results of a pantless experiment

Here I present to you the results of a Sunday spent pantless.  To figure out what the heck I am doing, you can read the original entry.

First up on my day spent pantless was my long run. Something I failed to mention in the original entry was that one article I read stated the “pantless look” does not always entail ditching the pants, but instead includes sporting short shorts covered with a top of your choice.  Hmm, this seems a little like my everyday running outfit. So I committed my first fashion faux pas – one of many – and strapped on some running bloomers, circa my cross-country college days.

Although I did capture some photos of this get-up, I decided to leave my shame in the woods where it belonged and not on the world-wide web for everyone’s viewing pleasure.  The photos were little provocative and I’m not ready to suffer the ramifications of being mistaken for an adult actress.  Not again at least.  To get an idea of what I actually looked like, go ahead and click on the “the anti-who?” tab at the top of this website, scroll done, and see me sporting my blue bloomers.

In an attempt to counteract the initial embarrassment I felt jaunting through the woods in what was the equivalent of underwear, I decided to run fast. The results would be a 16 mile run at about 7:15 pace. In my head, I reasoned that if I were to run fast enough, there was the potential that anyone witnessing the event would mistakenly believe I was actually participating in a trail race. I’m pretty sure it worked. Bikers graciously moved off the trail as I approached, which is normally the role I play.

Whether they believed I was leading the pack on my way to a race victory or simply trying to be polite toward a clearly unhinged runner, it ended up being a terrific long run.  I never realized ditching 3 extra inches of fabric could feel so freeing and, even better, I only received the occasional odd glance. Although this could have been more of a result of my tan line giving the deceiving impression that I was actually sporting shorts in a shade of fleshy white.

At the completion of the run I realized I had garnered more hellos and how-do-you-do’s than normal. Overall, I’d label it a success. I’m pretty certain if I ever muster the strength to sport these bloomers on a tempo run, I could run sub 6 minute pace. Or at least pick up some guys.

Next up was a trip to Target.

See those cops coming my way? Totally checking me out. Hell, I would too in those tights.

Now the original article I read on Huffington Post stated that some celebrities were turning their shirts into dresses, no shorts included. I viewed some photos of Blake Lively and Taylor Momsen (um, who is that?) sporting black tights under these “shirt dresses.”  I thought this would be appropriate given this is the east coast and not actually Hollywood.

After being tentative on my first few steps in the store, I realized no one seemed to stare when I walked with a little swagger.  At first, I attributed this outcome to my confidence throwing off their need to judge. But then I spotted another chick sporting almost the same exact outfit as me and realized they had probably wasted all their judgement on her.  Bitch clearly read my blog.

There was only one faltering moment, when I dropped a bottle of water and bent down to pick it up, did I realize how this pantless exploit could result in fleeting though significant humiliation. Lesson learned: Do not wear white underwear while sporting black see-through tights.

Upon arriving home, I ditched the tights and strapped on some knee-high socks, a necessity given my garden level apartment tends to get a bit chilly. I also attired myself with shorts that I am pretty sure revealed the lower part of my bumchecks. Not really a big deal. Unless people are around. They were. To them I apologize.

Note that the pug actually just got from a Biggest Loser audition. Fingers crossed he makes it on the show!

In conclusion of my Sunday spent pantless, I can say I probably will do it again. Just because. Any embarrassing moments had donned in tights with only the coverage of a shirt were mitigated by sheer comfort. The constrictive feel of denim was never once missed, as each stride felt more fluid, more graceful.  And I could use some grace.  Might help me pick up those cops.

I doubt I will be sporting bloomers anytime in the near future but if I start having trouble setting some PRs, it may be a step I am willing to take. Heck, I might even ditch my shirt if it will help me break the 3 hour marathon mark. I may not be able to pull off a silver glittery shirt-dress like Beyonce, but they won’t stop me trying. Until I muster up that kind of courage, I’m off to do some online shopping in my underwear.  Someone needs to purchase some new tights.

a pantless sunday

I can vividly remember a time last year when a co-workers asked me what my dream job would be.  I responded in a beat that of course it would be serving as a correspondent on The Daily Show.  Yes, I am one of those women who finds Jon Stewart far more attractive than the Brad Pitt’s of this world.  But more importantly, the idea of serving the news pantless thrilled me.  Although this feat could potentially be done on an actual news program without the need for liberal bias, I prefer my news with a twist of satire and cynicism, and part of me just finds Jewish men hailing from the state of New Jersey enthralling.  Enthralling enough to lose my pants.

The allure of this dream job – getting paid without the necessity of wearing pants – was yet again tinkering around my head.  I’m pretty sure a Huffington Post article I recently read is the source of this dream resurfacing itself.  The article was titled “When Celebrities Go Pantless.”

In the summer, going pantless was all the craze.  Vanessa Hudgens rocked her men’s flannels sans pants and Mary Kate was the picture of flower girl chic with nothing on bottom but some gladiator sandals.  And who wouldn’t want to look like they just stepped off the set of filming High School Musical 3 or like they just rolled out of a stranger’s bed and are now fleeing the scene of a potential herpes flare up?

But the cold is setting upon us, and the pantless style has yet to die down.  Beyonce, Rhianna, Madona, and even Red Hot Chilli Peppers’ Flea are just a few of the one named celebrities doing it.  Britney Spears has been known to leave the pants at home on more than one occasion – sometimes even the underwear as well.  But what got me truly inspired was Lady GaGa.  I don’t have the brass balls that woman has to rock a quart of eye glitter to hit the grocery store but I can do it without pants.  Especially on a sunny day with temperatures expected to reach a high of 56 degrees.

And so I have decided to approach my day as though I were strolling down Hollywood Boulevard, ready to shoot my next music video.  Or flash my crotch to some paparazzi.  Unlike Britney, however, I have decided to keep my underwear on.

I did some research before braving the streets pantless.  The only rule I saw was having nice legs.  There were no actual details as to what qualified as nice legs besides no cellulite and no thunder thighs.  Running 50 plus miles per week has erased cellulite but by no means has made my thighs particularly skinny.  However, after typing “thunder thighs” in Google images, I quickly learned I probably didn’t qualify.

And so without further ado, off come the pants.  Ok, I have yet to actually put pants on today so really there is nothing to take off.  But please note there will be certain procedures taken to ensure I don’t commit any serious fashion faux pas.  Or get arrested for indecent exposure.  I will be back later for a detailed account of my Sunday spent pant-free.  Celebrity style of course.  Jessica Simpson should probably be scared.

early bird special

Yesterday morning I participated in a preposterous event.  At least preposterous to a person who is adverse to shopping.  I succumbed to the lure known as Black Friday.

Let me preface this by saying that I was already awake.  3 o’clock rolled around and I was wide-eyed and alert, ready to take on the day.  This is not unusual for me because my sleeping schedule mirrors my 80-year-old lady urinary habits.  At some point in the past few years, I lost the ability to stay awake past 11 p.m.  I’m usually lucky to make it to 9 if I’m being honest.  I don’t remember the transition, just one Saturday night struggle to stay awake for SNL.  I made it.  Then promptly fell asleep at the first commercial break.

Turning it in before the sun sets leaves me restless come early morning.  Also known as bedtime for college students.  I feel privileged on the few mornings when I can sleep until 6 a.m.  And so without the need for an alarm clock to hit the stores, I thought, why not?

I did not intend to wait in any lines.  There would be no Target trips, no Wal-Mart fiascos.  Just a stop off at Lord & Taylor where the first 500 guests received $20 off a purchase of $40.  I’m pretty sure I was guest number 7.  Except the coupon applied to nothing actually for sale in the store.  In the end, I did manage to save some cash while avoiding the crowds, leaving me content with the fact my Christmas shopping was complete.

But it left me with a few unanswered questions.  Like who exactly was lining up at Old Navy at 3 a.m.?  The most expensive thing in the store is about 25 bucks.  What kind of cash were these folks expecting to save?  The local news informed me that others had lined up Thanksgiving morning – yes, morning – outside Best Buy.  At least there was actual dollars to be saved here.  But what kind of person thinks a 40 inch plasma is worth missing a holiday for?  More importantly, am I the only one who is now fascinated by Best Buy employees?  I compare them to the Buy More employees on the NBC show Chuck.   Every time I enter the store, I am under the assumption at least one of them is under contract with the United States government.  It is one time in my life I hold my tongue in spewing excessive jokes related to Dick Cheney.  Because although they may be hilarious, I’d rather not be shot in the face.

This morning, I was yet again awake at the early hour of 4 a.m.  I tossed around a bit, patiently waiting for the sun to rise so I could hit the trails.  I was intent on heading back to new trails of yesterday in order to learn the route while it was fresh in my head.  Lacking any sense of direction, I felt this was an important step to ensure I only spent half of my run lost in the middle of an unknown forest.

These new trails lacked the woodsy feel of my home base training area.  On one side is a river, which is nice, but the other side is backed up to houses and the occasional office park.  There are countless signs telling me I will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law if I chose to meander over the rusty chain-linked fence into the desolate concrete area serving as a parking lot to 1,000’s of miserable cubicle workers.  Although the signs served as good reading material, the threat was unnecessary, as I’ve done enough cubicle time to stay on the proper side of the rusty fence.

The starting point for the trail is actually in the parking lot of a hotel.  After a half mile in, you run under a highway overpass where the sound of heavy traffic erases the normal eery quietness of the forest.  I spotted none of the usual deer that I see in the state park.  I did, however, spot what appeared to be a few members of an inner city gang.  Hunting is not allowed, so the adrenaline rush I get from seeing a loaded riffle was absent from the run.  Although, the aforementioned gang members most likely had weapons in their possession though they appeared to be the type more apt to fight with machetes.  There were not even any mountain bikers to contend with besides one dude who was standing next to what could be classified as a bike.  Smoking a cigarette.  I’m still not sure if he was a recreational cyclist or simply a man trying to endure the struggles of life on his only mode of transportation.

As per usual, I did get lost.  Except there was enough trash littered on the side of the road acting as markers, allowing me to Hansel and Gretel my way back to the hotel parking lot.  At one point I spotted a Tide bottle nestled right next to the riverbank, with what appeared to be some suds.  Who exactly are the unfortunate folks washing their clothes in this polluted river?  I almost felt ba but maybe their poor financial position can be attributed to the fact they spent their money on Tide brand laundry detergent and didn’t stick with generic.

I managed a good 8 miles at about 7:45 pace.  Nothing too crazy but I was factoring in a long run tomorrow and the hope that I could finally manage to make it to Weekend Update tonight on SNL.  But when I returned home I realized it was a repeat.  And silently cursed myself for not running farther.

finding faith in home appliances

METHUEN — Mary Jo Coady walked into her daughter’s bedroom Sunday afternoon and noticed a familiar image on the bottom of an iron sitting on the floor.

“I see his eyes, his nose, his whole face and I was like, ‘That’s Jesus looking at us,’” Coady said.

My third place finish may have resulted in personal disappointment but if you ask my mother, she would tell you it was a more impressive feat than a black man getting elected president.  To appease her utter fascination with my ability to place one foot in front of the other, I went to purchase the local paper showcasing the results.  The above quote made the front page.  It even included a picture of the iron.  The now sacred iron that reaffirmed the faith of a local woman.

I attempted to reaffirm my faith in running with other people today.  The prospect of running on new trails enticed me to run with a friend who was in possession and holding hostage the location of these foreign trails.  The steady rain coupled with the fact I had been awake since 3 a.m. made a running companion seem appealing, and I went for it.

I sadly regretted this decision 3 miles in, as he was running behind me, yelling at me to slow down.  Or attempting to yell between labored breaths.  We were going a steady 9 minute pace.  I may as well have been crawling on my hands and knees.  Which I ended up doing at mile 5 when I had to carry him on my back a solid mile through muddy trails.

Ever since college, I do the majority of my runs alone.  I don’t even run with an iPod.  I run in the complete silence of my own head.  An undertaking that would result in mass suicides if these thoughts were heard by others, for they would induce sudden insanity in many and complete bewilderment in all others.  But where many find clinical psychosis, I find peace.  Or at least a mild form of entertainment rivaling a mediocre conversation had amongst strangers at a cheap strip club on amateur night.  Known from personal experience of course.

These runs of solitude allow me to run at the pace I feel comfortable with on that given day.  It varies, but it is always where I want it to be, with no restraints.  No verbal assaults to slow down.  No physical threats to shoulder me off make-shift bridges.  Both of which I received today.

Sometimes, however, you need a change of pace, a way to lighten my mood and erase the previous days disappointment.  Or more selfishly, a chance to scope out some new running trails.  The wild runner within my walnut fueled body – making steady progress on the demolition of this bag, watch out Biggest Loser contestants! – found frustration in the pace.  I would steadily increase and my worthy running companion would yet again ask to slow it down.  Chit-chatting my way through the entire run, able to vocalize my normal skull-confined thoughts, the time flew by.  My cordial running partner did not feel the same, and immediately suggested I go ahead and add on while he called it a run.

This is where I wish I could be normal.  Even see jesus in home appliances normal.  So I can call it a run myself, tell him 50 minutes was plenty of running time, and head on home.  But insanity is rampant in the mind of a lonely runner, and I added on 10 minutes.  At about 7 minute pace.  As fast as my legs could possibly carry me through the muddy trails.  Only then could I call it a run.

Because instability has a tight grasp on my every decisions and all my actions.  Because I don’t see the images of deities on burnt toast or on calcium formations under bridges.  The closest discovery I made to the one found by this Methuen native was finding an animal cracker that was fused together at the ass with another cracker.  Which I now clearly view as a missed opportunity of making the front page.  But I digress.

It’s been said that our inner convictions are what gives these external images meaning.  Part of me hopes not.  Because having my ass fused to a lion’s ass is going to make even running at 9 minute pace difficult.

Editor’s note:  The hospitable running partner mentioned above did not in fact need to be carried at any part during the run.  Yes, he suffered two blackouts at various intervals but he finished strong.  If you can call projectile vomiting after the run’s completion finishing strong.  Also note, he was doing training runs at 6:15 pace just last year, although has since suffered a severe case of laziness induced by his jealousy of my own running talent.  We will run together again because despite the fact he is slower than my grandmother – who needs the assistance of a cane to walk – he is good company.  That and I’m pretty sure he’s holding some more trails hostage from me.

 

3rd place failure

Let’s start with honesty. You probably thought I have yet to post my race results because I was out actually having a life. That would be a lie. Instead I’ve spent my time running and toiling over this post, writing and re-writing it in an attempt to find a way to inject some optimism, or at least a half-hearted attempt at a positive spin. To make myself seem less self-absorbed and narcissistic.

But I roll in a world of extremes. Twelve miles into my marathon I officially declared that I would complete a 50 mile race in the near future. To myself, in my head of course, as I was starting to feel fatigued and felt my breath would be best reserved for breathing.  Some people are happy plugging away 3 miles on a treadmill day after day.  But I always want more.  If I can run 12 miles why not 20?  It is why I only make jokes about drug use.  Because one hit and I’d probably be in the nearest crack house selling myself for 3 bucks an hour.

After receiving a comment on my previous post – a well placed comment may I add – I tried yet again to write a recap of the race with something besides broken down cynicism. I’m not foolish enough to think I shouldn’t be grateful for every step I am able to take. If I were reading this blog instead of writing it, chances are I’d label the author scribbler as undeserving. But I view acceptance as simplicity and I’m nothing if not complicated.

Although I have no qualms with giving gratitude to others, to myself I reserve frustration and resentment. Because frustration allowed me to resume training and racing all by my lonesome after being plagued with countless injuries.  Because resentment allowed me to run a marathon in 3 hours when everyone told me I should be happy with 3:15. And so I present to you, my original, unedited post. Injected with the true bitterness and frustration I felt yesterday after my race…

52nd overall.  3rd for women.  31:05 total time.  6:15 minute pace.  I should be happy but pessimism reigns supreme in my household.  Especially during holiday season.

I have done 5-mile tempo runs faster than 6:15 pace.  By myself.  So factor that in your understanding as to why there is lingering disappointment on a day that should be devoted to giving thanks.  A day of blessing bestowed on the shameless exploitations of our settlers on the indigenous communities.  A harvest celebration indeed.  Except I am not in a very celebratory mood.

Let’s focus on to the race itself.

I treated this 5-mile race no differently than a normal jog in the park.  And the race responded back likewise.  I broke my first pre-race rule of always buying new socks.  It’s my thing.  Like Carrie Prejean’s thing is making a sex tape before every beauty pageant.  Like Chris Brown’s thing is beating women every time he rides in a limo.  I buy socks.  But I was lazy and cheap and deemed 5-miles unworthy of the purchase.

I intended to warm-up but I spent the entire time waiting in line to use the porta potty.  Then I had to get right back in line to pee again because I possess the bladder of an 80-year old woman and still felt compelled to throw back 2 cups of coffee when I woke up.

Then I had to push my way through 9,000 people – a good 7,000 who were sporting turkey hats – to get near the front.  Now I understand if you are caught up in the spirit of the holidays and think you can run 5 minute miles.  But chances are you can’t.  Not if you’re over 200 lbs and are chatting with your neighbor about how this is your first road race.  Please, the signs are there for a reason.

I won’t even bother with a mile-by-mile recap because the entire race went by way too fast with my ending time being way too slow.  Dilemma indeed.  Two steps following the gun, my legs responded with nothing but irritation.  Sheer and utter contempt for my endeavor to run 5-miles on the drizzly, foggy morning of doom.  They put up more of a protest than Miley Cyrus did toward Twilight fans.  Not cool, Miley, not cool.

After a solid first mile uphill, I decided not to fight back and settled into an easier pace for the remaining 4 miles.  Not really because I had a choice in the matter but because the 5k merged with the 5-milers after mile 2.  And although the signs and cones clearly stated to stay on the LEFT side if you were part of the 5k, these pleasant joggers felt it would be totally appropriate to step on my side of the road.  It is not.  I don’t care if it’s Thanksgiving and your giddy with anticipation over the greasy turkey flesh you are about to shovel in your face.  Just ready the signs already.  Please.

Then some old chick whizzed passed me.  I was amazed by this women’s stride.  So easy, so fluid.  And so old.  Oh, just Joan Benoit Samelson, out for a little jog.

An ending uphill climb, some burped up some oatmeal, and the race was over.  In my head I was justifying that at least with a 3rd place finish I could recoup some of the 30 bucks I put out to run this god awful race.  But I soon realized it was just a $50 gift card to a steakhouse.  Completely useless to me.  I was then handed an apple pie.  Also useless to me.  A vegan.

As I stumbled my way back to my car I tried to play the part of the joyful 3rd place finisher but I felt nothing but frustration.  With myself for my time.  With myself for not finding joy in the simple act of participating in road races.  But when that gun goes off, I run with the intended purpose of pushing my body to its defeat.  Not so much in an attempt to win but to feel a the thrill of personal accomplishment.  To feel that I am worthy of my own approval.  Approval that I apparently lock in a fortress fortified with walls stronger than Dick Cheney’s security.  Though his walls are necessary.  Mine are just extraneous manifestations of personal demons.

But I am and will continue to be competitive.  I remember losing at mini golf once and then abruptly losing control and whacking my mom in the shin with my club.  I don’t play cards.  Not because I don’t enjoy cards but because my parents stop letting me win.  So I sit by the table as a spectator while others take part in the fun. There is no fun without victory in my sad, shallow eyes. As a child, I memorized all the minor imperfections in the cards for the game Memory.  That way I always won.  I don’t believe in cheating but I never saw this as cheating.  Just me being a strategical player.

And so on Thanksgiving, I ran a road race and placed 3rd.  I should be thrilled.  I should have experienced the joy that the other 9,000 runners were emulating on this fine festive holiday.  But I only feel disappointment.  In myself, in my legs, in my inability to run faster less than 2 weeks after a marathon.  And also in the race planners.  For thinking a $50 gift card to a steakhouse is a suitable prize.  The oatmeal I burped up at the finish line was more enjoyable.

Undeserving?  Most likely.  Shallow?  Clearly.  Honest?  At least.

5 miles closer to a deep depression

 

Officially convinced the sun will never show its face in the state of Mass. Ever.

Women’s Overall Place:  3rd.

Time:  Unknown at the moment – not fast enough for me to emote any form of joy, holiday or not.

To follow:  The turkey trot to hell.  With an actual time and descriptions of the horrible experience.

What not to follow:  Optimism.  A reason to keep living.  A maintained weight of 108 pounds.

 

15 things i’m thankful for

With the holidays approaching, I feel it is appropriate to discuss some of the many few things I am thankful for this year.

1.) HD television.  Because I never intend to watch The Sex and the City Movie or televisions shows like Desperate Housewives or The Real Housewives of New Jersey.  But HDTV guarantees that the experience of witnessing ladies past their prime in high-def will force me from any judgement lapses that would otherwise veer me toward these films/programs.

2.) The Christian Side-Hug. It single-handedly has saved me a good 7 abortions. I just wish this abstinence advice was part of my 8th grade sex-ed curriculum. It could have been 9.

3.) Oprah’s decision to finally end her talk show and ascend to the heavens. Because if there is something this country needs right now – besides more side-hugs – it’s another deity.

4.) B-movie actors and Appalachian Trail Hikers. Because they seem to be the only ones running for office and someone needs to step up and run this show.

5.) Sarah Palin Supporters. Eluded by specifics, these real Americans always seem to fall back on “drill, baby, drill.” Oh and don’t forget tax cuts! These are clearly the same people voting B-movie actors into office.

6.) Barack Obama. Because he personally sends me email on an almost daily basis and Bush never did that. Note: If you also receive these emails please realize they’re intended for me only. So stop reading my mail. Thanks.

7.) Shows like Intervention and Lock Up. Because sometimes I feel down. After watching these shows I realize it could be worse. I could be living in a tool shed cooking up meth or microwaving my cat after taking out a family of three. 15 minutes and a pint of vegan ice cream later, life doesn’t seem so bad.

8.) My mom. Because the other day she asked me how to spell the word “gutter.” She was insistent that the letter “D” was involved. And sometimes it takes more than 15 minutes of trashy television and 1,000 empty calories to feel better.

9.) Supercuts and any other cheap salons offering to chop off my hair for less than 15 bucks. Because the only way I am forking over $100 is if you lace my hair with crack cocaine when you’re done.

10.) Kate Gosselin. Because after I receive the resulting heinous haircut from the above mentioned salon, it helps to look at a picture of Kate and realize, it could be worse.

11.) Jesus. Because when I’m strapped for cash and finally decide to take the plunge into standup comedy, he will provide me with endless material.

12.) Seth MacFarlane. Because he makes me seem like less of a jackhole for mocking the lord jesus christ.

13.) Street corners. Because I’m not quite ready to face the rash of the Christian Coalition of America.

14.) Victoria Secret employees who think it’s acceptable to fondle me when trying to determine my cup size. No, it is not acceptable but I won’t stop you. Because everyone needs a little love.

15.) Fox News.  Beer Pong Herpes.  Designer babies. Enough said.

the biggest love

Picture this:  Me, sitting at my computer, guitar in hand, ready to sing my emotions through song.  Maybe throwing in some newfound exclamations of self-love mixed with deep reflections on how I’ve changed my life through drastic weight loss.  All in spirit of last night’s Biggest Loser episode.

If you can find that kind of utter bliss through weight loss, then I am hearby pronouncing that I will force feed myself to obesity in order to score a spot at The Ranch, drop the weight, partake in reflective singalongs, and experience a euphoria more commonly associated with heroin use.

In this mindset, it is with more ease that I am taking today off from running.  Note that I will be running Friday as more than two days off from running in one week will result in actual heroin use.  It is also in this mindset that I put a big dent in an 8 pound bag of walnuts without feeling the least bit of shame.  Just stretching out the stomach in prep for the big holiday.

Also known as prep work to secure myself a slot on TBL.  Because where else will I get the opportunity to meet Suze Orman?  I gained nothing from her time on the show.  Nothing besides how to improperly use the word “girlfriend” and “boyfriend” in awkward conversations.  Plugging Multi-Grain Cheerios is one thing but bringing a financial “expert” on a weight loss show is really stretching it NBC.  There I was, trying to garner some vital information on the inner workings of Liz’s marriage and personal life, and I couldn’t focus on anything besides the “Watch the Suze Orman Show” flashing at the bottom of the screen.  The Biggest Loser has slowly morphed itself into an infomercial.  Yet I can’t seem to stop watching.

I’m thinking about hosting my on home Biggest Loser challenge where I try to abstain from nut butters and nuts for a week.  A feat that seems nearly impossible, yes.  But when a single network can declare Octo-mom one of the “People of the Year” and obese reality show contestants exhibit more confidence than Kayne West at the MTV Video Music Awards, NBC makes it seem like anything is possible.  I may not have much weight to lose but maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to spend two solid hours professing self-love in an attempt to experience the elation the Biggest Loser contestants displayed last night.  And if that doesn’t work then there is always heroin.

running encounters

Since I plan on doing my traditional Thanksgiving road race in order to justify binge eating throughout the entirety of the holiday, I set out to do an easy 7 miles in an attempt to keep my legs fresh.  If legs can be fresh so soon after running a marathon.  After 26.2 miles of pavement, I can’t seem to bring myself to run on the roads and have constricted myself to trails.  This comes at the joy of my shins and the frustration of my bum muscles.  ”Bum muscles” being the proper anatomical phrase to classify those bands of fibrous tissues.

I fell asleep last night convinced I would awake and face the pavement.  But loyal to my woods, I disobeyed my plans and hit the trails.  The perfect place to practice my vocals.

And practice I need because I have a shockingly horrific voice.  As in if I ever was paid enough money (4 bucks) to audition for American Idol, I would be guaranteed a spot on national television were my abhorrent voice would be ridiculed by Simon.

There I was.  Mile 3.  My bitterness was complimented by the cloudy skies and incessant drizzle.  In order to improve my mood, I began busting out Jordin Sparks, Battlefield.  Except I don’t know the lyrics to the song Battlefield.  Instead, I simply know, “I never meant to start a war.”  That is all I know.  On repeat.  With the word “Battlefield” thrown in for good measure.

Now I should preface this story with a note that I see things.  LSD-type sightings.  I no longer do a double take when I spot an armless man peddling down I-93.  A unicorn grazing in my backyard?  I turn my back and walk away.

So when I am running through the woods, I keep my head straight at all times.  Neckbrace style.  Turning my head instills unneccessary fear, and all of a sudden thoughts of creepy white men with unshaven facial hair and a complex for pre-pubescent boys following me start racing through my mind.  I never look behind.  Works great.  Unless a creep is legit following me.  Then I’m screwed.  Or unless I’m attempting to string together the lyrics of Jordin Sparks at the top of my lungs as two ladies are fast approaching.  Giggling to themselves over the horror that is flowing from my mouth disguised as song.  I thought I saw them and like always, I thought it was one of my drug-induced visions.

It was not.  I apologized profusely.  They merely continued laughing.

7-miles later, I was on my way to pick up my race number and score a size small T-shirt.  Size small I acquired but when did size small become the equivalent of men’s extra-large?  I could fit 4 of my running selves in this shirt.  I’m paying 30 bucks to run this race, and you can’t even provide me with a proper fitting shirt?  It is not like I am signing up for a hot dog eating contest or standing in line to purchase some NASCAR merchandise.  (Yes, I did just label all NASCAR fans as obese.  I’m not judging.  The scale is.)

I inquired as to why the smalls were suddenly so large, when I know for a fact they were smaller last year.  Her face remained stone cold perplexed.  Leaving me to further inquire as to the average size of runners.  I know there are runners of many shapes and sizes but a large portion do have a healthy body weight.  Especially the ones out running on a national holiday.  And so, I stood there spewing my anger on this woman, much to the displeasure of two men behind me.  Who could be classified as those types of runners who do not appear to be runners.  As in the extra-large would probably be a little snug on these fellas.

I feared I offended them.  But normally I offend people by mocking the lord jesus christ and personally I think insulting their body size is a step in the right direction.  So I continued in the right direction right back to my car.  Because at the end of the day, just like Jordin, I never meant to start a war.

tuesday ruminations

Some ruminations on this rainy (surprise!) Tuesday:

Why is it that when I stop mid-run for a bathroom break and I hear people approaching, I suddenly lose the ability to properly dress myself?  Anytime I’m alone, the simple act of pulling up my shorts takes seconds.  The sound of rustling leaves, however, renders my ability to perform the act nearly impossible.  Like a toddler attempting to dress myself, I pull up my shorts but fail to grasp hold on my underwear, leading to an inevitable struggle between two elastic bands.  My confusion is replaced by sheer embarrassment as a hiker witnesses the ending show of my pit stop.

Is anyone still watching The Today Show?  Everytime I tune into this program, I only seem to catch Meredith Vieira interviewing some small child who has recently been rescued from a shallow well or hostage situation involving a tool shed, or the even worse situation where a completely unqualified woman over the age of 50 has decided that giving birth to 14 kids is just a terrific idea.  Any small lessons that may somehow be gained from these interviews are eclipsed by awkward pauses caused by satellite time delays.  I have come to the conclusion that I get more news coverage from the 30 seconds I spend reading Star Magazine at the grocery check out counter than I do this dated broadcast.

Was there a recent law passed banning a pet owner’s right to spay and neuter their pets?  Lately, I have been seeing a plethora of heinous dogs.  I love dogs but these resemble a crossbreed of a bull mastiff and a naked mole rat.  Personally, I’ve always wanted to own a wolf.  Or some canine crossbreed with wolf genes.  The sole reason being because I want to take this wolf out for walks, using an industrial chain in place of a lease.  So when people drive by they think, “Holy shit is that a wolf?” Yes, yes it is a wolf.  Fantastic, no?

Who lied to LL Cool J and told him he possessed any acting talent?  More importantly, why is he still going by the name LL Cool J?  P. Diddy that tag and freshen it up.

Something that has been bothering me for weeks now was The Biggest Loser episode in which the contestants had to order out all their meals. They actually broadcast a portion where the contestants were what could be classified as verbally assaulting the food preparers into not feeding them any type of melon or cantaloupe. Only berries! Um, I get that melon and cantaloupe have a higher sugar content than berries. But its fruit. Personally, I’ve never seem a morbidly obese person waddle on by and thought, “Wow, he must really be throwing back the cantaloupe.”

When did using blinkers become such a hassle?  Literally, all it takes is one flip of your wrist.  That’s it.  These irresponsible drivers are usually the ones who manage to apply mascara while driving 82 mph or the jackholes emailing me spam “sent via blackberry” while weaving through rush hour traffic.  No turn directional needed.  I’ll go ahead and assume these are the same kind of folks who let the water run while they brush their teeth and leave the kitchen cabinets open after retrieving a glass.  Because the few fleeting seconds they gain by dismissing these actions as unneccessary saves them time.  Time in which I’m sure they’re using to do great things.  Like artifically inseminate AARP members and encourage LL Cool J to pursue his acting career.