Rocked and Rolled

Dear readers(?),

I'm sorry I have been absent for so long.  Luckily, no one reads this blog, so, as my apologies usually go, this one is half-hearted at best.  Anyway, for your information, I was building suspense only and not being lazy as you might have suspected.  Quite unjustly I might add. I was doing charity work all winter and spring, as far as you know. Sorry to shame you like that, but you have only yourself to blame. You should be more trusting.

As I lured you here only through the sorcery of Pinterest, I will get on with reporting the results of the half-marathon and let us both get on with the task of wasting our lives.

On one hand, I seemed to have physically survived the half-marathon.  Other the other hand, it may be the case that I will, in fact, not be receiving any calls from the National Olympic Committee's Subcommittee on Half-Marathons.  I blame the entire episode on the aforementioned cousin who lured me into a false sense of almost confidence by running alongside me, stride for stride, at the start of the race only to heartlessly cast me aside when my lungs collapsed at Mile 3 of 13. 

However, I evidently did  reach the finish line eventually, which I cleverly deduced at the point that the sea of people surrounding me started to force bananas and granola bars down my throat.  So, in light of this tepid achievement, I have a few pro-tips on just how one could share in this quite paralleled mediocrity:

1)      Catapult self from the starting line using jerky motions to avoid sideswiping the riffraff that seemed to have wandered onto YOUR course.

2)      Ignore running partner's admonition to "pace yourself" while you pretend to be Jackie Joyner-Kersee darting between strollers and elderly walkers.

3)      Continue heart-straining pace when, minutes later, your body begins to show signs of vital organ shutdown.

4)      Smile and nod head in response to running partner's attempt to engage in conversation, while sound of rushing water in ears drowns out all outside sound.

5)      Shake fist above head with face tilted down in mock determination as eyesight starts to fade.

6)      Wave running partner on at fake water stop as you succumb to stabbing pains in chest, back, feet, shoulders, head, elbows, etc.

7)      Endure disapproving looks and ironic cheering from street-side voyeurs while you spend the rest of course walking and texting friends about brunch plans.

Good luck and let me know your success stories from following my 7-step plan to victory.  

Half-Marathons and Other Ideas for the Criminally Insane

I swear I almost entitled this post "Let's Find Out How Desperate I Am For Attention." 

A few weeks ago my much more athletic, much more beautiful, and overall better person of a cousin called me to ask whether I would join her in running a half-marathon this fall. To which I replied, "Half?  Why not full?", followed by overly boisterous laughter, followed by "Are you still there?"

I then launched into upbeat panic conversation with the sycophantic stylings of Alex P. Keaton at a republican national convention.  I must have hyperventilated and passed out along the way, because the phone conversation ended with an email confirmation of my registration into the race, including a full financial commitment, guaranteed by the remainder of my VISA credit balance.  $120.....just to prove that I'm a failure at sports and self-awareness.

So I found a novice training schedule developed by Hal Higdon, who apparently is well-known in the running-is-also-a-sport subculture that has recently infiltrated the permeable barrier of normal, comfortably sedentary human society.  I modified it ever so slightly to accommodate my work schedule and to stealthily implant a massage a week before the race.

The massage really needed to be written into the schedule so that, if questioned, I can say, with genuine honesty, to my husband, "Well, there's really no way around it; it's right there in the schedule."  

You see, honesty is really important in a marriage.  That, and a working knowledge of contract law.

On the days calling for "strength," I am doing this routine.

Or I could collect all my daughter's princess tiaras and just lift them.

On the days calling for cross-training, I'm riding the stationary bike or, as I call it, a half-hour of sweating within inches of another person who is also sweating while pretending the other person isn't there (which is how my two kids ended up here).  SNAP!  That's another thing that's really important in a marriage---bedroom humor.  I think my husband really appreciates all the laughter when the clothes come off.

I never worked out much on a stationary bike before, as evidenced by my recent discovery that there is something called a "recumbent bike" which is apparently designed for people who find sitting in an upright position too taxing.  Obviously, this was my bike of choice.  I found a 30-minute workout on SNAP Fitness's webpage that left me breathless.  

So, I finished the first week of the program on Saturday.  Based on the lingering burning sensation in my lungs and the beginnings of what I can only assume to be para-paralysis in my lower half, I'm thinking that it would be less pain and trouble to acquire a time machine and travel back to just before my cousin's phone call to go ahead and just bludgeon my legs with a sledgehammer.  Only time will tell.