Big Plans

Last night’s walk was very similar to this morning’s walk.  That’s right, this morning. It’s about 5:45, and I’m not starting my walk, I’ve finished it.

I slept poorly last night.  We had another retirement party at work, this one Mexican-themed, and we all overdid it.  Enchiladas, tacos, beans, rice, 7-layer-dip and chips, you name it.  I didn’t completely pig out, but I definitely overdid it.  There was a big, groaning table, in its own office, which contained nothing but desserts.  I picked what I figured was the “healthiest” – a blackberry cobbler, healthy because, you know, it had fruit.  I was actually sitting next to the woman who baked it, and she told me the reason it was so delicious was because it contained a cup of sugar and a stick of butter. I could feel my arteries congeal. So I chose a hard and hilly walk last night through Stacy Park.

I almost had to start my walk at the ridiculous hour of 3:50 this morning, because I won’t have another free minute in the day.  I’ve got a big weekend ahead of me – at least by my standards.  I need to get to work early because I need to leave at 3:00 to get my hair highlighted and cut.  I have work in Houston this weekend, and the plan it to pick up Lynn, drive to a friend’s home in Houston for dinner, get up and do my work, then Lynn and I will head further south to Galveston, where we’ve scored a lakehouse.  (It’s Lynn who has these connections, I just tag along). That means TWO DAYS of five mile walks on the beach!  Maybe it’s all in my head, but I like to believe that walking barefoot on the beach has natural restorative powers.  My left knee is still not completely right.

Oh, and get this!  Banks walked the whole five miles with me this morning.  I can feel him starting to come back to life as the heat lifts.  I cannot WAIT for those freezing days and nights again, when we head out, bundled up, and both of us feeling like we could go forever.

French Onion Soup

Finally, the gym again.  I walked there from the office at 4:30, was about 15 minutes away from finishing the treadmill walk, and my left knee started acting up.  Not just my knee, but the left hip/buttock.  I don’t know what’s in there exactly, but it feels like a pinched nerve.  I longed for my knee brace.  I slowed the treadmill down to 3.8, then 3.6 and then 3.5, and it was still painful.  I decided, before I did any real damage, to just go home and finish up another mile with Banks.  And my knee brace.  I’m almost out the door.

May I tell you about my latest culinary disaster?

I have a strange sort of amnesia when it comes to my cooking skills.  On the one hand, I know I’m hopeless.  I have no sense of smell, which probably affects my taste buds, which probably explains the lack of any nuance in seasoning.  I’m also not detail-oriented, terribly organized or patient.  I’ll find a recipe, get halfway through it, realize I failed to purchase a key ingredient, make a last-minute replacement and hope for the best. Or I’ll add the required cup of something, and then realize it was supposed to be added after the thing was at a full boil.  It is a dangerous thing when a recipe calls for any kind of judgment on my part.  “Cook until just tender.” “Cook over medium-high heat until translucent.”  Huh? “Add salt and pepper to taste.” We’ve discussed this.

On the other hand, I have an unusual amount of hope and optimism. After reverting to the old standbys that even I can’t mess up (spaghetti, tacos, baked chicken), the desire to cook nutritious and imaginative dishes begins to rise again.  And two or three times a year, I’m drawn to the crockpot. 

I planned to be out almost all day Saturday last weekend, and chose this day to prepare what I just KNEW was going to be a delicious, aromatic pot of French onion soup.  How I love that stuff.  I purchased a loaf of French bread and shredded cheese to accompany it, and early Saturday morning, set to work. Why hadn’t I paid more attention to the flour-and-butter part? I never seem to get that right, but I heated them together, and dumped them into the four cups of beef broth. They seemed to sort of ball off into small, discrete sections, but I figured that after nine hours on the low setting, they’d be fully integrated into the mix.  My confidence flagged further when directed to “chop” three large onions.  Is that finely chopped, or coarsely chopped?  I seem to remember that most of the FOS I’ve enjoyed had a variety of chopped and sliced onions.  Oh dear. I soldiered on.

Nine hours later I arrived home.  I’d been thinking of French onion soup all day, and couldn’t wait.

“Watery” is the best way to describe the contents of the crockpot.  The only liquid in there was the aforementioned beef broth – why did it seem so diluted?  The onions, after nine hours of simmering, were mystifyingly crisp.  I don’t know if it needed salt, but God knows, it needed SOMETHING.  It was bland and tasteless, pretty much like everything else I cook.  When, WHEN, will I learn my lesson and give up?  I resolved, as I always do at times like that, to simply broaden my take-out options.  But it won’t last.

Thanksgiving is around the corner.  Just yesterday, I was leafing through an old magazine and came across an incredible sounding recipe for chocolate bread pudding.  Somebody stop me.

 

 

 

Round Trip

If you read yesterday's blog, disregard the last sentence. I did NOT go to the gym.  I don't know what it was, but I felt so lethargic and uninspired, and I think I dreaded pulling a blog out of this foggy brain more than I did the actual walk.  So I did what I usually do when I feel like that:  decided to turn the next day's walk into a 10-miler. 

I was already planning to walk the five miles to Mi Madres for breakfast with Brian, just under five miles away, and we had planned for her to drop me at my house on the way back. As luck would have it, I have a home visit in Cedar Park tonight, and didn't have to come in til 10:30 today, so the decision was an easy one. 

I love my super-early morning destination walks. I left the house at 5:25; it was dark, there was almost no traffic, and almost no one out at that hour.  It felt like the world was mine.  I never listen to music that early, but find myself singing to myself, in my head, for most of the way. 

After breakfast, I walked outside and the world had changed.  It wasn't until then that it occurred to me that this was my first ten-mile, round-trip walk on a weekday. The sun was up.  Cars were whizzing by.  Garbage trucks were noisily unloading dumpsters, with the men shouting instructions to each other. People strode by, in a hurry, with coffee cups in hand.  I felt like I was in New York. I had taken my customary two Aleves before the walk, and took another two upon my arrival home, and, sitting here at my desk some five hours later, I feel fine. 

I think it's time for a quick mullet update.  For the last six weeks or so, I have taken to wearing an old-school plastic headband, because the front part of the mullet has reached that uncomfortable stage where it's too short to pull behind my ears and too long to be absorbed by the longer hair around it.  Most horrifying of all, it seems weightless and devoid of any texture.  After my walk today I washed it and carefully blew out and flat-ironed my whole head of hair, with reasonably good results -- except for the frontal mullet.  The picture below is not retouched or staged in any way.  My mullet is a miracle of frizz and air, impervious to products, and is actually the end result of both a blow dryer and a flat iron. It's back to the headband for another few weeks.

The Babies

Sunday was my last day in the nursery until next summer, and I went out on a high note.  “High note” in a church nursery means we had three caregivers for four babies, all either wonderfully good-humored or adorably sleepy.  Well, there was that moment when Will, shrieking happily and waving a toy around, accidently bonked himself in the face with it and clearly believed the toy had attacked HIM, completely unprovoked, resulting more in hurt feelings than real injury. 

When Lynn and I decided to take on this project, we had similar feelings about the “sacrifice” we’d be making, and I think felt rather smug about the commitment and the hard work.  I mean, 8AM to 11AM on a SUNDAY MORNING? We’re not talking showing up at 9:00 and handing the kids back to their parents at 10:15.  I’m talking, get there at 8:00, start setting the place up, sanitizing the rubber mat and all of the toys, getting the sign-up sheet ready and setting up the portable cribs and camp-style rocking chairs.  THEN the babies start arriving, and there are always parents attending a class between services, and the 11:15 crew doesn’t show up til 11:00 – hence the three hour commitment. By the time we realized that, it was too late – we’d already committed.

I don’t mean to BRAG or anything, but as the director of the whole dang children’s program told us last week “You guys rock the nursery.” I never would have believed this was something I’d be really good at.  I’ve had two kids, I know how to change diapers, I know (more or less) how to soothe a crying baby, but I didn’t know how much fun it would turn out to be.  Every baby had such a distinct personality, even at just a few months old. You know that, of course, but seeing it in action is altogether different.  Sophia (all names have been changed to protect the innocent) had a preternaturally placid disposition; Ethan was serious and (I swear) philosophical; the twins, Sam and Julia, had the patience and self-sufficiency that comes from double-teaming a single mom, and accepting that your every need is not going to be met immediately. Adorable Chloe, who screamed incessantly the first four or five times she was left off, finally got to where she could hold it together, and would look grandly and triumphantly at her caregivers when one of the newbies started crying.  Oh My God. The experience put me in touch with a singular kind of innocence and purity that I have not connected with in a very long time, and I felt like a long-dormant part of me came alive again.

Remember, this was all on three hours’ sleep.  I skipped church, went home and slept until almost 4:00.  Took my walk sometime after 8:00, and I’m telling you, it was HARD.  I can’t honestly even say I walked five miles.  I forgot my camera, and lost track of the time,  it was hot and humid, I felt sluggish and uninspired, and I allowed Banks to set the pace, which was S-L-O-W.   But I’ll make up for it tomorrow, with my third early morning walk to Mi Madres for breakfast with Brian.  And I mean it, tonight I am going to the gym. 

Incoherent Ramblings of a Raging Insomniac

It’s almost 5:00AM, and I’ve been up for three hours.  At least this time I have a solid reason:  I went to see a movie yesterday, and my Regal card earned me a free small soft drink, and even though I never drink anything during a movie, I have a hard time turning down anything free, so I took it.  My “small” Diet Coke was roughly the size of a full roll of toilet paper, and it was 3:00 in the afternoon, so the caffeine continues to rage through my system.  At a little after 2:00, I gave up, made a run to the 24-hour HEB, threw in a couple of loads of laundry and am now settled in for a couple of episodes of Mad Men.

About the movie.  It’s playing at the Arbor, and it’s a documentary called “The Imposter.” I don’t remember the original news story, but around 1994, a 13-year-old boy named Nicholas Barclay disappeared from San Antonio.  Three and a half years later, a kid (in actuality, a 23-year-old sociopath) in Spain claimed to be this boy, stating he’d been kidnapped, shipped off to Spain and, along with numerous other young boys, held as a sex slave in the service of high-ranking military officers.  He’d had three small tattoos to replicate the ones he heard that Nicholas had. He had brown eyes and a French accent, and yet, for several months, he pulled this thing off.  It was incredible.

The Barclays were a struggling working class family.  The snickers and the condescension  from the audience made me feel protective of them.  Clearly everyone was asking themselves:  How could they be that stupid? How could they believe Nicholas could have changed that much?  How could they not see through that ridiculous charade?  Well, I could see all of it.  Denial is a powerful thing.  Losing a child in that way, and thinking you might actually have him back, could make anyone take leave of their senses.  It is a fascinating hour and a half. Catch it.

Jackson and I had decided to rent “Bernie” (my second viewing)  later that night, so even though it’s my least favorite time to do  it, I had no choice but to fit my walk in at around 5:30. Hot, but worth it.  I am incapable of sitting through a movie without popcorn, and, much like biscuits and gravy, it sits uncomfortably in my stomach for hours, accompanied by the question, was it really worth it?  No, it wasn’t, not on a day when walking five miles would merely mean I’m breaking even.

My feet itch. As hard as I am on them, I don’t do anything special to take care of them, and it’s catching up with me. 

This morning will be my last Sunday with the babies, and I am on the lookout for a new volunteer opportunity, this time out in the community. 

How am I going to get through the day on three hours’ sleep?

Didn't Happen

When I read through my old blogs, I think that people must think I'm schizophrenic. How does life go for most people?  For normal people?  Aren't I a little old for my emotional temperature to vary from day to day, sometimes within the same day? Wasn't that supposed to end with middle school?

Last night I had a powerful, adreneline-fueled walk, a response to a tense day-long meeting.  Tonight I barely had the energy to put my shoes on, much less walk five miles in them. 

I didn't get the promotion I went up for a few weeks ago.  No reason I should be shocked, there were several very qualified people vying for it.  But I was disheartened. Deflated. And that's not the mindset that makes you want to strap on those shoes and hit the hills. 

But strap them on I did. There was a nice, brisk, not-cool-but-not-warm breeze, which seemed to give Banks a little more liveliness -- he lasted just under an hour.  It was hard to do that last 40 minutes by myself, but I used the time to shut off the podcast and reframe. To work, very hard, on lingering and unwarranted feelings of resentment or entitlement.  I can't say I was completely successful, but I know myself well enough to know I'll be better tomorrow, and better than that the day after. For tonight, though, I think I'll indulge in a little self-pity.  There's a pint of peanut butter and chocolate ice cream in the freezer with my name on it.

Best. Walk. Ever.

Have you ever been in a meeting that lasted for ten hours?  Without getting too specific, my job occasionally requires a certain, rare kind of meeting.  They don't usually last this long, but this one was....special. It took place in a rather small conference room, with eight people, and it included crying, sniping, and if not outright yelling, came this close. The tension built steadily and was relieved, explosively, at the end of the day by the following exchange: 

"Is your father an alcoholic?" "Yes." "Is your mother an alcoholic?" "Yes. But I'm a Southern Baptist, so I consider anyone who drinks to be an alcoholic."

So even though I had planned to go to the gym tonight, there was no way, NO WAY, this body could be contained any longer, not by a gym and not by a treadmill.  It was nothing but hills, one after the other. I even ran up one of them!  It was as if I had one of those wind-up keys in my back.  No matter how fast I went, or how high the hills, it was effortless.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: what on earth did I do with this kind of tension before I walked five miles?  Did it settle in my stomach?  In my neck?  My lower back?  Did it permeate and weaken my entire body?  Compromise my immune system?  It's anybody's guess.

I felt like I could have walked ten miles, and maybe I should have; sleep doesn't seem to be in my immediate future. But the stress is gone, my good humor is restored, and I'm ready to jump back into whatever craziness tomorrow holds.

Legs

This is what keeps me going five miles a day, whether it’s hot or raining, uphill or flat, whether it’s a great day or a blah day.  My legs.  Seeing the change in my legs.

I’ve always had long legs – I’m 5-10 – but you couldn’t say I had good legs. They weren’t horrible, just – meh.  I still wouldn’t say they’re great, but they hold their own.  After almost eight months of five miles a day, they’re reshaped and hard, not jiggly.  That’s something I’ve really started noticing when I’m out in public.  Thighs.  They give you away as a person who exercises , or a person who does not. And that, more than anything else, is what I am determined to hold onto when this thing is over.  No matter what my new regime is, it will include long uphill climbs or strenuous gym workouts. For the first time in my life, I love wearing skinny jeans and tights, and I’m not ready to let go of that anytime soon.

But walking doesn’t do much for your arms or your abs, so I’ve incorporated some new moves.  Monday-Wednesday-Friday I close my office door and work out with 12, 8 and 5-pound weights for 15 or 20 minutes.  Tuesday and Thursday, I again shut my door and force myself to do that horrible bicycling thing, and then some modified leg raises.  Raise them about a foot, pull the knees into the chest, straighten them again, lower them again.  I could very well have made that one up, I don’t remember anyone ever showing it to me.  All I know is that when I do standard leg raises, I invariably do something very painful to my lower back.

This morning I took Banks on a nice, 20-minute walk, and tonight I took him for a second one – that’s how much things have cooled off.  The morning one didn’t count, but tonight was about 25 minutes with him, and after bringing him home, I headed for I-35, walked south along the access road, took the next exit (Woodward?) and entered St. Ed’s from the south.  The students are starting to trickle back in; the weather is cooler; hope is in the air; the infernal Austin summer is drawing to a close.

Unfettered

I know it’s ridiculous to talk about a “nip in the air” in late August, but I swear it was there – or at least a good imitation of it was – when I got up this morning. I had made two long home visits over the weekend, so didn’t have to go into the office til 11:00, and felt like I had the whole morning to take my walk, but it was beautiful out and I didn’t want to wait. It was a partial Banks, and partial solo walk; partial neighborhood streets and partial Stacy Park hills.

My transformation into a SoCo hipster continues. My transition to the credit union, and away from the evil empire Wells Fargo is about 75 percent complete. I’ve been talking with the thirtysomethings in the office and am just about to make the BIG leap– to drop cable and replace it with Hulu, Netflix and Amazon. Can I really do it? Can I give up Monday Night Football and (especially) CNN? I think I’m ready. To not sit mindlessly in front of the TV and let it feed me whatever happens to be on, and to take advantage of whole seasons of fabulous TV shows that everyone has always raved about.

What’s next? A tattoo?

Another Week In Which To Excel

Do you bounce out of bed every Monday morning and say that to yourself?  Apparently Jimmy Carter did, during his days at the naval academy.  It's kind of funny and kind of obnoxious and kind of admirable.  I used to jokingly prod my kids out of bed with that statement, which they definitely put into the "obnoxious" category, but always, in the back of my mind, I respected the thought behind it. I like the idea of a fresh start, I like the idea of at least striving to excel, and I like the idea that, even if you don't, next Monday offers you a do-over.

Banks was limping terribly this morning, and I felt awful, especially since I couldn't seem to find the arthritis pills his vet gave me to administer on an as-needed basis.  This morning they were definitely needed.  I flirted with the idea of cutting an Aleve in half; maybe I'll google it and see if that's feasible.  But probably what I really need to do is go back to the vet and get another bottle.

So it goes without saying that Banks did not accompany me on my walk today, but Lynn did.  In all of the almost eight months of this thing, with all the time we spend together, somehow we never got around to doing that.  In fact.....now that I think of it, I have NEVER had anyone accompany me for five miles!  That's kind of amazing when I think about it.  But that's just how I have chosen to do this thing.  Solo or with Banks. With music or NPR as my only other company. 

But it was great walking with Lynn.  She runs every morning, and is more fit than I am, but walking five miles was a stretch for her, I could tell. And the five miles were up before I knew it.

Tomorrow's Monday.  Back to the old routine. Another work week, another week of grocery shopping, bill paying, laundry, lunch, meetings, movies, office potlucks, nursery duty, walks, blogs.  Another week in which to excel.

Banks is BACK

Five miles today!  I figured if it was going to be any day, it would be today.  We had an incredible rainstorm this afternoon, a bona fide downpour, and it's cooled things off a bit.  So around 7:00pm, I took a chance on Banks at the Town Lake trail.  Somehow I knew he'd come through, what with the frequent water stops, the energy of the other dogs and runners and the overall cooler weather.  Actually, I'm the one who's hobbling right now.  I wore the brace on my left knee, which has been really hurting, especially when I first stand up, but all that seemed to happen was that the pain shifted from my knee to my calf (a really uncomfortable muscle in the front right part) and to what feels like a pinched nerve in my left glute. God, it's always something. 

Two more Sundays of nursery duty, and then I'm done until next summer.  As much as I love the babies, I cannot wait to reclaim my Sunday morning coffee and two-hour read of the paper.

Just a Coupla White Chicks, Sittin' Around, Talkin' About Books

Today I finally met Lynn's friend Terry, whom she's been wanting me to meet for months, and she did NOT disappoint.  They met at a singles event a while back, and while there were no men that excited either one of them, they both recognized a great girlfriend when they saw one, and have been hanging ever since.  So we met for dinner at Z Tejas tonight and had a blast. The main purpose of the dinner was to plan our upcoming book club.  All of my life I have wanted to belong to a book club, and it's finally going to happen. We're calling it the "We Will Not Be Reading 'Fifty Shades of Grey' Book Club." It's a good thing we're so excited about it, because we have met with a baffling wave of indifference from potential members.  "Hmmmm, let me think about it and get back with you," or "Sounds interesting, but not sure I can commit to it."  Terry questioned the wisdom of blogging about the book club, noting "We might get inundated with people wanting to join," which is easily the funniest thing I've heard all week. Well, even if it's just the three of us, we've got a great book to start out with -- "How to be a Woman," by Caitlin Moran, whom I wrote about a while back.

It was a gym day.  I mean, really, how many ways are there to describe walking five miles on a treadmill?  All I can say about today's walk is that I had a great deal of trouble hanging onto my phone.  Three times I dropped it, and three times it was because I couldn't resist turning around to see how my legs looked in the mirror.  I would strain my neck around, the plug would yank out of the phone, and the thing would bounce off the treadmill and onto the carpet.  And I am telling you, the guys in this gym are so self-absorbed, they would have walked right past it if I hadn't pointed it out to them and asked if they could please fetch it for me, which they did, cheerfully.  They were staring right into the mirrors they were walking towards.  Okay, look who's calling whom self-absorbed. 

What's for Breakfast?

I am a creature of habit. It’s the main reason I’ve been able to keep up this walk and this blog, probably the two best habits I’ve ever formed.  I am also capable of slipping into bad habits, but that’s another blog for another day. But that’s an interesting distinction, isn’t it?  You form good habits (proactive) and you slip into bad ones.  That is consistent with my philosophy of human nature: that our natural selves are inherently lazy, even slothful, ready to slip into the easy mud of oversleeping, overeating, and general self-indulgence, and it’s only when we access our higher selves that anything in this world gets accomplished.

About two months ago, I formed another habit.  It grew out of a session with a nutritionist that I visited in an effort to develop more purposefully healthful eating habits.  My nutritionist is a 70-year-old woman with a figure, not to mention an energy level, that women half her age should aspire to. She is also good-natured, positive and nonjudgmental. She comes to Austin just twice a month; she lives and works in Houston but wants to relocate to Austin within two years, and is trying to build a business here. Opening a new business, in a new city, at 72 years of age.  That is my kinda woman. 

The first thing she asked me was what I’d had for breakfast that day.  How embarrassing.  This is NOT my norm, but I’d swung by McDonald’s and picked up a sausage biscuit with egg, and owned up to it.  She agreed it was a terrible breakfast, but asked “How do you feel about Egg McMuffins?” I love Egg McMuffins, are you kidding me?  She pointed out that there is nothing in the world wrong with an occasional Egg McMuffin, because it’s got a lean meat (Canadian bacon), protein (cheese and egg), along with the carb.  She’s okay with carbs.  A nutritionist who steers me away from all breads, glutens, caffeine, white flour and sugar is a nutritionist I cannot work with. 

So I bought the ingredients and have been enjoying a daily homemade Egg McMuffin for, oh, about two months now.  But now it’s not just an acceptable breakfast, it’s a really GOOD breakfast, because I substitute turkey Canadian bacon for the regular Canadian bacon, soft-boil the egg and remove the yolk, and substitute the American cheese with a better, whiter cheese.  Oh, it’s delicious.  How delicious?  I start thinking about it right before I go to bed, and when I get up, I start amassing the ingredients, even if I’m not going to actually eat it for an hour or so.  But I’m not neurotic about food or anything, good heavens, where’d you get that idea?

I didn’t mean to take off yesterday, but the boys and I had dinner at Bartlett’s, it went on a little longer than I’d planned, and it was so much fun I just wanted to keep it going by hanging around the house and listening to Jackson play his guitar for the rest of the evening.  But what a great walk I had this morning.  I had an 8:00am meeting at Starbuck’s and since it was already pretty late (6:15) when I took Banks out just for his short morning walk, I figured I’d go to the gym after work.  But Banks was really into it, I had the music on, and I thought, I’ll walk for 45 minutes and do 45 when I get home.  Then I thought, Nope, don’t do that anymore.  So I returned Banks to the house with about an hour left, and did the rest.  I was done at 7:45, rushed into the house for a five-minute shower, put off the make-up for later, and walked into the Oltorf Starbuck’s at 8:02.  I love living dangerously.

Interludes and Intervals

I’ve written enough blogs about red-hot rages, low-grade depression and free-floating anxiety that I really should celebrate the good times.  What’s so special about right now?  Nothing, really.  It’s just that every so often, the planets align.  The kids are doing well, work is fun and challenging, the house is clean, the checking account is ample, no one’s mad at me that I’m aware of…..they’re all little things, but together they add up to the “good” version of the perfect storm.  An interlude of sorts.  Which begs the question, why does it feel like an interlude?  Why can't life always be like this?

So even though I was tempted to skip today’s walk – remember, I still have an off day this week – I wanted to keep the momentum going, not to mention work out the kinks from yesterday’s treadmill walk.  So I did 45 minutes around the neighborhood, and 45 minutes around St. Ed’s.  The men’s soccer team was practicing tonight.  I love any signs of the fall – football, soccer, ads for back-to-school clothes – things that make me believe there IS an end to this summer and this heat.

I was discussing my gym work with my friend  Cynthia, who also likes to use the  treadmill.  I mentioned my flat walking speed of 4.2, then the incline at a slower pace, more flat, and then running.  She nodded sagely, noting that “interval training” is the most effective way to work out.  Huh?  Is that what I’ve been doing?  Heck, I thought all I was doing was trying to get it over with as quickly as possible, and keep from dying of boredom in the meantime.  But of course that’s interval training, and it IS effective, I can tell you that decisively.  So now I need to discuss with my athletic friends whether I should build interval training into my outdoor walks, or trust my gut about balancing interval with steady and predictable.  I’ll figure it out this weekend.  There’s a cool front moving in, and temperatures are going to plummet to the mid-90s.

Residual Damage

I forgot to mention one other side effect of Saturday’s  infamous and ill-advised walk.  I felt like I had fluid in my ears. I was completely unwired on the way to breakfast, but on the way back, I needed all the help I could get, so I listened to podcast after podcast.  Yes, I had the volume turned up very high to drown out the traffic whizzing by me on Burnet, and then Guadalupe, but still.  By the time I got to my office and removed my headphones, I had a weird sensation in my ears, kind of like when your plane is landing.  Or after you get out of the pool and feel like you need to hop on one foot and shake the water out of your ear.  By the time I got home and laid down, it went away. 

Oh, and do I even need to mention my sunburn?  Which turned pretty quickly into a tan, but a darker one than I really look good or natural in. Of course I didn’t wear sunscreen, that would have been far too competent.

You would have been proud of me at the gym today.  I remembered everything, but had brought an unfamiliar set of ear buds, and for some reason they didn’t work.  An hour on a treadmill without music or Terry Gross. Disheartened, I kept bargaining with myself:  I’ll do 30 minutes on the treadmill, combine that with the .8 miles to and from the gym, and then go home and walk Banks 45 minutes.  Okay, I’m at 30, let’s see if I can hang in there another ten minutes.  Then another ten.  And finally I got over the hump and just committed to the treadmill.  I was inspired by the walkers – perhaps I should call them climbers – around me.  I thought I was doing well when I had the incline jacked up to 10.  The guy on my left had his on 24!  And he wasn’t even holding onto the rails beside or above him!  The woman on the other side of him had hers on 20.  So I did an interval of five minutes at level 15, and then towards the end of the walk, went all the way to 20.  Sometimes, when I have it going really fast, or up high like that, I’m reminded that there is very little margin for error.

Have you ever seen anyone fall off a treadmill?  I have, twice, at the gym I used to go to, and what can I tell you?  It’s pretty funny.  First there’s a pratfall, accompanied by a scream, and then the person shoots off the rear of the treadmill, and then they crash into the wall behind them.  The only reason it was funny, of course, was because they didn’t get hurt.  And then we all hurried over to help them, making appropriately sympathetic inquiries, all the while biting our tongues to keep from laughing. I do NOT want to be that person. 

Setback

My 15-mile walk this morning was an exercise in misery.  I did everything wrong--seriously, I could not have done a worse job if I'd set out to.

First problem (at least I found out in time) was that Trudy's doesn't open for breakfast until 9:00; so much for an early start.  I left my office parking lot at 6:49 and got to Trudy's at about 9:02.  The walk there wasn't bad at all.  I did fine with no water, no NPR, no music.  And here's what I had for breakfast:  the Tex-Mex Eggs Benedict, a biscuit with gravy, about half a basket of chips, two or three glasses of water, and probably 6-7 cups of coffee.  (My waiter graciously pointed out that they were "small cups.") I was operating under the assumption that I could eat whatever I wanted because I'd easily walk it off, which was truu enough, but what I hadn't contemplated was the concept of "food as fuel." Can you imagine walking the second 7.5 miles with the above stuff coursing through (or should I say, festering in) your body?  I kept thinking back to the marathons I've watched, where they hand out orange slices and water. Oh, I would have killed to have traded in my breakfast for orange slices and water.

My walk there was just under 2 hours, 15 minutes; coming back, it was about 2 hours and 40 minutes.  Hotter and more humid, of course, and I was already kind of maxed out from the first half of the walk, but I was not in good shape.  Three or so miles in, I just had to stop for water.  I bought two small bottles at a CVS; the first one was brain-freezingly cold and after downing half of it, I dumped the rest on my neck and chest.  The second one I carried around til it was a little warmer, and downed it pretty quickly too.  After that, I got incredibly parched, more than I was before I had ANY water. The last two miles were hard and awful.  Of course I flashed forward to my marathon, and figured if it was this hard at mile 13, what would it be like at mile 25, but I can assure you, biscuits and gravy, cheese and eggs will NOT be on my pre-marathon menu. 

By the time I got home, I wasn't just tired, or sore....I was sick.  Sun-and-heat sick, and crappy food sick.  I took a wonderful three-hour nap.

In short:  it was a terrible walk, probably my worst of the year so far, but I did learn from it.

I knew I'd be too tired to want to go out tonight, so decided to stay home and rent a movie: Friends with Kids, mostly because Jon Hamm (of Mad Men fame, though he's much cuter as Don Draper) is in it.   I don't remember what the reviews said about it, but it's awful.  I'm about halfway through it, and there hasn't been a genuine moment yet.  Banks is looking at me plaintively, and right now a walk with him sounds much more enticing than sitting through the rest of this.

I'll be off tomorrow and back in business on Monday.

New Record

I had an 8:30 meeting this morning.  I rushed to my office, threw my lunch in the fridge, and raced across the street, on time.  I got back at 10:30, opened the fridge, and found my cell phone sitting atop my container of yogurt.  Please tell me this was not a fatal error.  I seem to be having trouble retrieving my mail, but the other features are working okay.

Remember the marathon in Omaha I mentioned a while back?  I had been putting off making my reservations, or even officially entering, until I figured out whether they accepted walkers, and finally I learned that they did (NOTE TO SELF: start with the FAQs).  I got my ticket through American Airlines for a whopping $96!  Those two near-crashes I experienced on my Virginia trip in January were well worth the $250 offset).

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I’ve got to kick up the mileage in order to feel ready to face 26.2, so tomorrow is going to be my biggest mileage day so far.  I’m meeting Barbara at Trudy’s on Burnet Road for breakfast, and how perfect is this?  The walking distance is exactly 7.5 miles from my office!  As soon as I saw that, I knew it was meant to be.  We usually meet at 9:00, but I persuaded Barbara to make it 8:30 out of respect for the 100+ degrees the temperature will be soaring towards even before noon.  And this time I’m going to remember to apply Glide – chafing was the only real problem I experienced during/after my 11.5 sojourn.  Geez Alou, as Frank Romano would say – was that just last Saturday? 

I love Trudy’s breakfasts, and am SALIVATING over their menu!  It’s going to be biscuits and gravy, scrambled eggs, sausage and a gallon of coffee – with 15 miles to walk it off, I am not going to hold back.

Yin and Yang

Oh, how I hate that expression.  I'm not sure I've ever actually used it -- somehow, I don't feel quite cool enough -- but during today's walk, those words kept coming to mind.  Go to the gym, cram as much speed and endurance as you can into a short, compressed time and space, and the next day, walk free-form, naturally, unhurriedly.  Strain your muscles to the point where they're sharp and tight, and then stretch them out.  I have come to see the efficiency (eat lunch at my desk, leave for the walk at 4:00) of the afternoon trail walk, not to mention getting some sun on these blinding white thighs, as acceptable trade-offs for the heat.  But I am going to have to get a hat or a visor.  Yesterday I discovered a freckle at the side of my nose, and I don't freckle.  And I hate applying sunscreen, but if I'm going to keep this up, that's not optional.

Ever on the lookout for self-improvement, I did something impromptu and unexpected this morning.  While I was filling up my car, I noticed a guy around my age putting gas in his scooter. I've been thinking for a while of getting one, and I've done a fair amount of research, but I played it coy and struck up a conversation on the premise that "I've been thinking of getting one of those, but I know nothing about them!"  It was a split second decision to be more outgoing and more flirty.  My overture was well-received.  He not only answered my questions, but expounded on them, and sometimes even seemed to be reaching to keep the conversation going.  It was cute.  He was cute.  No numbers were exchanged, but it did seem to me there was that awkward moment when that was a possibility.

Well, I've got to do something, because men don't just fall into your lap. Maybe if you work in a law firm, or in a financial institution, but my colleagues are almost exclusively female, and in my line of work, most of the men I run across are in the grip of varying levels of rage.  I keep threatening to join match.com or eharmony, but as I told my friend Sarah, I refuse to put a profile out there and then sabotage it with "need to lose a few pounds."  Give me another month and a half.

My Left Knee

Is hurting. I had the good sense to remember my knee brace, and wore it to the gym right after work. Now my right knee hurts, but I gave myself quite a workout on the treadmill. Now I've got to run downstairs (I'm still at work, but everyone's gone) and take a shower. Their shower is awesome, so much stronger and -- dare I say it? -- cleaner than mine. Then it's off to La Madeline for a French dinner, and finally, to see that new Wes Anderson movie at the Arbor.

Before I go, some random thoughts on the Olympics:

Michael Phelps is my new hero. I can’t imagine how he must have felt after that first race, when he didn’t even medal, and Ryan “This is my time” Lochte got the gold. Did he wonder if those who had questioned his work ethic were right? Did he have visions of performing just as badly in his subsequent races, and leaving his Olympic record tarnished? Did he imagine Lochte completely eclipsing him, reminiscent of Olga Korbut in 1976, when Nadia Comaneci suddenly made her look old? No. Apparently elite athletes are very different animals than the rest of us, so he stepped it up. And I loved what he said in his interview with Bob Costas – that he got exactly the medals that he deserved in this Olympics, and that maybe he could have gotten more gold if he’d trained harder, but “I didn’t want to.” Good for him.

Carmelita Jeter is totally doping. Totally.

I’m getting tired of Michael Phelps’ mother.

Ryan Lochte’s mother’s comment about how her son’s busy training schedule restricted his social life to “one night stands” was hilarious. So was her outrage that anyone would misinterpret that remark. So was Ryan’s statement that his mother was “oblivious.”

I love Kate, William and Harry.

Is it just me, or was it really hard to get into gymnastics this year? Maybe it’s because we know so much more about that sport than we used to. (OMG, read “Little Girls in Pretty Boxes” about figure skaters and gymnasts, it’s a mind-blower). Watching them, I think lovely thoughts about girls starving themselves, stunting their growth, being bullied by egomaniacal trainers, going to God-knows-what-lengths to stave off puberty, and all I see are indistinguishable little automatons with babyish voices. Again, maybe it’s me.

 

Stylin'

When I walked on Town Lake the other morning, for the first time in forever, I noticed something.  All the women were wearing the same kind of shorts – the solid-colored ones with a stripe on either side, sort of scalloped at the outer thigh.  A few were wearing the knee-length black spandex thing.

What was I wearing?  Well, in all fairness, it was dark when I got dressed and I grabbed the first pair of faux yoga pants that my hand touched.  It wasn’t until the sun started rising that I noticed I was wearing the ones I used to paint my kitchen and living room a while back.  The ones with angry green and yellow streaks all over them.  The ones that are now too big for me, bag uncomfortably and threaten to fall down if I put so much as an iphone in the pocket. 

And then there were my shoes.  There is a lot of construction going on around my house, and dust is everywhere.  I noticed that my pink and white shoes were brown – covered in a thin layer of dust and dirt.  Good God, I thought, do you ever look at yourself before you leave the house?  I think I’ve gotten into the habit of thinking of my walks as “work” and I dress accordingly.  Maybe I should adjust that to “recreation.”  Or “fun.”  Or “there are actually some cute guys out here who wouldn’t look at you twice in that get-up.”

So that night, I threw both pairs of shoes into the laundry.  After work I went straight to Academy.  The shoes will have to wait (I want those cute neon green ones!) but I bought myself three pairs of shorts.  And though I had totally planned to go to the gym afterwards, you're going to have to trust me on this:  just driving through semi-rush hour traffic in 100+ weather, about 5 miles each way, took so  much out of me that I had to make Monday my day off.  Just came home and fizzled.

But that was yesterday.  Today I brought my gym bag to work, loaded with my new pink soccer shorts, my clean shoes and socks, a running bra, a towel, a t-shirt and my iphone.  And just as I was about to head out to the gym after work, I realized I had forgotten my ear buds.  Honestly, I need a checklist; it appears I am incapable of remembering every item for every walk.  Unable to face the treadmill without music or NPR, I changed course and headed straight for the trail.  That was close to two hour ago.  Today it was 105.  It feels good to know I can walk five miles in 105 degree heat.  And it felt GREAT to wear lightweight shorts instead of cut-off sweat pants!  But, oh, the water.  Not lukewarm at that hour, not warm, but HOT.  Seriously.  No relief whatsoever. 

I feel like a big, take-out Greek salad from the Athenian Grill.  And I'm going to type up and print out a list of "walking" items for my gym bag.  And I'm going to have it laminated.

Are You a Feminist?

Are you a feminist?  There is a new book out called “How to Be a Woman.”  I haven’t read it yet, but yesterday I listened to Terry Gross interviewing the author, Caitlin (pronounced Cat-lin) Moran.  This woman is English, has two young kids, is a writer/television personality married to a music journalist, and is only 37.  I say “only” because the wisdom and humor – and by humor, I mean hilarity – that she gives off are usually the hard-won products of a much older person.

She came up with the idea for this book after numerous conversations with women of all ages, who routinely denied any connection with feminism.  “Oh, God, I’m not a feminist!” was a typical response when she would make an offhand remark like, “Of course, we’re all feminists here.” 

What do they mean by that, she wonders?  Her point is that we are now all, by default, feminists – we’ve just forgotten the battles that were fought in feminism’s name.  You’re not a feminist?  Then you should probably contact the federal agency responsible for these things and tell them you’d like to turn in your voter registration card, because you’re not smart enough, or important enough, to vote.  Are you using birth control? If you’re not a feminist, you should accept the fact that you have no right to plan the size of your family, and simply throw caution to the wind.  If someone at work were harassing you sexually, does it seem radically feminist to report him to his superiors?  Or should you suffer in silence, and look for another job?  Do you realize how unbelievably common this scenario was before feminists put an end to it?

Moran is bawdy, brilliant, and killingly funny.  Her mind races a mile a minute, and her mouth has no trouble keeping up.  She’s the oldest of eight children, from an impoverished family, where there was frequently not enough food, and she and most of her siblings developed eating disorders.  Of the non-anorexic  variety.  They were also home-schooled, and her tales of her and her seven  obese, socially awkward siblings will have you on the floor.  Several  times I burst out laughing during my walk yesterday. 

And that, more than anything, is what I love about her.  Yesterday morning was a vulnerable, anxious time for me, for reasons that escape me now, but after listening to her for 30 minutes, my mood turned on a dime.   I felt strong and powerful – laughter will do that for you.  What’s that expression?  “Do you see your life as a soap opera, or a sitcom?”  How freeing, how empowering, to be able to laugh at yourself.  Why can I never remember that?  Why do I have to keep learning this lesson over and over again?  Do I need to put a sign up on my bathroom mirror so every morning I can remind myself to NOT TAKE MYSELF SO DAMN SERIOUSLY?

I just got back from today's walk -- 20 minutes with Banks, and an hour and ten on the Stacy Park Hills -- and my strong, sassy mood remains in place.

I will be getting this book, and this one won’t be from the library. 

The Lake Again. Ten Again.

Yesterday was a weird day.  First thing up was an interview for a promotion.  It took more out of me than I expected, and it was followed by a work commitment that involved sitting around for about an hour until my meeting occurred.  By the time I returned to the office, it was 10:30, there were no phone messages for me, and I was very, very tired.  So I decided to take four hours leave time, and got a few things in order before leaving for the day at noon.

I was meeting Marcy for dinner (Austin Land and Cattle!  Cowboy ribeye!)  and I knew I wouldn’t feel like walking off a big steak; the obvious solution was to walk at noon, but my house needed cleaning, the laundry needed done, it was hot, I was tired – too tired to pack up my gym bag and get back in the car.

But the real reason I was putting off the walk was because I just couldn’t face another “It was hot, and I walked around the neighborhood for an hour, and then on to St. Ed’s for the remaining half hour and came back drenched” blog.  When I feel like that, I know I’ve got a ten-miler coming on, and that’s exactly what I chose to do. 

I woke up early on Saturday, and Banks and I left the house at 5:10.  What a difference a day makes.  It was sticky and hot; it felt a good 10 degrees hotter than the last two mornings I walked, and he petered out quickly.  So I took him home, and continued on my way. All the way down Congress, crossed over to South 1^st, went under the bridge and hit the trail. 

I had brought my phone.  I turned up the music, and just focused on going for three hours.  It felt good to turn off my brain and just let my feet do their work.  I had not been to the trail in I think a couple of months.  The first thing I noticed was the disconcerting amount of algae in the lake.  Is that normal?  Remember, I’m not an outdoors person.  Is that just what happens in the summertime, or is a sign of bad lake health?  Does it go away when the weather gets cold again, or does the city have to send someone down to clean it out?

The second thing I noticed, as I got to the underpass bridge at the two-mile mark, was that I had not seen ONE DOG yet.  Not one.  As I went along the north shore, I saw a few more, but the total was definitely well under ten.  On a normal fall or winter day, that number would be over 100. PoorBanks.  Maybe I’ve been too hard on him, making remarks about his “wimping out” on me. 

Three hours can go very fast.  Just before I left the house, I took two Aleves; when I got home, I took two more.  My legs feel great right now.  I had to go  to San Antonio for all-day work today, and I was worried that, with all the driving, my legs would lock up, but I think two Aleves sandwiching the walk is just about right.

More importantly, as always when I’ve walked ten, I feel back in the game.  It’s like a therapy session, or would be if I was the kind of person who enjoyed therapy sessions.  I walked out the kinks and felt new again.  And tomorrow I’ll tell you about the FABULOUS Fresh Air podcast I listened to for a part of the walk, which jolted my mind and my spirit.

Painting with a Twist

Banks lasted a whole hour this morning!  It was maybe even slightly cooler than yesterday morning.  I had a meeting at 8:30, and I was sorely tempted to put off the walk until later but it was one of those times when it was truly now or never. Both yesterday and today, I wore canvas shoes, sockless, but I know from experience that I'll start getting blisters if I push it any further than that.

So the reason it was now or never this morning was because Brian, Cindy, Janette and I had signed up for a "Paint Your Pet" class at this place called "Painting with a Twist."  What a blast! You email them a picture of your pet, they do a pencil drawing, and then the rest is up to you. You're encouraged to come with friends, and to bring a bottle of wine (we brought two), Believe me, that helped release the inhibitions. It was totally for amateurs, totally about silliness and fun, but also educational, for those of us who know NOTHING about painting.  I mean, who knew that if you have a black dog, you don't paint him with black paint?  You mix blue and red together! Or that you don't use white paint alone, but mix it with brown, or with blue and red.  It's entirely possible that everyone in the world knows that but me, but I felt artsy and sophisticated, mixing my paints together, wiping them on my apron, smearing different combinations together til they were just right.

There were about 45 "students," probably 40 of them women; 43 of the paintings were dogs, and the other two were Siamese cats. Everyone in that room loved their pets so much, and it made for a festive, happy, supportive atmosphere.  They have other, shorter classes for $35 and $45 -- I think wineglasses is one of them -- but the pet painting is the most popular, $55 for three hours.  We went well past our 9:30 stopping point, because the teachers were so generous with their time.

Here's Banks -- I have to say I'm rather pleased with my effort -- and below him are Cindy, Janette and Brian with Mercedes, Pyewacket and Cosmo, respectively.

Early

I really caught a wave this morning.  Got up very early (3-ish) and couldn't get back to sleep, and though I had planned another treadmill walk today, I decided to just get it out of the way. I knew I'd be really tired later in the day due to my 4-5 hours of sleep, so I didn't want to have it hanging over my head.  I left, with Banks, at 4:20.  It was, hard to believe, actually cool-ish and a little breezy -- I still worked up my usual sweat, though.  Banks lasted a whole 2.5 miles, and it was great to have him back for a while.  I found myself following my usual pattern:  after Tuesday's hard, frantic and steep walk, today's was flat and moderately paced, and I imagined my tight muscles lengthening and the painful pinpricks in both my knees working themselves out.

Tomorrow the plan is to duplicate the morning walk, due to a really fun and different activity Thursday night.  I'll blog about it tomorrow and should have a really comical picture for you.