Perspective is the weirdest thing.
It's so variable, so biased.
It has, in the months immediately following the half, become harder and harder to see my accomplishments. My waist is once again covered with layers of sloth and pancakes.
And so I return to the pavement, at an hour I have only previously vaguely talked about (5:30). Husband laughed at me when I've mentioned it before. I am not known as a morning person. But it's before the heat of the day, and (mostly) before the after work fatigue hits. It allows me a morning that is of my own choosing - and the time to wake up before I am hit by the demands of the day. It is a remarkably peaceful thing, but also, apparently a rather busy time of the day for other runners.
I love it. It gives me time to get the work out out of the way. I can listen to my podcasts and have lunch again, with others, and not feel guilty for having not done what I should have.
That said, these runs are affecting my perspective. Where once the distance was (a little) easier, they are difficult again. The early morning sun at my back strikes me in such a way as to cause my shadow to resemble a giant fertility figure - a tiny head and giant bottom waggling along the road. No wonder this is so difficult, I think, look at the size of that!
Mrs. Maiden has told me the story of her comeuppance as a 40-year-old. She was wearing her blue bikini and feeling rather proud of herself for doing that at her age; "not too shabby," I remember her describing herself. However, after laying on some sun warmed rocks in the North Channel during a cruise on the Maiden family boat, she sat up with a squelching, sucking noise. Her back fat had sealed her to the stone.
I remember thinking that was hilarious. Ok, well it kinda was, until the fertility figure thing.
And until I raised my arm to wave goodbye after having spent the weekend with awesome friends from my youth and most of our kids, doing really great beachy cottage type things, and caught a glimpse of the bottom of my arm waggling away in it's own fond farewell.
Showing posts with label workout fever. Show all posts
Showing posts with label workout fever. Show all posts
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The Ottawa Half - a bit late
So finally, a round up of what it was like to run 21.1 kilometres, again. Finally.
It was, as you well know, the fourth half I've trained for. The second one I've run. It hurt. Oh, lord.
I started with colleagues (I mean, who better to spend over 2 hours of pain with than the folks you see every day? And yes, Janey, you better believe I had mascara on.) The pick-up guy, to be exact, was our bunny. And I did my best to stay with him, even though it was my fantasy pace. I had honestly planned to finish. I thought maybe I could do better than last time, but I was prepared to run the same race and figured that'd be ok.
It was crowded. So crowded, that I was soon knocked back in the pack - the pick-up guy turning to check a few times for a thumbs up, but soon I could only see his back, and his ears...
I ran through neighborhoods, past work, across the bridge I cross on almost every lunchtime run. I experienced unbelievable kindness when my ipod fell and the guy behind me stooped in the middle of the surging crowd to pick it up.
I ran past a pirate family no less than three different times, I ran through heat, and drizzle and steady rain, I ran past signs that made me laugh out loud (worst parade ever) and ones I considered stopping to debate (you've done harder things than this), I ran past old colleagues and new, some who recognized me, but most who didn't - I certainly didn't smile the whole time, but there was a moment when I realized that if I stopped to walk the rest of the way, I'd still have finished faster than I ever thought possible.
And that moment was pure brilliance.
It was, as you well know, the fourth half I've trained for. The second one I've run. It hurt. Oh, lord.
I started with colleagues (I mean, who better to spend over 2 hours of pain with than the folks you see every day? And yes, Janey, you better believe I had mascara on.) The pick-up guy, to be exact, was our bunny. And I did my best to stay with him, even though it was my fantasy pace. I had honestly planned to finish. I thought maybe I could do better than last time, but I was prepared to run the same race and figured that'd be ok.
It was crowded. So crowded, that I was soon knocked back in the pack - the pick-up guy turning to check a few times for a thumbs up, but soon I could only see his back, and his ears...
I ran through neighborhoods, past work, across the bridge I cross on almost every lunchtime run. I experienced unbelievable kindness when my ipod fell and the guy behind me stooped in the middle of the surging crowd to pick it up.
I ran past a pirate family no less than three different times, I ran through heat, and drizzle and steady rain, I ran past signs that made me laugh out loud (worst parade ever) and ones I considered stopping to debate (you've done harder things than this), I ran past old colleagues and new, some who recognized me, but most who didn't - I certainly didn't smile the whole time, but there was a moment when I realized that if I stopped to walk the rest of the way, I'd still have finished faster than I ever thought possible.
And that moment was pure brilliance.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Again, some more!
Wow.
Ok. So there was supposed to be some writing about awesomeness of three year olds and their view of the world, and maybe something about six year olds and the continuing drama and what it's like to try to manage child care for first graders (spoiler alert: it sucks; there aren't many choices in my neighborhood.)
But what this is really about, what has consumed me, is that half marathon standing between me and all rational thought. It's tomorrow. It's tomorrow; it's tomorrow.
My favorite shorts are drying on the rack in the basement. My jacket is currently rinsing. I've stretched and gotten ART (ow) and taken my iron. I've run and run and run and run and run.
I don't feel ready in the slightest, but apparently, either I will or won't be tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Ok. So there was supposed to be some writing about awesomeness of three year olds and their view of the world, and maybe something about six year olds and the continuing drama and what it's like to try to manage child care for first graders (spoiler alert: it sucks; there aren't many choices in my neighborhood.)
But what this is really about, what has consumed me, is that half marathon standing between me and all rational thought. It's tomorrow. It's tomorrow; it's tomorrow.
My favorite shorts are drying on the rack in the basement. My jacket is currently rinsing. I've stretched and gotten ART (ow) and taken my iron. I've run and run and run and run and run.
I don't feel ready in the slightest, but apparently, either I will or won't be tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Friday, February 4, 2011
One more time for old time's sake....
Yo.
I don't do this enough.
I promise I recognize it and wear that recognition around like a hair shirt. I think we can all tell when I'm training and when I'm not, as these things generally come to me as I'm running.
So...... I've clearly not had that many long runs of late. Sorry.
I did have a long note qued up and ready to go to discuss the change of the WW over to SOMETHING NEW AND COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, except that it's pretty much the same. Well, I actually had one prior to that talking about how I'd managed to find an extra point (entitled I replace food with tea and gum) to drop to 19 points a day (if this means anything to you...) but then I went to meeting, and all of a sudden I had 29 points a day available to me. So that was a bit of a wash. But on the upside, I'm having fruit as a snack instead of tea and gum, so there's that!
Now. During last night's run (SEE?), I was listening to a recent release from that guy who's stage persona sounds remarkably like my favourite candy. But that doesn't completely explain his draw for me, and I was trying to think what it was.
We're about the same age. We're from the same state - in fact, the Robotic Engineer's grandmother lived just off of 8th Line, in the Detroit, which, I can promise, was very different from 10th line, in case you saw the movie (which I did. Brilliance, right?). But the streets are really called that, and you can probably tell that the two aren't that far away from each other.
But seriously, is that enough? I mean, clearly, we've not that much in common - is it that I'm just drawn to them with an Achilles heel? Feet of clay? Irreparably shattered but brilliant and funny?
I don't know. But I can tell you that I am. It's inexplicable. I mean, I remember what it was like to live with an alcoholic, and it's really not that much fun, so I'm pretty sure Husband is safe, but is it my own rage and sorrow, miniscule in comparison, I think, that I recognize in them?
Am I the only one? I mean, besides Lainey?
I don't do this enough.
I promise I recognize it and wear that recognition around like a hair shirt. I think we can all tell when I'm training and when I'm not, as these things generally come to me as I'm running.
So...... I've clearly not had that many long runs of late. Sorry.
I did have a long note qued up and ready to go to discuss the change of the WW over to SOMETHING NEW AND COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, except that it's pretty much the same. Well, I actually had one prior to that talking about how I'd managed to find an extra point (entitled I replace food with tea and gum) to drop to 19 points a day (if this means anything to you...) but then I went to meeting, and all of a sudden I had 29 points a day available to me. So that was a bit of a wash. But on the upside, I'm having fruit as a snack instead of tea and gum, so there's that!
Now. During last night's run (SEE?), I was listening to a recent release from that guy who's stage persona sounds remarkably like my favourite candy. But that doesn't completely explain his draw for me, and I was trying to think what it was.
We're about the same age. We're from the same state - in fact, the Robotic Engineer's grandmother lived just off of 8th Line, in the Detroit, which, I can promise, was very different from 10th line, in case you saw the movie (which I did. Brilliance, right?). But the streets are really called that, and you can probably tell that the two aren't that far away from each other.
But seriously, is that enough? I mean, clearly, we've not that much in common - is it that I'm just drawn to them with an Achilles heel? Feet of clay? Irreparably shattered but brilliant and funny?
I don't know. But I can tell you that I am. It's inexplicable. I mean, I remember what it was like to live with an alcoholic, and it's really not that much fun, so I'm pretty sure Husband is safe, but is it my own rage and sorrow, miniscule in comparison, I think, that I recognize in them?
Am I the only one? I mean, besides Lainey?
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Vow renewal
When we married, Husband and I wanted a beach wedding, but couldn't live with the guilt of asking our families (then with younger kids) to fly somewhere far, far away from where we were to witness the whole event.
We promised each other a lot of things then, things like hanging out till' death came to one of us, being around if the other was puking, well, and some other stuff too. But we also promised that in 10 years, when we were old, you see, and well established, we'd make those promises again. In the sun, with our toes in the sand.
The funny thing is, I don't feel that old, and, ironically, don't feel that well established, but the deadline, my dears, is here. It's been 10 years!
And so in advance of booking the trip, I'm tying up loose ends - renewing my passport, deciding on a resort and booking it, and oh yeah, taking a good hard look at my own loose end.
Let's just say that with re-weddings, came re-spinning today. And I was reminded of the driveway. Oh lord the driveway. This gets better, right?
We promised each other a lot of things then, things like hanging out till' death came to one of us, being around if the other was puking, well, and some other stuff too. But we also promised that in 10 years, when we were old, you see, and well established, we'd make those promises again. In the sun, with our toes in the sand.
The funny thing is, I don't feel that old, and, ironically, don't feel that well established, but the deadline, my dears, is here. It's been 10 years!
And so in advance of booking the trip, I'm tying up loose ends - renewing my passport, deciding on a resort and booking it, and oh yeah, taking a good hard look at my own loose end.
Let's just say that with re-weddings, came re-spinning today. And I was reminded of the driveway. Oh lord the driveway. This gets better, right?
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Dreams used and wasted
In update to MlleL and the zombies:
The concerns came again the next morning, as the Orkin man was visiting for his two week follow up. You know, I said, even though they're not real, I bet the Orkin Man can mix some zombie spray in with the ant spray....
I'd be happy to, he said, just for you. But, he said, looking right into her eyes, it's just for you. You can't tell everyone because we don't put zombies in our ads. [I kinda wish they did...]
Hmm, she said, as we drove to care provider's house, He looks like a prince. He has a very nice smile. I'm going to marry him when I grow up, if he's not already married....
In my own case, I was running the last few steps of the escalator at work on Tuesday and felt a pull, and have been regretting that step ever since. It doesn't seem to be remitting.
I had some ART done on Friday (oh, my hell.), and then some sort of laser to help it heal. We talked about the possibility of running this weekend (maybe) and my deadline of next Sunday for the half. I've done all the training. Ok, well, most of it. Pretty much all of it. I considered myself to be ready.
This morning, at a kid's birthday party at the park, I was the first to see a guest put his baby brother in a wagon and start to pull him down a long, steep hill. I shouted, and ran to try to catch him and felt something like Velcro in my leg.
Thankfully, there were other adults who were able to catch them (husband among them). Because I was trapped helplessly at the top of the hill, watching them and, I suspect, my hopes of next weekend roll away from me.
The concerns came again the next morning, as the Orkin man was visiting for his two week follow up. You know, I said, even though they're not real, I bet the Orkin Man can mix some zombie spray in with the ant spray....
I'd be happy to, he said, just for you. But, he said, looking right into her eyes, it's just for you. You can't tell everyone because we don't put zombies in our ads. [I kinda wish they did...]
Hmm, she said, as we drove to care provider's house, He looks like a prince. He has a very nice smile. I'm going to marry him when I grow up, if he's not already married....
In my own case, I was running the last few steps of the escalator at work on Tuesday and felt a pull, and have been regretting that step ever since. It doesn't seem to be remitting.
I had some ART done on Friday (oh, my hell.), and then some sort of laser to help it heal. We talked about the possibility of running this weekend (maybe) and my deadline of next Sunday for the half. I've done all the training. Ok, well, most of it. Pretty much all of it. I considered myself to be ready.
This morning, at a kid's birthday party at the park, I was the first to see a guest put his baby brother in a wagon and start to pull him down a long, steep hill. I shouted, and ran to try to catch him and felt something like Velcro in my leg.
Thankfully, there were other adults who were able to catch them (husband among them). Because I was trapped helplessly at the top of the hill, watching them and, I suspect, my hopes of next weekend roll away from me.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
ooook.
I realized rather late in the game that the extreme efforts I made to minimize the amount of luggage travelling to Points North may have also minimized my access to things I wanted and possibly needed.
Despite that fact, I thought outside of the box, found one of the refillable juice boxes in the car, filled it with water and stuffed it down my pants. I took two puffs of the inhaler, laced my shoes and set out.
Sure, it wasn't on schedule. It was, to be exact, Thursday morning.
This year, I avoided the Worst Run Ever (up hill both ways past the cemetary containing my father's unmarked grave and substanital emotional discoveries) and took a more circuitous route through the village, past the Inn and out the new road to complete the 16k.
I would see 7 trucks on my journey, a motorcycle, and one car -my dad's, the Crown Vic, which is now owned by others in the village, and still appears to be in really good shape.
Two of these vehicles (NOT the car) would follow the long standing Points North tradition of the wave. One of them, which I saw a happy total of four times during the two hours, merrily waving away before he even passed me, was driven by the man who sold me the first sweatshirt I ever bought with my own money (I was 8), copious amounts of candy (aw hell, it would have been this time if the general store had still been open), countless loaves of bread and my first legal liquor (20).
In fact, when I tried to buy that liquor, he asked me to wait a minute and had a whispered conversation with his 'wife'. Having not reached a successful conclusion, he returned, fixed me with a stern look, and said "Katie? Are you over 19??" And then totally took my word for it.
Oprah talks about the secret socio-economic indicators that instantly identify your class - vocabulary, teeth, etc.
It was like that. The running made me not from there. It was like wearing a suit of away. Not only did they not know who I belonged to, they could not see past the suit to recognize the kid I used to be.
It was his wave - each of those four times - that eased that feeling of being different, and helped me remember a time when my vacations to Points North were the stuff of family, of freedom, and of wild amounts of McIntosh's Toffee. Even when I had the braces and Mrs. Maiden asked him not to sell it to me.
Despite that fact, I thought outside of the box, found one of the refillable juice boxes in the car, filled it with water and stuffed it down my pants. I took two puffs of the inhaler, laced my shoes and set out.
Sure, it wasn't on schedule. It was, to be exact, Thursday morning.
This year, I avoided the Worst Run Ever (up hill both ways past the cemetary containing my father's unmarked grave and substanital emotional discoveries) and took a more circuitous route through the village, past the Inn and out the new road to complete the 16k.
I would see 7 trucks on my journey, a motorcycle, and one car -my dad's, the Crown Vic, which is now owned by others in the village, and still appears to be in really good shape.
Two of these vehicles (NOT the car) would follow the long standing Points North tradition of the wave. One of them, which I saw a happy total of four times during the two hours, merrily waving away before he even passed me, was driven by the man who sold me the first sweatshirt I ever bought with my own money (I was 8), copious amounts of candy (aw hell, it would have been this time if the general store had still been open), countless loaves of bread and my first legal liquor (20).
In fact, when I tried to buy that liquor, he asked me to wait a minute and had a whispered conversation with his 'wife'. Having not reached a successful conclusion, he returned, fixed me with a stern look, and said "Katie? Are you over 19??" And then totally took my word for it.
Oprah talks about the secret socio-economic indicators that instantly identify your class - vocabulary, teeth, etc.
It was like that. The running made me not from there. It was like wearing a suit of away. Not only did they not know who I belonged to, they could not see past the suit to recognize the kid I used to be.
It was his wave - each of those four times - that eased that feeling of being different, and helped me remember a time when my vacations to Points North were the stuff of family, of freedom, and of wild amounts of McIntosh's Toffee. Even when I had the braces and Mrs. Maiden asked him not to sell it to me.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Breath of fire
To be truthful, it's been my calming noise all of my life. I don't even realize I do it when I go to sleep. When I was a child, I napped with Mr. Maiden on the couch. It's the sound of him sleeping. The sound of him breathing.
Constrict the back of your throat, and breathe - ujjayi breath - the sound of yoga and the ocean, and the sound of my dad. The sound of COPD.
When I was 19 years old, I was an out of shape first year university student in Northern Michigan. (I'd been to Grade 13 in Parts North, but then transferred those credits over to the University. A phenomenally cheap strategy for getting through school.)
Anyhow. I got suckered into playing Broom Ball (for the uninitiated, it's hockey rules, played with small rubber brooms and a hard rubber ball on the arena ice.) as one of the only girls on the intramural team. Because we were short girls, I had to run for the whole period. I didn't get a break.
I stepped off the ice and experienced my first (and one of my worst) exercise induced asthma attack. When I recovered, I called Mr. Maiden, and asked him what asthma felt like. He sighed and said "Well, honey, how about you tell me what it feels like."
It never really surfaced again as badly until a nasty virus lasting weeks and weeks in Arizona had me prescribed with a puffer to take several times a day.
Off and on, I've had a puffer ever since. Well, mostly off, to be honest - I haven't had one in the house for about 10 years. I remember tossing the last one when it expired back in the apartment. I think it was the one bedroom, so at least before 2000.
The thing is - in the lunch time running group, I am always, always the last one in the line. Always. I watch people I really should be faster than (think old and infirm wearing pumas, for Christ sake) pass me on my runs around the bridges. And I have running partners with whom I train during lunch hours.
I can always tell, D says, when you're not behind me - I can't hear you breathing.
(Apparently, it's not normal for your friends to be able to hear you when you run?)
You know, S says, I really don't think it's a getting in better shape thing. I really don't think your lungs should be the only part of you keeping you from more speed.
I always assume that the reason I can't breathe is because I am in some way not in good enough shape, and if I just work harder, it will fix itself.
Why not get a puffer? they ask.
I am afraid of it.
I want to be stronger than this - to be able to manage to train and run at the same speed as others. Not to see others slowly gain away from me because I can not go faster, never go faster and still breathe.
I do not want this - it terrifies me. A small part of me thinks that it might be worth a try - to see if it really is better, faster, without the constant controlling of the gasp - three counts in, three counts out - don't panic, you're fine.
A part of me suspects that it might not make a difference. That I will always be the one at the back of the pack.
The other part just misses him so badly.
Constrict the back of your throat, and breathe - ujjayi breath - the sound of yoga and the ocean, and the sound of my dad. The sound of COPD.
When I was 19 years old, I was an out of shape first year university student in Northern Michigan. (I'd been to Grade 13 in Parts North, but then transferred those credits over to the University. A phenomenally cheap strategy for getting through school.)
Anyhow. I got suckered into playing Broom Ball (for the uninitiated, it's hockey rules, played with small rubber brooms and a hard rubber ball on the arena ice.) as one of the only girls on the intramural team. Because we were short girls, I had to run for the whole period. I didn't get a break.
I stepped off the ice and experienced my first (and one of my worst) exercise induced asthma attack. When I recovered, I called Mr. Maiden, and asked him what asthma felt like. He sighed and said "Well, honey, how about you tell me what it feels like."
It never really surfaced again as badly until a nasty virus lasting weeks and weeks in Arizona had me prescribed with a puffer to take several times a day.
Off and on, I've had a puffer ever since. Well, mostly off, to be honest - I haven't had one in the house for about 10 years. I remember tossing the last one when it expired back in the apartment. I think it was the one bedroom, so at least before 2000.
The thing is - in the lunch time running group, I am always, always the last one in the line. Always. I watch people I really should be faster than (think old and infirm wearing pumas, for Christ sake) pass me on my runs around the bridges. And I have running partners with whom I train during lunch hours.
I can always tell, D says, when you're not behind me - I can't hear you breathing.
(Apparently, it's not normal for your friends to be able to hear you when you run?)
You know, S says, I really don't think it's a getting in better shape thing. I really don't think your lungs should be the only part of you keeping you from more speed.
I always assume that the reason I can't breathe is because I am in some way not in good enough shape, and if I just work harder, it will fix itself.
Why not get a puffer? they ask.
I am afraid of it.
I want to be stronger than this - to be able to manage to train and run at the same speed as others. Not to see others slowly gain away from me because I can not go faster, never go faster and still breathe.
I do not want this - it terrifies me. A small part of me thinks that it might be worth a try - to see if it really is better, faster, without the constant controlling of the gasp - three counts in, three counts out - don't panic, you're fine.
A part of me suspects that it might not make a difference. That I will always be the one at the back of the pack.
The other part just misses him so badly.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Special K
See, with the return to school, I've thought that maybe, just maybe, it would be considered rude to be eating my breakfast (cooked oatmeal) in front of the instructor on one-on-one training and conjugating with my mouth full.
Since mornings are so tough here at the Casa Valentine time-wise, (seriously, I'm late every, every, every day.) I figured I'd give Special K a shot, I mean, there's 1.25 cups in a serving, it's dump in the bowl and chew, and two points is two points, right?
HA. From what I can tell, the Special K Challenge is not to lurch so much when you're wandering the halls looking for foooood, tasty fooooood so as not to alert your prey.
Stupid Special K. Stupid Christmas weight.
Lovely, lovely microwaved rolled oats. Thanks for taking me back. I'll never, never leave you again.
Since mornings are so tough here at the Casa Valentine time-wise, (seriously, I'm late every, every, every day.) I figured I'd give Special K a shot, I mean, there's 1.25 cups in a serving, it's dump in the bowl and chew, and two points is two points, right?
HA. From what I can tell, the Special K Challenge is not to lurch so much when you're wandering the halls looking for foooood, tasty fooooood so as not to alert your prey.
Stupid Special K. Stupid Christmas weight.
Lovely, lovely microwaved rolled oats. Thanks for taking me back. I'll never, never leave you again.
Friday, October 2, 2009
September Wrapup
oh goodness, I can't focus.
September, my dears, almost killed me. Seriously. It really, really did, with its huge stresses of two (!) new care providers, and negotiated changes to bus routes, and school, and Grammar exams, and interviews, and Doctor's appointments - mine and care providers', and a half marathon, and visits to and from family, and you know, some work in there somewhere.
Let's just say that it's a pretty good thing that boss-man apparently likes me, because the work/life pendulum has been swung away from him all month. Sorry, boss-man.
What I can say is this: October looks pretty good so far. The new care provider is good and MlleL seems to really enjoy being there - except for the double drop, which gets me to work late every morning - bus routes were changed in time for the first day of school, school is awesome (MlleL loves it. And is learning crazy new stuff every, every day), Grammar exam was passed (woooot)!, Interviews completed, Doctor's appointments attended, visits with family joyous.
Oh. The half? You'd like to hear more about that?
Well. It began bright and early on a sunny and cool September 20th, when I stopped by Janey's to pick her up at 8:15. Start time was 9:00 - and we were there in plenty of time this time not to have to jump fences and elbow our way into the crowd far from our intended corral (Ottawa 10k, I'm looking at you.) The start cannon scared us all, and a few moments later, we were off. About four blocks into 21.1k, Janey looked back over her shoulder as she always does and waved, and I blew her a kiss like I always do and I wouldn't see her again until I crossed the finish line, standing waiting for me after the medals with the biggest grin I've seen in a long, long time and a super sweaty and pretty teary hug. It will shine for me as one of the best moments of achievement in my life, and I'm so, so happy to have been able to share it like that. Sigh.
Mrs. Maiden drove down from Places North to see it - but was too teary eyed herself to see me cross. Well, she saw, but didn't recognize me until I was standing just on the other side of the fence yelling "MOM!"
Oh, the run?
Yeah. It was really, really long, but I ran it every step. Maybe you saw me? In the back of the pack with the shades on? I smiled the whole way.
September, my dears, almost killed me. Seriously. It really, really did, with its huge stresses of two (!) new care providers, and negotiated changes to bus routes, and school, and Grammar exams, and interviews, and Doctor's appointments - mine and care providers', and a half marathon, and visits to and from family, and you know, some work in there somewhere.
Let's just say that it's a pretty good thing that boss-man apparently likes me, because the work/life pendulum has been swung away from him all month. Sorry, boss-man.
What I can say is this: October looks pretty good so far. The new care provider is good and MlleL seems to really enjoy being there - except for the double drop, which gets me to work late every morning - bus routes were changed in time for the first day of school, school is awesome (MlleL loves it. And is learning crazy new stuff every, every day), Grammar exam was passed (woooot)!, Interviews completed, Doctor's appointments attended, visits with family joyous.
Oh. The half? You'd like to hear more about that?
Well. It began bright and early on a sunny and cool September 20th, when I stopped by Janey's to pick her up at 8:15. Start time was 9:00 - and we were there in plenty of time this time not to have to jump fences and elbow our way into the crowd far from our intended corral (Ottawa 10k, I'm looking at you.) The start cannon scared us all, and a few moments later, we were off. About four blocks into 21.1k, Janey looked back over her shoulder as she always does and waved, and I blew her a kiss like I always do and I wouldn't see her again until I crossed the finish line, standing waiting for me after the medals with the biggest grin I've seen in a long, long time and a super sweaty and pretty teary hug. It will shine for me as one of the best moments of achievement in my life, and I'm so, so happy to have been able to share it like that. Sigh.
Mrs. Maiden drove down from Places North to see it - but was too teary eyed herself to see me cross. Well, she saw, but didn't recognize me until I was standing just on the other side of the fence yelling "MOM!"
Oh, the run?
Yeah. It was really, really long, but I ran it every step. Maybe you saw me? In the back of the pack with the shades on? I smiled the whole way.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Every day victories
Dudes.
In rereading the entries for the past month or so, it would seem I've been having a tough time. That's a misrepresentation. I feel in a good place; it's been a great summer, so I think I might be just finding written inspiration in my battles lately, instead of victories.
So here are some delicious victories to remind me of the summer I'm really having.
I'll be an honest to goodness auntie in late October. I'm already lucky enough to be an auntie to 6 really cool nieces and nephews, but this one will be the first baby from the Maidens (we got a ready-made nephew a few years ago in the really sweet two for one deal that was BigBrother's wedding). It's pretty exciting. I look forward to more Skype viewings soon.
In mid-July, Mrs. Maiden came to visit on her way to more healing touch training in Arizona. She stayed a day, which I was able to take off to be with her while the kids were in daycare. I had hoped to spend part of the day peeling the deadfish wallpaper in the upstairs bathroom, but as that took such a short time, we actually painted the whole room - and changed out the accessories to achieve fish eradication and new look in one day. Yipee!!
At the end of the month, she returned to care for the kids for a week while Husband and I planned to do foundation repairs. Unfortunately, as it rained each day, we were unable to dig, but what we did do was spend four days finishing all the carpentry work and prepping to allow us to finish painting the foyer, staircase and upper landing of the house - FINALLY - after 4 years of living here and two years of living with a partially scraped and prepped staircase which made me cringe just a little whenever someone new came to the house. A major, major accomplishment.
Oh, my goodness, it's delicious. The fish are gone. The decals also. As Janey said when we first bought the house - it's a matter of scrubbing out the crazy. (The sun, however, in all its subterranean glory, remains blissfully unaware of the fate which is slowly, but surely coming its way.)
Sundays I'm up when the kids are up (usually, husband takes the early shift on the weekends to let me sleep to 8. It's an amazing gift.) to do my distance training run. Doing it at the crack of dawn lets me have more of a family day with everyone, and allows time for essentials like rest, laundry and groceries. Usually, as I leave, MlleL and Husband chant "go, mama, go! go, mama, go!" (MasterP has simplified that to go, go, gooooooo!) It's tremendous motivation for me, and helps me get out the door. Yesterday morning, after my puttering around for a half hour or so - folding a load of laundry, having a snack, getting my road id on, and ensuring my iPod has juice - MasterP started his chant early, before I even had shoes on, and pushed me towards the door. "Go, go, gooo!" he crouched down and yelled through the window of the screen door as I walked out the carport, "Go, go, goooooo!" he yelled shutting the inside door.
In rereading the entries for the past month or so, it would seem I've been having a tough time. That's a misrepresentation. I feel in a good place; it's been a great summer, so I think I might be just finding written inspiration in my battles lately, instead of victories.
So here are some delicious victories to remind me of the summer I'm really having.
I'll be an honest to goodness auntie in late October. I'm already lucky enough to be an auntie to 6 really cool nieces and nephews, but this one will be the first baby from the Maidens (we got a ready-made nephew a few years ago in the really sweet two for one deal that was BigBrother's wedding). It's pretty exciting. I look forward to more Skype viewings soon.
In mid-July, Mrs. Maiden came to visit on her way to more healing touch training in Arizona. She stayed a day, which I was able to take off to be with her while the kids were in daycare. I had hoped to spend part of the day peeling the deadfish wallpaper in the upstairs bathroom, but as that took such a short time, we actually painted the whole room - and changed out the accessories to achieve fish eradication and new look in one day. Yipee!!
At the end of the month, she returned to care for the kids for a week while Husband and I planned to do foundation repairs. Unfortunately, as it rained each day, we were unable to dig, but what we did do was spend four days finishing all the carpentry work and prepping to allow us to finish painting the foyer, staircase and upper landing of the house - FINALLY - after 4 years of living here and two years of living with a partially scraped and prepped staircase which made me cringe just a little whenever someone new came to the house. A major, major accomplishment.
Oh, my goodness, it's delicious. The fish are gone. The decals also. As Janey said when we first bought the house - it's a matter of scrubbing out the crazy. (The sun, however, in all its subterranean glory, remains blissfully unaware of the fate which is slowly, but surely coming its way.)
Sundays I'm up when the kids are up (usually, husband takes the early shift on the weekends to let me sleep to 8. It's an amazing gift.) to do my distance training run. Doing it at the crack of dawn lets me have more of a family day with everyone, and allows time for essentials like rest, laundry and groceries. Usually, as I leave, MlleL and Husband chant "go, mama, go! go, mama, go!" (MasterP has simplified that to go, go, gooooooo!) It's tremendous motivation for me, and helps me get out the door. Yesterday morning, after my puttering around for a half hour or so - folding a load of laundry, having a snack, getting my road id on, and ensuring my iPod has juice - MasterP started his chant early, before I even had shoes on, and pushed me towards the door. "Go, go, gooo!" he crouched down and yelled through the window of the screen door as I walked out the carport, "Go, go, goooooo!" he yelled shutting the inside door.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
I know all the words to De Colores and I'm proud to be an American...
Stuck.
Thanks, Janey.
It's been a gruelling week, my dears. Brought about, for the most part, by a kid cold gone bad in my sinuses. After a week of discomfort, (earning me the nickname snorky at the office - sad, but true) I have self medicated, using up half of the anti-biotic prescription I promised only to use under duress.
Dude. It wasn't as bad as the time I went to work because I was acting director and had to go to a horribly long and detailed presentation on how IT needs were going to be identified by the department and then addressed by the IT branch (not necessarily as easy a process as you might think) and the pain was so bad I couldn't actually see the screen where the horribly long and detailed presentation was displayed.
But still, I gots stuffs to do, right? Like bend over and put my kids shoes on. Or hold one on my lap without reeling from an accidental head-butt to the cheekbone. Or train for a half-marathon.
This week, I totally felt like the girl in the Advil commercial - if you think sinus pain and pressure is going to stop me.... Ask me two weeks ago, and I would have said 'pfft. That's absurd. If you're sick, seriously. How bad do you need to get out there?' This week? Well, if I let it go a week, I'm a week behind in distance maintenance. And you know, as long as I don't bend over (which I don't usually do while running) and breathe through my mouth, I'm generally ok.
But then on Monday, as I was blow-drying my hair after a tough night of, you know, snorking, I totally poked myself in the eyeball with a bristle of my round brush. Owwwww.
And also?
Later that same morning, as I was cooking her eggs and cottage cheese scramble in a one-eyed pirate mama fashion, MlleL was riffing on a role-play where her husband had just died and her baby was in her tummy (yeah, I know. TRAGIC. We're very dramatic chez Valentine. ALSO, I'd like to note that we really only watch Treehouse and the occasional episode on the Family channel, so there's not a whole lotta tragedy played out at our house influence-wise.) As I was commiserating her loss, she went on to describe how it was soooooo sad that he had died, and was now with God, and so we had to, and I quote, "dirt him up."
haaaaaaaaaaaa.
It's so, so wrong, but I don't really want to correct that, cause' it's so damn hilarious.
Thanks, Janey.
It's been a gruelling week, my dears. Brought about, for the most part, by a kid cold gone bad in my sinuses. After a week of discomfort, (earning me the nickname snorky at the office - sad, but true) I have self medicated, using up half of the anti-biotic prescription I promised only to use under duress.
Dude. It wasn't as bad as the time I went to work because I was acting director and had to go to a horribly long and detailed presentation on how IT needs were going to be identified by the department and then addressed by the IT branch (not necessarily as easy a process as you might think) and the pain was so bad I couldn't actually see the screen where the horribly long and detailed presentation was displayed.
But still, I gots stuffs to do, right? Like bend over and put my kids shoes on. Or hold one on my lap without reeling from an accidental head-butt to the cheekbone. Or train for a half-marathon.
This week, I totally felt like the girl in the Advil commercial - if you think sinus pain and pressure is going to stop me.... Ask me two weeks ago, and I would have said 'pfft. That's absurd. If you're sick, seriously. How bad do you need to get out there?' This week? Well, if I let it go a week, I'm a week behind in distance maintenance. And you know, as long as I don't bend over (which I don't usually do while running) and breathe through my mouth, I'm generally ok.
But then on Monday, as I was blow-drying my hair after a tough night of, you know, snorking, I totally poked myself in the eyeball with a bristle of my round brush. Owwwww.
And also?
Later that same morning, as I was cooking her eggs and cottage cheese scramble in a one-eyed pirate mama fashion, MlleL was riffing on a role-play where her husband had just died and her baby was in her tummy (yeah, I know. TRAGIC. We're very dramatic chez Valentine. ALSO, I'd like to note that we really only watch Treehouse and the occasional episode on the Family channel, so there's not a whole lotta tragedy played out at our house influence-wise.) As I was commiserating her loss, she went on to describe how it was soooooo sad that he had died, and was now with God, and so we had to, and I quote, "dirt him up."
haaaaaaaaaaaa.
It's so, so wrong, but I don't really want to correct that, cause' it's so damn hilarious.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Dear sub-conscious:
To note, I'd like to thank you for your recent suggestion regarding my colleague. I appreciate your interest and concern and will remain vigilant. While I would very much welcome it, I'd be pretty surprised if a situation arose such that I, that colleague, and the lovely Dr. W would be on a work symposium involving much introspection and what would appear to be quite a bit of shopping and consumption of alcohol (in a mall/hotel that resembles a very, very large grotto). That being said, I will do my best to remain alert. Additionally, I doubt very highly that my colleague drives a truck. (Although colleague is from the west, so maybe you're right. Hard to tell. I'd ask, but then I'd have to explain why.....)
I also thank you for your repeated reminders of what it would feel like to forget to wear a top to meetings and exercise classes. I can assure you that aside from that one time at Janey's house, this problem has never arisen, and I will strive to keep my record of (relatively) successful self clothing intact. And no, I do not agree with your theory that repeated trips to the locker room to don successive layers would result in less people noticing. If I ever do find myself topless while in cobra pose, I think I'll just put everything on at once and be done with it.
Looking forward to working with you again at your earliest convenience,
I remain,
Your body.
I also thank you for your repeated reminders of what it would feel like to forget to wear a top to meetings and exercise classes. I can assure you that aside from that one time at Janey's house, this problem has never arisen, and I will strive to keep my record of (relatively) successful self clothing intact. And no, I do not agree with your theory that repeated trips to the locker room to don successive layers would result in less people noticing. If I ever do find myself topless while in cobra pose, I think I'll just put everything on at once and be done with it.
Looking forward to working with you again at your earliest convenience,
I remain,
Your body.
Monday, June 1, 2009
And by the way?
We did it.
Janey and I totally did it. We ran the 10k. There's even photographic proof of it. Heh. Am I ever glad that I listened when I crossed the start line and posed when crossing the finish.
Cause' I saw unposed photos of me, and do I always do that with my lips? I guess so, cause' upon viewing the proofs, Husband said, oh, you're doing the lip thing.
Seriously? I walk around with that face on? Y'all never told me?
Sigh.
It was long, and awesome, and as anticipated, I spent the majority of the race staring at Janey's ass while I tried to catch her, except for the part at the 7k mark where she looked behind her for permission to open up and left me so quickly I didn't even see her go.
Crossing that line a full six minutes behind Janey was one of the best feelings ever. Having worked so hard for something physical like that and finally achieving it with grace... I was happy to have shaved about 6 minutes off my own training time of chug, chug, chug, which boss-man says is 'substantial' (because I work on a team that checked my time pretty much the same time I did) and I wore the timing bracelet boss-man's boss made for me with printer paper and packing tape (no, look in the photo - that's the white band on my arm, just above the watch which is most definitely not a sports watch. So much for self timing.)
It was so, so, tear bringingly good that I'm letting Janey use that feeling to talk me into signing up for something even greater. Something even longer, in September. On the weekend exactly between our birthdays.
I'm not even sure what to say about it, other than I hope it doesn't rain much this summer!!
Janey and I totally did it. We ran the 10k. There's even photographic proof of it. Heh. Am I ever glad that I listened when I crossed the start line and posed when crossing the finish.
Cause' I saw unposed photos of me, and do I always do that with my lips? I guess so, cause' upon viewing the proofs, Husband said, oh, you're doing the lip thing.
Seriously? I walk around with that face on? Y'all never told me?
Sigh.
It was long, and awesome, and as anticipated, I spent the majority of the race staring at Janey's ass while I tried to catch her, except for the part at the 7k mark where she looked behind her for permission to open up and left me so quickly I didn't even see her go.
Crossing that line a full six minutes behind Janey was one of the best feelings ever. Having worked so hard for something physical like that and finally achieving it with grace... I was happy to have shaved about 6 minutes off my own training time of chug, chug, chug, which boss-man says is 'substantial' (because I work on a team that checked my time pretty much the same time I did) and I wore the timing bracelet boss-man's boss made for me with printer paper and packing tape (no, look in the photo - that's the white band on my arm, just above the watch which is most definitely not a sports watch. So much for self timing.)
It was so, so, tear bringingly good that I'm letting Janey use that feeling to talk me into signing up for something even greater. Something even longer, in September. On the weekend exactly between our birthdays.
I'm not even sure what to say about it, other than I hope it doesn't rain much this summer!!
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Afternoon delight...
Can I whisper to you of lechery?
Can I? Those surprising moments I am reminded of maleness outside of the cocoon of marriage?
Being directed by traffic cops (I don't know, just sigh...) but first and foremost?
Well, it's a specialized taste, I suspect.
And, due to the confines of office wear, doesn't occur often, but sometimes, on casual Fridays....
There's this little spot just below a toned belly button, that flat belly part where fuzz begins. It's horribly distracting in it's deliciousness.
In French training, there was a fella who sat directly opposite of me around the U of the table - of the bespectacled German variety I have long found to be so endearing - who was also very athletic, returning after lunch each day wet headed from the gym next door. And then, wearing low-slung jeans, he would stretch back over his chair and, oh dang...............c'est quoi, que je disais?
And then? During the first class of yoga with the more butch of the two instructors, we started the sun salutation series, and, well, if I'm going to be able to concentrate on the here and now, I'm going to have to move my mat.
Or not. shhhhh.
Can I? Those surprising moments I am reminded of maleness outside of the cocoon of marriage?
Being directed by traffic cops (I don't know, just sigh...) but first and foremost?
Well, it's a specialized taste, I suspect.
And, due to the confines of office wear, doesn't occur often, but sometimes, on casual Fridays....
There's this little spot just below a toned belly button, that flat belly part where fuzz begins. It's horribly distracting in it's deliciousness.
In French training, there was a fella who sat directly opposite of me around the U of the table - of the bespectacled German variety I have long found to be so endearing - who was also very athletic, returning after lunch each day wet headed from the gym next door. And then, wearing low-slung jeans, he would stretch back over his chair and, oh dang...............c'est quoi, que je disais?
And then? During the first class of yoga with the more butch of the two instructors, we started the sun salutation series, and, well, if I'm going to be able to concentrate on the here and now, I'm going to have to move my mat.
Or not. shhhhh.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
in between thoughts...
So against all better judgment, I let Janey follow up on some early big talk from me, and have agreed at her urging to sign myself up for the 10k run on Ottawa Race Weekend. Wanna see some hurtin'? Well, come on down!!! (It appears that Husband and the childrens won't make it, as it's an evening run. That plan may change, but right now, it looks like Janey and I are responsible for running and cheering at the same time.)
Right.
So I was discussing this with Mrs. Maiden - the run, not the cheering - and my suspicions that it might not quite be as easy as, well, Janey promises.
'Ooh', said Mrs. Maiden, 'I need to get you that info for the library program' [the Tucson library allows you to download books 'on-tape' to load on your i-pod for listening literacy. They don't care where you do it from, as long as you have the library card number. So, conceivably, I could be listening to books while I'm trying to kill myself through adding impossible distances.] 'That would be great, mom', I said, 'I'll try it. Currently, I've been listening to really loud music to help me keep going. And you know, Britney says I can do this....' [actually, Britney asks me to let her break the ice, to allow her to get me right. She tells me that she's miss bad media karma.... and also, pant, pant, pant....]
'You're listening to her?' Mrs. Maiden said, 'What else is she telling you - shave your head and have babies???'
Heeeeeeeeeee.
And then the discussion degenerated [as it always does] into more talk of Britney and in particular, how much her 'life' [read life prison sentence] sucks. I mean, she has tons of money, we might imagine, but she can't spend it, or leave the house, or talk to ANYONE because they all run to the press. She can't even talk to the people she pays to be her friends, because they do too. Her parents are too busy being her gaolers to talk to her.
She's done everything she can think of to break out of her iron clad gilded prison, but she's stuck. Crazy or medicated, well-behaved or not, it doesn't matter what she does. Take her pants off? Shave her head? Behave perfectly normally while on medication? Trapped under the fame microscope and held there in the shining glare by her parents. They sold her, and they're making sure their investments of time and energy are going to darn well pay off.
And then I was running the other night, and it hit me (these things used to happen in the twilight between sleep and awake, but I don't get that anymore. So it's during running.)
Jamie really isn't as stupid as people thought. She's not.
I think she took a look at what happens when your parents sell you to Disney and wanted out. And I think she saw that she had a limited time to do it - Britney's behaviour has changed nothing in her situation but make it an even tighter bind, and only a few short years separate them. So I think she took the first out she was offered, and got pregnant. Sure, there's some notoriety (or was) but I'm pretty sure there's enough money for her to be able to live normally for a good long time. Lynn ensured that when she sold the picture rights to that baby.
But she's free. She'll be on those 'where are they now' shows, but she's living a life of her own choosing.
Who knew we'd cheer for the 17-year-old mom?
Right.
So I was discussing this with Mrs. Maiden - the run, not the cheering - and my suspicions that it might not quite be as easy as, well, Janey promises.
'Ooh', said Mrs. Maiden, 'I need to get you that info for the library program' [the Tucson library allows you to download books 'on-tape' to load on your i-pod for listening literacy. They don't care where you do it from, as long as you have the library card number. So, conceivably, I could be listening to books while I'm trying to kill myself through adding impossible distances.] 'That would be great, mom', I said, 'I'll try it. Currently, I've been listening to really loud music to help me keep going. And you know, Britney says I can do this....' [actually, Britney asks me to let her break the ice, to allow her to get me right. She tells me that she's miss bad media karma.... and also, pant, pant, pant....]
'You're listening to her?' Mrs. Maiden said, 'What else is she telling you - shave your head and have babies???'
Heeeeeeeeeee.
And then the discussion degenerated [as it always does] into more talk of Britney and in particular, how much her 'life' [read life prison sentence] sucks. I mean, she has tons of money, we might imagine, but she can't spend it, or leave the house, or talk to ANYONE because they all run to the press. She can't even talk to the people she pays to be her friends, because they do too. Her parents are too busy being her gaolers to talk to her.
She's done everything she can think of to break out of her iron clad gilded prison, but she's stuck. Crazy or medicated, well-behaved or not, it doesn't matter what she does. Take her pants off? Shave her head? Behave perfectly normally while on medication? Trapped under the fame microscope and held there in the shining glare by her parents. They sold her, and they're making sure their investments of time and energy are going to darn well pay off.
And then I was running the other night, and it hit me (these things used to happen in the twilight between sleep and awake, but I don't get that anymore. So it's during running.)
Jamie really isn't as stupid as people thought. She's not.
I think she took a look at what happens when your parents sell you to Disney and wanted out. And I think she saw that she had a limited time to do it - Britney's behaviour has changed nothing in her situation but make it an even tighter bind, and only a few short years separate them. So I think she took the first out she was offered, and got pregnant. Sure, there's some notoriety (or was) but I'm pretty sure there's enough money for her to be able to live normally for a good long time. Lynn ensured that when she sold the picture rights to that baby.
But she's free. She'll be on those 'where are they now' shows, but she's living a life of her own choosing.
Who knew we'd cheer for the 17-year-old mom?
Monday, January 19, 2009
What's on my mind.
So here's the thing. There's been quite a lot of discussion about Oprah lately. And it's made me think quite a bit about my own situation (so NOT like Oprah) and what I think about being a woman in general.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting next to a female colleague in a meeting who was complaining about her butt getting flat. I think I smiled in a friendly and amused way, when she said, just wait - as you age, as soon as you stop working out for a week or two, your butt gets flat. Huh, I said - well, it certainly happened to me when I had the kids. Poof - kids came out, ass was like a pancake. It took months for it to come back.
And by the way, I said, regarding getting older, I'm pretty sure we're about the same age. I dunno, she said, looking at me, I look a lot younger than I actually am. I paused, looking at her, and she said, I'm 37. Me too, I said, I'll be 38 in September.
Huh, she said. I guess I look exactly the age I am.
So what did that mean? Did she think I looked way younger than I am? Did she think I looked way older than her?
Why is age and ageing so incredibly important? Why is it that arguably, other than the Queen, one of the most powerful women in the world can't just be one of the most powerful women in the world? She can't just be? It's as if sure, she's powerful, but she's not as worthy if she's not running marathons with rock hard abs.
What's so wrong with saying yep - I've got more money than the queen of England, and I'm rich enough for people to hand sew me lovely things in my size, and dammit, it's none of your business what I had for supper. Why is the size of her ass even an issue? What is it about us that makes thin and young more worthy of all other things?
Why does it take a part-time job to maintain weight?
I always say that it's because I'm too broke to buy new clothes, but really, if I think about it, it's vanity. It might be a little comfort - I hate having to hold my breath to paint my toes, but really, it's pretty much vanity.
It doesn't seem fair, either, that as my number gets closer to 40, this dorian grey painting gets harder and harder to hide in the closet. In September, as I've explained to Janey, my points drop by another one.
Because it's a lifestyle. Snort. One I've been doing for 15 years. I can't really think of where that food or lack thereof will come from. I bring my lunch. I stopped eating toast except for the weekend. My snacks in the afternoon mostly consist of tea and some fruit. Sure, I can get more food by exercising, but seriously. Read the blog. I'd pretty much sell my soul for a week of sleeping through the night. I don't really have the extra to work out all the time, you know?
Damn. It didn't used to be this hard. When Husband and I were dating, he would pick me up every Monday after my meeting and we went out for Chinese. And we ate out every meal on the weekends. It was like that. And I still maintained a weight 10 or 15 pounds down from here.
I often pick on Janey for being too mean to her. I mean, one pack of oatmeal for breakfast is concentration camp food. At least internment camp food.
It's not cool.
So why do we do it? Who's making us do this, if it's not us?
Why is it so important?
I'm mean to me because my stomach doesn't look like it did before two people lived in it. I recognize that's not entirely reasonable, but there we are.
So for those google searchers, I'm sorry. But really, aren't the three people who routinely see Katie Valentine naked enough? Especially since one of them (hint - not necessarily the one you'd expect) is so very fascinated with Katie's kitty hair?
Isn't it?
A few weeks ago, I was sitting next to a female colleague in a meeting who was complaining about her butt getting flat. I think I smiled in a friendly and amused way, when she said, just wait - as you age, as soon as you stop working out for a week or two, your butt gets flat. Huh, I said - well, it certainly happened to me when I had the kids. Poof - kids came out, ass was like a pancake. It took months for it to come back.
And by the way, I said, regarding getting older, I'm pretty sure we're about the same age. I dunno, she said, looking at me, I look a lot younger than I actually am. I paused, looking at her, and she said, I'm 37. Me too, I said, I'll be 38 in September.
Huh, she said. I guess I look exactly the age I am.
So what did that mean? Did she think I looked way younger than I am? Did she think I looked way older than her?
Why is age and ageing so incredibly important? Why is it that arguably, other than the Queen, one of the most powerful women in the world can't just be one of the most powerful women in the world? She can't just be? It's as if sure, she's powerful, but she's not as worthy if she's not running marathons with rock hard abs.
What's so wrong with saying yep - I've got more money than the queen of England, and I'm rich enough for people to hand sew me lovely things in my size, and dammit, it's none of your business what I had for supper. Why is the size of her ass even an issue? What is it about us that makes thin and young more worthy of all other things?
Why does it take a part-time job to maintain weight?
I always say that it's because I'm too broke to buy new clothes, but really, if I think about it, it's vanity. It might be a little comfort - I hate having to hold my breath to paint my toes, but really, it's pretty much vanity.
It doesn't seem fair, either, that as my number gets closer to 40, this dorian grey painting gets harder and harder to hide in the closet. In September, as I've explained to Janey, my points drop by another one.
Because it's a lifestyle. Snort. One I've been doing for 15 years. I can't really think of where that food or lack thereof will come from. I bring my lunch. I stopped eating toast except for the weekend. My snacks in the afternoon mostly consist of tea and some fruit. Sure, I can get more food by exercising, but seriously. Read the blog. I'd pretty much sell my soul for a week of sleeping through the night. I don't really have the extra to work out all the time, you know?
Damn. It didn't used to be this hard. When Husband and I were dating, he would pick me up every Monday after my meeting and we went out for Chinese. And we ate out every meal on the weekends. It was like that. And I still maintained a weight 10 or 15 pounds down from here.
I often pick on Janey for being too mean to her. I mean, one pack of oatmeal for breakfast is concentration camp food. At least internment camp food.
It's not cool.
So why do we do it? Who's making us do this, if it's not us?
Why is it so important?
I'm mean to me because my stomach doesn't look like it did before two people lived in it. I recognize that's not entirely reasonable, but there we are.
So for those google searchers, I'm sorry. But really, aren't the three people who routinely see Katie Valentine naked enough? Especially since one of them (hint - not necessarily the one you'd expect) is so very fascinated with Katie's kitty hair?
Isn't it?
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
My bellybutton, exposed.
A friend asked me a while ago about my hobbies. I told her that a) I didn't have time for them and b) I don't really have any anyhow.
I was thinking in particular of my sad scrapbooking supplies after the plan of cheap and easy grandparent Christmas albums created three years ago during MlleL's infancy went so desperately awry. They were, in fact, neither of those options, and I haven't done anything since.
So I thought to myself, no, I don't really have hobbies.
A few nights ago, however, it occurred to me that I just wasn't thinking of the right hobbies. Because, in fact, I do have hobbies. Currently, I run and I write. Sometimes I do both at the same time, and then I trip for lack of attention to the first. And actually, there's a third.
It's hard to think of excersise as a hobby - particularly since a) I am not very fast, b) I cannot run for great distances, and c) I am, at best, sporadic in my achievements. Let's say once or twice a week. But really, I guess, that's a hobby.
And just because I don't post more frequently doesn't mean I'm not thinking about writing a lot more. Often, I'm worrying that I don't have the right voice - or that I'm not consistent with its use. I wonder if the nicknaming of my friends and loved ones is more annoying than good. I worry that my entries are not interesting enough - that the everyday minutia of working and momming and cooking aren't that interesting to the greater crowd. Or I worry about how to get more people interested. (Yes, it's about writing, but I'm goal oriented. It's numbers, baby. Numbers. Training dies hard.)
Sometimes I wonder about grammar, but then I reread to edit.
And then finally, I start to worry. I spend hours helplessly entertaining myself. I have a secret fear of Husband not coming home from errands. I worry for the kids. I think about you. Because, my dears, I really am Mr. Maiden all femmed up. I manage to restrain the general anxiety and worries for the future most of the time through careful inspection of the logical and statistical likelihood of occurance (no, crazy, it's extremley unlikely that Husband will be attacked in the bathroom of this backwoods gas station for being a brown fella - even if it IS in the middle of nowhere, and if he is, he does hold several black belts in various marial arts so he'll probably come out any second now), but when there's big change afoot, I'm a snappish, worrying looooonatic.
I'm sure it'll work out. It'll work out, right? They'll be nice there? There will be somewhere to make/get coffee? They'll think I'm doing a good job and that I'm smart enough? I'll get the commute worked out?
I mean, I guess I could always run. If I'm late, I could always write a note by means of explanation...
I was thinking in particular of my sad scrapbooking supplies after the plan of cheap and easy grandparent Christmas albums created three years ago during MlleL's infancy went so desperately awry. They were, in fact, neither of those options, and I haven't done anything since.
So I thought to myself, no, I don't really have hobbies.
A few nights ago, however, it occurred to me that I just wasn't thinking of the right hobbies. Because, in fact, I do have hobbies. Currently, I run and I write. Sometimes I do both at the same time, and then I trip for lack of attention to the first. And actually, there's a third.
It's hard to think of excersise as a hobby - particularly since a) I am not very fast, b) I cannot run for great distances, and c) I am, at best, sporadic in my achievements. Let's say once or twice a week. But really, I guess, that's a hobby.
And just because I don't post more frequently doesn't mean I'm not thinking about writing a lot more. Often, I'm worrying that I don't have the right voice - or that I'm not consistent with its use. I wonder if the nicknaming of my friends and loved ones is more annoying than good. I worry that my entries are not interesting enough - that the everyday minutia of working and momming and cooking aren't that interesting to the greater crowd. Or I worry about how to get more people interested. (Yes, it's about writing, but I'm goal oriented. It's numbers, baby. Numbers. Training dies hard.)
Sometimes I wonder about grammar, but then I reread to edit.
And then finally, I start to worry. I spend hours helplessly entertaining myself. I have a secret fear of Husband not coming home from errands. I worry for the kids. I think about you. Because, my dears, I really am Mr. Maiden all femmed up. I manage to restrain the general anxiety and worries for the future most of the time through careful inspection of the logical and statistical likelihood of occurance (no, crazy, it's extremley unlikely that Husband will be attacked in the bathroom of this backwoods gas station for being a brown fella - even if it IS in the middle of nowhere, and if he is, he does hold several black belts in various marial arts so he'll probably come out any second now), but when there's big change afoot, I'm a snappish, worrying looooonatic.
I'm sure it'll work out. It'll work out, right? They'll be nice there? There will be somewhere to make/get coffee? They'll think I'm doing a good job and that I'm smart enough? I'll get the commute worked out?
I mean, I guess I could always run. If I'm late, I could always write a note by means of explanation...
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
The grateful file...
So Monday, Husband finished assembling the anniversary/Christmas treadmill. And I was very grateful, and promptly ran 4 miles. Awesome. No commute. Sweet. Janey, please note that I am slowly building the distance. Preparing for next year....
Also, I was able to watch the Saturday night live prime time special and catch up on all the Tina Fey I'd missed at the same time. Brilliant.
Sadly, to be able to hear the tv over my pounding feet, I had to turn it up so far that I could no longer hear the baby monitor, but as it happened, I was fine. He didn't need me until 2 AM, when the puking began.
And so Tuesday, I spent the day being grateful for last year's anniversary present, which some of you may recall was the large capacity front loading washer and dryer. With sanitization cycle.
Ah, romance.
Also, I was able to watch the Saturday night live prime time special and catch up on all the Tina Fey I'd missed at the same time. Brilliant.
Sadly, to be able to hear the tv over my pounding feet, I had to turn it up so far that I could no longer hear the baby monitor, but as it happened, I was fine. He didn't need me until 2 AM, when the puking began.
And so Tuesday, I spent the day being grateful for last year's anniversary present, which some of you may recall was the large capacity front loading washer and dryer. With sanitization cycle.
Ah, romance.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thanks..... I think
Last time I came back to work after MlleL, I had the following conversation:
"You know, you're doing pretty good after the baby. I mean, some women, after they have kids, they turn into a f***ing nightmare, you know what I mean?"
"Um yes. Thanks. I mean, I should get a t-shirt with that on it, right? Katie Valentine, no f***ing nightmare!"
This time, it was boss lady:
"You know, I really do have to say again that you look in amazing shape. I mean, a lot of times, after women have babies, you know (gesticulating widely at her hips) but not you!"
"WOW. I mean, thanks. Well, I really can't afford all new work clothes, so it was pretty much my only choice"
"You know, you're doing pretty good after the baby. I mean, some women, after they have kids, they turn into a f***ing nightmare, you know what I mean?"
"Um yes. Thanks. I mean, I should get a t-shirt with that on it, right? Katie Valentine, no f***ing nightmare!"
This time, it was boss lady:
"You know, I really do have to say again that you look in amazing shape. I mean, a lot of times, after women have babies, you know (gesticulating widely at her hips) but not you!"
"WOW. I mean, thanks. Well, I really can't afford all new work clothes, so it was pretty much my only choice"
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