Not dead!

Hey y'all! I'm not dead! And I didn't murder anyone.

That last part is very, very important.

There's no possible way to tell all of the awesomely blog-worthy stories from the past week I spent at home. Plus, I've been told that I'm not allowed to tell at least some of the stories (especially the story about how I woke up in a hotel room one morning and looked over and there was a naked man in the next bed. Deffo not supposed to tell that story).

So, here's a list of memorable items, some awesome and others decidedly un-awesome:

• My sister (32) and I (29) stayed up past 5 a.m. two nights in a row. My sister and I realized without a doubt that we are too old to stay up until 5 a.m. one time, let alone two nights in a row. The day after the double-header was like walking around with a mixture of hot sauce and cement in my veins. Slow and painful. (How's that for a simile, suckas?!)

• One morning, I found myself walking in downtown Portland in last night's little black dress, practically bare-footed in my black tights,with my boots in one hand and a borrowed black purse in the other. No one would return my calls, so after leaving the most pathetic message ever on Roommie's phone (Wah wah wah I miss you wah wah these people are crazy wah wah wah I just walked by a used condom wah wah wah I think I'm still drunk), I decided to go for some breakfast, hoping that while I ate someone would call me back and come pick me up. The first restaurant I encountered was called "Pho and Toast." I tell ya, a steaming bowl of noodles is the BEST hangover cure ever invented. Well, maybe the second best. They didn't sell bloody Marys. However, they did sell diet cokes, and then they tried to charge me for a refill. You betcherass I marched up to the counter in my little black dress, smeared mascara and frizzball hair and complained until I got that $1.45 taken off my bill.

• I was confronted at my high school reunion by my first boyfriend -- a guy who really does not strike me as a blog reader -- for writing about him on DatingIsWeird.com. He quoted the post almost word for word. I was flabbergasted, because really, it had never occurred to me that he'd ever read it. But also, I was kind of delighted. He read DatingIsWeird! He's one of the smartest people I know! And, if you go read the post I linked to above, you might get why this is just so perfect: In his rebuttal to what I'd written in the post, he quoted Corinthians. Also, he's now dating the girl to whom I wept (in the high school girl's room, of course) when he dumped me. A girl I later made out with. Ah, beautiful world! How small you are!

• My sister and I made it SIX DAYS without fighting. Then we screamed at each other in front of the kids and stormed out of the room in separate directions. But we made up after that. And seriously. Six days is pretty effing good.

• Two days before my sister's wedding, took the kids for hair cuts. Imagine the embarrassment when one hairdresser approached grandma and said she couldn't cut the hair because of the schoolhouse scourge: Head lice. Then imagine the best auntie ever (that would be me, in case you're confused) hunched with her sister over a giant head of hair, painstakingly combing through the strands to remove all the lil bugs. I think that's when the pain in my neck (I'm speaking literally here) started.

• While I was in town, I signed up for a trial of Bikram yoga. I learned quickly that Bikram yoga doesn't suck, the BEND Bikram studio does. The instructors at my local studio are vibey as all getout. They talk shit to you, loudly, if you drink water before they want you to or if you modify a pose. In the studio in Portland (link here if you are interested, there's one in Beaverton and one in S.E. Portland. I really recommend them), the instructors were kind, encouraging, and understanding. Before my first class, they told me to listen to my body and be my own yoga teacher. They didn't wear little headphones, either. Oh, and one of them was super hot. However, be warned that if you go to Bikram yoga super hung over, you very well may pass out. And if you have arthritis and still go all out on the back bends, you might not be able to turn your head to the right the next day.

• The night before the wedding, Roommie arrived in town. But he didn't find the place I was staying at until 1 a.m. You see where this is going? It was an early afternoon wedding. I had to get up at 5:30 a.m. day of. That's right, I did the Maid of Honor duty (if you've done it, you know how rough it can be. If you've done it twice ((ahem)) my hat is off to you. At the rehearsal, my mom referred to me as The Wedding Nazi. I'm thinking about becoming a professional MOH. But I will charge exorbitant fees.) on four hours' sleep.

Oh, and the wedding? It was lovely. But with no wedding coordinator, you can bet your busciuts I ran my ass off all day long. Fetch grandma for pictures. Go get the wedding certificate. Go cut the cake. Where are the flowers? Can you find the photographer? Come kiss the baby! You have to dance to this song with your boyfriend! Where's my toothbrush? We're out of food?

My sister owes me. Huge. It's a good thing I love that beyotch more than my luggage (points if you can name that movie).

Now, here's something I'm ashamed to admit to y'all. I got caught, in a photo, in my MOH dress and crocks. It's on Bookface. I don't even feel like I should explain how or why this happened. I think I should just say my fifty hail Mary Janes and be on my way.

Final countdown

So this blog was supposed to be about my transition back into running. Specifically, I was thinking I'd have my stupid plantar fasciitis all cleared up and I'd get to running in time to do another half marathon, as I did last year about this time.

But no. Instead, it's been a place to document my failures. Failure to heal, failure to trim up before my sister's wedding -- now one week away, and with no improvements in ye olde waistline -- oh and my high school reunion's also this week. My 11 year. Yeah, I know. I went to an odd high school.

I'm close to considering the surgical option, though I hear that even that has risks, including flattening the arch in your foot, which can be an even worse fate than what I'm dealing with now.

Fuck. Yeah.

But I was thinking recently, as an ad for American Apparel came up on my computer, about skinny people. They're responsible for a lot of stupid trends. I wonder, if I became one of those skinny people, if I'd suddenly get cool and trendy and start wearing leggings. Or, worse yet, if I'd see these and think, "Oh, those are really cute formal shorts."



















OK. I know that's ridiculous. I mean, I don't like imagining the kind of brain trauma that would lead me to such insanity.

As long as I don't have to be the pole

Some co-workers and I talked awhile ago about doing the Pole, Pedal Paddle this year. It's an annual event that I avoided even spectating the first four years I lived in this town. Last year, though, I ran support for my pal SGL, who did the whole thing by HERSELF.

In case you don't know how crazy that is, let me outline the event:

First, you go to Mount Bachelor and ride a chairlift up to the top, put your skis or board in place then walk down hill 200 feet. Why do you walk downhill 200 feet? Why, so you can run uphill in ski boots, of course! It's even more fun than running in soft sand.

Then you ski down to where a friend (like me!) is waiting to exchange your board for your cross country skis. After a quick change, you slog through five miles of melty mashed potatoes and gravy spring snow until you meet up again with your pal to trade skis for bike.

Next, you bike 22 miles. Now, in fairness, most of the bike is downhill, since you're coming into town from a mountain, but those uphill stretches are a real bitch.

Still standing? Good, it's time to run five miles through town. The nice part is that we have a friend who lives on the route, and she sits in a lawn chair with a cooler of beer and a fifth of Jack Daniels for anyone who's gotten parched.

The boat portion involves paddling "upstream from a put-in point for 1/2 mile on the Deschutes River" then "back downstream for 3/4 mile, then back upstream for 1/4 mile." Yeah, up, down, up.

Oh, and then you have to run again. This time, it's even supposed to be a "sprint."

So, SGL may be a little crazy. I definitely can't do the whole thing. In addition to my serious lack of physical fitness, I also can't downhill ski. But I can ride a bike (though I don't think I can use my single speed '68 Sears Spider for this race. A damn shame, because my sparkly purple banana seat would probably really help my performance), and maybe by the end of May, I can run five miles? I mean, I still can't run, the heel's still effed, but maybe by then I'll be in ship shape again?

The real question though is costumes. Some teams dress up in leis, or with bridal veils. I saw a pretty sick cops and jailbirds team last year (the cops had thick handlebar moustaches and wore hotpants, natch). What should we out of shape cubicle jockeys do?




Google, from whence I stole this picture, seems to think this woman's name is Karen.

Getting some restraint

I finally found my motivation to run. It was in my bra.

Really. See, I have big boobs. Not porn-star big, but run-of-the-mill D-cup big. And up till now, running has been an ongoing attempt to minimize vertical movement of the boobs while simultaneously trying to maintain forward momentum. If that sounds easy to you, then you're a dude and you can bugger off. As even small-chested women can attest to, running brings a lot of up-and-down action to the torso, and boobs, being subject to the same physical laws as the rest of the planet, respond by bouncing. The bigger they are, the harder they bounce.

Which is why a good sports bra is critical. Now those racer-back stretchy kinds may be fine for your average A cup or B cup. Hell, I could get away with one of those, too, if my physical activity was limited to a spirited game of mah jong. But running? Those bras just aren't up the the challenge.

Enter the Enell. This miracle of engineering doesn't have the typical "give" of a sports bra. It's made for well-endowed women and the thing is like body armor -- my boobs in this bra are immobilized like Abu Ghraib prisoners. No bounce. No jostle. No nothing.

So after I worked my girls into the bra and put on my shoes, out I went for a test run. And what do you know? I ran farther than I ever have before, and didn't stop to walk one time -- a first for me, even on my relatively short running route. I felt invincible. I felt great. I ran.

Who knew my boobs could have been holding me back so much? Turns out, all I needed for a successful run was the right bra.

Getting some restraint

I finally found my motivation to run. It was in my bra.

Really. See, I have big boobs. Not porn-star big, but run-of-the-mill D-cup big. And up till now, running has been an ongoing attempt to minimize vertical movement of the boobs while simultaneously trying to maintain forward momentum. If that sounds easy to you, then you're a dude and you can bugger off. As even small-chested women can attest to, running brings a lot of up-and-down action to the torso, and boobs, being subject to the same physical laws as the rest of the planet, respond by bouncing. The bigger they are, the harder they bounce.

Which is why a good sports bra is critical. Now those racer-back stretchy kinds may be fine for your average A cup or B cup. Hell, I could get away with one of those, too, if my physical activity was limited to a spirited game of mah jong. But running? Those bras just aren't up the the challenge.

Enter the Enell. This miracle of engineering doesn't have the typical "give" of a sports bra. It's made for well-endowed women and the thing is like body armor -- my boobs in this bra are immobilized like Abu Ghraib prisoners. No bounce. No jostle. No nothing.

So after I worked my girls into the bra and put on my shoes, out I went for a test run. And what do you know? I ran farther than I ever have before, and didn't stop to walk one time -- a first for me, even on my relatively short running route. I felt invincible. I felt great. I ran.

Who knew my boobs could have been holding me back so much? Turns out, all I needed for a successful run was the right bra.