Be Humble for You Are Made of Dung. Be Noble for You Are Made of Stars. serbian proverb

I woke up to dog puke today. That was lovely. I wonder if that is indicative of my day or even my week?

Speaking of days and week, exactly one week from today is my 1st ever marathon run. To say the least, I'm a bit nervous. Not worried like my two running partners who have both been having nightmares. One dreamed I showed up to the marathon with a broken foot. She said she cried.

I need to make mention here that later the same day, in real life, I slammed my foot in my car door. Yes, I am that talented. It's bruised, but not broken. I told her not to tell me her dreams of horror anymore as apparently I'm now obsessing. I wasn't worried about breaking my foot, but now it seems I kick the wall when just casually strolling by it. So, while I'm not having the bad dreams, I am a bit apprehensive, as in, "if I think about the marathon my stomach gets 1,000 butterflies." I think that's a type of anxiety. Isn't it? If not, then it's just confirming I'm a loon. I usually force myself to take a deep breath to try and shake off those winged critters. Eventually, I'm pretty sure that the beautiful butterflies will turn into nervous poo'ing. I'm not really looking forward to that. Unless, of course, that causes me to lose 50-pounds. . . .

Nervousness and its poo aside, I am really looking forward to it! I've trained hard for this and I deserve to finish. And that's all I am really asking for. To finish. Besides, there are people out there going through so much more than I ever want to imagine or know. "Think training is hard? Try chemo." It's a quote that has kept me moving these past 6-months. Yet, it is my hope you nor I ever have to.

Wish me luck. It's something I'm going to need, well, that is if I don't break my foot first.

Keep Your Mind On Business, Not Bunnies

My running team ran a hill workout last night as we usually do on Thursday evenings. I am starting to get used to those or maybe I should say that I am able to continue to mostly stand afterwards. I even manage to keep breathing. Which is good for, well, living. And, is not the point of my post. The point of this post is that usually after our Thursday night hill workouts, the team heads to a food establishment. The place we end up typically is "Fuzzy's Taco's." Many consider the place a legend in their own time. I tend to agree.

And I think the food tends to agree with me. Even if it does totally annihilate my calories burned on those damn hills. The place is fun, hip and placed smack-dab on the very outskirts of a college campus. Thus, there tends to be many a post-adolescent teen placed throughout this yummy eatery. Give them a few margarita's or check in after bar time and the place can get hopping. . . . which, again, is not my point other than to say, the tables have glass counter tops. This means it's easy to slip a personal note, photo or card, etc. underneath the glass. One can find some wild pictures there. Or find out that a certain someone has a small penis, phone number included. Men, be careful what woman you spurn. . . . Hell hath no fury. I'm just advisin'.

Anyhow, my teammates and I sit down. My coach brings me my lite-cerveza - calories burned, even more put back - while having his own seat. He looks at the photo's on the table around him and wondered out loud, "how is it that you got that picture?" That picture was of a woman who was out in public completely nude except for the body paint and the very teeny-tiny insignificant tha-dahnk-ka-dahnk. So, me, being the one who cannot not look at the train wreck or even leave the crime scene as well as being ever so accommodating, moved the tortilla chips basket and pointed at the picture lying directly in front of him. . . .

There, under the glass counter top, sits a photo of the blondie-nonbombshell in all her barely covered gi-normous double-puppy glory love. I am not mean nor am I jealous (if I was 13-flat-chested-years-old, you could maybe say that about me, but these days in my old fogienesses I can and do appreciate another beautiful woman), she really was not cute as she had the face of Magda in "Something About Mary," but she had bewbies. And big one's at that.

In response to my assistance with his viewing pleasure, my generous & very quite-natured running coach said, "she's definitely not a runner."

Smiting Shame

This morning I was going through my old iPhoto's . . . . I found this little ditty of a gem. And since it's so vicious in nature, I had to share it with my 7 readers. Don't judge. This is pre- morning java. It is very, very early for a Texaconsin Diva. Also, notice the reaction upon discovering it is not a photo, but a video. Divine.

My Advice To You Is To Have Nothing Whatever To Do With It.

The husband is an avid cyclist who actually races on a team. I am a runner who is on a team. I participate in events. The husband competes in events. There is a very clear delineation between those two words during our each of our sports. There is also a clear boundary between runners and cyclists.

This is important to know. It's imperative, because the husband decided he would go with me to pick out new running shoes. This type of activity entails a trip to a running store. Just running. A store full of runners, joggers and two-legged racers - not two wheels.

As the cyclist husband held open the running store door for me, he quickly and in pro-ninja stealth mode mentioned, "you know . . . . . this is like throwing vampires and werewolves together."

Someone's Boring Me. I Think It's Me.

If you make it to reading the story typed below, here is the post I started yesterday. I'm pretty sure I'll be continuing it tomorrow.

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It's tax season again. Here I sit in front of the computer wishing my face would melt off instead of doing the inevitable. . . .

Our dreaded deadline fast approaches, March 15th, without me doing much about it. Blehck. Corporate/personal taxes. Just blehck. Though I suspect I am actually giving our financial planning accountant some pretty quick heart palpitations at this very point and time, seeing as he has nothing from us yet. So, I am doing something. Right? Right?

It's Not Like You Were Doing Anything With It

So, as I'm getting older, I find myself at the door of the doctor. I even make it into the office, which includes the dreaded scale. I don't want to go to the doctor or get on his evil, vile scale, but I'm pretty much made to go to the doctor where I believe they will pick you up and put you on that soulless fat counting machine if you refuse. Have you seen some of those nurses?! I don't like going to the doctor even though I always feel like my face is melting off and that I'm dying. The doctor proceeds to tell me that my face is not vaporizing and death is not imminent.

Irregardless, of my wanting to go to the doctor, I was made to make an appointment. So, I did. I love the husband and he seems to love me back, so when he tells me to go see the doctor over 100-times, I'm inclined to go.

Eventually.

Even though I am fine. Really. I am. And I will go only to be told that I am still living and breathing in which I will continue do so for many, many years to come. I already knew this. Apparently, my face is not melting off. But since I was there and I had to speak to the doctor, I did. I actually really, really like this doctor. In fact, I'm a huge fan of doctors in general. But most of you know this already. My wedding vows made that crystal clear.

So, because I like to share, here's a wee bit of one conversation I did have with my PCP this past Friday morning:

doctor: are you exercising?
me: yes. I'm actually in the middle of training for a marathon with Team in Training.
doctor: really?
me: yes. I absolutely love it!
doctor: so how is it that you're running all these miles and not losing any weight?
me: . . . . ? ? ? . . . . [blink, blink]

I think my face began to melt off.





That was a fun day.