May
15
May 15, 2007
Things I have learned about running so far:
• It sounds better to call it “running” than “lumbering along at a glacially slow trot”.
• Don’t try and run if you’re hungry, unless you want to find out what it feels like to have all of your molecules commit suicide at the same time.
• Thread your iPod cord under the strap of your sports bra, that will keep it from flapping around and making you crazy.
• Play music at a level guaranteed to cause hearing damage, that way you won’t be distracted by your own desperate gasping.
• Stuff a Kleenex in a pocket somewhere. Running does weird things to your sinuses.
• When you start a run your knees may feel like they are made out of concrete, and you will jog awkwardly along like a robot at first. This feeling will go away after a couple minutes, but go ahead and add “Mr. Roboto” to your playlist.
• At some point, you will accidentally eat a bug.
Ways in which JB impressed me yesterday:
• On his way to the front yard, effortlessly leaped our makeshift backyard fence, sailing through the air with his feet pushed off to the side like one of those urban gymnastics guys you’ve seen on YouTube. Honestly, I had no idea.
• Confronted with a DVR stuck on fast forward, unleashed a fantastically creative string of cuss words (heavily featuring “Comcast” and “cocksucking”) at top speed, like a cattle auctioneer with Tourette’s, complete with furious Ari-from-Entourage-esque hand-jacking maneuvers. The only way it would have been cooler is if he were also jumping over a fence at the time.
Physical reactions I had while watching this movie the other night:
• Lower jaw dangling down around my chest.
• Blood pressure soaring into seizure territory.
• Arms flapping around wildly to indicate extreme disbelief and horror.
• Random outbursts of “What! What! What!”
Number of nights in a row that Riley has woken up now because his pajamas are all h4x0r3d and his arm is shoved through the neckhole or some such thing:
• FIVE GODDAMNIT FIVE.
Hour at which the contractors arrived this morning to finally start the demolition work on our remodel:
• 7:30.
• In the AM.
• I was not prepared to find a stranger standing outside the kitchen window, and maybe next time I’ll comb my hair.
• Or better yet, have clothes on.
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Hey, got any suggestions for a good, fast-paced, not-too-long audio book that I could download for my flight tomorrow? You know, so I have a pile of magazines, a pile of books, a bunch of music, AND an audio book, in case the plane gets redirected to Australia or something.
Also! I have a day of meetings on Thursday, then we head directly for home. What kind of outfit would work for a ‘business casual’ setting, yet will survive a few hours of travel without wrinkling horribly, cutting off my circulation, or killing my feet? Can I get away with a t-shirt—if it’s black and sort of stretchy/dressy—pants, and low heels?
May
14
May 14, 2007
I have a short business trip planned for this week, involving the following thrilling itinerary:
• Fly to San Francisco Wednesday evening
• Have dinner meeting in SF airport (at a restaurant called Ebisu, if any SF locals would like to weigh in on this choice)
• Drive (with my boss, in a rental car. Hold me) to hotel in Cupertino
• Thu: all-day meetings at Cupertino company (name rhymes with Pflapple)
• Drive back to SFO, fly home
This is, what, 24 hours of travel? I should be able to do this with a small duffle bag, right? But I guarantee I will be lugging along a full-sized carryon, stuffed to bursting with basically every toiletry, electronic hair tool, book, and item of clothing I own, because god forbid I leave my area code without being prepared to stay at my destination for seven or eight months. I’m especially weird about entertainment stuff for the flight—despite the fact that I tend to spend the majority of the time staring vacantly off into space while slowly flipping through a tabloid, I always feel compelled to bring an iPod, a pile of magazines, at least five books (because what if I’m reading one thing and I decide I want to read something else? WHAT THEN?), a notebook and pen, and a laptop. You never know when you might want to read seventeen different publications, write the great American novel longhand, and partition your hard drive—on a flight that takes all of two hours.
Upon my return JB plans to immediately depart his own self for Oregon, where weather permitting he will join a friend and hike to the top of Mt. Hood, despite the fact that people seem to consistently DIE, as in STONE COLD DEAD, trying to do this. I have made him promise to actively avoid death on this trip, because not only would I miss his nonstop commentary during Survivorman (“Bullshit. BULL. SHIT. There is NO WAY that guy doesn’t have a stash of Cliff Bars, COME ON!”), JB’s the only one who can swiftly and accurately clip Riley’s fingernails. So in the event of JB’s untimely demise, my son would promptly grow a massive set of curving, dirt-encrusted talons. And then we would have two tragedies to contend with.
JB’s fascination with both deep-water technical diving and hiking to thin-air mountain heights confounds me. I’m not quite as sedentary as I used to be, but I’m still an avid fan of being at sea level. I like my immediate atmospheric surroundings to be, you know, breathable. Call me crazy, I just like oxygen.
Speaking of breathing, I’m finding running to be a little easier lately. I mean, easier in the sense that it sucks marginally less, not that it feels like a full-body hot stone massage or anything. I still gasp and pant like I’m doing Lamaze exercises, but my jogging intervals are lasting longer, and depending on what music is playing (I would like to second Emily’s recommendation and suggest that all of you go get yourself a copy of Bloodhound Gang’s “Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo” because it is possibly the best song the world has ever known) there are a few brief moments where I actually sort of enjoy the running part. Then I usually feel like my heart is going to burst out of a bodily orifice, so I slow to a walk and practice Lamaze for a while until I’m no longer convinced that cardiac arrest is imminent, then speed up again. Towards the end I try and sprint at least a few yards, just to pretend like I am capable of escaping a fast-moving zombie, and then I come home and pass out in the driveway.
Running is seriously masochistic. It hurts, it sucks, and it repeatedly transforms you into a crying little girly-man. I can’t even explain why I’m starting to like it.
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