Sunday, November 20, 2022

Бо я тащусь від тебе давно

What? You asked.

The year my mother died, I was taking a drama class. I was friends with all the theatre geeks and I liked the drama club teacher, so why the fuck not?

(Long time readers will recognise the fuck it factor at work…)

The homework assignment was to describe an emotional day you had - the day you got your driver’s license, for example. You know. Emotional shit.

My essay might have started by grabbing you by the short hairs and didn’t let go for two pages.

On Wednesday, March 18th, I walked into the condo to see my father crying at the kitchen table.

My father never cries.

When he finally looked at me, I knew.

“Ding dong, the witch is dead,” I asked.

“Ding dong,” he answered.

Have I said how absolutely fucking thrilled I am to be cleaning out 40+ years of memories I’d rather forget? (STILL!)

Do you know, I couldn’t remember what grade I got? I couldn’t just flip to the end and look. No! That would have been the sensible thing to do. The easy thing.

When the fuck have I ever done the easy thing?

I read the entire fucking thing. Cried through all of it. Wondered how it would end.

(Spoiler alert: it ends with my mother six feet under.)

And the grade? As if there were any doubt: A+  The relationship between mother and child can be difficult and you captured that.

Can. Be. Difficult.

Oh, Doc L., you have no idea.

BBQ sauce on my titties would have been a much better story.

 

- - - - - - - - - -

I ran last night.

Willingly got on the treadmill with my puffer in hand.

2 miles - intervals for all of it: 30 seconds (13mm) / 2 minutes (20mm).

Not speedy. Not balloon lady safe.

I did two beginner iFit workouts because I wanted to zone out and let the treadmill tell me what to do.

(The girl who drives a stick and refuses to use cruise control because she drives the car put the treadmill in charge. Yeah.)

I didn’t enjoy it.

But, I didn’t hate it, either.

I have a Turkey Trot coming up on the 24th. In fucking Miami.

I wasn’t really looking forward to the race, but… I’ve always done well at 10Ks. Especially there.

It’s not enough to salvage my Dopey training, but it’s a start.

My new shoes and socks don’t cause blisters, so maybe I can get father in the marathon than mile four.

I have no idea and I don’t really care.

I’ll do what I can and then I’m hanging up the sneakers.

Saturday, November 12, 2022

I had a fucked up week that lasted years.

Shrinky Dinks, invented in 1973, are a children’s toy and activity kit consisting of large flexible sheets which, when heated in an oven, shrink to small hard plates without altering their colour or shape. (see also: drug dealer)

It’s a Matt Nathanson sort of day around these parts.

I hit a wall with running about the same time Potterhead was forced to shut down. Despite my running coach’s best efforts, I couldn’t improve. In fact, I swiftly went from success to abject failure. He thought I had exercise induced asthma and that’s why I had not improved. I wasn’t fully convinced (I’m still not), but I saw a doctor he recommended. Guy was a complete douchenozzle, but I took the prescription for the inhaler and went on my merry way.

Fast forward to Wine and Dine.

I hated the 5K, was absolutely miserable during the 10K, and walked off the half marathon course at mile 7. The truth is, it wasn’t the humidity. It wasn’t the heat. It wasn’t the asthma. I just didn’t want to be there.

I’ve been joking about how I hate running, but the soundtrack in my head during those 16 miles… well, let’s just say that those little voices in my head? The ones I’m not supposed to talk about? They were right.

I. FUCKING. HATE. RUNNING.

It doesn’t spark joy. I don’t get a runner’s high.

I. Get. Absolutely. Nothing. out of it.

NOTHING.

So. Really. What’s the fucking point?

I walk a 5K in a little less than a hour. Longer if I’m on the treadmill because that’s when I allow myself to read certain fan fics… but even with reading the un-put-downable pr0n (as the Chicken calls it), I fucking hate it. That’s an hour I could spend doing anything that actually makes me feel good.

I fired my running coach last night.

I left all but one of my Disney running groups.

Being able to admit that I hate it has taken a huge weight off of my shoulders…

but, of course, I’m a fucking idiot and posted in my favourite running (non-RTI FB) group about my struggles and asking if it’s normal.

And… there was that one asshole who told me I was mentally ill and needed to see a psychiatrist.

Bitch, please.

You mean the psychiatrist who held my hand and walked me out of the most suicidal mindset I’ve ever experienced? (Fuck you, CrossFit.)

You mean the psychiatrist who has been trying to help me get past the closure of the only place that has ever truly inspired me to run?

Or, perhaps, you mean the psychiatrist who has pushed me - repeatedly - to find a simple prop to occupy my time?

This one goes out to the one I love…  FIRE! She’s coming down on her own now…

I’m sorry.

I lost the plot there for a minute.

I guess I’m fucked in the head after all.

Thank you for the diagnosis, internet stranger. I feel much better now.