Dec
14
This weekend I ran nine miles. I know, right? NINE. Five of those miles felt pretty good, two of them were fairly unpleasant, and the last two were so miserable I feel sorry for anyone who had the misfortune of spotting me on the Sammamish River Trail around 3:30 PM on Saturday, because I bet my face looked like—well, do you remember that scene in The Ring with the dead girl in the closet?
I think that’s exactly how I ran those last two miles. I vaguely remember some weeping, frightened children at one point, but really that last half hour was kind of a painful, hallucinatory blur.
I am both amazed and proud that I was able to run for so long without stopping, and completely overwhelmed by the fact that as hard as that was, as much of a PINNACLE LIFE ACHIEVEMENT as that felt like—in two months I’ve got to run that distance plus another four miles. You’d think I would be able to look back on how much I’ve improved over the last two months and trust that I’ll be that much stronger and capable in two more months, but that sort of thinking is reserved for positive self-affirming people and I’d much prefer to sit here flipping out about how I’m probably going to experience a catastrophic gastrointestinal event during mile 10, right before my heart explodes in a giant arterial geyser of FAIL.
I’m sure I’ll be FINE, though! HA HA HA HA FINE. 13.1 miles! I can do this! WHOOOOOOO FIIIIIINE.
In other news, I need new music to add to my running mix, because guess what, running nine miles takes fucking forever. What’s your go-to song that helps revitalize your lagging ass? If you want to see some of my current favorites, I’ve got them listed here.
Dec
10
It is cold here in Seattle. I know, I know: you were born on the ice planet Hoth and if it weren’t for that tauntaun which provided warming entrails for you and your tribe you would have all perished in the great storm of ’06 when the temperatures reached nine hundred jillion below zero and you still can’t see very good out of that previously-frozen left cornea so what do I know about cold, but listen, all I’m saying is that it’s normally pretty mild here in the winter and I am not used to peering at a sub-20° thermometer for days on end, or worse, having to reluctantly lace on my shoes and go running in this shit, where my self-pitying tears instantly form a sheet of ice on my face.
(I love how that one light of ours is all, Ladies?)
The upside to this unusually chilly weather is how crystal-clear the days have been. The mountains look craggy and enormous, and with their fresh coats of snow they seem as imposing and dramatic as the Himalayas. The lakes are sparkling and glassy. The recent full moon was improbably detailed, like something Photoshopped over the city. The sunrises and sunsets have been achingly lovely.
We got our tree this week and at first I felt kind of awful that we didn’t go to the same U-cut farm we usually do. It was just so bone-chillingly cold and I imagined trying to bundle up the kids and Dylan refusing all head-coverings as usual and everyone crying with snot stuck to their lips and mittens getting lost and etfuckincetera so JB and I just stopped by one of those crappy-looking lots where a guy is selling trees from his trailer with a spray-painted sign propped nearby that says XMAS TREZ and guess what, the selection was MUCH nicer than our beloved tree farm and the Noble we picked out was about $30 cheaper. Who knew?
I really thought we’d have to come up with some bungee-cord solution for the tree this year because I pictured Dylan constantly trying to pull it down on his head, but I guess since it is not shaped like a horse it doesn’t really tickle his fancy. He “helped” with the lights and was briefly interested in some of the ornaments, but now it’s this total meh thing over there in the living room, not nearly as cool as Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.
By the way can I just tell you what a total mouthbreathing fool I was for getting him that movie, because it features, in addition to Matt Damon’s horse-voice, a moving and dramatic and endless soundtrack with lots and lots and lots and LOTS of Bryan Adams songs. Of course Dylan is obsessed with it, is begging night and day for the “Horse? TV? Horse? TV?” and if I don’t seem to be obeying fast enough he goes and brings me the remote and stands there peering up at me expectedly, like THIS IS THE UNITED STATES CALLING ARE WE REACHING? Meanwhile I’ve got about eight thousand cheesy Bryan Adams songs stuck in my head here I am it’s just me and you tonight we make our dreams come TRUUEEE aarrrrrrgh.
PS: Dylan’s started . . . neighing. A LOT.
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