Feb
22
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before, but JB’s been training at a mixed martial arts gym for several months now. He works with a trainer a few times a week and often comes home sporting black eyes or giant bruises from the sweaty man-on-man grappling they do on the mats, which is apparently totally heterosexual despite the fact that it often looks just like that tent scene in Brokeback Mountain.
He’s got his first official fight this weekend; a big event at his gym with lots of fighters and an actual paying audience and everything. It’s the culmination of weeks of hard training and I wish like hell I could be in the bleachers cheering him on. Unfortunately, this also happens to be the weekend of my half marathon, so while he’ll be stepping into the ring here in Seattle, I’ll be en route to New Orleans.
Talk about your crappy timing, right? It’s a bummer not only because we can’t be present at each other’s goal events—well, it wasn’t likely that JB was going to be able to be in New Orleans anyway, but I definitely would have been at his fight—but also since as the final days tick down before the weekend we can’t even really properly commiserate with each other.
JB: “Man, I’m stressed about the fight.”
Me: “Whatever. At least you don’t have to fly across the damn country to get to it.”
JB: “At least you won’t be on a stage.”
Me: “At least your fight won’t last, like, two and a half hours.”
JB: “At least you don’t have to just wait around for half the night beforehand.”
Me: “At least you don’t have to worry about a catastrophic gastrointestinal malfunction occurring at mile eight and you’ve still got 5.1 miles to go, motherfucker.”
Etc.
In all honesty I think JB’s got the harder task, if only because he has to make weight before the fight. He gets weighed on Friday morning and the scale has to read 145 or ELSE. He’s within spitting distance of that weight right now, thanks to a few weeks of extra vigilance, but these last few days are a big back of suck. No carbs, no starch, no salt, no snacks. I put him on the diet at the end of Jillian Michaels’ Making the Cut book, which features the world’s most depressing seven-day eating plan designed to cut any and all excess water weight. He’s basically allowed egg whites, plain chicken breast, and low-sodium tuna; meanwhile, I’m shoveling entire bags of salty popcorn in my fret-hole and wondering out loud through mouthfuls if I should eat spaghetti like all week to carb load or just augment my regular meals with, say, a steady influx of M&Ms.
A few years ago I don’t think either one of us would be able to believe the sorts of goals we have today. It feels amazing, really, to share these feelings—of having worked so hard, and aimed this high—with my partner and best friend. Whatever happens in that ring or on the race course this weekend, I know we have one thing in common: we are incredibly proud of one another.
Feb
20
Friday was my birthday and the first thing I did to celebrate turning 29 again 36 was head to the doctor’s appointment I had stupidly scheduled a while back. Who doesn’t enjoy climbing on that always-five-pounds-heavier scale and having a blood draw on their special day, right? I guess I should just be glad it wasn’t a pap smear, although I might have preferred that to the lengthy Q&A session we always go through to verify my medication tolerance is on track.
Him: “Any fevers, aches, DIARRHEA?”
Me: “Nope.”
Him: “So no digestive issues, like DIARRHEA?”
Me: “Ah . . . no. All good.”
Him: “Great! Some people experience DIARRHEA, so—”
Me: “OH MY GOD MY POOPS ARE MAJESTICALLY SOLID CAN WE MOVE ON.”
JB took me to the Salish Lodge for dinner, a place where the spectacular view is legitimately trumped by the food. I can’t even begin to describe how good it is, except that it’s worth every single one of the many dollars it costs to eat there. I think my favorite dish is the apple/squash bisque, which is poured over this amazing piece of goat cheese that has been caramelized with one of those crème brûlée torch whatsits and thus every spoonful is a transcendently creamy melted sweet/savory explosion that makes me think of the dancing-flavor animations in Ratatouille.
Today is another spectacularly gorgeous springlike day and after breakfast I ran the six miles from our house to an enormous new-to-us park where I met JB and the kids, and we spent our morning playing on all the weird equipment and climbing rocks and tromping around in the fields in the glorious sunshine.
When we got home I opened my presents with the boys and then we all ate a bunch of delicious fattening sugary things. Riley hugged me and said that since it was my birthday I could do whatever I wanted, although he clarified that that did not include eating the cake he had deemed as his, and Dylan repeatedly announced that he would like to “HAVE . . . MO’ . . . CHOCLIT, PEASE?”
Not bad, 36. Not bad at all.
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