What Appears to be Dad's First Bar Fight: A Rainy Day Story

            I’m a pretty big Scrooge when it comes to Christmas. This could be due to my years in retail, or my years of just having stressful family Christmases. I don’t care for Christmas decorating; I despise most Christmas music, and don’t even get me started on the sweaters. I’m actually donning one right now, as I participated in my company’s mockery of Christmas disguised as a holiday morale builder. This was funny to me, and I love how we have to refer to it as “Christmas Sweater Day”, not “Wear Your Fucking Most Hideous Ugly Christmas Sweater Day” to protect those poor souls who think a Christmas Sweater can actually be attractive.
            I think most of my animosity toward the holiday is that people don’t appreciate it for what it is supposed to be, a chance for people to get together with the ones they love and care about, to share some laughs, drinks, and of course, food. A lot of people try to do too much, feed into each other’s greed, and then they get stressed out, pissed off, and fight. Also, many people don’t remember those who really need the companionship, and maybe even the presents at this time of year. I’m usually pretty hard to shop for because I’m a confessed greedy bitch all year round, and there’s never anything I really need.
            What I really look forward to at Christmas are the absolute simple things, like going home and seeing friends and family. I would never need another present if I can just do that. I’m really excited to just go to the small town bars back home, buy a whole bunch of cheap beers, and see some old friends. I also like to kill two birds with one stone and make trips to the bar a family affair. This is actually my favorite holiday past time, because a trip to the bar with my parents is always amusing.
            Some time ago, my father, a couple of friends, my husband and I were playing cards at one of the local bars. The bar wasn’t busy; it never really is except on special occasions, as it is pretty much reliant on its regulars. My friends, Dad and I were sitting at a table playing one of Dad’s favorite card games, dubbed “Shit on your Neighbor.” We were getting pretty into our cards and free popcorn when we heard a commotion at the bar.
            “CALL ME ASIAN ONE MORE TIME YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”
            Whoa, what? Now that’s the kind of statement that commands attention. My eyes find a girl at one end of the bar angrily scooting her bar stool behind her. She is so close to us, that her bar stool almost runs into the table next to us. There are about 12 people in this bar, five of which are at my table, so I can easily tell the object of her challenge is a very scared looking guy at the other end of the bar.
            “Whaa..What? I didn’t say anything,” the guy stammers.
            “I’M NOT FUCKING ASIAN, I’M JAPANESE, SO CALL ME FUCKING ASIAN AGAIN!” the girl screams.
            Now, I was an avid fan of “Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?” as a child. At this point, it is about my eighth beer of the night, but I recall Japan being an island off the coast of the mainland continent of Asia, and is considered part of said continent. Even if I’m wrong, which I’m pretty sure I’m not but it’s happened before, I don’t understand why this is offensive. But then again, I’m a card-carrying member of the Wonder White Bread race, and I decide not to be a smart-ass, at least not now at least. I turn my attention onto my cards. My father, who was not schooled on “Don’t get involved in a bar fight” protocol, does a full arm extension finger point and loudly says, “Hey, look at that girl!”
            I ignore him, mentally willing him to follow my lead and just look down as his cards, which are in my plain view. I may win this hand.
            He does not notice anything other than the commotion and starts to elbow me. “Look! Look! I think there's going to be a fight.”
            “DAD! Keep your voice down! Stop staring,” I hiss. I reluctantly look up and watch this girl make her way to the other end of the bar. Not a far distance, probably what my 5’8’’ frame can cover in a few steps, but it takes this girl a while. Stereotype Strike One: This girl cannot be over five feet tall.
            As this girl takes her short, shuffling steps (Stereotype Strike Two), the bar is quiet, and you could hear a pin drop. Dad finally breaks his stare and the silence long enough to turn to my friends and asks in his loud bellowing whisper, “Didn’t that girl say Japanese?”

Oh dear God, don’t say it.

“Doesn’t that make her Asian? Isn’t that the same thing?”

I bury my head in my hands and my friend Justin lets out a drunken giggle. A couple of old farmers look in my dad's direction and give a small agreeing nod, But no one has assured my father.

“Seriously, isn’t Japan part of Asia?” Dad continues to ask.

“Dad please stop talking,” I say and lift my head. Luckily, the girl is too busy screaming at her assailant and is not paying attention to my father. I sigh in relief and just enjoy the show. The situation is escalating, and she is threatening to kick this guy’s ass. Please throw out a karate chop. If this girl shows us some martial arts, I am going to lose it.

It doesn’t get that far. The bartender threatens to throw everyone out if they don’t calm down. The girl gets one more “Don’t fucking call me Asian,” in, and shuffles back to her bar stool.

We continue the card game. Crisis averted. At least until the bartender comes to our table to take another beer order. Dad hands her some cash and says, “Good job keeping the peace. But I've got to ask you, isn’t Japanese and Asian the same thing?”

The girl’s slanted eyes (and that’s Stereotype Strike Three, you’re Asian!) glare at my father. I glare back and give a slight shake of my head. She turns angrily away.

The bartender nervously laughs. “I don’t know Mike, I guess not.”

Merry Christmas everyone! See you at the bar.           

Every age is awkward

           I have only been 25 for a little over a week, and I have already decided it’s a weird age. I am teetering between being really young and being slightly old. There are items of clothing I am starting to deem “too youthful” for me to wear. PINK collection t-shirts only seem acceptable for lounging around the house. I don’t feel comfortable running errands in a sweatshirt. This is unfortunate, considering the disgusting amount I have of each and how much they cost. The jury is still out on leggings. I deem them too young and for people slimmer than myself, but it's also better than seeing full frontal jiggling skin. It's a lesser evil.

            No, a trip to HyVee or Target calls for a nice cardigan with a scarf. Putting my hair in a ponytail is starting to feel stupid. I go to bed at ten p.m. on most nights, even weekends. I am not impressed with most of the crap on the radio these days.

            I am also starting to visibly age, but all is not lost; I’m just in the “prevention” stage of things. I’m using anti-wrinkle cream because I see the appearance of fine lines around my brow. My freckles are no longer cute, but multiplying as a sign of skin damage. This probably is mostly due to the years of unhealthy tanning that I’m struggling to wean myself off of, but I didn’t think I scowled so much.

            Maybe I am scowling more, because I am already a disgruntled old lady in spirit. I feel like I don't identify with a  lot of people anymore. I feel like some older people don't take me seriously because of my age. Then, many people my age or just a couple of years younger than me irritate me to no end. And most kids these days (that’s right, I said it. Kids. These. Days.) do not know how to behave. I don’t have children, so I probably shouldn’t judge, but I was a child once. I know it’s increasingly long ago, but damn, it wasn’t that long ago. When I see a child screaming and running amuck in a store, knocking things over, I visibly cringe. When I have people who bring their kids in my office and they are literally picking up things off my desk and throwing them, I have to hold back my own screams (and thank the teams of doctors and activists who created birth control and its distribution).

            I try to give people a benefit of a doubt. Maybe I’m mistaking their complacency for utter beaten-down exhaustion. I know the only thing my mother-in-law could do to make my husband’s childhood tantrums to stop would be to just walk away. Then he would stop. But, some of these parents don’t seem to even try. Back in my retail days, some parents seemed genuinely amused when their children were climbing on very expensive displays or destroying merchandise. One time, I was witnessing a full-blown tantrum in a checkout line with my mother. I turned to her and whispered, “my God, how could you stand it?”

            My mother, never in the mood for such bullshit, replied in a loud voice, “Easy, you weren’t allowed to act like that.”

            Very true. I remember that if I acted up in a store, my mom would pull my ass out of there and into the car, where I would either cry myself out or be lectured into submission. I don’t remember a lot of punishments, or, dare I say it, SPANKINGS. But they happened. They just didn’t have to happen often, because the threat was enough. I knew my parents would follow through with the punishment. There was no bargaining (“If you’re good in the store, you get a toy”). In my family, if you’re good in the store, you will have a nice ride home without a sore ass. And you might be allowed to go again.

            This time of the year is the worst. Have you ever seen a child throwing an absolute fit of greed in a store and just wanted to walk up to them and tell them that Santa isn't real? Or that their parents don't really love them? I have mentioned this to a few people, but I would never do it. No one seems to think it's as funny as I do.

            These bratty kids that I have started noticing only a few years ago are now teenagers and even in their early 20’s. These are the people I had to oversee at my retail jobs. Girls who just show up for work when they feel like it (unfortunately, I worked for a company that was very difficult to get fired from). Girls who cannot form a coherent sentence without the word “like” (I know I have been guilty of this, but in a professional setting, I can cut it out). I’ve interviewed girls who have shown up wearing tank tops and flip flops. I could be interviewing for a head stripper position at the Playhouse off the interstate south of town and would dress nicer than some of these girls.

            And the sad thing is, they see nothing wrong with it. They think they might actually get the job. Who is teaching these people? Nobody, that's who.

            One of the biggest gripes I have as a new old person is how addicted some young people are to technology, and how annoying they are with it.

            I went to the gym this morning and noticed most of the usual people. As I walked by the recumbent bikes, I noticed a young couple I see often on my mornings at the gym. Since they always work out together, I had thought the guy might be the girl’s trainer, but it’s become increasingly evident that they are dating. They have to be next to each other at the gym. Every. Second. I’m not against going to the gym with your partner. I think it’s actually a great idea, but you aren’t going to see Josh and me chatting and brushing up against each other on side by side recumbent bikes, which is exactly what this couple was doing. I immediately disliked the girl because she looked way too cute to be at the gym. Her blonde hair was pulled back to reveal perfect full make-up, and she was clad in a cute gray sweat suit. This is sheer jealousy talking, because I can’t wear gray, especially to the gym. But a black shirt on me, and I might not sweat a drop.  But, I could be sitting on a curb in the middle of an Arctic snowstorm and would pit out through a gray shirt, not to mention the ass cheek sweat stains.

            I mentally roll my eyes and head toward my favorite corner. There are four treadmills in a row. On one end, a girl runs at effortlessly fast pace, not even breaking a sweat. I take my place at the other end, leaving two treadmills between us.

            Running was terrible, and I don’t want to talk about it, so after a sad attempt at a half mile, then a quarter mile. I decided that my time would be better served walking briskly on an incline, both working my running muscles and burning fat, two things I need to improve my running.

            As I’m dripping uphill, Romeo and Juliet come sauntering over to my corner, hands brushing against each other. Oh goody, two treadmills side by side, it’s so perfect. Juliet climbs on next me, and is having trouble starting her treadmill up.

            “Oh no,” she starts to panic and frantically hit the Quick Start button. “Crap, come on, come on.” She looks around for other adjoining treadmills and sees none. Oh no, will she actually have to be away from her beloved for her cardio.

            Saved by the goddess Aphrodite (the goddess of love), her treadmill starts. I swear I heard her sigh with relief. How pathetic. She adjusts her speed and incline and immediately grabs her cell phone, and I immediately want to leave her side.

            “Oh my god, look at this picture Jana posted of me. All you can see is the side of my head. Oh my god, there are like, twenty like that. Oh, look at this one. Isn’t that like, so cute? Look. Look.” She shows her boyfriend, who is feigning interest. He nods and offers a non-committal, "Yeah, that's cool." Like, oh my God, stop enabling her idiocy.

            She continues to go through every facebook photo that was posted through her past drunken weekend that I don’t care to know anything about. I’m pretty hard of hearing, but I could hear her stupid rambling stories over my iPod, which was blasting what she would call oldies.

“So this girl walked in on someone taking a pee in the bathroom, and there were like, six girls there. And someone said, like, ‘I don’t care whose house this is.’ And that was like, the first time Kelli met Stacy so Stacy was like whatever, like I don’t want to be a bitch because I don’t know her, but she’s fat. And then she was like, ‘well I can work on my body but you can’t work on your face.’ Then I was like, ‘don’t be rude.’ But she totally was kinda fat.”

I don’t know what perplexed me more, that I may have sounded that brain-dead not too many moons ago, or that this girl actually had an experience away from her boyfriend enough to tell him a story. Either way, I wanted to strangle her with my iPod cord. I snuck a sideways glance and felt comforted when I saw her slightly thickening belly. Ah yes, me four years ago. You just wait girlie, keep drinking with Kelli and Stacy and your fat days are coming.

She is on her cell phone the entire time, texting, looking at facebook, and doing God knows what. There is no way she has anything that important going on. I know I’m pretty attached to my Blackberry, but I enjoy putting it down every once in a while. What upset me was that the ladies in the senior swim class probably group me in with this girl. I can't stand the thought. This is the type of girl I will be interviewing, and her ringtone will tell me how her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. What? Too old of a song? Shit.

After what seemed like an eternity, I can't take anymore, not even for literary purposes. I went to the spin room to get some solitary cardio in. I have been trying out the spin bikes before I commit to an hour class and I'm glad I did. I'm awkward and I'm learning the ropes on how to adjust the damn things. I also wanted to spy on the new classes being offered in the workout studio. On Friday, I learned that my gym started offering Zumba, which is nice, because all this time that "At my gym, free Zumba comes standard" poster in that bathroom has just been one big lie. The darkness of the spin room and the surrounding mirrors of the studio offer a creepers dream. I observed a lady who was in her forties practicing some moves that I think I saw in an MC Hammer video. I can't be sure because she looked so arthritic doing it. I giggled to myself. I can just tell myself that I don't look that silly, yet.

But my day is coming, and so is Juliet's. I look in the mirror. Yep, still on that phone. A girl like that will never know what she is missing, which is Miss Middle Age WASP doing awkward hip thrusts, and the young Zumba instructor trying not to laugh.

Journey almost gets me through the second half mile

            Now that I’m finally feeling good about life, and running, I wanted to keep the party going. For the first time in probably a freaking month, I am progressing and beating this interval. I feel rejuvenated, on top of the world, and thin. Who would have known passing up Shrimp Diablo Fettuccine at Bonefish Grill would make you feel so slim?
            That’s what happened when I tried Bonefish for the first time Tuesday, and I woke up Wednesday feeling rested (for once) and excited. Now, my goal is not only to complete a half mile interval, but the whole freaking thing. That means both half miles, and both quarter miles. Also, I am noticing that my body is taking less time to recover, and I do not need to take the allotted time or distance for walking. I am able to push myself more.
            And push myself I did. I ran my first half mile at a faster pace and finished it without a problem. Turns out, grilled shrimp and scallops with steamed veggies and two (ok, three) glasses of red wine make the perfect running fuel. Who, other than a classy fisherman (or maybe that crazy Alaskan Sarah Palin) would have known? 
            For my last half mile, I thought I needed a special song. Music is very important to me in all aspects of my life, and it is pivotal in my training. Up until this point, I have been sticking with the angrier side of my iPod. Now, I’m trying to find some more encouraging music. When I’m getting ready to start hobbling into my run, I hit the shuffle button, as I am incapable of making almost any decision, especially a music one.
            I pass this song, think about it, then go back. Hmm, this might work. Yeah, let’s get after school special in this bitch.
            The first keyboard chords of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” starts to play, and I smirk at my own goofiness. It’s sad that it’s come to this, but it’s really more positive than Marilyn Manson’s “The Beautiful People.”
            I start out fast. Well, fast for me, meaningI made a deal with myself: I cannot look at my distance until the chorus of “Don’t Stop Believing” rings in my headphones. I start to do the math. Ok, that chorus is probably roughly about two and a half minutes in, over halfway through the song. If I’m running 5.5, no dammit, 5.3, (pant, pant pant, wipe the sweat out of my eyes) fuck, 5.1 m.p.h…. Ah! It’s not going to be as far as I’d like.
            “In the NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHHHT…” Cue the longest guitar solo of my life. Clearly, the movie is not the only thing that never ends and goes on and on and on in this song.
            Finally, the chorus comes and I almost scream “DON’T STOP! BELIEVING!” I slam my finger on the pace button. Damn, only a pathetic three-tenths of a mile. I’m not going to stop believing, but I do believe I need a drink of water. I jump on the sides, take a sip, and pep talk myself into running the rest. It’s a horrific, slow stompfest, but I finished off that interval, all the while pretending I didn’t feel like I was peeing myself.
            Some people have treadmills that they like to stick to at the gym. I have one of these, in the back corner close to the spin room. It is farthest from the door with a minimum of neighbors. Now, I also have a favorite bathroom stall, which is closest to the bathroom door, screw the neighbors. You can see the difference in urgency when you look at the locations of these favorite spots.
            I finish my time with some inclined walking. I have recently discovered this as a fantasic fat burner, and a way to work my running muscles without feeling tired and shamed. Well, the important thing is that I feel I can definitely handle the half mile now, and I am gaining on this interval set. This week, I might have the courage to finally look at the next one. I have to successfully complete this set three consecutive times before I feel comfortable about moving on.

Finally, a win.

I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but it has taken all my strength to get out of bed in the morning. I know I have written about my usual struggles with getting out of bed, but this is worse than the usual bouts of laziness. I am utterly exhausted. Yesterday morning, I felt like a drunk struggling to keep conscious. This morning, I had to literally force my eyes open by rubbing them. I am not a person who is usually dependent on coffee, but this morning I’m on my second cup, about ready to reach for a third. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t had a restful weekend in as long as I can remember (planning and carrying out a party or family gathering may be fun, but it is anything but relaxing). Maybe it’s the awful cold that has reappeared in my system. It could be the dreary weather.

Whatever it is, all I know is I’m tired when I should be excited and energized. I am also tired of writing about my failures and struggles. I have been slacking on the posts, but not the running. I have to prove to myself that I can do the half-mile, whatever it takes. And, I have to use my best muscle, my brain. After some careful thought, I decided to switch the order of my intervals. It could be that simple. Instead of starting with the quarter mile, then running a half mile, then repeating, I am going to start with the half mile, then the quarter, then repeat. I debated a lot about whether or not this was cheating. I decided it isn’t, because I am still doing the same amount of distance, in the same amount of time.

I decided Friday, my birthday, would be the big day to try this out. I had taken the day off to run some errands. A lot of people, including my husband, assumed I was just taking a personal fun day, but the truth is I had a lot of shit to do. This “shit” included my yearly physical. Happy Fucking Birthday to me.

Now, I’m not going to go into a running monologue about what goes down in that little pleasant exam room, so you male readers can just calm down. I will leave that to my mother-in-law when she’s about three glasses of merlot deep. She’s been a nurse longer than I’ve been alive so she has some good stories. I will say that men have it way too easy.

Actually, with all the unpleasantness that does on at the doctor’s office, the part I dread most is the scale. I had started weighing myself again two weeks ago, and it was about as bad as I expected. But, I had come to terms with that number. The shock has worn off. So, I approach the scale and start shedding clothing like it’s on fire. Off with the boots, the coat, the scarf and hat. I would take off my underwear if I could. Sweatshirt, off. Take the cell phone out of my pocket, blow all the air out of my lungs, and step on.

I know that some scales differ, but the gym scale and the doctor’s scale showed about a ten pound difference. I know you can’t just dismiss ten pounds to a crappy scale. Good god, I haven’t even had birthday cake yet. My mind races. Am I pregnant? I can’t be pregnant. I haven’t even achieved my pre-baby body yet, and now I’m going to go ruin it more. Don’t I have enough stretch marks?

I curse out loud and the nurse laughs. I’m not amused. I gather up my crap and stalk into the examining room. I had prepared myself for maybe a little talk about weight, but now I’m thinking I am going to get a full lecture. I decide to be proactive and bring it up myself.

My doctor walks in and asks how I’m feeling. I tell her I feel great, except how crazy my weight is.

She doesn’t bat an eye. I know for a fact this woman schedules a patient every 15 minutes. If she works a full eight hour day, which I’m sure is a conservative number of hours, she sees 32 patients per day. According to a news article citing the Gallup-Healthways Well-Being Index, 26.5% of Americans are obese, not counting people who are just in the overweight category. So, she sees at least 8 to 9 fat asses just like me every single day. That is a very conservative number. This would explain the reaction that can almost be mistaken for boredom.

“Why is that, do you think?” she asks me.

I decide not to feed her any bullshit, because she probably doesn’t want to hear it. Plus, I only have fifteen minutes and this woman hasn’t gotten in the more invasive procedures yet. I don’t’ want her to have to rush through that.

“I cook a lot, and it’s not healthy. I eat like crap. And I love carbs,” I spout off. I leave the alcohol out of it because I told the nurse I was a social drinker. That is true, but I’m very social.

She nods to all my offenses. “Do you exercise?”

“Yes, believe it or not,” I snap. I tell her about my 5k training and she smiles.

“That’s good,” she says. “You are aware of your situation and you are working at it.”

My angelic doctor offers me some running advice and even gave me some races to look for in the spring. I am grateful, and not completely humiliated. Now that’s what I call bedside manner.

I go straight to the gym after leaving her office. On the drive over, I constantly think about that horrible number I saw in red. No wonder it’s so hard for me to do this half mile, it takes so much effort to move my massive body. It was clearly easier for me to do this when I was in college and was carrying around only about 150.

I climbed on the treadmill, determined and nervous. I am going to be relaxed and just focus on finishing. No side steps to breathe, no sips of water, an authentic finish. I put on some more chill music, CCR’s “The Old Man Down the Road”, which was more pleasant than angrily stomping through a run.

I went an agonizingly slow pace and fought temptation to go faster and get it over with. And you know what? I finished. I did the whole thing. And instead of feeling dead tired, I felt good.

After that, my quarter mile intervals seem to fly by without too much struggle. I remember the days I agonized through three minutes of running. That’s what I need to think about instead of dwelling on how hard three miles is going to be. Right now, it seems astronomical, insurmountable. But, like Lao Tzu said, “A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.” It’s one of my favorite quotes that I use at work, but now I really understand it.

Confessions

       Ok, time to confess. I have not made an entry because I have been extremely busy. Also, because I have been busy, I have been slacking on the running. I have not been to the gym since last Monday, and that run was pathetic due to a Charlie Horse caused by a severe dehydration. This was a side effect of cheap Captain and Diet doubles and shaking my groove thing all night long at my sister-in-law’s wedding. This was followed by getting sick on my in-law’s front lawn, then washing the remnants of that episode out of Josh’s rental tie with hand soap, then slurring apologies to my mother-in-law while I suck down chicken wings with my father-in-law.          

Honestly, I don’t know why they put up with me.

Well, yesterday it was back on the treadmill horse. I am recovering from a nasty cold, no doubt due to my immune system weakened by lack of exercise. I was coming off a steady diet of homemade chicken (leftover turkey) noodle soup, NyQuil, and sleep. I am a firm believer that this little tri-fecta of heaven will cure anything. Take that, Jonas Salk.

During my time of laziness, I have not stopped thinking about this interval, and how I’m going to beat it. The obvious answer would to be to beat it with practice, which clearly I’ve lapsed on. To be honest, it’s really hard to walk into the gym knowing you are going to get your ass beat up over something that is easy for most people to do. It’s really disheartening. I’m sure most people can relate to this, at home, at work, at school, wherever.

But, that is not an excuse to accept failure. I need to look at this as a challenge I should be motivated to overcome. Every day is an opportunity to finish it and move on. But, this positive “can do” attitude is waning. I need to feel a win, but I need to keep trying first.

So I think about it. Constantly. I think about it when I’m driving to and from work. I think about it as I sit in my rocking chair. I think about it when I got to bed and when I get up in the morning. I think about what I used to do, and what I’m capable of doing now.

Finally, I get an idea. Slow and steady wins the race. I say this a lot, and try to apply that to multiple areas of my life. This is challenging, since I can’t stand to do hardly anything slowly.

But, when I started running in college, I ran on an indoor track. I would have a set distance in mind, and I could visualize the finish. I would run super slow, just whatever it took to finish. I decide to decrease my speed on the treadmill. I don’t care if I look like I’m about to trip over my shoelaces, or simply keel over, it’s all about finishing a half mile at this point. I need to prove to myself that I can do it.

I get into the gym and make my way to the treadmills. I spot this very fit looking man doing a very slow jog on his treadmill. I smile inside. This guy is probably a marathon runner, and he is going slow as hell. He’s barely stumbling along! I definitely have the right idea here. I catch a glimpse of the speed as I pass by. 5.0, dammit. What looks horrifically slow to me is not that much slower than what I usually run. Well, let’s try that.

So, I started my run, focused on taking things slow and steady. Instead of cussing and angrily pushing through, I decided to focus on breathing and just being relaxed. I finished a quarter mile feeling like I could go another quarter. I was ready for that half mile. A pretty amazing feat, considering how little I had run in the past two weeks.

My half mile was challenging, but other than a very short step to the side to take a sip of water, I made it! I even kicked up my speed a little at the end. The beauty of a distance interval is, I actually ran for a longer period of time than ever before. At my pathetic pace, a half mile should be between five and six minutes. Before I was running three minute intervals, so there is improvement! Small victory!

I did a very challenging quarter mile after and then had to run to the bathroom. My bladder is killing me, why do I feel like I constantly have to go? I make sure to go right before running but it doesn’t really help. My mother-in-law is a nurse and she says that it’s a common problem in women. Great. I would appreciate any advice on this subject.
I return from the bathroom and get back on the treadmill, and try to will myself to run this half mile straight through. To avoid watching my distance slowly tick by, I change the display on the screen and pull my eyes up, right into the ass of the old man in front of me. During my visit to the can, the stair stepper in front of me became occupied by this senior citizen with spandex pants so tight, they would make Richard Simmons blush. Seriously, if this guy was a day under 75, then I’m freakin’ Chuck Norris. His pants were dark gray and showed every wrinkle, crease, and dimple in his old man behind. His pants were wedged so far into his crack, not only am I certain he is not wearing underwear but I might be able to guess what he had for dinner last night.

Naturally, I am repulsed. Another old guy without underwear, what is going on here? Do I have some kind of old, creepy balls magnet on me that I’m not aware of? Is my gym some kind of secret hangout place for men teetering on the very edge of sanity? How many cats does this guy own? Or dolls? Does he talk to them? Do they talk back?

Physically speaking, this man appears to be in pretty good shape. There is no escaping the effects of age and gravity, so the skin is really the only loose thing on this guy. He is lasting a pretty long time on this stair-climbing machine. We are all rewarded with a view of the sweat stains developing under the flapping curves of his old cheeks.

But, it could be worse; I could be facing the front of Mr. Hot Pants. I decide to count my blessings, and accept Old Man River’s body as punishment for slacking on my running. I force myself to suffer through the rest of my time positioned directly downwind from his Gold Bond medicated body.

Finally, I stretch out in the empty group class studio. It smells strongly of disinfectant. Ah, Handy Hank has been here. I have almost missed him. I feel better than I have in a while, and I vow not to be away from this gym for so long again. I’m back, bitches.

On turning 25

This Friday, I will be turning 25, a quarter of a century old. Yippee. I keep telling people how I’m irritated because I can’t even say I’m in my early twenties, now, I’m officially on my way to 30, or halfway to 50. I say this to people who normally don’t ask, because they don’t really care how I feel about turning such a pathetically young age. I’m not really sure why I care, to be honest.

            I’ve never really been big on birthdays. Frankly, the only good thing about having your birthday in December is it gives you an opportunity to “combine” Christmas and birthday presents for something really awesome. But, this is not a very big upside. The only big present I remember combining as a child was a 10-gallon aquarium with some colorful fish. It was awesome for a while, but then it eventually ended up being a constant battle of keeping the tank clean, replacing dying fish, and a running joke in high school about having crabs.
            Really, a birthday in December means everyone’s usually too busy celebrate your birthday, especially when my brother and my sister started playing basketball. I personally was just a spectator at these games. I came to realization I was not an athlete during my first volleyball game (as if the years of weak t-ball games weren't enough). It was during this game that I learned that a serve that hits you in the face is a legal hit, and still in play. Sadly, I learned that lesson twice that game.

Even if we weren’t busy, it’s usually too cold or crappy outside to do anything worthwhile. There’s also a good chance there will be a Christmas tree on your store-bought cake (see: “too busy”), and when you get into college, no one wants to go out because your nerdy friends are studying for finals at that time.

            It’s not that people in my life haven’t tried. One childhood birthday that really sticks out in my mind was my ninth birthday. I really wanted to go to the Pizza Peddler in Sioux City. For those of you who are not familiar with the rejuvenation of the old stockyards of Sioux City, Pizza Peddler was the like hillbilly equivalent of Chuck E. Cheese. I was pumped to go, but, unfortunately, Iowa weather reared its ugly head and we were hit with a blizzard.

Now, my mother is a weather fanatic. She watches the Weather Channel like most men watch ESPN. I would say that she nervously bites her nails on a cloudy day, but that would mean she would have to put on new nails. So, she verbally projects her concern instead. Repeatedly. Her philosophy, “there’s a 20% chance of precipitation, I’m not chancing it. It’s not worth it.”

Normally, I would downplay the weather that night and say it was just a few flakes, but this was a pretty bad storm. I sat at the top of the stairs listening to my mom use worried tones with my father as he cleaned up from the hog barn. Likewise, he is elected to give me the bad news. I am beckoned downstairs, already dressed and ready to go.

“Sugar, it’s really bad outside. I don’t think we can go to Sioux City tonight,” he says to me.

I stare at the floor, trying as hard any nine-year old girl can not to cry.

“Look at me,” my dad said.

I have to look. My chin is trembling, and I’m trying to stay strong.

“Did you really want to go tonight?” He asks me.    

I want to say I understand, but I can’t speak otherwise I will start hysterically bawling.

I already got enough shit from my older siblings about being a crybaby, so I only manage a nod.
            “Will you be really upset if we don’t go?” he asks.
            I don’t know how to respond to this. So I just stay silent.
            “Well,” my dad said. “Let’s get in the car.”
            During the 50 mile and almost two hour car ride to Sioux City, there were white knuckles and little noise, but we made it to find a nearly deserted Pizza Peddler. The teenage employees were not psyched to see us.

It was a memorable birthday. The machine-powered coyote that brought out your pizza kept shorting out. The teenagers running the voice of the coyote were giggling and saying inappropriate things. We ate pizza and I got to try my first hand at bumper cars. In my allotted time, I found two defective bumper cars. By the time I found a winner (a car that ran) I had just enough time left to get stuck in a corner by my two siblings.
It was a birthday I will never forget.

Despite the complaining, I’ve never had a bad birthday, but I’ve just learned to not make it a big deal. This year, I decided to make it a big deal. A friend from work shares my December birthday pains and we decided to have a joint party at my house. Weather and finals weeks snuck in their inevitable interference (damn you, grad school friends) and some people could not make it. Mid-twenties is a wierd age. There are new reasons for missing a social gathering, ones I never fathomed I'd experience until "I was older." I now have friends that deal with babysitting issues, moving, starting new jobs, lack of vacation time, lack of funds and other things.
Even with some cancels, I had plenty of people at my house. I was happy to see that I have so many friends, some of which drove quite a way just to stay one night to celebrate with me.

            Through my fifth cup of jungle juice I found myself in the lower level of my house talking to a co-worker. I remember rambling about something no one cares about and started to reach for the high school cheerleading pictures. This is a key indicator, as accurate as a litmus test, to indicate that I have had too much to drink. Nobody needs to see those. Luckily, I can’t find the pictures. I realized, at that moment, that I need to stop living in the past.
            So, I apologize to anyone who has had to sit through my gallery of smiling, skinny high school photos, and how I lament on how I could have and should have gone to this program or that. I am sorry I rudely spouted off grades and ACT scores, because it doesn’t matter to anyone else. Why should it matter to me? What’s wrong with my life now? Absolutely nothing.            

             So, in my 25^th year, I had a good birthday that I celebrated with good friends. I’m starting my Master’s degree and am going to stop bitching about what things used to be like, and start looking at what they will be like. I will acheive this 5k, among other things.

             Hopefully, I will  have many more birthdays to dread.

Turkey run

 
            Ah, Thanksgiving. It’s the time for family, friends, and food. In theory, the holidays are supposed to be a time of rest and relaxation. I have always found this to be the opposite. This holiday was a great time, but it was also a busy time. We spent it back where we grew up. Josh's sister got married, and both he and I were attendants at the wedding. Opportunities to eat and drink in excess were plenty, and I took complete advantage of them.
            I brought home my gym bag along with a pessimistic attitude. My at-home track record is not very good.  Workouts don’t happen. Gluttony does. But, I thought I would at least quiet my newly found conscience with at least trying to find a place to run. Let’s see…well it was icy and about ten degrees out when we pulled into my in-laws driveway, so running outside was a no. My mother-in-law’s treadmill has seen better days and is a guaranteed knee injury due to belt slippage. I decided my best lead was my mother-in-law’s 24 hour access gym. I thought she could lend me a swipe card for just one workout. It turns out they switched over to 007-type shit and I would have to cut off her finger to gain access. I hope I never want to work out that badly.
            Over drinks at Wednesday's bachelorette party, I voiced my concern.
             "Grandma has a treadmill at her house, it's pretty nice," one aunt offered. "As long as you don't mind sweat." Apparently her husband had drenched it in sweat earlier that day. I guess she has never seen me work out. I make it rain.
             At first, I'm elated. Yes! I can stay on track. Then the unreasonable fear and self-consciousness set in. Josh's whole family is staying at Grandma's. I have a hard enough time working out with perfect strangers. Perfect Strangers was a good show. Whatever happened to Balki? Or Larry even? Huh. When am I going to do this run?
             "Are...are people going to be around on Friday morning?" I feebly ask.
             The aunt assures me that everyone will stay out of the basement except for maybe a few seven year olds. There are a lot of small children on that side of the family, and Josh's grandma's house can resemble a daycare on holiday get-togethers. I tell myself that this is inevitable and will probably want to leave as soon as they see me in fitted pants. I started to imagine the blunt comments only innocent children can make.
            “You don’t run as fast as my daddy does.”
            “Why does your belly jiggle like that?”
            “Are you going to die?”
            The turkey wasn’t the only one who was stuffed the next night. I found myself struggling to stay awake on Grandma’s couch. I was just about to call it a night when the aunties asked me if I was going to come by and run that next morning. I said something non-committal, but they encouraged me to swing by; I was welcome to use Grandma’s treadmill. Damn supportive relatives. I secretly curse and thank my publicity of this blog. It has others holding me accountable. I decided to squeeze in a run before my manicure-pedicure appointment the next morning.
            A sleepy husband and lack of planning made me run late. This is starting to become a bad habit. I try to push through the sea of relatives at Grandma’s to get on the treadmill as soon as possible. Damn, I forgot a water bottle. Ok, found one. How do I work this treadmill? Alright, found the key that was hidden from the children. Good move, Grandma. Ok…reposition the couch, and I’m ready to go, and so are two very small girls.
            “Why are you using the treadmill?” asks one.
            I ask myself the same question. Why oh why.
            “She just wants to get some exercise, right?”
            Sure, we’ll go with that.
            Now, I really do like children, and I adore Josh’s young cousins, but I often feel out of place with kids. I don’t have any of my own and I don’t feel like I know what I’m doing. I am constantly reminded that I am not ready to have a child. The closest thing I have is a young dog, and I try to limit that comparison because comparing a dog to a child is inaccurate and kind of insulting. I was unsure of what would happen with two little girls involved in my workout. I turned up my iPod and tried not to be distracted.
            I passed on the remote because I thought if I left the Disney channel on, the girls would find that more appealing. Quite the opposite, these girls took it upon themselves to be my personal cheerleaders.
            “WE”RE GOING TO RUN WITH YOU!!!” the girls squealed over the volume of my music. Kindergarten voices and Powerman 5000 make a strange combination.
            And run they did. When I turned up the speed on that treadmill, those girls went crazy. They ran circles around the den. They ran in place, screaming their heads off for me. It was very encouraging, and I couldn’t help but smile. As a former cheerleader and a failed athlete, it wasn’t often that someone cheered for me.
            “FASTER! FASTER!”
            “LET’S DO HIGH KNEES! HIGH KNEES”
            The enthusiasm also went the other way. When I went back down to walking speed, the girls slowed their pace with disappointed looks. They walked in place and eventually sat down, looking bored. Then, as I started to run again, their energy did not falter. How I envy that energy.

            I’m on my half mile interval when I jump to the side and try to catch my breath. The girls stop and frown. One approaches my sweaty, convulsing body.

            “What are you doing?” she asks with a scowl.

            Well, right now I’m being called out by a child. “Just resting,” I manage to pant.

            “Why?” she asks.

            Oh, so many reasons. I want to tell her that this is what happens when you keep Gumby’s pizza coupons around your college apartment. I want to warn her of the 24 hour drive-thrus, the dollar menus that save you time and money, the bottle of wine and the entrée you feel you have to finish, the heavy beer you learn to love because you think it will impress boys. Then there’s the temptation to sleep in because you’ve worked a double shift the night before, then blew off steam at a bar with the same co-workers so you are too tired to do anything other than sleep and hit the redial button for Chinese. How you feel lazy, sluggish, and then just depressed to the point that you don’t even care anymore as you reach for that piece of cheesecake.

            But, that’s rather melodramatic, so I just get back on the treadmill and kept running.

           

Enjoying the sights

I never thought I would say this, but I was a little glad to see the end of the ISU football season. It’s been a rollercoaster of emotions, a lot of driving, freezing my butt off, and eating very unhealthy food. Ok, that last one is completely my fault, and I am dealing with the consequences.

            I went into the gym Monday running late, and that was the only type of running I felt like I could handle. Sure, I have dreaded my runs in the past, but normally I felt pretty good even if it wasn’t successful. But, ever since my week of illness and sloth, I feel like I am facing just an absolute ass-whoopin every time I walk through the doors of my gym. This must be how the Cyclones feel most games. Ok, that wasn’t fair; they did an ok job this season. I’m just bitter. I mean, I can’t make field goals either, and I could have used a scholarship….
            The gym was pretty empty when I shuffled in. I dumped my stuff into my locker and got started.
            I followed some good advice and decided to stick with the Week 5 Plan of Hell. Even if I have to struggle through it, I will push myself to get there and make progress. It actually went better than last week; I could actually finish my quarter mile intervals. Even a small improvement is an improvement. During my first half mile, I jumped to the side to quickly catch my breath. I had debated doing this versus hitting the “down” button to wait for the treadmill to creep down, and then creep back up. I made it through my half-mile interval with one short break.
            My next set of intervals didn’t go as well. I had to stop twice before struggling my way through, but I actually completed the structure of the workout, which is better than last week.
            I didn’t have time to do much else, but I figured I had time to work my abs. The only work my abs have seen lately are sucking them in to button my pants. I lay down on a sit-up machine and lament on how strong my abs used to be. I roll my head to the side to check out the clock between sets and an elderly gentleman saunters in my line of vision.

My first thought: wow, those shorts are way too short.

My second thought: um…I’m not sure he’s wearing underwear.

My third thought: Loose skin and old….yep there they are.

I almost got whiplash by how fast I turned my head away from the glimpse of junk I just saw. Good lord, what is wrong with these people? Granted, in my laying position I was at just the right angle to see it as he walked above me, but come on, keep that stuff in. Thank god for my quick reflexes, primed from having a brother whose friends who have an obsession for mooning. I owe them my preserved retinas, thank you pervert class of 2001.

As I turned my head I locked in on the scale. Ah, the mortal enemy. I have been avoiding the scale for a long time now, and it’s time to man up.

Well people, if you ever want to ensure a shitty start to your week, weigh yourself on a Monday morning after you’ve been drinking and eating crap all weekend. I was realistic about how bad things were, and I was kind of close on the number, but it was still worse than I thought.           

Well, there’s nothing like a depressing weigh-in to motivate you into seriousness. With Thanksgiving this week, this is about the worst time but I really have to get back on the good nutrition. Also, I have to really focus on getting some extra cardio and weight sessions in. No wonder I feel like I can’t run, I am carrying so much weight.

 After some intense stability ball crunches, I hurry into the locker room. T-minus 50 minutes until I have to be at work, and I have to look at least halfway decent.

My usual locker is located right in the heart of where the senior swim class congregates. Man these chicks are starting to really get on my nerves. They are just hanging out today, discussing their Thanksgiving plans.

"I told my daughter she can host Thanksgiving, because it's too much for me. But I don't like the way she is doing it so I'm going to meddle and bitch my way into taking it over, because no one is going to make a better turkey than me."

"My daughter-in-law doesn't want to use my china. Can you imagine? Girls just don't care about those things anymore. It's a shame, they just dont' want to use something that everyone is scared to eat off of or even wash because I'm biting my nails waiting for it to break. I wonder why that is."

Ok, I'm exaggerating, but that's what I hear when they talk about their trifles. I don't have time for this crap. I politely say "excuse me" "pardon me" as I desperately try to get past their idling bodies into my locker. These ladies say, "Oh, I'm sorry dear" as they make zero effort to move. I am forced to open a locker door gently into the back of one, and she finally moves. I get my stuff out and move to another part of the locker room. Now they can talk about how rude I am.

My new section definitely has less traffic, but it's right by the door. Any newcomer to the women's locker room is greeted with a nice view of me struggling to keep a towel around me as I change. It's really quite awkward and would probably be faster if I just went for it. Damn you, modesty.

The front of the locker room is also home to the TV that keeps a constant loop of "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" episodes. Why won't this show go away???

The people in this area, at first glimpse, are pretty serious gym go-ers. They are very fit people that are in and out. I want to be part of this group, because I also don't have all day to lollygag in a locker room, but I feel out of place. Especially since I don't dress like a gym skank. There's a lady wearing a spandex mini-skirt with a matching sports bra, and that's it. I have to admit, she had a banging body and she was definitely showing it off, but it really isn't necessary in the end of November. She puts on a zip-up jacket, which tells me she had no intention of wearing an actual shirt. Yeah, I bet you're cold, your sweat is freezing to your skin.
Good gravy (mmm, there will be some good gravy this week) is that woman wearing hair extensions? She had the kind of snarly, long bleach-blond hair that says "I got denied that the Rock of Love auditions, so I consoled myself by taking tequila shots and rubbing up on the lead singer of Poison's cover band. I'm still hot."
For those of you who will see me this weekend, yes, I will be wearing hair extensions, but not to the gym. And they will look real, unlike that girl's chest.
Well, between the call girls and this lady whispering to herself as she stretches and eyeballs me, I'm not sure the senior swim section is all bad. Wherever I go here, I see plenty. Never a dull moment at the gym.

Having a horrible week

            On Monday and this morning, I was really not looking forward to running. I also was not looking forward to writing about it. It’s been just terrible.

            I had a difficult run last Monday and was ill the rest of the week. So, Monday’s trip to the gym was breaking a week long hiatus. Normally, I run before going into work, but I went into the office early so I had to run afterward. I was on a time crunch because I was meeting some friends at Buffalo Wild Wings (don’t judge me) to watch some Monday Night Football.

            Being at the gym at six p.m. on a Monday is out of the ordinary for me, so I was unprepared when I pulled into the gym parking lot and it was full. I mean really full. There were people parked illegally and everything. Wow, all these people ordered pizza last night too? And feel extremely guilty? No, that was just me. Damn. I was forced to join the stream of cars that were zigzagging through the lot, waiting for a spot to open up. This is really annoying when you drive a rather large quad cab truck. Not only do you have to be picky about your spots, but people like to drive their little hippie sedans in the middle of the freaking parking lot lane.

After about five agonizing minutes of circling around and getting nowhere, I did something I normally hate to do; I stalked people who were walking out of the gym. Every time I do that, the theme from Jaws plays in my head as I ride my brake watching these people act like they don’t see me. They mentally give me the finger as they slowly shuffle their way down the middle of the parking lane were some car way smaller than mine is also waiting for a spot. I also am reminded of my childhood years of shopping in Sioux City with my mother. There was one mall that everyone in a fifty mile radius went to, and it was always packed. My mom always prided herself on finding a good parking spot, and patiently circled the lot until she found a spot that was a maximum five spots from the door. When it looks like she was getting her wish, she would start making sounds. “OH OH OH! LOOK AT THAT! I’m just going to pull into this spot right here. See this? Just. Like. This.” She shifts the car into park and looks at me. “Ha ha ha, looks like we were meant to be here,” she would say every time, no matter how long achieving this spot took. This skill served her well when her knees started giving out and she had to get knee surgery.

Well, I don’t have my mom’s patience or bad knees (yet) so I never carry through on the stalking. I get too uncomfortable and irritated. For this reason, it takes me about 12 minutes to get a spot, but it was a good one. Guess I was meant to be there.

The gym was as busy as the parking lot. I was lucky to get a treadmill. Well, lucky wasn’t really the word. I was completely dragging ass through my run. I tried to pick up where I failed the week previous, with intervals ranging from quarter to half miles. My whole body hurt and I could barely make it through a quarter mile. I don’t know if it’s a mental shift from time to distance, or if my body isn’t well. I think it’s probably the entire week I sat on my ass and did nothing. I didn’t think a week would set me back that much, but it obviously did.

Throughout the twenty minutes I would normally stride through intervals, I kept running, stopping, and making deals with myself on how far I should attempt to run. The guy next to me was doing a similar thing, only in sprint form. He hopped on and jacked up his speed so that I was tempted to look. 9.0 m.p.h. Damn. He would run for a respectable amount of time, then jump to the sides and stretch while he catches his breath. Sprint, then catch breath. Sprint, then catch breath. I am starting to doubt his muscles are that tight. Just slow down buddy.

I hope he was not paying as much attention to me, because it was jog, cuss, walk. Jog, cuss, walk. Jog, cuss, hit the big fat quitter button and stalk off. Come back, jog, cuss, then walk and shake my head at my failure. I also did a lot of head shaking when I watch the Redskins get slaughtered later that night.

This morning was much of the same. I feel like I can’t even reach my three minutes I did before. I am upset and unsure what to do. Do I go back a week, or struggle through the week I’m on? I tried just running as much as I could through my last ten minutes today, but it felt unstructured and non-productive.

All I can do is keep trying.

Recommended for You

            As some of you may know, I’m a little bit of a shop-a-holic. This is a nasty little habit that feels justified when you are constantly “growing” out of clothes. In the last couple of years, I have almost completely shied away from traditional store shopping and gone online. This has happened for a number of reasons:

1.      I worked in retail for three years. I will be ecstatic if I never see another mall again.

2.      I would rather pick out my size gi-normous jeans in privacy, and likewise cry in the privacy of my bathroom when they don’t fit.

3.      It’s convenient. I am almost always by a computer or my Blackberry. I can browse, think about it, then browse some more. When Victoria’s Secret re-formatted their site for Blackberry viewing, I about passed out from euphoria.

4.      There’s usually more of a selection. It’s rare that they are out of a size or color. And online exclusives? Yes, please. Also, the internet is not bound to floor space, so I don’t have to worry about going to “the crappy Target.”

So, clearly, online shopping is my choice. Sure, there are drawbacks. I end up returning half the stuff I order. I usually pick retailers who have a return policy that allows me to return in store. This way I can exchange, or just get more stuff, which hurts the wallet. Another drawback is that I get about ten emails a day beckoning me to come back for big big savings. I usually try to delete these without reading them, but I was not so diligent.

Younkers is having what they call e-busters for “Community Day.” I do not know what “Community Day” is and I really don’t care, but what does “e-busters” mean? Turns out, “e-busters” is a lazy online shopper’s wet dream. It’s the online equivalent to door-buster sales. I do not do these early-bird, Black Friday gimmick shit. I would rather spend more money and sleep then get my ass up early on a cold day and fight some old hag over discount elastic waistband pants. (that is a slight exaggeration. While elastic waistband pants are comfortable, I would never buy them because to me, that is officially giving up)

I am having a wonderful time perusing the deals on Younkers’ site. I mean, there are some old lady sweaters that are on sale for like twelve dollars. Ugly Sweater party anyone? I laugh as I see the original price. Why would anyone pay $40.00 for a sweater called Kitty Play? Apple Gathering? Maybe some Birdsong Swag to go with my leisure pants.

Just then, karma caught up with me. I glanced at the “Recommended for You” tab and the gurus at younkers.com apparently think I would fancy a pair of plus size Baby Phat skinny jeans with studded hardware on the leg. (For those of you who don’t know, Baby Phat is a clothing line geared toward young African American women. Some of their stuff is ok, but some of it is kind of skanky)

So, not only has Younkers figured out that I’m chunky, but they also think I want to look like a ho. Awesome. That’s exactly what everyone needs to see, brass buttons adorning the pantleg that is choking my cankles.

This is not the first time Recommended tabs have let me down. Amazon.com thinks I’m desperate and lonely. Their recommendations for Kindle reading have usually been very good for me; I have found many good books that way. But, when my recommendations started featuring bare-chested men and women and corsets on the covers, I had to really had to re-evaluate my reading material. Damn you, Thorn Birds, messing up my recommendations.

I can’t figure out where Younkers got that suggestion, but I know that my shopping energy is shot. Much like my gym energy. Monday we are back on the horse for sure.

(Shit, those novels usually had people on horseback. Damn you Amazon.)

           

Pants Cause Murderous Rage: A Rainy Day Story

            After a few weeks on week four of the training program, I finally got the courage on Monday to try on week five for size. Me and trying things on doesn’t normally go well, but I’m pretty happy that I’m technically at the halfway point of this program.

            Up until now, I have looked at the next week and thought to myself, well that seems doable. This is honestly the first time I’ve looked at my plan and felt genuine dread. It sat at the pit of my stomach like the homemade mac and cheese I made this weekend. Or the drive-thru food. Or the smoked ribs. Or the superdog. Or the pizza. Or the pasta. Or the staggering amount of drinks I had. Yeah, that was a typical weekend in college for me, and I re-lived it this weekend. Some people wake up one morning, look in the mirror and wonder, how did I get this fat?
            I have seriously never asked myself that question, because it’s pretty obvious. Just look at all the shit I ate this weekend. But I had fun, a lot of fun.
            After all the fun I had this weekend, combined with my increased intervals, I had a terrible day at the gym. I am at the point in my intervals where I can actually track it by distance. Week five consists of running 0.25 miles, then walking for 90 seconds, running 0.5 miles, then walking for 2.5 minutes. Repeat.
            Well, repeat in theory. I felt like crap at the gym and couldn’t make my half mile. I tried stopping for a very short time and giving it another go. I tried this three times, then gave up and went to the elliptical in shame.
            This was an epic failure, and I felt very down about myself. It got even worse at bowling that night. It’s a sad moment when a ball that belonged to your sweet old grandmother suddenly feels too heavy for you. As the week wore on, I discovered that I am getting sick. I have been sick pretty much since Monday night, and finally caved today and called in.
            I passed out in a NyQuil coma last night and didn’t wake up until Josh was getting ready for work. I woke up the sensation of clothes being thrown onto the bed. Josh was sorting through the pants pile on the top of our dresser. I was glad he was sorting through the pile, because our pants in such close proximity always made me think of the jeans incident.
            Many people already know this story, but it is worth telling.
            Two summers ago, my entire family came to visit in Kansas City. This was the first time my sister and I got to meet my brother’s girlfriend (now wife). On a Saturday, my dad, husband, brother, and brother-in-law went golfing. My mom, sister, future sister-in-law and I went shopping. My mother was mostly along for the ride, since she knocked out most of her shopping the day before at Stein-Mart by my apartment. We got to hear about all the beautiful designer clothes she got at discount prices for herself and my father.
            After shopping and golfing, everyone was to meet up at my sister’s apartment for a grill-out. My husband and my father stopped at my apartment to change clothes.
            It should be noted here that my mother lays out clothing for my dad every day. It is not just a sweet gesture; it is because she is not confident in his ability to dress himself. She always talks the time that they were dating and he came to pick her up in a burgundy paisley shirt and orange plaid bell bottoms. From that day on she did all his shopping and wardrobing.
            Dad puts on the clothes he feels he was instructed to wear, and comes out of the spare bedroom with a strange look on his face. “Do these jeans look right to you?” he asks Josh.
            Josh gives my dad a once over, but chooses his words carefully, because he knows my mom does all the shopping. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen jeans like that before.”
            “She said they were a new cut. I don’t know. I guess I better wear them. I can’t get my wallet into the front pocket though. It’s not right. Do you put your wallet into your front pocket?”
            Josh shakes his head.
            “No? Well you should,” Dad says. “I guess these are my new jeans.”
            Josh and Dad walk into Anna’s living room where my mom is relaxing. The rest of us kids are cooking in the kitchen. Josh dutifully sits down by my mother, because he is a kiss-ass and very good at it, as my mother scrutinizes my father’s outfit.
            “Where did you get those jeans?” she asks my father.
            “They were on the bed with my other clothes,” Dad answers.
            My mother pauses, not satisfied. “Come here, let me see them.”
            Sensing the imminent danger, Dad stays where he is. “They…they were the ones you laid out,” he starts to stammer.
            I watch as my mother goes from totally calm into a fiery rage. “Are you….ARE YOU WEARING MY JEANS????? OH MY GOD YOU ARE WEARING MY JEANS. WHY DO YOU DO THIS? WHY?”
            My siblings and I are trying to hold in our laughter in the kitchen, but my husband, in the middle of it all, bursts into hysterical guffaws.
            “I…I…just wore the jeans you laid out for me,” Dad explains.
            “NO YOU DIDN’T. YOU HAD TO DELIBERATELY GO INTO THE SUITCASE AND SEARCH FOR THOSE. THOSE ARE MY NEW DESIGNER JEANS!”
            I take a look at the jeans in question, and they are no doubt women’s jeans. They are shiny iridescent denim with small embroidered pockets on the butt, and my dad looks surprisingly good in them.
            As I admire Dad’s figure, Josh notices my mother is dangerously close to speaking in tongues and stabbing my father. Kansas is a dangerous place to be so angry. Luckily, my sister has probably the only residence in the whole state without a firearm. Josh, realizing how serious this sitution has become, abruptly pulls my dad out of the house to go pants shopping.
            I hold back giggles as I try to console my mother.
            “You don’t understand. He’s done this before. We wore my new jeans in the hog barn. Twice. I can’t get the hog shit smell out. They are ruined.”
            “Mom, he doesn’t mean to do it. Really (stifled giggle) he doesn’t. Why would he choose to make you so upset?”
            “He just doesn’t care. It’s so hard for me to find jeans that are nice on me.”
            I definitely understand where she is coming from there. “It’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s just that he doesn’t pay attention. Trust me, this is way more embarrassing for him than it is for you.”
            Meanwhile, Josh finds a JCPenny and is mercilessly making fun of my father. They walk in straight to the women’s section, and the teasing ensues. Josh desperately tries to get some baggy ‘Lil John gangsta-style jeans. Nearly thirty years of marriage to my mother has sunk in a little, and Dad knows deep down that is the wrong choice. He does, however, come striding in with sweet Arizona Jean Company black denim jeans, throwback to 1992. I believe Danny Tanner used to wear the same kind. Josh earns some gold-toe socks for his effort.
            Mom has calmed down at this point, but the claws are still out.
            “Where’d you get those jeans? God, those are ugly,” she spat at my father.
             My father, trying to re-gain a sense of pride, says, "I like them. What's wrong with them? They're my jeans." He flashes me a smile.
            My brother-in-law leans over to me. “How awkward would it be if I came out of the bedroom wearing your sister’s jeans?” I laugh and offer him money to do it. He doesn’t.
            Out of all this, I got the perfect closing to my matron of honor speech at my sister’s wedding, a good story to tell, and an overwhelming fear my husband will accidently wear my clothes. Josh has way better legs than me and I would get insanely jealous. He did try on some knee-high boots once and has been forbidden to do that again. Other than the fact I am not into cross-dressing, his legs are breathtaking.
            I have been struggling through illness all week and plan to get some runs in this weekend. I am starting to see some definite results in my lower body. Who knows, I will have better legs than my husband, or even my dad before long.