- all the way across. "JUST KEEP FUCKING SWIMMING!" she screamed. "FUCK YOU, NEMO!" I had a sudden moment of clarity remembering the text of the waiver I had signed - I could actually for real die in water that cold if I didn't get out of it as quickly as possible.
Somehow we all managed to get across to the other side and pull ourselves up the steep embankment. With two miles to go we were now cold, tired and soaking wet. Additionally, my saturated hoodie added another 10 pounds of weight for me to try and run with. We got to a very steep downhill that I almost ended up tumbling down, only to be faced at the bottom of it with an even steeper and higher hill that we would need to climb, which was also a river of mud. Climbing it took just about everything out of me, so when the zombie who had been sitting on the ground giving people high fives as they came over the hill suddenly jumped up and snatched away my last flag I barely even reacted. It actually turned out to be more fun once we had no flags left to worry about (it's not like we had any shot of coming in the top 3 anyway). We started deliberately messing with the zombies, trying to hug them and get them to high five us. We also did our good deed for the day and started running interference for the runners who did still have flags, blocking the zombies from being able to reach them, or tricking them into thinking we still had a flag on us somewhere.
The end was now in sight. Cold, wet, exhausted, filthy, lungs on fire, we could see the finish line (chain link fence that you had to crawl, or as H-Town did, slide under), and Callie led the way for the three of us, who were all determined to finish the race actually running. We babbled to one another excitedly while we got our medals, developing the strategies that would have been a lot more useful to us if we'd thought of them during the race. We grabbed our bags so that we could change into the clean and dry clothing we had brought, pausing first to have our photo taken together while we were still a hot mess, and giving the photographer and her friend who had yet to run all the advice we could think of. The shoes we ran in were all destroyed and we threw them away with great ceremony. Then we went off in search of the free beer we had been promised and something to eat.
The beer was like the nectar of heaven. The cheeseburgers H-Town and I procured were the most delicious either of us had ever had in our lives and we ate the crap out of them. We said goodbye to Callie, who is insane and was teaching a yoga class later in the day, and decided to head down near the course to watch some of the next wave. We stood near the first obstacle, the giant piles of hay, with a number of other people who had also finished the race, and watched as the next wave crested the hay and headed into the sea of zombies. We'd been through it before and knew that the direction they needed to run wasn't readily apparent, so the entire spectator gallery began shouting at them and pointing "To the right! THE RIGHT! Head for the trees! Go towards THE TREES!" After the wave passed by us, we went to the section between the maze and the downhill, where a ton of zombies waited in ambush all the way down the hill. Again, we used our knowledge to help the runners. "Wait for a group! Go in a group! There's too many of them, you'll never make it by yourself! Everyone go together and overwhelm them!" Most people took our advice, and a few of them even gathered around a leader who would get them all geared up Braveheart style and then all together make a break for the zombie gauntlet shouting guttural war cries. One who didn't was a guy dressed up as Superman, who actually did manage to get past them all without losing any of his flags, although one of the more enterprising zombies managed to steal his cape.
We drove home in absolute exhaustion, extremely pleased with ourselves for choosing an early heat when we noticed the traffic backed up for miles along the two lane road that led to the race (the traffic turned out to be a huge problem and quite a few people unfortunately didn't get to run). We got home and spent 15 minutes excitedly relaying to H-Town's lovely wife all the details of our adventure before passing out.
I hate running, you guys. I really, really mean it. But there's just something about being chased by zombies. So despite the fact that I still swear I will never run again, when H-Town turned to me on Sunday afternoon just after we came home from dinner and suggested that we might want to sign up for the zombie run next year in Indianapolis I agreed that we were kidding ourselves if we thought there was any chance that we won't.
Monday, October 03, 2011
Sibling Fight (Except It's With My Best Friend's Sibling, Not Mine)
E-Town: how's the runnin?
Me: there is zero chance i will be ready. or ever do this again
zombies and [H-Town], i keep telling myself. zombies and [H-Town]
E-Town: you're tougher than that
just do a slow jog
Me: it's warm enough this week to go running outside again, so that's a bonus
E-Town: that's good
make me proud of ya
Me: still wish you could make it :)
E-Town: yeah, me too
we can kill them in Indy next year
I might try two of them next year
Me: that's crazy talk. I would potentially be a zombie next year though
E-Town: I'd punch your face if you came near me as a zombie
Me: you aren't allowed to hit the zombies
so nah
imma take all your flags
anyway, home go time. have a great night!
E-Town: I'd hit you.
night
Me: there is zero chance i will be ready. or ever do this again
zombies and [H-Town], i keep telling myself. zombies and [H-Town]
E-Town: you're tougher than that
just do a slow jog
Me: it's warm enough this week to go running outside again, so that's a bonus
E-Town: that's good
make me proud of ya
Me: still wish you could make it :)
E-Town: yeah, me too
we can kill them in Indy next year
I might try two of them next year
Me: that's crazy talk. I would potentially be a zombie next year though
E-Town: I'd punch your face if you came near me as a zombie
Me: you aren't allowed to hit the zombies
so nah
imma take all your flags
anyway, home go time. have a great night!
E-Town: I'd hit you.
night
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Running Update: Week Two
I think the status of my running experiment is best summed up in this conversation with H-Town's brother, runner extraordinaire:
E-Town: how's the running?
Me: I want to stab everything.
btw, I learned this: Do not run on the same day you have burlesque class. FYI
E-Town: haha, ok
Me: my legs are like spaghetti today
E-Town: thin and tasty?
Me: limp and wrapped around a fork
I seriously look like I have just now discovered my knees and I'm still getting used to them. I was confused about why my body was rebelling against this so much - the running part I understand, but I was a dancer for 14 years and I felt like I should be holding up better in the face of pliés and hip circles. Then it dawned on me that the last time I did a plié I was about 17. My body already knew that, and clearly is telling me "No fucking way, lady. You are every day of 33 years old, so stop trying to bend your knees sideways." As with most advice I am given, I've chosen to ignore this, and the 26 seconds of choreography we learned last night has been run in my office today more than once, though I'm not sure if it's because I want to get everything down perfect before the next class or because I like to touch my butt.
E-Town: how's the running?
Me: I want to stab everything.
btw, I learned this: Do not run on the same day you have burlesque class. FYI
E-Town: haha, ok
Me: my legs are like spaghetti today
E-Town: thin and tasty?
Me: limp and wrapped around a fork
I seriously look like I have just now discovered my knees and I'm still getting used to them. I was confused about why my body was rebelling against this so much - the running part I understand, but I was a dancer for 14 years and I felt like I should be holding up better in the face of pliés and hip circles. Then it dawned on me that the last time I did a plié I was about 17. My body already knew that, and clearly is telling me "No fucking way, lady. You are every day of 33 years old, so stop trying to bend your knees sideways." As with most advice I am given, I've chosen to ignore this, and the 26 seconds of choreography we learned last night has been run in my office today more than once, though I'm not sure if it's because I want to get everything down perfect before the next class or because I like to touch my butt.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Training Day (Or, I Must Be Fucking Crazy)
You remember that movie Training Day with Denzel Washington, where he's a crooked narcotics officer training Ethan Hawk and all kinds of horrible shit happens? Yeah well my first training day for this 5K I'm running was a lot like that, except with less forcing people to smoke PCP and no one got shot. Though, given the way my legs feel right now, if I were a horse and not a person I would have been taken out back and shot this morning. It's possible I'm being a little over dramatic. It's also possible that I'm not, and that running really does suck as much as I'm telling you it does.
I'm using the highly touted Couch to 5K program, which a number of my friends have done and insist that it works and that they love to run now. I got up yesterday at the ass crack of dawn, slightly wary but also fairly excited. I was going to run! Like those people that I see running! That was going to be me! Day one of the program starts you off slowly: 5 minutes of brisk walking followed by alternating 60 seconds of running with 90 seconds of walking for 8 reps, totaling 20 minutes. This seemed like a no brainer. I can run for 60 seconds at a stretch, right? I'm in excellent shape overall - I lift weights and I shadow box. Piece of cake.
After the first 60 seconds of running I was ready to kill myself. What was I thinking with this whole running bullshit? Am I some kind of idiot? I spent the 90 seconds of my break sifting through my iPod until I found The Prodigy's Smack My Bitch Up and put it on repeat. It was the only song I had that was angry enough to match my complete hatred of this incredibly stupid form of exercise.
By the time I had finished I'd calmed down a bit, mainly because I knew I was going to get to spend the rest of the day telling people how bad it was and have them pat me on the back and tell me I am awesome sauce. And I did - I bitched and complained about it the entire day to everyone, including Jon and Scott of the incredibly awesome podcast Total Talk Nonsense while I was at their worldwide headquarters recording episode 228 as an in studio guest and being all famous 'n shit. In reality I felt pretty good. I had made it through the whole first workout without giving up, I was energized, confident, proud of myself. I could picture in my mind running the whole 3.1 miles while dodging zombies left and right. I set my alarm for 5 a.m. this morning so I could get up and run the same thing again.
When the alarm went off I was ready. I fucking OWNED that horrible workout yesterday and today would be even easier because I'd already done it! I got out of bed and...
HOLY MOTHERFUCKING CRAP ON A CRACKER. Mentally, I was totes prepared to go out and run. Physically, however, my legs were saying, "Like fuck you are, stupid ass. We're not falling for that shit again. Go away and come back tomorrow." The pain, which originally seemed to be mostly confined to my shins, was tremendous. Then I sat down on the edge of the bed and realized the pain in my upper thighs was even worse than the pain in my shins. Then I stood up again to go wash my face and to my utter astonishment noticed that my ass was actually on fire. Really? My ASS hurts from this? Because, as I said before, I lift weights frequently and there's squatting down and lunging types of things I do that work those muscles and I KNOW that my ass is in shape and what the fuck? H-town's brother, who started out on the same couch to 5K program and now can run like the wind, told me that the reason my ass hurts is because running works the muscles in a different way than weight lifting does. By "different way" I assume he means "the way of the devil". I was obviously not running anywhere today. As a matter of fact, the little bit of walking I did between the train and the places I needed to go saw me stumbling around downtown Chicago like Lurch and frightening all the children and several adults.
If it wasn't for the fact that I love H-town and really want to do something cool with her and also the part about the zombies I would just give up this very minute. I am right now sat on my couch and plotting out my plans for the evening based around doing the bare minimum of moving possible. Because my legs...oh lord, my legs. The Run For Your Lives zombie 5K is October 22nd. Beginning October 23rd I am NEVER RUNNING AGAIN.
I'm using the highly touted Couch to 5K program, which a number of my friends have done and insist that it works and that they love to run now. I got up yesterday at the ass crack of dawn, slightly wary but also fairly excited. I was going to run! Like those people that I see running! That was going to be me! Day one of the program starts you off slowly: 5 minutes of brisk walking followed by alternating 60 seconds of running with 90 seconds of walking for 8 reps, totaling 20 minutes. This seemed like a no brainer. I can run for 60 seconds at a stretch, right? I'm in excellent shape overall - I lift weights and I shadow box. Piece of cake.
After the first 60 seconds of running I was ready to kill myself. What was I thinking with this whole running bullshit? Am I some kind of idiot? I spent the 90 seconds of my break sifting through my iPod until I found The Prodigy's Smack My Bitch Up and put it on repeat. It was the only song I had that was angry enough to match my complete hatred of this incredibly stupid form of exercise.
By the time I had finished I'd calmed down a bit, mainly because I knew I was going to get to spend the rest of the day telling people how bad it was and have them pat me on the back and tell me I am awesome sauce. And I did - I bitched and complained about it the entire day to everyone, including Jon and Scott of the incredibly awesome podcast Total Talk Nonsense while I was at their worldwide headquarters recording episode 228 as an in studio guest and being all famous 'n shit. In reality I felt pretty good. I had made it through the whole first workout without giving up, I was energized, confident, proud of myself. I could picture in my mind running the whole 3.1 miles while dodging zombies left and right. I set my alarm for 5 a.m. this morning so I could get up and run the same thing again.
When the alarm went off I was ready. I fucking OWNED that horrible workout yesterday and today would be even easier because I'd already done it! I got out of bed and...
HOLY MOTHERFUCKING CRAP ON A CRACKER. Mentally, I was totes prepared to go out and run. Physically, however, my legs were saying, "Like fuck you are, stupid ass. We're not falling for that shit again. Go away and come back tomorrow." The pain, which originally seemed to be mostly confined to my shins, was tremendous. Then I sat down on the edge of the bed and realized the pain in my upper thighs was even worse than the pain in my shins. Then I stood up again to go wash my face and to my utter astonishment noticed that my ass was actually on fire. Really? My ASS hurts from this? Because, as I said before, I lift weights frequently and there's squatting down and lunging types of things I do that work those muscles and I KNOW that my ass is in shape and what the fuck? H-town's brother, who started out on the same couch to 5K program and now can run like the wind, told me that the reason my ass hurts is because running works the muscles in a different way than weight lifting does. By "different way" I assume he means "the way of the devil". I was obviously not running anywhere today. As a matter of fact, the little bit of walking I did between the train and the places I needed to go saw me stumbling around downtown Chicago like Lurch and frightening all the children and several adults.
If it wasn't for the fact that I love H-town and really want to do something cool with her and also the part about the zombies I would just give up this very minute. I am right now sat on my couch and plotting out my plans for the evening based around doing the bare minimum of moving possible. Because my legs...oh lord, my legs. The Run For Your Lives zombie 5K is October 22nd. Beginning October 23rd I am NEVER RUNNING AGAIN.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
You May Say To Yourself, "My God, What Have I done?"
I wasn't kidding about that sentence at the end of the last post. As of yesterday, H-Town and I are officially signed up to run a 5K together in Baltimore in October. We are neither of us runners. H-Town is in fact quite fond of saying she would never run unless she was being chased. Someone evil obviously overheard that, because this is no ordinary 5K race - it is a 5K race with an obstacle course built into it and you do all these things while being chased by zombies.
I have no idea what possessed me to think I should do this, really. It's like I saw the phrase "chased by zombies" and laughed so hard at the very idea that I didn't even notice I was signing myself up to run three GIANT MILES, because if I had noticed, I'd have been like "What the fuck is this bit about the running? Uh-uh. FUCK. THAT." and, you know, not done that. You guys, I HATE running. I really, really hate it. I am that girl in the morning that pisses you off walking idly up the stairs to the train platform when you are late for work and the train is pulling up right now and oh my god, bitch, can't you hear the train is coming? GET OUT OF MY WAY. Dude. No. There is no way I am running up the stairs to catch this train because guess what? It is rush hour and there will be another train in, like, five minutes, so chill out because I am NOT running.
So yeah, running, not for me, and yet I'm going to have to run pretty much constantly for the next two months or so if I have any hope of surviving the zombie apocalypse that I have somehow managed to talk myself into. Training for a 5K should turn out to be pretty entertaining to you, the ones who are smart enough to just sit there and watch me get chased by zombies instead of doing it yourself. I'll keep you posted. Now then, where IS that large automobile?
I have no idea what possessed me to think I should do this, really. It's like I saw the phrase "chased by zombies" and laughed so hard at the very idea that I didn't even notice I was signing myself up to run three GIANT MILES, because if I had noticed, I'd have been like "What the fuck is this bit about the running? Uh-uh. FUCK. THAT." and, you know, not done that. You guys, I HATE running. I really, really hate it. I am that girl in the morning that pisses you off walking idly up the stairs to the train platform when you are late for work and the train is pulling up right now and oh my god, bitch, can't you hear the train is coming? GET OUT OF MY WAY. Dude. No. There is no way I am running up the stairs to catch this train because guess what? It is rush hour and there will be another train in, like, five minutes, so chill out because I am NOT running.
So yeah, running, not for me, and yet I'm going to have to run pretty much constantly for the next two months or so if I have any hope of surviving the zombie apocalypse that I have somehow managed to talk myself into. Training for a 5K should turn out to be pretty entertaining to you, the ones who are smart enough to just sit there and watch me get chased by zombies instead of doing it yourself. I'll keep you posted. Now then, where IS that large automobile?
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
I Need New Hobbies, I Think.
I have no use for St. Pat's on the whole because I am not Irish and I am not Catholic and therefore it doesn't apply to me. The thing is I'm kind of torn about it because one thing I do enjoy having an occasion for is day drinking. The city of Chicago, where I live and dream, always celebrates St. Pat's on the preceding Saturday. The claim is that it's so children can see the river dyed green and the parade rather than holding those events on a school day. I'm going to go ahead and call bullshit on that and advance my own theory that this is how Chicagoans justify day drinking twice in one week, once on the sanctioned Saturday and then again on the actual holiday, in the hope that it will tide them over to the next made up holiday Cinco De Mayo.
For the past few years I've split the difference between my opposing views by going out day drinking with wrongly colored hair and a t-shirt that reads "Fuck you, you're Irish". But after being awakened just after 6 a.m. this Saturday by ALREADY drunk dickwads with presumably little or no Irish ancestry walking down my street and yelling, I decided that this year I would skip the jackassery and stay home by myself (the bartender not having the option to stay home because, well, he's a bartender). So I did.
What I did not do was to pair that decision with another one to also skip the day drinking. It is a designated day drinking day in Chicago, after all, and there is a mostly untouched handle of Captain sitting forlornly in my kitchen crying "Drink me, please, so I can fulfill my destiny". So I got with the pouring and sat down to watch WWII in Color on the Military Channel for reasons I can't explain even to myself. I was drunk by 2:30, which is right around the time I decided to e-mail the comic.
The comic and I have a storied history of drunk communication. He has a peculiar habit of calling me when he's on vacation and then putting someone else on the phone. On my end, since drunk dialing from here would normally wake him up because he's in the future, I've taken to drunk e-mailing. The thing is, I can barely spell when I'm stone cold sober and combined with drunk typing, most of my messages end up being incoherent. He finds the e-mails highly amusing and pulls his favorite phrases out of them to use against me on Facebook (such as the time I wrote "HOLTY FUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!" for who knows what reason, which became his response to everything I posted for the next three days). Here is the message I sent him on Saturday:
"Im drun k. Im going to dfrunk work out and then drunk bake cookies becauase it's daydsrinking dau in chiACBGO. i can't find my cat. national lampoons christmas vcacation is on becausr thaT makes sense in march. OOOO CAT IS HERE!!!!! bye"
to which he responded "chiACBGO is the best spelling of Chicago I have ever seen".
Little known fact: there is a stage in my drunkenness that comes before the one where I am Loud that I call Ambition. Ambition is the time when I have the sudden urge to do things that my drunk brain considers constructive. And sometimes they are, such as when I decide to CLEAN ALL THE THINGS! (by the way, if you're not reading Hyperbole and a Half I suggest you start doing so immediately). It is little known because it's usually short lived and I'm rarely in a position to do anything about it ("I should totally reupholster the dining room chairs right now!" I'll say to myself when I'm drunk in a different country from the one that has my chairs). In this case, the Ambition told me I should work out and then bake cookies, which in hindsight seems totally counterproductive. I did end up doing both of these things, plus a sink full of dishes. But the Ambition can only take you so far, and it did not take me far enough to actually put on workout clothes, or in fact any clothes. My workout attire was panties and a pair of socks with kitties on them. I'm sure it was very attractive. I did at least think to put some clothes on before I started baking. You can tell because if I hadn't, right now you'd most likely be reading a blog post about how I managed to get burn marks on my nipples from naked cookie making and that I'm so much more hardcore than the stupid Girl Scouts. I'm not, by the way, I'm just far more accident prone.
For the past few years I've split the difference between my opposing views by going out day drinking with wrongly colored hair and a t-shirt that reads "Fuck you, you're Irish". But after being awakened just after 6 a.m. this Saturday by ALREADY drunk dickwads with presumably little or no Irish ancestry walking down my street and yelling, I decided that this year I would skip the jackassery and stay home by myself (the bartender not having the option to stay home because, well, he's a bartender). So I did.
What I did not do was to pair that decision with another one to also skip the day drinking. It is a designated day drinking day in Chicago, after all, and there is a mostly untouched handle of Captain sitting forlornly in my kitchen crying "Drink me, please, so I can fulfill my destiny". So I got with the pouring and sat down to watch WWII in Color on the Military Channel for reasons I can't explain even to myself. I was drunk by 2:30, which is right around the time I decided to e-mail the comic.
The comic and I have a storied history of drunk communication. He has a peculiar habit of calling me when he's on vacation and then putting someone else on the phone. On my end, since drunk dialing from here would normally wake him up because he's in the future, I've taken to drunk e-mailing. The thing is, I can barely spell when I'm stone cold sober and combined with drunk typing, most of my messages end up being incoherent. He finds the e-mails highly amusing and pulls his favorite phrases out of them to use against me on Facebook (such as the time I wrote "HOLTY FUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!" for who knows what reason, which became his response to everything I posted for the next three days). Here is the message I sent him on Saturday:
"Im drun k. Im going to dfrunk work out and then drunk bake cookies becauase it's daydsrinking dau in chiACBGO. i can't find my cat. national lampoons christmas vcacation is on becausr thaT makes sense in march. OOOO CAT IS HERE!!!!! bye"
to which he responded "chiACBGO is the best spelling of Chicago I have ever seen".
Little known fact: there is a stage in my drunkenness that comes before the one where I am Loud that I call Ambition. Ambition is the time when I have the sudden urge to do things that my drunk brain considers constructive. And sometimes they are, such as when I decide to CLEAN ALL THE THINGS! (by the way, if you're not reading Hyperbole and a Half I suggest you start doing so immediately). It is little known because it's usually short lived and I'm rarely in a position to do anything about it ("I should totally reupholster the dining room chairs right now!" I'll say to myself when I'm drunk in a different country from the one that has my chairs). In this case, the Ambition told me I should work out and then bake cookies, which in hindsight seems totally counterproductive. I did end up doing both of these things, plus a sink full of dishes. But the Ambition can only take you so far, and it did not take me far enough to actually put on workout clothes, or in fact any clothes. My workout attire was panties and a pair of socks with kitties on them. I'm sure it was very attractive. I did at least think to put some clothes on before I started baking. You can tell because if I hadn't, right now you'd most likely be reading a blog post about how I managed to get burn marks on my nipples from naked cookie making and that I'm so much more hardcore than the stupid Girl Scouts. I'm not, by the way, I'm just far more accident prone.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Being Healthy is Rotting Away My Brain
I've been avoiding writing this next post because I don't want to admit to you all that I broke down and joined a gym (I've been avoiding writing any posts at all because my parents bought me an iPad for Christmas and I cannot. Put. It. Down.). After all my anti-gym sentiment about how if people were really motivated they could exercise at home for free, and that gym people are obsessive weirdos who can't talk about anything except how many reps they did when they blasted their pecs that morning, and how spin class sounds to me like a real olfactory horror show O my brothers, it seemed like blogging "Omigod you guys, I totes joined the gym wheeee!" was an invitation for ridicule. The truth is, I still feel basically the same about the gym, but I joined one anyway because I was afraid I'd fall off the fitness wagon if I stopped my walking regimen and I'm way too much of a pussy to go outside during a Chicago winter for anything other than what is strictly necessary for basic survival. So I joined the gym in the building where I work, which is handy as I don't have to go outside even to get there and I don't have to motivate myself to get up and go to the gym in the wee hours of the morning or convince myself to do it at the end of the day - I can just swing by there at lunch when I would have just been sitting at my desk trolling Facebook anyway.
I remembered immediately one of the biggest reasons why I hate the gym: women. The gym has handy little tvs on every piece of equipment so as to distract you from the fact that you're doing something you absolutely hate. Because of this I can tell you with a high degree of accuracy the gender of the person who was on the machine before me. Sportscenter or the financial news? Dude (or BrownsFan, who throws off my calculations because she is glorious). One Life to Live or anything involving a Kardashian? Fuckin broad.
The locker room is even worse, because in the locker room the sound is on and it's loud enough for me to hear it in the shower so it can't be ignored. I've been subjected to Tabatha's Salon Takeover, staring a bitchy Australian woman who bosses around salon owners and their stylists with a level of assholeness that approaches Gordon Ramsey; Judge Joe Brown and his band of mouth breathing idiots who have the nerve to be surprised when the losers they date turn out to be losers and steal from them; a number of different soap operas that have been running since the dawn of time with the same twelve characters having the same set of problems that aren't actual problems ("But Danny's threatening to take the kids away because I'm having an affair!" It never occurs to them to just *stop* having an affair); some weird cooking with celebrities show where Matthew McConaughey taught me how to make a salad; and perhaps most disturbingly, Celebrity Plastic Surgery: Did They or Didn't They? which was too appalling for me to even describe. I know, I know, that this is NOT what is being watched in the men's locker room. They've got ESPN on in there, I can feel it, and it makes me want to go around and ask all the guys in the place if any of them would mind if I switched locker rooms. Even when BrownsFan managed to get Sportcenter on in our locker room, by the time I got done with my workout it had reverted back to Fashion Emergency! or something equally vapid. The only good thing about it is that it gets me in and out of the shower and back at my desk at an amazing speed.
WOMEN OF THE GYM: I have nothing profound to say here. Just please, please STOP.
I remembered immediately one of the biggest reasons why I hate the gym: women. The gym has handy little tvs on every piece of equipment so as to distract you from the fact that you're doing something you absolutely hate. Because of this I can tell you with a high degree of accuracy the gender of the person who was on the machine before me. Sportscenter or the financial news? Dude (or BrownsFan, who throws off my calculations because she is glorious). One Life to Live or anything involving a Kardashian? Fuckin broad.
The locker room is even worse, because in the locker room the sound is on and it's loud enough for me to hear it in the shower so it can't be ignored. I've been subjected to Tabatha's Salon Takeover, staring a bitchy Australian woman who bosses around salon owners and their stylists with a level of assholeness that approaches Gordon Ramsey; Judge Joe Brown and his band of mouth breathing idiots who have the nerve to be surprised when the losers they date turn out to be losers and steal from them; a number of different soap operas that have been running since the dawn of time with the same twelve characters having the same set of problems that aren't actual problems ("But Danny's threatening to take the kids away because I'm having an affair!" It never occurs to them to just *stop* having an affair); some weird cooking with celebrities show where Matthew McConaughey taught me how to make a salad; and perhaps most disturbingly, Celebrity Plastic Surgery: Did They or Didn't They? which was too appalling for me to even describe. I know, I know, that this is NOT what is being watched in the men's locker room. They've got ESPN on in there, I can feel it, and it makes me want to go around and ask all the guys in the place if any of them would mind if I switched locker rooms. Even when BrownsFan managed to get Sportcenter on in our locker room, by the time I got done with my workout it had reverted back to Fashion Emergency! or something equally vapid. The only good thing about it is that it gets me in and out of the shower and back at my desk at an amazing speed.
WOMEN OF THE GYM: I have nothing profound to say here. Just please, please STOP.
Friday, May 28, 2010
AWOL
Where have I been you ask? Well, actually, I've been exercising.
No really. I'm absolutely serious.
Please stop laughing at me.
(sigh)
I decided it was high time I started doing something to take care of myself the way a mature grown up would. OK, fine, that's a flat out lie. I watched the Olympics and then right after that I watched a special on Scott Hamilton's come back to figure skating. He was doing back flips. He's 50. And I realized very suddenly, hey, Scott Hamilton is doing back flips and landing axles at 50 and I'm 32 and I can't so much as touch my toes. WHAT THE FUCK? I am jealous of a bald smurf in sparkle pants.
So I've decided to exercise. I've also decided that I wasn't going to fall into the traps I've fallen into every single other time I've decided to exercise. For instance, I decided not to join a gym, show up for 3 weeks, give up, and keep paying for a gym membership I wasn't going to use. Instead, I just DVR things that look interesting on FitTV. And it's working: I'm not bored. I'm thinner and I can almost touch my toes.
Here's the thing though. I hate it. I hate it with the hatiest of hates that have ever hated. I don't like being sweaty, I don't like when my muscles ache, I don't like being out of breath and I don't like drinking water. And I especially don't like the crop of lunatics they've rounded up to host shows on FitTV. Total Body Sculpt With Gilad: Right off the bat, they refer to him as an "Israeli stud muffin" in the promos. Just, no. Do not refer to anyone, ever, as a stud muffin and expect me to take them seriously. Gilad also makes it a point to remind you again and again that his is filming his workout in Hawaii. He grins at the screen while trying to murder you with plyometric exercises and says things like "You are landing too hard! I can heard you all the way to Hawaii!" Listen G, 1) No you can't. And 2) Fuck you. And that's another thing - he never stops smiling. EVER. He is absolutely overjoyed to be exercising; thrilled than I'm feeling the burn. "If you don't feel that, I don't know what you're going to feel," grins Gilad as I contemplate the odds of thighs literally catching on fire. My fist. I'm going to feel my fist connecting with your happy face. And probably bouncing right off because your face muscles are stronger than my whole arm. I hate you.
In Shape With Sharon Mann is even worse. Clearly Sharon Mann is a replicant because she has no grasp whatsoever of normal human emotion. She never stops smiling. She's never not cheerful. She bounces around the room like a grasshopper on a pogo stick. She is manically, mind-blisteringly happy to be working out. She makes me want to pin her down and stuff her full of Valium, but of course I can't because I am weak and that woman and her 8 pack abs will straight up kick my ass. While giggling. And giving me tips for life.
Ugh. I need to calm down. Thankfully I DVRed some yoga. I'll be OK. Eye on the prise.
No really. I'm absolutely serious.
Please stop laughing at me.
(sigh)
I decided it was high time I started doing something to take care of myself the way a mature grown up would. OK, fine, that's a flat out lie. I watched the Olympics and then right after that I watched a special on Scott Hamilton's come back to figure skating. He was doing back flips. He's 50. And I realized very suddenly, hey, Scott Hamilton is doing back flips and landing axles at 50 and I'm 32 and I can't so much as touch my toes. WHAT THE FUCK? I am jealous of a bald smurf in sparkle pants.
So I've decided to exercise. I've also decided that I wasn't going to fall into the traps I've fallen into every single other time I've decided to exercise. For instance, I decided not to join a gym, show up for 3 weeks, give up, and keep paying for a gym membership I wasn't going to use. Instead, I just DVR things that look interesting on FitTV. And it's working: I'm not bored. I'm thinner and I can almost touch my toes.
Here's the thing though. I hate it. I hate it with the hatiest of hates that have ever hated. I don't like being sweaty, I don't like when my muscles ache, I don't like being out of breath and I don't like drinking water. And I especially don't like the crop of lunatics they've rounded up to host shows on FitTV. Total Body Sculpt With Gilad: Right off the bat, they refer to him as an "Israeli stud muffin" in the promos. Just, no. Do not refer to anyone, ever, as a stud muffin and expect me to take them seriously. Gilad also makes it a point to remind you again and again that his is filming his workout in Hawaii. He grins at the screen while trying to murder you with plyometric exercises and says things like "You are landing too hard! I can heard you all the way to Hawaii!" Listen G, 1) No you can't. And 2) Fuck you. And that's another thing - he never stops smiling. EVER. He is absolutely overjoyed to be exercising; thrilled than I'm feeling the burn. "If you don't feel that, I don't know what you're going to feel," grins Gilad as I contemplate the odds of thighs literally catching on fire. My fist. I'm going to feel my fist connecting with your happy face. And probably bouncing right off because your face muscles are stronger than my whole arm. I hate you.
In Shape With Sharon Mann is even worse. Clearly Sharon Mann is a replicant because she has no grasp whatsoever of normal human emotion. She never stops smiling. She's never not cheerful. She bounces around the room like a grasshopper on a pogo stick. She is manically, mind-blisteringly happy to be working out. She makes me want to pin her down and stuff her full of Valium, but of course I can't because I am weak and that woman and her 8 pack abs will straight up kick my ass. While giggling. And giving me tips for life.
Ugh. I need to calm down. Thankfully I DVRed some yoga. I'll be OK. Eye on the prise.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Deal A Meal Is My Favorite Card Game
H-town: i love a good mumu
me: if i was huge that is totally what i'd wear
H-Town: ladies and gentlemen - the GOOD MUMUS!!
of course
they're comfy
me: i would be proud to wear my mumu. i would say "I may have a bigga figga but you don't get to wear a mumu!"
H-Town: haha
would you wear a tent?
if it got to that point?
i hope i'd be able to stop you before you reached tent size
me: I would cut a hefty bag into daisy duke shorts
i would go clubbing in it
H-Town: i'd want to stop you before you got to "we have to move you with a forklift" size
me: wait! if you don't stop me, does it mean i get to meet richard simmons again? because that would be awesome
H-Town: hmm that's a tough call
me: it would almost be worth it to become morbidly obese just to have richard simmons show up in person at my house
and cry
H-Town: and give you a pair of his hot pants to eventually fit into
me: he would sob openly as i showed him my refrigerator filled with cheese
actually i could show him that right now
H-Town: it's starting!
i'm willing to bet that if you wrote him a letter and said the only way you thought it possible to meet him was to gain 500lbs, he might come meet you now
he could promise to cry anyway
me: holy crap that's brilliant! we should get started right now
"My dearest Richard
H-Town: send him photos of you eating donuts and pizzas
threatening to put barbecue sauce on your cat
then say your cat's joined the cause
me: "You may not remember me, but I was the little blond girl who sat on your lap when you made an appearance at parmatown mall in ohio in the early 80's. Anyway, I've never forgotten your spandex biker shorts and have been dying to meet you again ever since...."
H-Town: hahaha
"should you not come to chicago to meet me soon, I will start to eat more and more until I cannot physically leave my apartment without the help of heavy machinery"
"enclosed is a photo of me eating a doughnut - I'm starting right now!"
me: every few months i could send him pictures of me getting fatter
i'd rig them so that i don't fit in the frame to make my situation look dire
H-Town: and show your shrine to him, surrounded by candles and empty entenmann's boxes
me: "please help. I can only wear my old bracelets as rings now"
H-Town: haha
me: "xoxo, Amberance"
H-Town: "i haven't seen my cat in weeks, I fear she may be stuck in one of my folds..."
me: "because i am so huge my perception of size is skewed. I fear I may have eaten my cat a few weeks ago thinking she was a nice juicy peach"
H-Town: haha
me: i really do need richard simmons though. there is not another human alive who has a chance of talking me into exercising. he's the only trainer in history who is not mean and nazi-like
H-Town: same here, i'd do aerobics with him
me: "If you just do 10 more sit ups, I promise I'll jump up and down and clap my hands and squeal"
H-Town: done
me: no doubt
me: if i was huge that is totally what i'd wear
H-Town: ladies and gentlemen - the GOOD MUMUS!!
of course
they're comfy
me: i would be proud to wear my mumu. i would say "I may have a bigga figga but you don't get to wear a mumu!"
H-Town: haha
would you wear a tent?
if it got to that point?
i hope i'd be able to stop you before you reached tent size
me: I would cut a hefty bag into daisy duke shorts
i would go clubbing in it
H-Town: i'd want to stop you before you got to "we have to move you with a forklift" size
me: wait! if you don't stop me, does it mean i get to meet richard simmons again? because that would be awesome
H-Town: hmm that's a tough call
me: it would almost be worth it to become morbidly obese just to have richard simmons show up in person at my house
and cry
H-Town: and give you a pair of his hot pants to eventually fit into
me: he would sob openly as i showed him my refrigerator filled with cheese
actually i could show him that right now
H-Town: it's starting!
i'm willing to bet that if you wrote him a letter and said the only way you thought it possible to meet him was to gain 500lbs, he might come meet you now
he could promise to cry anyway
me: holy crap that's brilliant! we should get started right now
"My dearest Richard
H-Town: send him photos of you eating donuts and pizzas
threatening to put barbecue sauce on your cat
then say your cat's joined the cause
me: "You may not remember me, but I was the little blond girl who sat on your lap when you made an appearance at parmatown mall in ohio in the early 80's. Anyway, I've never forgotten your spandex biker shorts and have been dying to meet you again ever since...."
H-Town: hahaha
"should you not come to chicago to meet me soon, I will start to eat more and more until I cannot physically leave my apartment without the help of heavy machinery"
"enclosed is a photo of me eating a doughnut - I'm starting right now!"
me: every few months i could send him pictures of me getting fatter
i'd rig them so that i don't fit in the frame to make my situation look dire
H-Town: and show your shrine to him, surrounded by candles and empty entenmann's boxes
me: "please help. I can only wear my old bracelets as rings now"
H-Town: haha
me: "xoxo, Amberance"
H-Town: "i haven't seen my cat in weeks, I fear she may be stuck in one of my folds..."
me: "because i am so huge my perception of size is skewed. I fear I may have eaten my cat a few weeks ago thinking she was a nice juicy peach"
H-Town: haha
me: i really do need richard simmons though. there is not another human alive who has a chance of talking me into exercising. he's the only trainer in history who is not mean and nazi-like
H-Town: same here, i'd do aerobics with him
me: "If you just do 10 more sit ups, I promise I'll jump up and down and clap my hands and squeal"
H-Town: done
me: no doubt
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Wardrobe Malfunctions
That's it; the party's over. The carefree days of eating chocolate cake for breakfast and sedentary bliss whilst watching Seinfeld and Star Trek every night are gone. This week marks the beginning of my new plan: Operation Shrink the Fat Girl.
It's not that I'm obese, per se, but I am definitely pushing the limits of HWP. I discovered this on Saturday while shopping on Clark street with out of town friends. I tried on two pairs of pants in my Size of Grudging Acceptance*. The first would not button with any amount of sucking in. The second could not even be raised over vastness of my thighs.
There've been other signs too. I walk around the house frequently in just a t-shirt and panties and my roommate does not look at me at all. This is the Master of Misogyny, Captain of Crass, 12 time Ogling World Champion. And nada. He used to - it's how we met pretty much - but that was 20 pounds ago. In fact, the only boys that seem to be looking at me at all are the ones who have expressed a clear interest in women with "junk in the trunk". I don't want any junk in my trunk - I detest clutter. Enough is enough.
This is something I need to take care of with great dispatch. Winter is coming. I love corduroy pants to bits, but I have no desire to light my thighs on fire just from walking. I also enjoy the look of fishnet stockings, but not so much when I look like a dolphin who was accidentally trapped in the net of some tuna fisherman.
So, as of now, I love carrots and walking. We'll see how it goes.
*The Size of Grudging Acceptance is the size where you'd like to be just one size smaller, but you understand that probably you don't look so terrible as you think, so you go with it rather than expend the effort to actually live a healthy lifestyle.
It's not that I'm obese, per se, but I am definitely pushing the limits of HWP. I discovered this on Saturday while shopping on Clark street with out of town friends. I tried on two pairs of pants in my Size of Grudging Acceptance*. The first would not button with any amount of sucking in. The second could not even be raised over vastness of my thighs.
There've been other signs too. I walk around the house frequently in just a t-shirt and panties and my roommate does not look at me at all. This is the Master of Misogyny, Captain of Crass, 12 time Ogling World Champion. And nada. He used to - it's how we met pretty much - but that was 20 pounds ago. In fact, the only boys that seem to be looking at me at all are the ones who have expressed a clear interest in women with "junk in the trunk". I don't want any junk in my trunk - I detest clutter. Enough is enough.
This is something I need to take care of with great dispatch. Winter is coming. I love corduroy pants to bits, but I have no desire to light my thighs on fire just from walking. I also enjoy the look of fishnet stockings, but not so much when I look like a dolphin who was accidentally trapped in the net of some tuna fisherman.
So, as of now, I love carrots and walking. We'll see how it goes.
*The Size of Grudging Acceptance is the size where you'd like to be just one size smaller, but you understand that probably you don't look so terrible as you think, so you go with it rather than expend the effort to actually live a healthy lifestyle.
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