Run Schmun

I'm registered to run the Cherry Blossom 10 Mile Run in April. It was one of those situations where a bunch of my friends started signing up to create a team and everyone was talking about how much fun it would be, and I was sitting on my couch, and running a race with a bunch of your friends always sounds fun when you're sitting on the couch. It sounded fun while I was searching the web for a training plan. It sounded fun while I was typing up and printing out my training plan. It sounded fun while I was making my training plan all pretty and hanging it up in the apartment. It sounded fun until the moment that I stepped outside for my first run and then I remembered why it is that I don't do this.

That's sort of a lie - that I don't do this. I mean, I do. I have. There was a time period in college when I really considered myself a runner. I ran regularly 3 or 4 times a week. I was training for a half-marathon, and I would wake up early in the morning to go run. If I overslept, I thought about it during the day - I couldn't wait to get out there for my run. Running felt good, and I got to where I could run pretty fast. But then I was also anorexic. And seriously Type A, like Type A Plus. I never ran the half-marathon because I went into treatment, and I had to stop running. And then I just never could get back into it.

I ran a marathon a few years later, but I didn't train well enough and I hurt my knee. Last year I ran an 8K, which was good. But I promptly stopped running the moment I finished the race. I've been trying for 9 years to become a runner again. The babe thinks I'm insane - why keep doing this thing that I don't like to do? I've provided a number of reasons:

1. Exercise is important; I have to do something.

2. It's easy. Put on your shoes and go.

3. Yoga and dance classes cost money.

4. I liked it once. I'll like it again.

5. Everyone else seems to do it, and invite me to join.* That makes me feel special.

When I'm out there hobbling along, I'm often thinking of number 5, which sometimes includes cursing my friends. Why doesn't anyone send out emails asking everybody to join in a square dancing competition? Or to meet up and practice so that we can do 108 sun salutations together? Or to start a belly dancing troupe? Why running?

So last week in the midst of all the snow, I made a decision (thanks to a prior conversation with a fellow 10 mile teammate and some conversations with the babe) to let go of any pressure on this race and just start training run/walk style. It's how I got into running back in college - the Jeff Galloway way. So I've started doing my training runs where I run 3 minutes and walk 1 minute for however long I'm out there. It's been pretty nice. While I'm a disappointment to hardcore runners everywhere, I feel more relaxed about all of it. So Cherry Blossom 10 Mile Run, here I come. It might take me a day to finish, but who the hell cares?

* I know - I did invite my dad to do the marathon with me, and I invited my friend T to do the 8K with me, but that's beside the point.

Haiti

Generally conversations of the following type really bug me:

person 1: ugh. my hair looks like shit today.

person 2: you should be grateful that you have hair. some people don't have hair.

person 1: um...right.

I don't like how person 2 tries to invalidate person 1's feelings. Yes, we should be grateful for the things we have, but it rarely helps to ignore our own feelings.

However, with that said, I'd like to take a moment to recognize that my current struggles (fear of falling on my lovely ski vacation, a long corporations assignment for my excellent corporations class, etc) are, on a scale of one to ten - one being happy millionaire, ten being currently dying - maybe a two point five.

I'm sending my thoughts and prayers to the people of Haiti and remembering how very much I have to be thankful for.

I promise I will never

Talk loudly on the speaker phone with my door open.

Promise.

This has been building for a while

I hate being spat upon by public toilets. I don't mean to discriminate here. If a private toilet spat on me, I would hate that too. It's just that I've never been subject to this particular affront by a private toilet. No, as of now, it is only public toilets that take away my flushing autonomy and subject me to the particularized delight of haivng toilet water spew onto my bare nether regions as I pee. Or reach into my bag to grab a tampon. Or breath, as of late.

Just today I have been spat upon 6 times. I've gone to the bathroom THREE times. So, the excess water usage we're talking about is 3 flushes. Three wasted flushes. Unless, of course, toilets are the new bidets. And let me just say, if that's the plan, it's a bad one. Toilets should NOT be bidets. Things should go INTO a toilet, not come out of it. That seems like it would be a pretty general understanding, but clearly the automatic flush makers missed the memo. Because they're sending water shooting out of the toilet at double the necessary rate.

And I reject the imposition on my right to choose. Using the bathroom is a very private activity. I might go so far as to say that it is one of the most private activities in which I engage, aside from the fact that I have to regularly engage in it within 2 feet of random strangers. I oppose the implication that I am unable to make the choice for myself when (and if) I choose to flush. I'll address several arguments that may be fueling the automatic flushing movement:

1. Some people don't flush, so automatic flushing saves others from having to see their refuse.
It's true. Some people don't flush. Shame on them. They should be punished. Spew toilet water onto their asses. But, as of now, I am getting punished for their inability to flush. As much as I hate to walk into a stall with a toilet full of someone else's stuff, I prefer it to a wet butt.

2. Flushing the toilet requires touching the flush handle, and that's unsanitary.
True. Sort of. I am perfectly capable of grabbing a wad of toilet paper and using it to flush a toilet. I've done it before; I'll do it again. And other people can make that same choice if they'd like. But you know what's really unsanitary? Wildly spewing toilet water.

3. Automatic flushing creates ease of use for everyone.
It's true that automatic flushing is easier than having to turn around and flush the toilet yourself. However, I recommend a balancing test here. The benefit of ease of use must be weighed against any hygienic detriments. For instance, the benefit of ease of use associated with automatic faucets clearly outweighs any hygienic detriments. It removes the unsanitary element of touching the faucet handles. The automatic flushing is totally different. With automatic flushing, there's an addition of hygienic detriments. The aforementioned spitting problem.

Based on these arguments, it is clear to me (and should be clear to you) that automatic flushing toilets in their current state of functioning should be banished. I'll let you know if I figure out who to talk to about this.

Infomercials are stupid unless they're for something I want

I've been watching tv lately - since I got home.
This infomercial keeps coming on for the Bender Ball - it's an ab exercise thing.
It's not really a new concept in the fitness world, but I'm sooooo irrationally annoyed by this one girl on the infomercial.
She says, "I love my abdominals. Yes, I love my belly. I love my abdominals."
Who says that?
I love my abdominals?
Shut up.
Love your belly, your stomach, even your abs - but not your abdominals.

Letter

Dear DC Metro Riders,

Hello there! I just wanted to send a note to talk about a teensy-tiny little problem that I've been having with you. I know we normally get along quite well, which is really shocking when you think about it, since you're usually all up in my personal space, which makes me sort of cranky. But I don't hold it against you because I understand that you're really just a product of the environment in which you exist - which is, well, the DC transportation system. And really, the metro's better than most of it.

So I'm not talking about personal space here. Except if by personal space, we're talking about the personal space that none of us are going to have when landfills take over our pretty little planet. That's right, my dear metro friends, I'm pulling out the hyperbole. But I promise, it's for a good cause.

I'm talking newspapers, people. Any type of newspaper you could want, you can get here. And you can get a bunch of them for free. I, for one, am a happy reader of the Washington Post Express. I normally read the news online, but I delight in my free paper and a few moments of luxurious non-law reading while I stand squished in between several of you flowery-scented metro riders. But guess what I do when I'm finished with my paper? I know, I know. You're tired of guessing games. So I'll tell you.

I put it in the recycling bin.

Don't act surprised. It's the giant bin that says NEWSPAPER HERE with a slot in it. It's at the exit of every metro station right next to the trash can. RIGHT NEXT to the trashcan. And I have to say that I am increasingly disappointed by you, my fellow riders, when you stand in front of the recycling bin and throw your newspaper into the trash can.

I get that sometimes you're busy and don't have time to take that environmentally-conscious step. It happens to me. I feel shame, but it happens. I forgive you for that. I forgive me for that. I forgive all human-kind for our overworked, forgetful sometimes lack of recycling. I do.

But I'm telling you now - the next person I see stand in front of a perfectly good recycling bin and reach past it to throw their newspaper into the trash is going to get strapped to a chair and have their eyes held open while I force them to stare at this creepy picture of Al Gore for 24 hours.

Kisses!

(In)Sanity Gal

Starting the day off right

I had to park my bike on the other side of the street last night when I got home. For some reason, there were three bikes already on my side of the street - where there are usually none. At any rate, I parked it and locked it up and went inside.

This morning, I came out with all my stuff and started to unlock it and get it all set up to head to my internship. I was doing this all in front of a building that is having construction work done. Construction men were coming in and out, laying drop-cloths, and doing other construction-prep type things.

Anyway, I get my bookbag netted down to my bike and unlock everything and roll up my pant leg, and something seems not right. Ah! No helmet. I see people everyday who ride without helmets. However, since I prefer my brains inside my skull, I propped up my bike and rushed inside to get my helmet. I walked out of my apartment, helmet in hand, and when I was about 15 steps from my bike, it crashed to the ground. With my bookbag on it. With my laptop in my bookbag.

All of the construction men - about 5 of them - stood and stared at it. I don't know whether any of them had anything to do with it falling over. I'm not suggesting that they did. But nonetheless, they just stood there staring at it. So I ran over and started trying to lift it up, which was a bit difficult since it was all off-balance because of the bookbag strapped to the back of it. The men continued to just stand there, and then they started to laugh. As I struggled to get the bike back to standing, they laughed. And as I struggled to keep it standing while I readjusted my bookbag and made sure that everything was secure, they stood there and watched me.

WHAT THE EFF? Who are these people? Is it so much to help somebody out? And not laugh at them?

And let me just say that I have met some really nice construction workers in my day. Once two years ago, my car was stuck in the snow, and a group of about 7 guys came over and lifted it off of the snow and pushed me into the street. Lifted it. Like actually picked up my car. I didn't ask them. They just came over because they saw that I was struggling. Clearly not the same construction workers.

These guys. I don't even know what to say about these guys.

The Big Questions

I’m sitting on the metro today reading for class, and this guy gets up and walks towards the doors of the train. I’m guessing he’s somewhere between 18 and 25 years old. He reaches up with both hands, grabs the bar running across the top of the train and starts doing pull-ups, sort of vigorous pull-ups too. He does about 5. Then he drops down and beats his chest a la Tarzan.

Okay, kind of creepy.

Then he makes his fingers into guns and starts kind of shooting all around him. He’s not making any noise really, just silently mouthing pow pow pow. (It could be that he’s just dealing with some pent-up aggression over the girl who is listening to heavy metal on her ipod so loudly that I’m getting a headache from it, which would be warranted.) At any rate, this is all happening over the course of about a minute and a half.

The doors open, and he walks off the train.

Um, weird.

But he’s off the train now, and while I’m still concerned that I may snap and attack the ipod girl, I no longer fear for my own life from the pull-up boy, which leaves me to ponder on important things.

Like pull-up boy’s pants.

This is not a picture of his actual butt, of course – but this is what was happening.

Frankly, I have to say that I’m kind of shocked that this is still in fashion. I thought it would be over in 1992 or something, but clearly I was wrong.

My concern today is not with the aesthetics, though. I’m talking about physics. And biology.

Hips and butts hold up pants. That’s what they do. It’s what they’re good for. Okay, they’re good for some other things, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. We’re talking pants.

So, when this guy’s pants are below his hips and his butt, what is holding them up? I truly do not know. He had on a belt, so you could say that the belt is holding them up, but it’s tightened around his thighs. So, if it’s tight enough to hold up his pants, how does he walk? I saw him walking, so I know that he can.

And then here’s the big question – what about his, um…stuff? From what I could tell, it’s probably being smashed by his belt. That can’t be comfortable.
In the interest of full disclosure, I’m not all that experienced with the male anatomy, but I do know generally where everything is, and it was under this dude’s belt.

So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go home tonight and put on a pair of baggy pants and sinch them with a belt right underneath my butt. And try to walk and see what happens. I know – this doesn’t solve the question of what’s getting smashed, but come on, there’s only so much I can do. I’ll report back with my findings.

The Best Laid Plans

9:32 pm - Call the babe to say goodnight, the plan being to go to bed early after a stressful, emotionally traumatic day and get up rejuvenated around 6:00 to do a bit of yoga and spend an hour finishing evidence reading before heading to the internship.

9:52 pm - Hang up with the babe, turn out the light, and snuggle under covers.

10:18 pm - Readjust my position in the bed for about the 30th time. Begin slowly saying a relaxing mantra in my head.

10:22 pm - Decide that I will get up and read if I'm still awake at 10:30.

10:26 pm - Get out of bed and get evidence book. Figure that I might as well be useful. Besides, it was putting me to sleep earlier.

11:04 pm - Curse my damned brain for not cooperating. Curse my evidence book for not putting me to sleep. Just curse in general. Sigh heavily in dejected manner.

11:05 pm - Harumph off the bed and put on my slippers. Shuffle into kitchen and pour glass of soymilk. Spread cheese on piece of bread. Sit down at computer. Confirm no new emails/chats/comments since last time I checked. Start reading blogs. Eat and read.

11:45 pm - Wonder how it is possible that I'm not falling asleep at the computer. Curse my damned brain.

12:05 pm - Back in bed. Trying to think relaxing thoughts. Trying not to think non-relaxing thoughts like "HOLY GOD, YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE ASLEEP 2 HOURS AGO, AND NOW YOU'RE NOT GOING TO GET ENOUGH SLEEP AND YOU'RE GOING TO BE TIRED FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!"

12:18 pm - Curse my damned brain.

6:00 am - Curse my damned alarm clock. Yoga. Hmm... Ha.

...and the law won

How many ways can I say that I'm really not into school right now?

Law school sucks.
I'm done.
Boo for law school.
Done. Done. DOOOOOONE.
Meh.
Law school is a poopyhead.
Ptttpbh.
Law school can kiss my arse.

Some questions about the vice-presidential debate

Can you give a shout out in a vice presidential debate? Is that allowed?

Why is it so hard to pronounce the word nuclear? NEW - KLEE - ER - is that so hard?

What is the appeal in constantly smiling like a snarky reporter?

When did the republicans gain the corner on being on the side of the American people?

Since when is fighting in a war the only way you can fight for the American people? Might some civil rights activists (fighters) be a little annoyed by this characterization?

Password from now on: Fu*#Yo2!

I just renewed my health insurance for the year, and in order to receive the confirmation message that they sent me, I had to create a password for their special mail system. The world of passwords nowadays is simply crazy. Here are the requirements for my password:

1. at least one lowercase letter
2. at least one uppercase letter
3. at least one number
4. at least one punctuation symbol
5. at least 8 characters

And then they have the nerve to say that you should come up with a password that will be easy to remember and that you won't have to write down. Seriously? I need a personal assistant just to remember passwords. I try to keep things as simple as possible and use a lot of the same ones, but with all of these wonky requirements, it's really difficult. And then I won't go on that site again for 4 months or something and when I do, I will have absolutely no idea what my password is. The same thing happens when I call my bank, which I do about twice a year. And then they ask me my phone password, and I'm trying to sound like I know what it is so that they'll talk to me about my account, but inside, I'm thinking, "Phone password? Huh? Um...would that be the same as my online password? Is that what I would've thought 4 years ago when I set this password?" I realize it's all for protection, and it's probably a good thing. But man, is it a pain in the ass.

No, YOU'RE a poopyhead!

I am so, so tired of the trash talk in the campaigns right now. I know it's nothing new - this is just the political world. But it bugs the crap out of me. I want to listen to the candidates and their people and know what they stand for, but I don't want to listen to the crap that they have to dish out about each other. I already know all that. I had to turn off the news show this morning when McCain's campaign manager came on because it just started to make me sick. And I'm not suggesting that Obama's campaign manager would sound any different. I know this post is sort of ridiculous because nothing's going to change, but I felt the need to spout my own negativity, I guess. Here's my message: All of you have money! None of you are in touch with the working class! All of you are mixed up with Washington lobbyists! All of you have benefitted from earmarks! Now move on and talk about the issues!

Where are you Pema Chodron?

A little background to this story:

One of the requirements for being on a journal at Law School is taking a class on scholarly writing. It only meets a few times over the course of the year, but on those occasions, it meets at 7:45 am. That’s right – A.M. Today was one of those mornings. It sucks no matter what. However, in addition to having this class, I had to go to work at my internship and then to a fall recruiting interview and then take a cab to the airport to fly to San Francisco for a conference. So I left my apartment this morning at 7:15 in a suit and “comfortable” shoes, carrying my purse and a laptop bag and pulling my suitcase behind me. At 7:20 the back of my right heel started to hurt. By the time I got to school, I had blisters on both feet and was oh so cranky. Then we had class. Ok fine. So I leave school at 8:45 and head to the metro. Here begins our story, and by “story” I mean, the thoughts in (I)S Gal’s head.

“Thank God these shoes are flexible enough for me to fold down the heels and still walk in them. Why do I always forget this about these shoes? I should’ve worn socks. Ugh. Hey, don’t honk at me! I’m rolling a suitcase, you jerk! And my feet hurt. What the hell do you want from me? I’m walking as fast as I can. I hate all of you people!”

In the metro station:

“See station manager?? Oh, no money on my SmartTrip card. Ok. Seriously? The SmartTrip system is down? Ok. Buying a farecard. Not a big deal.”

On the train:

“What a stupid day. What a stupid stupid day. I am so tired of dressing up. Does this shirt stink already? I guess it won’t matter if I have a jacket on. Wait a second. I don’t remember the train going outside on my way to work. Wait a…am I on the blue line? Oh holy shit I’m on the blue line. Good grief (I)S Gal, what is wrong with you? Ugh. Ok. I’ll just get off at the next stop and turn around and get on the orange line.”

At the next stop:

“Oh sweet! I’m just in time for the train going the other way. Go go go! Move people. Cranky gal with a suitcase coming through. Thank goodness something is going right today.”

On the train:

“Ok. Breath. Relax. I’m going to get off the train in a second and walk to work and just focus on that and then…wait a second. We’re outside. Oh my god. Am I on the blue line train AGAIN??? Holy lord girl – what is your problem?! Unbelievable. Truly. It is not enough that I am carrying around 50 pounds of crap with this blasted suitcase and a laptop case and a purse and a suit jacket, but I am now… Where’s my suit jacket? WHERE IS MY SUIT JACKET???? Oh you are kidding me. You are seriously kidding me. I love this suit! I have an interview! I’m flying out to a conference where I have to wear this suit!! AAAAAAH!!!!! I think I’m going to have a heart attack. Ok. I’m going to get off the train again and turn around again and go to work and put down my stuff and what? Call Metro I guess. What do you do when you leave something on a train? Never see it again probably. Ugh. What a stupid, stupid day.”

Riding up the escalator at the station:

“Stupid, stupid, stupid. What is that? What is that? That – right there. Lying on the ground. It looks like a…could it be? I can’t tell - why am I pulling this stupid suitcase?? Oh please… It is! IT’S MY JACKET!!!! Oh glory hallelujah. Hi stranger! Hi there! Yes, I am smiling like a lunatic! HI! This is my jacket! Lying on the ground! I’ve completely lost my mind!”

So, I finally arrived at work. I am now in possession of my jacket, have tough-strip bandaids on both of my heels, and have purchased the People magazine with Ellen and Portia’s wedding in it to make myself feel better. It just might work. That is, if I can make it to my interview and to the airport without…I’m not even going to say it. Fingers crossed.