So, my sister-in-law, who knows I "run" now, texted me, asking if I wanted to do something called a "warrior dash." Not entirely sure what it was, I checked it out online.
Holy shit.
It's 3.1 miles, which I'm comfortable with. It's the other stuff that scares me. Like the fire. And the barbed wire. And the fire.
I'm officially registered. Husband is too, along with some other friends, which makes it a little less scary and a lot more fun. In the meantime, I'm "training." So far this week, this has meant coming home from work and collapsing on the couch in a fit of exhaustion. I need motivation, I thought, snuggling a little deeper into the couch. I need to be held accountable...
And here we are again. Today was my first productive "training" day this week--I got on the elliptical and made what felt like a very unnatural movement with my legs for 45 minutes. It was actually my first experience with an elliptical, and I came dangerously close to falling off a couple different times (I let go of the bar to grab water). Am I just extremely uncoordinated, or are these things cleverly disguised machines that will bring an end to civilization? I've seen Transformers, people. I know what I know. Don't be fooled by their user-friendly Quick Start option...they want your blood.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
I'm 30!
Here's some webernet ambiance for you while you read.
Well, folks, I'm 30. It's pretty much the exact same thing as 29, except when I stepped on the scale this morning, I was 129.2!
That's right, scale! I beat you and your stupid scale mind games! Take that!
So, I did it. Not without some sweat, tears, lamenting, and nacho binges, but here we are. And I do want to offer sincere thanks to you guys, the few people I trusted with this blog. You guys really cheered me on, especially during those dark times when I thought nothing would ever happen. You really don't know just how much that means to me, unless you imagine me spreading out my arms very, very wide. There. That much. If you ever find yourself needing a cheerleader for any endeavor (unless it's, like, burning monkeys), let me know, and I'll bring the pompoms. I owe you one (but again, no monkey-burning).
Well, folks, I'm 30. It's pretty much the exact same thing as 29, except when I stepped on the scale this morning, I was 129.2!
That's right, scale! I beat you and your stupid scale mind games! Take that!
So, I did it. Not without some sweat, tears, lamenting, and nacho binges, but here we are. And I do want to offer sincere thanks to you guys, the few people I trusted with this blog. You guys really cheered me on, especially during those dark times when I thought nothing would ever happen. You really don't know just how much that means to me, unless you imagine me spreading out my arms very, very wide. There. That much. If you ever find yourself needing a cheerleader for any endeavor (unless it's, like, burning monkeys), let me know, and I'll bring the pompoms. I owe you one (but again, no monkey-burning).
Friday, July 8, 2011
Lament: One More Week
So, my birthday is a week today.
Shit.
I'm nervous, guys. Fo' realz. (I think using the apostrophe after the fo just cost me some street cred). Last time I weighed myself, I was exactly 131, only one more pound to go. Seems like that should be a good thing, right? But here's the thing--my weight never seems to have any rhyme or reason to it. It's my version of Russian Roulette. I get on the scale, close my eyes, and pull the trigger. Maybe I'll be 134, maybe 131. Who knows? I just hope I don't kill myself each and every time I do it.
I'm playing another round tomorrow morning, just so I know what I'm dealing with. If it's above 131, I plan on hurling my body at the couch at break-neck speed (which might happen if I miss the couch, come to think of it), and lamenting. And by "lamenting," I don't mean I will lay there and feel sorry for myself--this is something Husband came up with. It's somewhere between meditation and a game that an acting class for 8 year-olds would probably use. Here's how to play:
1.) Unless you live with someone like Husband, who will not question your weirdness (even though he probably should), check and make sure you're alone. Don't forget to check under the beds. I don't know why someone would be hiding under there, but seriously, if a murdering rapist broke into my apartment and heard me playing Lament, I'd be horrified, and probably apologize to him as he was murdering/raping me. It would be that embarrassing.
2.) Throw your body forcefully on a soft piece of furniture. This is not the time to half-ass it. Really put some effort into it.
3.) Ready? This is your big moment. Lift your head from wherever it landed, and make a ridiculously over-exaggerated Shirley Temple pout. If you have trouble with this, scrunch your eyebrows as low as you can (no using your hands, cheaters), and clothespin your lips together. Got it? Good.
4.) Now, take the clothespin off your lips and take a deep breathe. As you exhale, in your whiniest, most melodramatic voice, say, "LAMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNT!" Be sure to maintain your bitchface.
5.) Repeat Step 4 as long as needed. Just so you know, your first few "Laments" should be considered a warm-up. After you have a couple under your belt, your bitchface should be effortless, and your "Laments" should be building in intensity. Husband introduced me to this, and I've never had a bad day that it couldn't fix.
6.)***Optional*** This step is not for the weak. If you do happen to live with someone like Husband, or if you have amazing friends (I mean the kind you would trust with your secrets, hair, and money), you can have a group lament. In the right company, a group lament will do wonders for your psyche, and solve all your problems. But be careful--one shy, self-conscious eye-roller has the potential to kill it for everyone. And nothing good comes from a ruined lamentation. Do you think the Holocaust would have happened if Hitler had a solid group of friends to lament with after World War 1? Exactly.
If you happen to be around my apartment tomorrow, and hear a strange noise that resembles Fran Drescher singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," you'll know how the weigh-in went.
Shit.
I'm nervous, guys. Fo' realz. (I think using the apostrophe after the fo just cost me some street cred). Last time I weighed myself, I was exactly 131, only one more pound to go. Seems like that should be a good thing, right? But here's the thing--my weight never seems to have any rhyme or reason to it. It's my version of Russian Roulette. I get on the scale, close my eyes, and pull the trigger. Maybe I'll be 134, maybe 131. Who knows? I just hope I don't kill myself each and every time I do it.
I'm playing another round tomorrow morning, just so I know what I'm dealing with. If it's above 131, I plan on hurling my body at the couch at break-neck speed (which might happen if I miss the couch, come to think of it), and lamenting. And by "lamenting," I don't mean I will lay there and feel sorry for myself--this is something Husband came up with. It's somewhere between meditation and a game that an acting class for 8 year-olds would probably use. Here's how to play:
1.) Unless you live with someone like Husband, who will not question your weirdness (even though he probably should), check and make sure you're alone. Don't forget to check under the beds. I don't know why someone would be hiding under there, but seriously, if a murdering rapist broke into my apartment and heard me playing Lament, I'd be horrified, and probably apologize to him as he was murdering/raping me. It would be that embarrassing.
2.) Throw your body forcefully on a soft piece of furniture. This is not the time to half-ass it. Really put some effort into it.
3.) Ready? This is your big moment. Lift your head from wherever it landed, and make a ridiculously over-exaggerated Shirley Temple pout. If you have trouble with this, scrunch your eyebrows as low as you can (no using your hands, cheaters), and clothespin your lips together. Got it? Good.
4.) Now, take the clothespin off your lips and take a deep breathe. As you exhale, in your whiniest, most melodramatic voice, say, "LAMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNT!" Be sure to maintain your bitchface.
5.) Repeat Step 4 as long as needed. Just so you know, your first few "Laments" should be considered a warm-up. After you have a couple under your belt, your bitchface should be effortless, and your "Laments" should be building in intensity. Husband introduced me to this, and I've never had a bad day that it couldn't fix.
6.)***Optional*** This step is not for the weak. If you do happen to live with someone like Husband, or if you have amazing friends (I mean the kind you would trust with your secrets, hair, and money), you can have a group lament. In the right company, a group lament will do wonders for your psyche, and solve all your problems. But be careful--one shy, self-conscious eye-roller has the potential to kill it for everyone. And nothing good comes from a ruined lamentation. Do you think the Holocaust would have happened if Hitler had a solid group of friends to lament with after World War 1? Exactly.
If you happen to be around my apartment tomorrow, and hear a strange noise that resembles Fran Drescher singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," you'll know how the weigh-in went.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)