exercise

Here are my thoughts on the matter: Exercise is weird.

I'll explain. Close your eyes and picture this......... Okay, now that you've re-opened them to read what you are supposed to be picturing, just keep them open and we'll fix that glitch by imagining with our eyes open. Or you could just close one if that helps. Close your eye and imagine you are an alien. It's hard, but try. You are an ambassador from Vortex 8 and you are on a mission to learn more about these creatures called "humans" on this planet called "Earth". You are to observe the daily life of the world's inhabitants and write up a report of your findings. I can see it now: "These extraterrestrial beings are highly advanced technically, medically, ethically (sometimes), culturally, and every night they jump on conveyor belts and run themselves into a state of complete and utter exhaustion."

When I watch a person run on a treadmill I get profoundly confused. Picture it. (I'm really into the visualizations today)... Imagine someone sprinting on a treadmill (someone ridiculously good-looking if that helps you stay focused, or not so hunk-ish for the same reason). Now keep watching this person run, sprint, push their heart to its absolute limit, oh the pain! Sweat drips down this person's face, then flies off his luschious head of hair as he flings his noggin from side to side in slow motion...FOCUS! Come on people, stay with me! Now ask yourself this question: "What on planet Earth is said human doing?"

I've read the studies, I've studied the readings....I know the answer. I know that our bodies were made to get a days work done and I realize that a days work has changed from having to chase down a cheetah, wrestle it into a headlock, kill it with your bare hands, hoist it onto a tree you have just cut down with a cheetah tooth and roast it for the kiddies' dinner to...sitting your hiney on a cushioned chair and using all stored energy only to lift your finger to a keyboard and click that enter button (you can do it!), with the occasional trip to the nearest restroom provided you forgot your depends that day. But what I'm really trying to get at here is this: Aren't our bodies these incredible machines that can adapt to anything and evolve over time to meet the needs of our environment? And if so, is it really that hard to just accustom yourself to one's sedentary ways and still be healthy? Come on, it can't be that hard....really. Bodies withstood the fashions of the 1980's, and nothing can be much more difficult than that. We altered the course of the world and ended up having to compensate for being more efficient than neanderthals. I mean evolution has been great for the whole opposable thumbs thing, but I think we got the short end of the stick on exercise.

In conclusion I would like to first apologize for the length of this post and pray that you have not actually read the entire thing, being as how it is simply a rant I have somehow embarked upon. Secondly, I would like to say that I actually do like to exercise (usually) and that I think it serves useful purposes (aka endorphins), and with that being said I have now made this entire saga of streaming thoughts completely and utterly credit-less. Welcome to my brain. Actually...one thing is excused from the pointlessness and that is the part where I express my deep rooted hatred of the treadmill. Please go run SOMEWHERE and see SOMETHING.

Amen.

p.s.

It's back! And along with it my one and only perfected talent: Mary the Judge impersonations. I don't claim many sensational abilities...but oh baby can I hop on the hot tamale train.

fried hair and chicken

The most absurd ideas pass through my brain constantly. I can't seem to stop them and each time they leave I think, "Hmm, that is something I have never thought nor will ever likely think again." Today as I curled my hair, this one meandered through: "Wow, the outermost layer of my hair is just like pre-cooked chicken nuggets." It's true. Reasoning please? Okay. The top layer of hair on my head curls so much more quickly and nicely than those underneath and the only explanation I could come up with was that they have been fried more (from being colored) and therefore are like unto pre-fried frozen meat. They curl faster when they are fried by the iron, just as pre-cooked meat fries faster than raw when placed in the microwave. Kapish? (Also my hair was a tiny bit greasy today....but ssshhh, don't tell).

What are your random thoughts? Or is it just me?

colorblind

This is the most amazing improv I have ever seen in my life. How you can just make movements like this up as you go, let alone run and throw yourself onto someone else with no prior planning is beyond me. Talk about TRUST.

Muirhead Survivor

Michelle and I are currently in the middle of a game I just invented. It's called Muirhead Survivor.

Here are the rules:

1. You must enter "the dungeon" (a 2.5 x 14 ft., unfinished cement room in our basement) with only the clothes on your back and three items of your choosing.
2. These three items must be selected and prepared in a 5 minute time period.
3. All doors are closed securely.
4. After 5 minutes....lights off.
5. Last person to leave the room wins the PRIZE!

Pictures to follow... I did not choose a camera as one of my items.

Michelle has selected:
1. LARGE water bottle
2. Sleeping bag
3. Yarn (It was bread at first, but I was merciful and told her she'd want some entertainment.)...Although...yarn? Really? Whatever floats your boat I guess.

I have chosen:
1. Small water bottle (thank you small bladder)
2. Computer (already losing power)
3. A nice big comforter

We have been here 5 minutes and the drama has already begun.

Drama one: Michelle: I have to pee! (as she takes a sip of her 64 ouncer)
Drama two: Michelle sitting directly on a spider.
Drama three: Kristen yelling "Oh my gosh!" just for fun...Michelle not appreciating that.
Drama four: Michelle can't think of too many things to do with a ball of yarn. Duh.
Drama five: Michelle: I still have to pee! (betcha wish you would have kept that bread...and baggie. :) )

Ssshhh...now she's trying to sleep. I'll let you know how this all goes down.

pray for my lungs...yes you

Okay fine, I do not have lung cancer but I seem to have contracted the second worst thing. It's diagnosed as "I signed up for a marathon and I run akin to the strides of young Forrest Gump." Well that's the medical term anyway. But really... a mile's pushing it. Pretty hard. Let me be clear...in the story of the Tortoise and the Hare, I am the slug slash monkey. The slunky. You know, the character that is slower than the tortoise, but has a worse sense of direction and shorter attention span than the hare? The one who decides she is a runner, goes a few steps, but then sees a banana and finds herself so delighted in her new discovery that she forgets she should be running. Or wait, was she?

Anyway, I don't know what spawned this new endeavor but it should be a laugh for all. Please, by all means, indulge yourself in my ridiculousness. Let's just call it a short bout of insanity...which I am really really REALLY excited about. And scared to the point of diarrhea. But maybe that's just the bananas.

BUT. At least I still have these treasures. (Although I never got around to painting the second one and it does seem to prompt unwanted stares and comments from strangers)

Please click here to meet my beautiful and talented running coach/cheerleader/amigo extraordinaire who is really just something else. She is hoping to break 4 hours. I'm aiming for under 6. Mostly because that is when they close the finish line and start dissembling the bleachers, and I'd really like to go ahead and finish with all structures in tact.

Hey. Did I mention I'm really excited?

Also, P.S. to dear Natalie, I love you for doing this (and some other reasons too). Do not panic. I am IN. Oh, and excited.

shoot a pilot

My last post about our near and dear national airport system just reminded me of what may quite possibly be my favorite story of all time. Years ago (do I sound like I'm 82?) Well, back in the day when I was just a youngin'... my dad was traveling with a film crew during the production of a television show they were working on. You know how when you venture abroad the agent who checks your passport asks the purpose of your travel? Well, when a co-worker of his was asked this question he answered without too much thought (obviously), "We're going to shoot a pilot." Agent: "Excuse me?" Co-worker (slowly, and with added enunciation so as not to be mistaken again), "We are gooooing to shoot a piiiiilot." (Just in case you are not up to speed with film industry lingo... Shooting=Filming, Pilot= First episode of a television series). You can imagine how well that went over with the TSA, known for their loving gentleness.

LAS to LAX = LAM(e)

Last weekend I took a trip to not-so-sunny California to help my dad and brother photograph a wedding. It may or may not have been the most difficult traveling procedure of my life. But fear you not, I have survived.

Step one: Kristen prepares her luggage and loads up old rusty trusty Cracker (the beautiful Corolla) for their excursion to lovely (ba ha ha) Las Vegas. As she walks out the door of her apartment, Abbie (the roommate) offers an interesting bit of information about a time zone change somewhere in between herself and the airport.

Step two: Kristen spends the next 20 to 30 minutes calculating whether or not this means she has an EXTRA hour, or a MINUS (word help please) hour. She has lost an hour. No, she's gained an hour. No lost. Wait...gained? Gained. She definitely has an extra hour. But not really, because she just wasted it debating about the loss/gain of said hour, so she technically has neither lost nor gained...simply broken even. Time to go!

Step three: Thanks to her slight speeding disorder, Kristen (now half way to LV) is making swimmingly great time and might even get to the airport before her anticipated arrival time. Good thing too, because she may or may not have forgotten to take a potty break before leaving the house an hour ago.

Step four: 30 miles from airport Kristen hits massive and ridiculously exacerbating traffic. No worries, we are still ahead of schedule.

Step five: We are not ahead of schedule. We are behind schedule, due to the fact that I have not moved even an inch since step four.

Step six: Arrival at airport. Signs are of no help. Lost trying to find economy parking. Find it, miss shuttle, take next one.

Step seven: I get to the ticket counter and see a line of at least 60 individuals. Laughing slash crying, I approach the nearest uniformed person in my line of vision and beg for sweet mercy. She directs me to a self-check in computer which asks me for a confirmation number I cannot find on my piece of paper. I return to previously mentioned woman who looks at my paper and replies, "Honey, that print's so small I don't think God could read it." I beg to differ, although I don't press the issue. I return to self computer (which now of course has a 4 person line...I wait.) and enter the confirmation number I have miraculously found. "We're sorry. You are too late to check in for your flight." I check the clock..."Like H-e- double hockey sticks I'm too late! I still have 15 entire 60 second minutes!" I yell at the screen. The British man behind me looks away, pretending to not be paying attention. I return once more to said worker (she's loving me at this point) and announce my disapproval at her technology's non-compliance with my schedule. She tells me I must be at the airport one hour before departure to keep my seat. I tell her exactly what I think of that and leave to get back in line, print off my ticket for the next flight (they want $50 to confirm), and run to my gate, which lo and behold...has been changed.

Step seven and a half: Because this is getting long, let's just say security was a war zone. I was selected for the "strip search" but somehow was let off the hook. (Lins: I didn't even ask what his flashlight thing was for this time!)

Step eight: I pass a bathroom and my bladder yells at me, "Listen sister! I promise that I will pee your pants if you don't let me go!" I yell back, "Do it. I dare you. I am NOT missing this flight!"

Step nine: I find my gate. Over the intercom I hear "Last call for flight blah blah!" I see a line of approximately 10 stand-by fliers, begging to be put on the plane. After waiting a moment behind them, my mean side (I call her Katrina) comes out and I walk to the front of the line and tell them I have a ticket for this flight. "We're sorry, you weren't here in time. We've given your seat away." Intercom: "The gate will be closing in 30 seconds...29...28." I look over and see the hinge begin to move. Me: "Excuse me. I am not too late. I still have 27 seconds." Employee: "Well, I can't get my printer to work, so I can't print you off a ticket. I'll put you on the next flight." Katrina (you know, one of those people you are embarrassed for...): "No! You will put me on this flight because I bought a seat on it 6 weeks ago and I paid for it and I am here and the airplane is still on the ground! Look! See it out there? It hasn't even moved yet!" Desk agent: "We do have a seat in the rear of the plane reserved for an oversized package." Katrina: "I am a HUMAN! That is a bunch of CARDBOARD! Put it in the bathroom! Because so help me if you give my seat to a BOX."

Step ten: I am on the airplane, walking to my seat. All plane occupants' eyes are fixed on me as the flight attendant picks up her phone and in a sweet as ever voice says, "We do apologize for the delay, but we had a little issue and it's all taken care of and we are ready to leave." Again...all eyes on me. I almost yelled out an apology, but was a little too distraught.

Step eleven: We are airborne and the fasten seatbelt sign is turned off. I have to pee like a racehorse. Too bad the drink cart is right next to me (well, technically it is right next to the German, who is right next to me, who is asleep.) I wake him up and Katrina tells the flight attendant that she's gonna need to move her cart immediately if she doesn't want me to pee on her seat cushion/ flotation device. She is hesitant to comply, but my angry eyes convince her in the end.

Step twelve: The German on my right and the Singaporian on my left engage in heated, bad-breath debates across my lap for the next 45 minutes, both leaning in for emphasis. "Yo cuntree hahs no mercee foh meestahks." "Eh?" "YO CUNTREE EES MERCEELESS." "Vaht ah yu sayeeng?" etc. etc. etc. I interjected translations when I could, for my own sanity.

I hate flying with all the passions invested in my being.