This may well be the best picture I have ever had someone take of me. I realize it's fuzzy and silly, and I've got my circlet pushed up above my brow to keep it from slipping while I bob my head to the music... And if you'd been there, you would know that nothing I was playing deserved the serene, quietly joyful look on my face. But look at that, that's me. I've never looked like that in any mirror I've peered into but that's still me. I don't look twelve, I don't have a double chin. The angles of my face are well defined and my nose isn't nearly all blobby and buttony. I look nice. Not breathtakingly beautiful but... pleasant on the eyes and practically an adult. Is this what other people see when they look at me? Is all this distress I feel when I look in the mirror -really- all in my head?

I need to play more guitar. Clearly it is a guitar of +2 Charisma. Or -3 to waistline. Something like that.

 I told him I was bad at guitar...

... So he told me not to fret.

 My school has a policy that you're only allowed to miss X% of the total classes in a semester, otherwise you fail the class. It's a little harsh and it's very unpopular and recently in my math class, one of the guys was really complaining about it. He started complaining about the stupid policies and then began complaining about why we're required to do things algebraically when he can just do the same damn thing with his calculator. I can emphasize with frustration - he's pretty good in our class and when you're do alright in a class, you tend to get annoyed when things more slower or more stupidly than you want them to. I can dig it. But it got me thinking.

Everything is math is a series of building up on basic concepts to learn more complex concepts. You have to learn and internalize all the basic and intermediate aspects of math in order to move on to more complicated, higher math. I pointed this out and he bitched that he'll -never- use this stuff in either his life or his degree and he's not going on to higher math so why does he have to learn it?! I said similar things when I was younger myself but these days I have an answer.

We as a societal construct have decided that in order to be a well-rounded adult, you have to learn a bit from many topics. So chemistry majors have to take art history and a liberal arts student has to learn general psychology. When a student enters into a class, the teacher and the student form a compact together - the teacher pretends that, of course, the student is a serious student with an active interest in the subject who will of -course- be pursuing this subject all the way to the top. This is what we call a social lie for the good of everyone. Every math teacher must teach all his or her students as if each will be the next Pythagoras, each biology teacher must pretend that each student is capable of going forward and discovering and explaining all the detailed nuances of biological function.

When a teacher stops believing in this social lie, they become a bad teacher. They realize they're glorified baby-sitters, forcing information into the skulls of listless, resentful blobs and they start conserving their Teaching Power for those rare students who actually want to learn. The cream of the crop gets preferential treatment and that's plain against our constitution (wherein, we pretend all men are created equally when they're manifestly -not-. Otherwise I'd be taller, thinner, faster, and prettier). We as a social, societal construct must believe our social lies. Or pretend to believe our social lies well enough to maintain the polite façade.

Identifying the social lies that lubricate our daily interactions is useful, from a manipulative standpoint. When you know the lies the people around you are intently believing in, you can manipulate and adjust the world and the people around you to suit you. This is how mavericks become successful. But more and more, I'm beginning to think it might be worthwhile to buy into the system. You can rail against society or the system, stomp your feet and call it stupid... spend your days trying to preach to the sheep and shave the wool off their eyes. Reveal and expose the lies in pursuit of a truer state of existence and that's all well and good. But you can also move within the system as a member, affect change from within in small, local ways. You can change the world, gently and smoothly without blood or violence and hurt feelings... I'm sure of it. It's just slow.

This is what's becoming of me, as I grow out of adolescence. The realization that zealotry is for the young and that there's nothing wrong with buying into society. I no longer want to revolutionize the world or do great things - I want to build a life and family, get married, love and be loved, and be happy.

Weird, huh? ^_^

My kitten young cat fell asleep in the little valley between my calves and ankles the other day. This is not a surprise, but he fell asleep with his head resting on the comfortable pillow made out of my foot... First he started drooling against my foot, which is acceptable behaviour. What I find worrisome is as he slept, his mouth opened and his little cat teeth settled around my foot and he began gnawing on my foot. Not hard, not drawing blood, just slowly and gently gnawing on my foot.

 His subconscious mind has realized I'm made of meat.

It's only a matter of time, now. O_O

 I'm terrible at playing guitar.

That sounds nicely dramatic, doesn't it? I'm just not -good- at guitar. To be honest, I have no particular musical aptitude at all, but the guitar is what I continue to torment myself with. Every couple of months, I'll pick up my classical guitar - an artifact of my childhood that lingers around on the outskirts of my life no matter where I go - buy new strings for it and spend a few weeks tormenting my fingers. I'll go the whole nine yards, trimming the fingernails of my left hand, buffing and manicuring my right hand and forcing out the strained notes of Ode to Joy over and over again. I'll play for an hour or so a day for a few weeks on end, until my fingers are crusted over and my eyes are blurry from late nights spent reading "The Philosophical Approach to Guitar" and I'll -still- be bad at it. Each new idea has to be relentlessly drilled into my slow and clumsy fingers and I struggle for every page of ground gained against my Beginner's Introduction to Classical Guitar. My roommate will make little comments in his own patronizing flavour of encouraging... ("That almost sounded like a song there!" "No, you're sounding much better. I mean, you'd almost have to be.")

Eventually my heart will break when I, once again, fail to learn to play anything I'm willing to be heard in public struggling with and I'll put the thing down and distract myself for a time with more rewarding endeavors... like homework. Or sleep. But I'll still go back to it, like a hopelessly hopeful lover, believing we can make it work -this- time. I don't know why. Maybe it's good for the soul, to passionately pursue something you're just not good at. There are a lot of things in my life that I'm effortlessly capable of, perhaps God created music and the guitar to teach me to be humble.

Or maybe... Maybe I'm just too cheap to shell out for lessons.

 I recently got my hands on Terry Pratchett’s newest book with what can best be described as giddy, fangirlish glee. His recent announcement about Alzheimer’s and then the prolonged wait for another good had got me worrying. I discovered all these authors at a young, tender age when they were near the prime of their lives and I’ve grown up reading their books. My mental calendar is marked with book releases – in this month I’ll read the new Spider Robinson, then two weeks after that the new trashy vampire novel comes out… The realization that these men and women who have filled my life with stories, entertained me when I was bored, comforted me on dark nights, kept me company when I was alone… The realization that they’re getting old and dying is something of a shock. A world where a new Terry Pratchett book doesn’t wander out every year or so is a darker place.

So I was remarkably pleased, after the long wait, to get a new one. And… It was a good read, but one a found a little awkward. At the risk of spoilers, the main focus of the story is Mister Nutt, a fiercely intelligent, if grubby, young man with questionable parentage. Throughout the book we understand he’s a goblin, which people know are untrustworthy, thieving cowards who’ll steal your chickens and slit your throat when you’re not looking. Nutt is a shy fellow who tries to keep to himself in the candle making vats below the Unseen University, working hard all the time. Like a personal mantra, he keeps repeating “I must accumulate worth. I was worthless but I must become worthy.” And the idea, we understand, is that he has to make himself likeable and useful, do useful things so that he can someday accumulate enough worth that they won’t kill him for being what he is.

I kind of know how he feels.

The sad fact of life is that I was born unwanted. My mother was a high school student who got kicked out of her house for being pregnant, my father kept my existence secret from his family for years… I was unwanted. Growing up like that, you know that there’s no place for you in the world. I’m constantly trying to earn a place in the community, struggling to try to accumulate worth. Don’t get me wrong, I’m in a good place now. There are people in this world who love me and intellectually I can tell you that they love me not for what I can do for them, but for who I am. But that little voice inside my head says otherwise. We know, that voice and I, that if our parents couldn’t love us then we’re inherently unlovable, unacceptable, and the only way the community will deal with us is if we make ourselves useful all the time. 

So  I had my first 5k race this Saturday... I spent it sitting on my butt playing with some children while I watched the sweaty people cross the finish line. I was living life to the fullest, man! What happened, you ask? Why didn't I run in the race I've been looking forward to for the last couple months?

I fell off a chair and sprained my ankle.

No, really. I was trying to paint my room blue and I fell of a chair and sprained my ankle. My lovely friend Stitch came down to run with me, so I tagged along to cheer for her and whine about the state of my ankles. I continue to whine. My ankle -hurts- and I can't run on it. I'm not even allowed to bike on it. <_< Damn trained medics around me all the time, I swear.

Mind you, I've been running a 5k 5 times a week for the few weeks, at about a 32 minute pace (I'm slow) so it wasn't going to be a big accomplishment to run in the race... It was just a milestone marker for me. I set the 5k race as my goal and aimed for it... Then fell flat, through no fault of my own. Bugger. And, I'm on the sidelines for the next week or so while my ankle gets with the program, so I'm going to lose some fitness here. And it'll probably impact my losing weight and running like a bunny plan... But, nerf. What're you going to do? As soon as my ankle's back up I'll start running again and a couple weeks after that, I'll find myself a nice charity 5k to go rabbit in. 5k now, 10k by December! ^_^

I've been having weird runs lately... I finished up the running schedule a couple weeks ago when I discovered it was too bloody easy. I tweaked it by running the required time and then doing a couple minute walk and adding a second several minute run... And that's what I've pretty much been doing lately - running for aditional times and shortening my walking time each week. It's gone pretty well. I'm now consistantly running more than 3 miles, 5-6 times a week and I'm dropping weight pretty fast (14.6 lbs as of last week. Weigh-in isn't until tomorrow, but my boobs are smaller than they've ever been and not a single article of clothing in my closet fits. So I think I'm doing pretty good). I've virtually quit drinking pop now, I only have one or two a week when I really feel like it and 80% of the time I find the taste fairly foul. I drink water, I eat fruits like candy and I've learned to cook a few things reliably, if not well. So you know, I've been rocking. I add light biking trips to the store to my weekly exercise now, in an attempt to increase my biking strength and get ready for biking to work regularly, and when I'm at Adam's place I like to steal a couple of sessions in his complex's surprisingly nice gym...

So basically, what I'm saying, is I've been rocking out the diet and exercise.

But I've had some weird runs. Sometimes I go out and I have to fight just to meet my 3.18 mile goal... and somedays, like last Friday, I can go out and jog for an hour with just a couple of walking breathers. (*flex* Oh yeah! Admire the strength of my legs and lungs!) It all depends on how well I've eaten and how much I've slept and whether I've drunk enough water, no kidding.

Last night was an awesome running day. I got outside at a little past midnight, hurting and sore from head to toe from a weekend full of larping and the first 12-13 minutes of running sucked. I wanted to stop running and slink home with my tail between my legs... But by the 18 minute point, I was eating up ground in a smooth, effortless gait. I was Arienna the Bunny, rabbiting down the street with my ponytail swinging allegro, dressed in clever runner's shorts and an actual tank top that, no kidding, revealed my arms and the shape of my figure.

I was feeling like hot stuff and after another few minutes I'd settled into what I consider my distance running mind-set - all I was thinking was "Run... run... run... run..."

Until something abruptly grabbed my ankle and gave it a yank. I hopped with my other foot in an attempt to get high enough to go over whatever I'd just got caught on but, alas, that only sent airborne, with my ankle still being yanked out from under me. Time froze while I hung in the air, one hand clutching an ipod and one hand holding my cell phone (Safety, yo). I recall making the rational decision that I would probably heal faster than I'd get around to replacing either of my toys so I didn't throw down my hands to catch my fall, I landed curling to protect my devices and hit the side of my knee first. The fall barked a lot of skin off my knee but my hips and legs were protected by the clever, highly scientific material of my shorts. Being an ex-gymnast and a once-martial artist, I was tucked and rolling so my hurts from the landing were superficial, skin-deep only...

Unfortunately, I was tucked and rolling to absorb kinetic energy and impact so I tucked and rolled just enough to crack my head on a loose piece of pavement. I lay there for a few moments, spitting sand and swearing before I stood up and looked for the cruel impliment of chaos that had disrupted my run... And discovered some complete bugger had stretched a trip-wire across the pavement. No kidding. There was a length of twine stretched across the sidewalk at exactly ankle height. Had it not been 1 am at this point I would have probably marched to the nearest house and delivered my opinion at high volume... But it -was- 1 am and I'd have just as likely gotten my butt shot off but anyone crazy enough to lay a trip-wire across a sidewalk.

So I kicked the errant rock that had tried and failed to concuss me and finished my run.

I'm hardcore like that. ^_~

Well I dutifully did five days of week 10 plus a little bit of work on an elliptical trainer last week and I felt pretty good about it. I steadily did about 2.85 miles every run and every run, I trimmed a little time off how long it took me to do it. So it was a good week last week, in terms of running. I worked hard, I did my thing, and I think I got good stuff out of it. Wednesday morning is weigh-in so we'll see. ^_^ Hopefully I'll get a pleasant surprise.. I could really, really use one.

This week is Week 11... Which is the week that's finally pushed me over 3 miles. I did 3.10 miles a few minutes ago. :) 3.10 -slow- miles but nevertheless I did a 5k so I know I can do it. For now on it's all about doing a 5k in less time (while lengthening the time i spend running every week, you know how it goes). Today -sucked-. The first day of a new week always sucks a little because I add two minutes to my running time - I start out with no idea how far or long I'm gonna be running so my times and pace are always all messed up. Aaaaand I may or may not have screwed up my nutrition and barely eaten 1000 calories a day for the last... three days or so. It turns out? If you don't get enough calories, carbs, fats, and proteins, this running harder stuff -sucks-. I rolled in today feeling sweaty, tired, and pretty damn nauseous. So take a note Gladys, Arienna needs to -eat-.

I had a long weekend. I'm dealing with.. some stuff right now. It was the weekend of long conversations. Long conversations with Adam, long conversations with Trent, the man I meant to marry... Long conversations all over the place. I don't really wanna explain the background.. I've been running away from the background for the last 8 months and I'm still not... I haven't dealt with it. I have to deal with it in order to remain on speaking terms with myself, but that's gonna take a little while.

The end result of all the talking and crying is I'm going to start taking some time away from Adam. I know he cares about me and that I'm important to him, he says he loves me and I believe him. But he also said, very clearly, that he's just plain not in love with me. And I no longer know what I want or who I am. So I'm going to spend some time alone, get to know myself, and see who I am these days and whether or not I can stand myself...

Strangely enough, even though I'm feeling pretty wasted and miserable, I'm getting all kinds of productive. I started taking the steps necessary to fix some of the problems in my life today and... I applied at the local community college.

No really, I did!

Tomorrow I gotta call and have my transcripts sent over so that's a bit of a drag, but with a little luck I'll get enrolled and registered before May 8th and I'll be able to sign up for summer classes. I'm excited. It's only community college, but still. No more being a 24 year old college drop out. I'm gonna go back, I'm going to pick a damn major, and I'm going to get a degree, dangit.

Sheesh, where have I been?

I was so busy living Week 9, I didn't have time to write about it. Does that sound funny? This whole thing takes up lots of time out of my day that I never really noticed was there. I have to wake up early and eat. I have to pack my lunch, I have to go to work. When I get home from work, I have to cook dinner and then I have to eat. And then after an hour or two to digest, I have to run. And then I have to relax for an hour or two and then I have to go to bed so I can get 8 hours of sleep so I can get up and go through my whole day with energy and then go running again the next day.

Grocery shopping too has started to take up more time. I can no longer do ninja raids on the aisles full of my old favourites - I spend my time at the store wandering around getting into everything and reading all the labels. Adding things up and subtracting and then reading the ingrediants 'cause there's several things I plain don't eat anymore (partially hydrogenated soybeans, no more! So long white flour, hello whole grains. Alas, sweetie fries I loved you). Grocery shopping has become an Event, where in I fondle all the food, imagine what I'm going to eat, how I could fix this, and ultimately subtract and divide until I get the calories per gram of protein and dismiss half the things in my cart as simply not packing enough umph for me. Go figure.

Protein is surprisingly difficult for me to get and I need -lots- of it. A couple of meat meals a day barely suffices and takes time to create and arrange. I'm eyeing adding some nuts into my snacking but then I'll have to do the protein over fat math. Speaking of which, I eat a -lot- now. Every couple of hours without fail, my stomach starts growling and I have to feed it an apple or a bundle of grapes or a chicken breast or the neighbor's kid... It's endless.

But I've lost 9.6 lbs since that fateful day (March 24th) when I bought a scale, yelped, and settled down to take a serious look at my eating habits. I have not had more than a single class of diet coke in weeks, I drink 8 glasses of water a day, and I feel pretty good.

Let's talk about running. ^_^ Last week was a big week in my running schedule because I went from running 9 minutes, walking 4, running 9 more minutes to running 13 minutes straight. Woots. I was a little worried about it but when I went out it was -way- easier than I expected. Too easy. I had to take on couple minutes of walking and then another 6 minute running set because I gotta get my 30 minutes in. :D

Last night I ran 2.7 miles, which is a personal best. In a couple of months, I'm planning on signing up for a 5k (3 miles) and doing my first organized race ever. I'm dragging Adam and all the people who love me out so they can wave flags and cheer for me when I cross the finish line - slow, sweaty, but -there-. ^_^ After that, 10k! And come February there's an 8 mile trail run at one of the prettier mountains here in NC that I'm thinking of signing up for, to give me something to aim for.

Think I can do it? ^_~

I came home crying from my run today.

This isn't unusual for me. Running sucks and I'm not good at it and I have a peculiar blend of willpower, self-disgust, and enthusiasm that's kept me at it for months now. There have been many days where I have come home crying or fallen onto the floor, pressed my face into the carpet, and cried like a little girl until I was dry.

This isn't necessarily a cause for concern. I cry a lot. It alarmed my father the first several times he caught me at it, crying through soccer, trying through a hard karate class, crying hysterically as I tried to make my way up a climbing wall (little known fact - I'm afraid of climbing. Not -heights-, climbing. Ladders scare me witless, but I'll spend all day on a roof, completely at ease). After awhile, he came to the conclusion that crying was just something I do. When my body or spirit reaches a certain level of stress, it starts to cry to leak tension. "What no one else gets," my father once said. "Is that you crying isn't you giving up. From what I've seen when you start crying is when you're really digging against something."

So I've cried a lot. I've cried because I'm not good at it, I've cried 'cause it hurt. I've cried because every time I feel bad about myself I go running and running doesn't make the hurt go away. I've cried because I haven't seen results and I've cried because I can't quit this and still respect myself. I'm backed up against a wall with no way out that'll let me continue being me.

Today was the first time in my entire life I came home crying from sheer joy and pride.

I went out yesterday and I did day one of week 8 which involves 18 minutes of running, with a warm-up, a cool-down and a brief breather in the middle. This doesn't sound like a lot and it's not but you must remember that in January I was hard pressed to run 5 minutes without choking up a lung. So I went out today and I ran again and when I got to the end of my first 9 minute span, I kept going. I ran to ten minutes and I nodded my head, gave myself a pat on the back and grimly prepared for the second set that was now going to hurt much worse than I expected. And it did. I considered stopping at 8 minutes 'cause I'd already banked an extra, but I kept going, counting down the last minute in ten second intervals. And then.. I kept going. I ran a little over 10 minutes for my second set and I walked my 5 minute cool down and I thought about it.

Three months ago, I couldn't do that. Three months ago I couldn't make myself run the whole way through a song. But lookit me. I did it. I started running today and my pace was smooth and even and my little ponytail swung back and forth in smooth, steady metranome. My feet hit the pavement steady and my form was good. My pace didn't flag and my lungs didn't burn or scream. For the first time that I can ever remember I wrapped my arms around myself and I danced home saying, 'I love you'. Today I loved my body. Even though it's short and still chubby and not yet particularly athletic, today I feel like I can do it. I can keep running tomorrow and the day after and two weeks from now. And a month from now I'm going to be struggling through a route and I'm going to say "Remember when you could barely get through 20 minutes? -Now- lookit you. You can -do- this."

When I got home, I wiped my face off and hopped on my bike and cruised up and down the street for awhile, just full of joy and delight at the strength of my legs and lungs. By this time next year? I'm gonna run a 10k.

I like to go to the grocery store every day or two. When I buy $60 worth of groceries meant to last a couple weeks, I always eat all the good stuff immediately and leave the rest rotting in the cupboards, while I eat Wendy's. ^_^; Bad juju. So instead I like to wander up to the store with my little shopping basket and pick out things that look good and tasty for the next few meals. It's probably not very cost effective nor is it very time effective, but a walk in the sunshine's kinda nice and not having a fridge full of rotting fruit is always good. Now one of the annoying things about going grocery shopping, especially when I only buy a little basket of stuff, is I look like a teenager. Almost every single time I go, as I start putting my purchases on the conveyor belt behind some adult looking person, the cashier asks the adult, "Is this together?" Because I look like a teenager and clearly, can not be a grown adult buying my own food.

Today this got way more interesting. I went to the store and bought some salad mix and a couple of pot pies and some jello pudding mix and some graham crackers and a bottle of diet coke and some juice. Laden with goodies, I sidled up to the queue and waited patiently for my turn. I was behind a woman an her husband, who were showing the cashier pictures from their daughter's wedding... But I was in no hurry so I didn't fuss or tap my foot, I just waited and piled my stuff up behind a little dividing strip on the conveyor belt... And when my turn finally came up the cashier turned to the man and asked, "Is this together?" And I said "Nope, that's all mine." and I turned to the fellow, gave him a smile and told him I'm hoping that in another 10 years or so, people will expect me to pay for my own. 'cause, you know, I'll look like a grown-up by then.

I paid for my groceries and I was headed out the store when the fellow from the line called out to me. He'd been waiting for me to finish and as I turned to him, he said. "I started to pay for your groceries and I felt like I should. I felt like the lord was moving that way. Should I have?'

Well I thanked him politely and denied and wandered off to my car. And I guess it was a nice gesture but it was kinda weird too. None of my clothes had holes in them, I'd actually washed my hair before going out. I was clean and dressed, and cheerful - definitely not the image of a needy person, right? I mean, unless I'm sending out poor starving waif vibes without knowing it. Maybe next time I'll toss more junk food in. ^_~

After the stress fracture debacle I was reluctant to run too much on my wounded foot and after having had a really -bad- week 6 last week... I took the early part of the week off to whine about my foot and got in a couple more days of week 6 this week. The last couple runs were successful. Much less "oh my god, I'm going to die", more "Man this sucks", if you understand the subtle distinction. ^_~

It's been an odd week for me. Adam had to fly out to Colorado to tend to some Army stuff on Friday and he's not due back until this upcoming Wednesday. I came up Thursday afternoon after work (work from home rocks my socks off) in order to get a night's worth of cuddling in. He puttered around, getting his house tidied up and packing and all that and I can't remember what I was doing but he decided to go to bed and he said, "I'm going to bed. Don't be forever." which... and I know this is going to sound silly, but it was a "Oh, hey! He -wants- me to come to bed and snuggle with him!" moment. When he headed out the next morning, I asked if he'd mind if I stayed camped out at his apartment and got my work day done and he said sure, no problem.

Well  I did that, successfully getting much work done and then I was faced with a decision. I wanted to sleep in the +5 Bed of Sleeping. It is a very good bed, very comfy, and smells strongly of him and me. But I wasn't sure how he'd feel about me -being- there without him. I felt really odd about it. Mama Elf suggested that really he wouldn't mind at all, but I fretted even as I crawled into the bed and settled down to a warm and good sleep. And the next day? I didn't want to go home.

I like my roommates well enough but with all of us home and the dog and various friends and significant others, the place gets cramped, and it has definitely never felt like home. I moved into it, intending it to be a short-term place, close to work, for a few months.. And now I'm going on nearly a year. I rent a room there and keep some stuff in the pantry and fridge, but I don't have a whole lot invested in the place. I spend a lot of time away from it and when I -am- there, I stick to my small room and don't stray outside it, anti-social as I am. The past few weeks I have spent more time at Adam's place than I have at my own and my little desk at work, wedged into the back of the warehouse, feels more like home. It's a very, very -small- world and when I woke up Saturday morning, the idea of driving a couple hours to return to it just... I really didn't want to. I wasn't depressed, but I wanted to hole up in a comfortable place and not talk to anyone. So I stayed at Adam's place, feeling an odd mix of comfortable and trespasser while I did a few hours of work, read a couple books, and scrubbed his kitchen stove, counters, and floor in some weird attempt to pay for my weekend's vacation away from my life.

And Sunday, I prepared to tell him I'd trespassed all over his territory, uninvited and unwelcome. I was braced for the worst when I told him, "Adam, I need to tell you something and I'm worried you're gonna be annoyed and irritated. I spent the weekend hanging out at your place. I know it was wildly inappropriate but I got a lot of work done and I cleaned your kitchen. Don't be mad."

"... are you mad?"
"Uh." he said. "Because you did some cleaning?"

He'd, no kidding, figured I'd spend the weekend at his place, even without him. Because even though he doesn't open his mouth and -talk- to me as much as I'd like, this guy actually knows me pretty well and has a general idea of how I'm going to react to something. And, it would probably do me some good to remember that he isn't me, he isn't as weird as I am, and he definitely doesn't react to things the way I do.

So here I am, snuggled up on the couch watching The Colour of Magic by Terry Pratchett, feeling relieved and welcome and loved, sniffling into my chicken soup.

It's that most wonderful time of the year again, boys and girls... REN FAIRE TIME! For the third year running, thanks to my wonderful friend TJ (all hail Laird Guard'n M'Crack!), I'll be tending bar at the NC Ren Faire. It's a really good time and I make a couple dollars that I will never, ever be more grateful to have ($8 an hour does not go far, boys and girls. I took about a half off paycut to come work at the comic book store and seeing how the economy is ravaging the food service industry, I'm grateful to have it. That's pretty much equal to the suck, boys and girls). The last couple years I spent it promoting the comic and getting pins and prints and things made. Not having that distraction this year, I'll be spending it straight on rent and stuff. If I think about this too long I'll get depressed.

But the Ren Faire is fun and exciting! Definitely a pick-me-up, even if most of the clan won't be there due to politics and bad social juju. Still I will go, I will get dressed up real cute, and I will sell expensive beer to people and let them shove dollars down my cleavage, which I will then spend on good things. While I'm there, people will fuss over me, tell me I look nice, drool over my cleavage and otherwise prop up my flagging self-esteem. This is all good.

So I'm getting my costume ready. I teased Adam, my lovely and talented boyfriend, into making me a pair of cute jagged skirts for layering. They come down just a little above my knee and they look very cute. I put on my knee-high boots, laced 'em up good. Put on my peasant shirt and then attempted to put on my really sexy tight black leather corset. (Hurr-rawr!)... I was faced with the undeniable fact that I have gained about four inches on my waistline since last year, when I bought the corset in celebration that I was petite and cute. A lot's changed in a year. I had just finished my Recovering From The Man diet where I lost about 6 dress sizes (from 10-11 to 4) in two and a half months or so (this is frowned upon my all health professionals. It's not something I did on purpose, it just sorta happened. I loved being slender but I hated the wonky side-effects and how screwed -up- my body was for ages after that. Also, I got really physically weak and had to take advantage of all the southern gentlemen around here) and I was still dating Trent. When I arrived at the faire, people stared and commented on my weight loss - to be honest, I think size 4 is pretty the bottom end of what my body type should look like. Some complained, some admired.

My skinniness didn't last long. When the relationship part of our relationship started going sour, Trent and I replaced it with food. He cooks beautifully and I love being fed. Going from a waiting tables job to a sedentary job meant I couldn't maintain my carefree attitude to my diet... which took some figuring out. By the time Trent and I broke up we were both getting a little chubby. I've been kicking that around ever since. I was keeping a 29" waistline steady and as long as my waist is below 30" I try not to get too wrapped up in it. I fail. And then over Christmas I started running and have continued running. This is good! And one of the things I told myself to keep huffing and puffing was that this will help. Running = weight loss, right? And everyone tells me I've lost weight. My roommate says he can see it in my face and legs but my waist is now a horrifying 30". A lot of people have given me a lot of reasons for why this might be - Sit-ups build muscle under the fat that hasn't had a chance to go away yet, Adam says I won't lose weight until I start getting some distance (two or three weeks from now) and then I'll start losing weight. I have even been told that fat expands before it starts going away*. So I try not to freak out about it more than twice a day. I even hit my measuring tape and settled to wearing my looser jeans while I wait to catch up with myself.

But... Here it is. I'm laced into a corset I bought 4 inches ago and it doesn't fit. Okay, it's a corset. I could tie it tight and tighter until the laces strain and the eyelets start popping off, but I gotta work and working involves breathing. So I've laced it snug enough to push my breasts up nice and high and from the front, it looks great! With my knee-high boots and my little layered black and blue skirts, my little white peasant top and my black leather bodice. To look at me, as the bard said, is to mentally order a pint of lager. No one is going to look at me and say, damn she's too fat. But the back of my corset is a gaping stretch of 4 inches wider than it was last year and god damnit, it bothers me. I've been running, and I've been paying half an eye to my diet, substituting apples for cheezits, drinking water more than diet coke, little stuff like that. But I've also still been paying court to the God O' Fries (a particularly greasy bugger) and the Muse O' Cookies becaue.. these are things that I love and any life that doesn't involve cookies is not the life for me.

But I miss my 25" waistline. I miss the saunter in my step when I felt good about the way I looked and I don't think just running and sit-ups and push-ups is going to get me back there until I'm running 10k's with gazelle like grace. So... I think it's time to try something additional. Time to start paying really serious attention to what I'm eating and how much of it I'm eating. Yarr, something like that. I must think on this. And unhide my tape measure. And magically lose 10 lbs before the ren faire.



*Like.. what, popcorn? It's gotta fluff up before it can fly away? I'm now being haunted with mental images of my fat reservoirs laying full and bloated in the southern sun, fanning themselves with tiny fans and asking for lemonade in thick drawls. I don't know why.

I went running tonight even though it was raining and I didn't want to because, well, these things have to get done. The running schedule suggests you run 3-5 times a week and it took me a couple weeks to figure out they really mean it. Every week the running gets a little harder. If I only run three times in a week, the next week I still feel like I'm dying. If I run four or five times, the next week I usually feel like I can survive it. It's hard, sweaty work but I'll get through it with a nod and a "Yep. This is not beyond my abilities". I'm already going more'n two miles each time. :D I'm looking forward to the day when I can do a 10k and just take it in stride (so to speak).

This week's been an odd running week. It's been a string of bad runs but at the same time, I've made some revelations about running and how the body moves. Things I learned in karate about connection and power are starting to translate over and that's pretty cool. I've never been a runner so every couple of weeks I make some shocking realization about something that's probably completely obvious to anyone who didn't spend her first nine years convinced she had asthma (Thanks Mom!). Dumb things like, if I extend my leg out behind me, almost straightening it, I can continue to push off the ground in a powerful thrust that's devoted to moving along the ground, instead of bouncing along with my little steps. This, I learned Wednesday. And did you know if I take deep, rapid breaths the oxygen can fuse into my blood and be carried to the various parts of my body? Omg. ^_~

The runs -have- been rough though. I haven't felt any significant improvement and even though I can see I've taken weight off my face and I'm told my legs are leaner, my waist line is actually an inch bigger than it was a couple of months ago when I first started... Sure, I can run three times as far as I did when I first started and I do so regularly without batting an eye, but... It's hard to explain. I'm not lithe and gazelle like so when I'm feeling down, it feels like I haven't made any worthwhile improvement at all... And I've felt down most of the week. My friend Fay said the nicest, nicest thing to me though. "See, I already know you're a runner. Ain't nobody who tries as hard as you do who isn't a runner. Now you just gotta wait for -you- to realize you're a runner too." It was sweet, got me all sniffly.

But today I discovered I have an Achille's Left Foot. My foot has barely been healed from its stress fracture / whatever for two weeks now and I went out running in the rain today. Adam lent me his water resistant PT pants and I had my little thermal shirt and a couple layers, and an mp3 player loaded up with new songs so I felt prepared for anything. Halfway through the run I tripped over a rock, stumbled, and when I recovered my footing and attempted to carry on my left ankle spoke up.

"Uh, -really-?!" It said. "We're gonna -keep- running?"

It wasn't really a sharp pain or anything that would make me stop and whimper, it was just a sort of dull, stiff feeling of discomfort telling me that all is not right in the land of my ankle. I slowed to a walk for a minute to see if it would go away, ran for another minute or so, then slowed again to have some firm words with it. It said it was tired and wanted to go home, I said I didn't want to be fat and, ergo, had to run. We compromised by running another 5 minutes home and then laying on the floor and whining about it to Adam. Even now it doesn't really hurt it just... feels weird. A little stiff and uncomfortable, and a dull vague pain. So clearly, tomorrow calls for a hot bath and extorting a foot rub out of my boyfriend.

Meanwhile, would anyone care to send me a team of scantily clad men to carry me about my errands?

I wasn't snooping in his drawers. I haven't snooped in his drawers ever, despite the time he spends leaving me alone in his house while he's at work. I'm a highly territorial person and while he isn't, I only get into things when he's there to watch and cleverly distract me if I get into something he doesn't want me to. But I was at the apartment while he was at work and I was doing the laundry. The last longish while he's had a pile of clothes hung attractively on the floor (where all clothes belong) and he made a few comments about really needing to put the things away... But he never got around to it and since I was trying to be a nice girlfriend, I was putting his laundry away. I hung up the shirts, I hung up the pants, I hung up the uniforms, I folded his socks and underpants and then turned to the dresser to put them away. The first drawer I opened had a tiny pair of size xs girls' panties in it.
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I am not a size xs. I will never, ever be a size xs. But his ex-girlfriend (THE ex-girlfriend) was. Of -course- she was. She was tiny and young and pretty and everything that I wish so desperately that I were but aren't. I stopped my investigation of his drawers, made the bed, and left his socks and underwear laying on the bed. And I didn't say anything about it because there's nothing to say. Everyone has momentos of the past. He doesn't speak of her, he doesn't wave her existence in my face to make me feel lesser... There was nothing there to talk about... But it quieted me down and made me a little sad.
<P>
Later I was taking a shower and I knocked over one of the girls' toiletries in the bathroom that aren't mine and, being for curly hair, -are- hers... And that was it. Suddenly it was like the whole house is full of these momentos of this girl who holds the palce in his heart I wish so very much were mine... All these little trinkets and reminders that, yep, there she is.
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It's hard to explain because it's largely irrational but there she is and I can't compete with her. I can't even try. She's tiny and pretty, I'm short and fat. She's pretty and delicate, I'm square and solid. She's got curly hair, I have straight, boring hair. He's in love with her, he's not in love with me. I don't know, suddenly instead of feeling pretty good about my contented little life, I felt terrible. Instead of feeling good about my inprovement in running, I felt fat and slow. Instead of feeling amused and loved by our relationship antics, I felt hollow and unloved. This is irrational and I know it, but there it was anyway.
<P>
I went running that night because I go running every time I feel down and insecure (this is why I run 5x a week. It doesn't make me feel any better but I keep telling myself eventually it will) and I had the worse run I've ever had. So bad. By the end of it I hurt everywhere, my lungs were screaming, I was sweaty and miserable... and when I walked in the door he'd already gone to bed without waiting for me to come back. I laid down on the floor, put my face into the carpet and cried like a little girl for awhile. It's irrational, it shouldn't bother me. If I were the healthy, strong, independant and capable individual I'm supposed to me this stuff wouldn't bother me.
<P>
But I'm not and it did.

This entry is subtitled, Anal Leakage.

For a flighty, artsy person, I'm surprisingly repetitive. I get into a schedule or a set of things that I do and that's that. I can get quite snappish when my routines are interrupted (which is, no doubt, going to be -very- fun for poor Adam who keeps telling me he doesn't plan things, the Army plans things for him) and any changes have to be introduced slowly and carefully if they're gonna stick. This is the only thing I can think of that might explain why it is I have failed to notice the wild dieting fads that have swept across my local grocery stores in the last, oh, 5 years or so. I was busy eating chicken fingers, damn it!

I'm not completely uneducated - my father went on the Atkins diet a couple times while I was living with him and I joined for all of about a week... When I announced that any diet that turns my intestines into a concrete mixer is -not- the diet for me and celebrated over a stack of multi-grain waffles. (I know, TMI, right? But, seriously. I know a lot of people have really good results with Atkins and I know it's supposed to get way less extreme after a couple weeks or so, and that it's not the best idea for a lactose intolerant high schooler who can't keep track of her nutrition or water consumption... But... There's got to be something wrong with a diet plan that lets you eat a solid pound of bacon for breakfast but refuses to let you eat an apple.)

But I went to the grocery store this past week and I've been trying to introduce slow, gradual, reasonable changes to my eating habits, the most extreme of which include breakfast and not getting lunch with Shane everyday. It's my current bargain with myself that I can eat as much as I want of the foods that're in the house, as long as I don't give in and go to Wendy's. And because breakfast isn't really my thing, I've been going to the store every couple days and buying a couple days' worth of something new and exciting (when I go to bed I'm actually excited about waking up so I can eat the oat clusters in my breakfast cereal. This is dorky.) I've also replaced about 70% of my diet coke drinking with this mango-peachy-green tea stuff that's not bad and I'm getting back into the habit of having small meals during the day, instead of sitting down and consuming most of my daily calories in the form of grease. ^_~ All well and good, but it's led to me doing a lot more grocery shopping.

I wandered through the fruit asile successfully and collected my apples and pineapple and grapes and peaches - why yes I -do- have an increasingly expensive fruit habit. I think I'm gonna have to quit my job soon and go work as a migrant farm hand. Then I headed up and got my soymilk (yeech!) and cereal and oatmeal and yogurts and then I wandered off down the snack asile and instead of beelining straight to one of the 5 things I like best, I wandered around and I looked. at the nutritional information. I require snackies but I wanted reasonable snackies. Very important!

And I found an entire stack of shelves full of low calorie options. Hah, thought I. Cool! And I picked up some of the things that looked best and started reading the stuff on the back. Hey cool, thought I. Low calories, reasonable portion sizes, look there's even some vitamins and minerals... And then I read the ingrediants 'cause there's a few things I'm trying not to eat (alas, dear trans fat, you were delicious). It was full of words I don't know which didn't immediately worry me until I got to the very bottom. You see, below the bottom, spaced away from all the nutritional information and hidden in the midst of some innocuous looking trademark lines... was the sentence: Warming. Consumption may cause anal leakage.

I'm going to say that again. Written on the package of chocolate chip cookies was "Consumption may cause anal leakage"! O_O I read it twice to be sure and then I put it away and read a few other packages and they all said something similar. I boggled for awhile while I considered what this meant. There was a whole range of products from multiple conpanies who're apparently making a profit off of selling food to people that makes them shit themselves. And a whole bunch of people find this preferrable to being chubby. "Well sure she's got to bring an extra pair of pants to work, but Joan sure looks fabulous since she's started the all diarrhea diet!"

I cracked bad jokes about it to myself all the way to the check-out line where I paid for all my healthy fruits, yogurts, cereals, and my cheezits. The carloric goodness might go straight to my hips but it's not nearly as bad as what the adult diapers do to the line of my jeans.

Well, it's been a quiet week here in a world like my own...

For starters, the immediate news is that my foot's feeling much better. I went out and ran tonight, which is why I'm more excited to talk about my feet than I am about my recent birthday. At the beginning of last week, see, I'd gotten so frustrated over being injured, I flat decided not to be damaged anymore. So I went out and ran on my foot. I didn't run as far or as fast but them I got up the next day and did it again. And then I was preparing to get up the next day and do it again, in a grim never say die way, when I was rubbing the pain out of my foot and I got a good look at my toes. I have had approximately 13 breaks in my toes as well as a few dislocations... I got most of these injuries during karate and I didn't let them take me out of karate to let them heal. I was back on the mats as soon as I could walk without too bad of a limp - so now all my toes curve oddly and ache in bad weather. I eyed my toes and I eyed the stab wound in my hand that still has slightly restricted movement because I wouldn't stop carrying trays of drinks in it while it was healing... And I took another week off from running. And if I can learn, ladies and gentlemen, anyone can. I didn't quite rest it - I had larp this weekend and I ran and jumped and fought all weekend in my very sexy high heeled knee-high leather boots (it is seriously time to get some flat boots to larp in. Seriously) and by the end of the weekend my feet and legs were killing me and I was worried I'd have to take another week off... But! I woke up yesterday with my feet feeling fine and in the face of lots of snow outside, I gave it another day, and off I went on a run.

My friend J joined me - partly, I think, because he wants to run too but mostly because when he realized I run alone at night in my city (a land of rape and murder), he was properly shocked and horrified. Well, fair's fair, I get a little scared now and then myself. He was really beat up from the larp event and he's not accustomed to running at all so when we hit the road, he was not well pleased. I felt a little guilty because he lagged behind, not having spent a month (before my wing got clipped) working up from the way beginning. I tried to keep pace with him but when he slowed to a walk, I settled for jogging slow laps around him, while attempting encouragement. And I also feel guilty 'cause it felt pretty good to be running circles around someone else.

But a much larger part of me was even happier because I expected to have completely worn my handwon endurance out in the last month of injury-caused poor performance... I resolved to start back at Week Four and work my way back up. I resolved to be patient with myself, to hold myself by the hand and let strength and endurance build up. This is not a stopping point, said I. It's just a stumble. I can do this. But I got out there and started jogging and it got me huffier and puffier than I wanted but it wasn't nearly as hard as I expected. I got to the end of my running time and tacked on another minute, bringing myself up to Week 5 standards. I probably could've gone up to Week 6 but I didn't want to push it. And it felt damn good. I mean, it was cold as hell and my lungs were kinda ouchy, but I was out there, I was running, and it was good. Plus I had drunk two bottles of Mango Peach Green Tea stuff, so I was totally hydrated (Man, I gotta pee right now) and I accidently stole some of Adam's under-layer gear so I was all warm and toasty.

This past Wednesday I celebrated by 24th birthday and nobody died. I went to work and was appropriately fussed over and got to leave early. The Angry German Man Who Lives In Our Warehouse (have I told you about him? I really have to!) who is my direct boss had sneakily arranged to get all the item information for the new stuff we were getting in that Friday early and sent them to me in an e-mail while pushing me out the door with permission to work from home both thursday and friday. Since Adam's a 2 hour drive in rush hour traffic from my work, work from home means hopping up to his place and working from the comfort of his couch, with the handi-dandy tv with all its cable glory. (Man tv helps pass drudgery). So I went home, packed my clothes for playing with Adam, packed my gear for larp, crammed it all into my poor car and hit the road.

Adam took me out to dinner at my favourite place to eat (Woo, Outback Steakhouse. No, working there for a long time did not kill my love of their deliciously spicy everything. It increased my love of them for maintaining safety and sanitation requirements) and we ordered the Blooming Onion appetizer that I adore which he doesn't care for, so we never get. It was really nice. He got a call and had to work early the next morning so we didn't do anything wild or crazy but he was sweet, attentive, and unusually tender.

Adam isn't good at gestures or words, which is unfortunate because I need to hear words repeated and I have been trained to look for big signs when it comes to love and romance. He shows his affection by doing endless small things that I, being me, don't always notice. Sometimes I get upset because he isn't saying the words I want to hear or doing the things I want him to do... Sometimes I tell him so, sometimes I just get upset. I'm trying to learn to watch for the things he does do, recognize them for the tokens of love they are and appreciate them.

When I come over and he has stocked diet coke in the fridge (even though he doesn't like diet coke and doesn't go grocery shopping), that's love. When I wake up in the morning and find that someone has thoughtfully cleared the frost off my car windows on his way in to really early morning PT, that's love. When I fall asleep on the couch and he pokes me awake to shove a pillow under my head. When I roll away from him at night and he follows me to snuggle even though he really hates having my hair in his face... He records my favourite TV shows even though he doesn't like them and watches them with me even though I roll my eyes every time he plays a Charmed episode. It's all love.

We don't speak the same languages at all. I still get kinda giddy and awkward when I try to talk to him and I stumble and stutter and he doesn't talk unless pinched and prodded. We fuss at each other. I do things that irritate the hell out of him and sometimes he pisses me off and sometimes I get upset. But it's love, it works, I like it.

A while back I woke up one comfortable weekend morning in the warm comfortable bed of my warm, comfortable boyfriend. For the first (and this far -only-) time in our experience I was awake before he was and I wanted to get up and moving while he wanted to lay in bed. So I announced that I was going to make him breakfast and decided on omelettes because everyone loves omelettes and I can make them. I've made them before, it's easy! So I went to the store, all pleased and giddy and skipped around buying eggs and cheese and hash browns and some sweets and pop and chips... You know, just the essentials. I returned to the apartment, laden with my well-gotten gains, and was met on the doorstep by the lovely Adam.

"Show me to your omelette machine!" I cried.
"..." said Adam and handed me his one skillet.

It wasn't even a non-stick skillet and, faced with it's sold iron presence, I did my best. I poured in some egg goo like I would an omelette machine.. waited a few moments... poured in some other stuff.... tried to flip it... and wound up with an eggy gooey cheese mess. Ugh! So I scraped it and tried again, with similar results. All the while I was making quiet noises of alarm and distress and Adam was demanding to know what was going on. "Nothing! It's fine! Don't come in here!!" Somewhere in the midst of my next attempt I noticed that the hash browns had adherred to the sides of the large pot I was attempting to use as a second skillet (also not non-stick) and I whimpered a little before finally poking my head into the living room and saying "Soo... How about Denny's?"

"That's it," he said, stomping into the kitchen and surveying the damage I'd done in the name of breakfast. He whipped out a spatula, did some scraping, pronounced the hash browns and field loss, scraped the eggy cheesey mess out of the pan and proceeded to eat it while making three picture perfect little omelettes. This taught me a few things: First that I really actually -can't- cook, and Second, Adam can eat -anything-. God bless the Army for preparing Adam so thoroughly for me because I really do enjoy attempting to feed him... I just don't do it well. Yet.

I told my father this story while asking if he still had lots of dishes laying around because he'd recently moved a pair of households into a single household. Continuing on this idea, I asked Adam in passing if he'd -like- more dishes... But he, resolute bachelor who doesn't cook, said -why-? He doesn't cook, he doesn't need dishes! Suitably chastened by the reminder that he wasn't really looking for a comfortable, domesticated situation, I quieted down and didn't mention it again. But my father did not forget and he and my lovely step mother sent me (amoung other lovely presents, thank you!) a very nice set of farberware pots and pans. They are non-stick (inside -and- outside. My father has watched me blow up microwaves before) and I'm very pleased to have them because Adam and I have been trying to eat in more. We're both a little chubby and we've been trying to eat in more both because it's healthier, less wildly calorie laden (I mean, when you don't sit down and eat a box of cheezits the way I do) and cheaper to boot. Which is hard to do without dishes... But still, it was with some trepedation and amusement that I approached him with the subject. I went for the subtle approach.

"Adam?" I said. "I need to ask you a serious question. It's important. I think we should make a fairly serious commitment..."

"Can I keep my new pots and pans in your house?"

Wednesday is my 24th birthday and I'm approaching it with the frightening knowlege that I'm out of my early 20's and still haven't done anything with my life... But oddly enough, it's the first birthday in a long time I'll be looking forward to. Most of that's because just about every single modern author I read is publishing a book this week, but also I'll be wandering out of work Whenever I Feel Like It (that's an official time in my world. It appears on the clock sometime after Elevensies and quite a bit before Ecstatic 90 Minutes) and heading up to see my man, who's promised to take me out. He has no idea where he's taking me because he's not a planning kinda guy. 10 to 1, we wind up having a tasty dinner somewhere in town and then spending the evening sitting on the couch, watching DVR'd cartoons and playing MUDs...

But i'm looking forward to it and I'm taking my pots and pans with me. ^_^

Well... Well... I've been gimping around all week doing my lame duck walk and explaining to anyone who would listen that I'm so fat I broke my foot. The first time this thought popped into my head, it was a serious horrified thought prompted somewhere from the depths of my freaked out little mind. But I went to sleep and when I woke up in the morning, I feel rather cheerful. Still pissed off that I couldn't run and still half afraid that I'd sit on my butt for a week or two weeks and then never get -off- it again... But cheerful. The idea that I, being 5'2" (alright, 5 one and a half. Gimme a break!) and a size 8, couldn't possibly be so heavy I'd snapped my own bone by walking on it was so -ridiculous- that it put some of my insecurities into perspective. A lot of the thoughts that go through my head on this subject are just as absurd, but nothing's there to check 'em, so nothing stops them. So my general goal this week has been to keep my third thoughts on the look-out for those truly silly self-abusing thoughts and to call myself out of 'em. I encourage you all to do the same because if you're like me most of the stupid things you think about that make you miserable have very little grounding in reality. <3

I also had a long and -pleasant- (holy cow) conversation with my father, largely centered around running and the general, wonderful changes I've been trying to make as a result of the running. A lot of these are going to sound silly and obvious to you, but I have a million bad habits. I stay up all night, I get little sleep, I don't drink enough hydrating liquids, I eat poorly and at all the wrong times. This is the way I've lived since I was brought into the world and as an adult, it's rarely occured to me that I ought to seriously change this stuff. But I run now, see. And if I go running without enough hydration, I get a side stitch. I can't stop running just because my side hurts, I gotta suffer through it. But if I drink a couple glasses of water through out the day, no side stitch. It's enough incentive for me to get me to alternate a glass of water for a glass of diet coke, through out my day. And another thing. If I go running, it hurts my body and the next day I'm sore and miserable. But if I go to bed and get a decent amount of sleep, I'm not sore, I'm ready to go again. So I'm trying to sleep atleast 7 hours a night... And boy lemme tell you, there's a lot of difference you notice in your general attitude and body when you're drinking enough fluids and getting enough sleep. It -sounds- obvious but the difference is staggering. Staggering! I still haven't noticed much in the way of body changes, but I'm -happy- most of the time. o.O It's crazy. Exercise, fruit, water, sleep, weekends spent in company with a pretty awesome fellow... Key to happiness, who knew?

I went running on Friday night because I thought if I could go running Friday, Saturday, and Sunday I'd still have a week 6 and I could move on to week 7 without any lost time. I knew the run would suck because I hadn't run for nearly a week and you lose it fast... But while the run wasn't half as bad as I expected, I am back to limping... Which is irritating. "I told you," says my boyfriend. "No running." Rawrg. Next weekend, we're both bundling ourselves into a car and driving down to watch our friend graduate from Basic Training Camp and I'm supposed to be able to run two miles (if I can run two miles, he'll bake me cookies. Incentive). In my 4-5x weekly runs I'm up to 1.75 or so miles and I figured following my schedule I'd be at 2 miles, easily... But not so much with a broken foot and losing two weeks out of the schedule. And my mental calendar has a big red circle drawn around the date I'll be done with my 14 week running schedule and now I gotta cross it out and move it up atleast two weeks. It's kind of a blow to my running momentum, as it were.

Time to find a bathing suit and a swimming pool.