Mile four

The other night over dinner (slates of baguette and garlicky olive tapenade followed by eggplanty ratatouille and herbed couscous alongside, safely, at least two, maybe three more glasses of red wine than I should have drunk on a Tuesday) with a couple of friends, we got to talking about working out.

One friend likes swimming, but she’s as blind as I am (batlike, but without the hearing) and has a tendency to run into folks we know at the local community pool. Unable to make an identification, she’s then forced to get into their faces to know who they are. Me, if I’m in a bathing suit, I’d rather keep my distance. Really. I vote pretend you know who it is, wave, move along.

We also talked about running. And I got nearly misty-eyed when talking about how much I love mile four. By mile four, I'm warmed up, my lungs are no longer on fire, and I feel like my legs are really under me. It was always my favorite mile--well, it was my favorite mile once I was in shape enough to run four miles without throwing up on the side of the trail.

I walked home from the friend’s house (I knew there would be too much wine going in to the event, and planned accordingly) and was so excited thinking about running, I let out a little trot at one point. But when I got out of bed the next morning, my heel, stupid, stupid heel, ached. The friend's house is only five blocks from mine.

I iced this morning. Stretching. Orthopedic boot. I'll get there. I'll get back to mile four again. Eff.

Mile four

The other night over dinner (slates of baguette and garlicky olive tapenade followed by eggplanty ratatouille and herbed couscous alongside, safely, at least two, maybe three more glasses of red wine than I should have drunk on a Tuesday) with a couple of friends, we got to talking about working out.

One friend likes swimming, but she’s as blind as I am (batlike, but without the hearing) and has a tendency to run into folks we know at the local community pool. Unable to make an identification, she’s then forced to get into their faces to know who they are. Me, if I’m in a bathing suit, I’d rather keep my distance. Really. I vote pretend you know who it is, wave, move along.

We also talked about running. And I got nearly misty-eyed when talking about how much I love mile four. By mile four, I'm warmed up, my lungs are no longer on fire, and I feel like my legs are really under me. It was always my favorite mile--well, it was my favorite mile once I was in shape enough to run four miles without throwing up on the side of the trail.

I walked home from the friend’s house (I knew there would be too much wine going in to the event, and planned accordingly) and was so excited thinking about running, I let out a little trot at one point. But when I got out of bed the next morning, my heel, stupid, stupid heel, ached. The friend's house is only five blocks from mine.

I iced this morning. Stretching. Orthopedic boot. I'll get there. I'll get back to mile four again. Eff.

The Karma Chameleon

A regular old Monday’s bad enough, but a Monday when you feel so out of shape your legs are like lead as you climb the stairs to the office, a Monday when you find yourself chugging Pepsi Max in an effort to stay conscious at your computer? Well those are the Mondays where you feel like maybe the Karma Chameleon is out to get you. (The Karma Chameleon is, I have always imagined, like a mean little leprechaun who comes to get you and make bad things happen to you as payback for former evils. I picture it shaking its red, gold and green little fist at me and glaring with yellow eyes. Oddly, it also wears sparkly bandanas and a lot of eyeliner.)

Today, I think the Karma Chameleon was coming to get me and pay me back for that one time in Junior High when my friend Shizzy and I pushed a kid into his locker and he hit his head and ended up going to the nurse’s station. Seriously. We were those bullies, and man oh man do I ever regret it, but what can you do about it now? Anyway, all day today the little jerk Chameleon was shaking his wee fist at me, and while I stared at my computer in a grump fog and out-of-shape-stupor, I tried to envision a future in which I’m in shape, running five days a week, able to wear my Sevens again (that’s Seven jeans—they’re not size seven. We’re far, far from that), and it actually kept me from stabbing myself in the eyeball with a letter opener.

The Karma Chameleon

A regular old Monday’s bad enough, but a Monday when you feel so out of shape your legs are like lead as you climb the stairs to the office, a Monday when you find yourself chugging Pepsi Max in an effort to stay conscious at your computer? Well those are the Mondays where you feel like maybe the Karma Chameleon is out to get you. (The Karma Chameleon is, I have always imagined, like a mean little leprechaun who comes to get you and make bad things happen to you as payback for former evils. I picture it shaking its red, gold and green little fist at me and glaring with yellow eyes. Oddly, it also wears sparkly bandanas and a lot of eyeliner.)

Today, I think the Karma Chameleon was coming to get me and pay me back for that one time in Junior High when my friend Shizzy and I pushed a kid into his locker and he hit his head and ended up going to the nurse’s station. Seriously. We were those bullies, and man oh man do I ever regret it, but what can you do about it now? Anyway, all day today the little jerk Chameleon was shaking his wee fist at me, and while I stared at my computer in a grump fog and out-of-shape-stupor, I tried to envision a future in which I’m in shape, running five days a week, able to wear my Sevens again (that’s Seven jeans—they’re not size seven. We’re far, far from that), and it actually kept me from stabbing myself in the eyeball with a letter opener.

Orthopod

Oh, orthopedic boot. I want to write a sonnet for you. If only I remembered how to write sonnets. Maybe Google can assist me … I think iambic pentameter is involved.

Orthopod

Oh, orthopedic boot. I want to write a sonnet for you. If only I remembered how to write sonnets. Maybe Google can assist me … I think iambic pentameter is involved.

Clocked

Today was a lovely day, sun-shiny bluebird winter kind of a day. After a wicked yoga session (I sweat a grim face into my tank top, a damp: -_- under the sports bra. Not sure what could be more attractive) we loaded up the three dogs and headed out to Roommate's work's base camp.

It's a lovely plot of acrerage out in the country. You drive past llama farms, a few ranches with horses standing around looking bored, and all the while the Cascades on the horizon show off for you, until you hit gravel. There, Roommate opened up the back door to the car (apparently this is their routine when going out to base, I was new to the routine) and let the three beasts scurry out. Then we hit the gas while they ran behind us, Mama Kaya at a slow trot until she was a quarter mile behind us, Mister Rio jack-rabbiting up the middle, and my Margaux at a full on sprint beside the driver's window. I did not know a head that big could move that fast, but we got that bitch up to 30 MPH. Seriously.

After some ball throwing on the lawn, we headed down to the river and chucked the ball into the water for awhile, until their poor little butts were clenched and their back legs shivered so hard they refused to jump into the water anymore. On the way back out on the gravel (with Mama safely tuckered in the back seat), Margaux only got up to 26. When we finally let her in the car, I told her how disappointed we were with her. Only 26 miles per hour? Weak. In this family, we're winners.

So, that's her base. Next, we figure out mine.