I’m sure johnlock exists because Conan Doyle used ejaculate so much…
I haven’t run or walked since my disastrous finish at the Turkey Trot.
I deferred my entry for a 5K / Half Marathon combo this weekend.
I have the Dopey Challenge in less than a month and I haven’t successfully finished a half marathon since last January.
You can’t fake a marathon, so as long as I get a little further than when I was swept last year, I’ll be happy.
I keep thinking about why I chose to start running.
Why I chose to do Dopey two years in a row, knowing that I wasn’t going to train for it properly.
I don’t know if this is depression or weight gain or… something I can’t put my finger on.
I’m still shocked that I put in all that work with a running coach and didn’t even plateau.
No. I couldn’t do something that actually makes sense.
Instead, I went on a downward spiral so brutal I’m still trying to figure out what went wrong.
And I really doubt it’s a simple as exercise induced asthma, although that’s a great excuse.
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In other news, last Sunday, I had my first nosebleed. (Seriously. Never had one before.)
Monday, I had my second and third.
Tuesday, I had my fourth, my fifth, and my sixth.
Wednesday, I went to Urgent Care looking for a quick fix or a reason. Had my seventh.
Thursday, saw an ENT who found the equivalent of a pimple in my nose and zapped it. Was told more nosebleeds were part of the healing process. (What the actual FUCK?!?!?!?!?!?!)
Friday, had my eighth right as a zoom meeting started. Ninth was so bad I freaked out. Tenth was annoying.
I haven’t had a nosebleed since Friday night, but I’m terrified of it starting again.
That’s part of why I deferred my race entry. I didn’t want to be on a course somewhere, not near a med tent, if it started again. It wasn’t like I could carry a box of Kleenex and a garbage can with me.
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I’m getting a very generous raise effective January first, and a nice Christmas bonus.
Except, since my longevity at jobs is so bad (can I call it shortgevity?), that the owner said it was a bribe to make me stay.
I wanted to tell him that hurt and that he could keep his money…
It’s not like I take jobs planning to leave in a year or two.
Seriously. Why the fuck would I do this myself?
More importantly, with the exception of Global Spectrum, who actually plans on leaving a place every few years? (At Global, it was the norm to look for better positions, at better arenas. Every week, they sent out an internal job posting email, and by the end of the 30 day posting period, most of those jobs were gone. I love the hire from within culture as long as it’s followed through.)
I really like it at most of the jobs I take, but I always end up leaving when something triggers the bipolar, or the politics in the office become unbearable.
For example: I kind of liked my job at an airport, but the owner was spending so much and the books were so bad, that payroll was withheld twice. I can’t work and not get paid.
For example: I liked the health care company I worked at, but there were two bullies who made everyone miserable. I was given a promotion, but no raise, with the entire job description being to keep those two in line. In the end, I guess the joke’s on them. I had been working with the Controller on a super secret project to prepare the financials needed to sell the company. The company was sold and everyone lost their jobs. I would have been one of them if I hadn’t left before that.
For example: I liked the HVAC company I worked for, but I hated the Assistant Controller. She was on a mission to get the CFO fired so she could take his job. When he retired, we were supposed to be co-Controllers, but she started doing some shady shit with the financials to get him out the door. I left for Florida, and she got fired by the Board because they didn’t like her. I still can’t help but wonder if she would have taken me down with her. My gut says yes.
For example: I LOVED my job with the Cats… but that was the third time I had stayed until I couldn’t fight the bipolar any more. We all know how that ended. It was the first time I’d ever been fired for losing control of it. Because I refused to let myself quit. That only confirmed that my pattern was correct… so I stuck to it.
All in all, it makes me wonder if I should give up. We can’t really afford the loss of my salary if I were to go on Disability, and I need to work or I’ll go crazy. (Which is awesome considering it is holding a job that creates issues.)
But.
I guess it’s nice to have that option in my back pocket… even if it’s going to be a battle to qualify.
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And finally, I’ve given up on my Ukrainian lessons for a bit.
I only want to learn from native speakers. From Ukraine.
Of course, Ukraine is still having problems with their electrical grid and rolling blackouts are a thing. I’ve had two classes that needed to be rescheduled because of Putin.
But I know my teacher needs the money more than I do, so I’ve been doing the best I can to work with it.
But for as frustrating as it is for me, I can only imagine what it’s like for her.
The strain of living there is obvious in the lines of her face, the forced way she says ‘good’ when I ask her how she is doing.
Related: I’ve been watching Sims YouTubers who narrate in Ukrainian, and that’s been helping my listening comprehension quite a bit.
So. On that happy note, I’m going to end it right here. Have the best rest of your day and I’ll see you all tomorrow.
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.
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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.
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.
