No Pain... No Gain?

It's Tuesday morning. Instead of sitting at my desk in the office, I'm laid up on the couch! My valiant attempt to train for the upcoming 5K has left me handicapped and couch-ridden. I heard a couple "pops" during my aerobic workout last night but thought nothing of them. That's what I get for not thinking.

My neck and back muscles are so tight that I'm barely mobile. Turning my head to the right brings me the most discomfort. Perhaps I'd better approach my training a little less aggressively!

Spirited delusions of grandeur had me believing I could dive into a daily workout regimen and make this 5K-in-3 weeks happen without fail. The inspiration from my workout even spilled over into my other life dreams and led to rainstorm-inspired ramblings with an ink pen in an old spiral notebook. I felt like writing all night! However, I forced myself to go to bed, foolishly thinking I was going to be physically capable of working.

Instead of solving our community's problems in an office chair, I'm simply draped with a comforting blanket, listless and struggling to decide if I should watch "Price Is Right" or "Judge David Young." And I think that is what hurts the most.

Just Do It?

"Just Do It."

Most of us familiarize that phrase with Nike ads geared toward the athletic, coined in commercials featuring muscular bodies with sweat that somehow appears sexy, performing feats such as running up steep inclines or pole vaulting a bazillion feet in the air. Me? My face turns red before I begin to sweat, and I couldn't tell you confidently that I have ever felt sexy while sweating. I also couldn't tell you that I've pole vaulted recently, nor ran anywhere... except maybe the bathroom when I had a touch of food poisoning a few months ago.

My work and life schedules collided, leaving my lofty plans of transforming into a 5K runner terribly off-track. You see, I'm in charge of a community-wide event that involves three days of athletics. Last year, over 4,000 people participated. For the past two months I have been actively recruiting people to join our cause and commit to at least one event. Originally, I had opted to join the 3 man golf scramble team, and shoot for the moon (or an emergency hospital visit) by running my first ever 5K. But somewhere between painting two residences simultaneously, and a cake-eating marathon over my birthday... the only thing that was running was time, and it was running out!

So here it is, three weeks before the commencement of the events, and I've managed a meager two consecutive 30 minute workouts. I googled "how long does it take to train for a 5K" and found a website that had an article titled something like "From the Couch to 5K." Really? How did they know I was on the couch earlier, longing for a nap? According to the article, in a mere 9 weeks, if you follow their training schedule, you'll be a successful 5K runner. Great! Too bad I only have three!

Refusing to give up too easily, I decided that instead of focusing on the six weeks I was lacking, I would focus on the time that I do have. After cheer leading over 40 people for two months, it was time to root myself on. I may not have a religious, or rigorous, exercise plan, but I have stayed in reasonably good, and sometimes even great, shape the majority of my life. Worst case scenario, I'll run the One Mile, and I'll still be able to claim it to be my very first official running event. An achievement.

Wasn't I just saying I felt I was missing something?

I've roped my brother, and a good friend into a gym date tomorrow after work. My gym clothes are ready. And so am I.

I think...

Get Dizzy With It

We had another lovely day of cool air and drizzle. Not exactly the kind of weather that inspires you to conquer the world; more like the kind that makes you aim to become a professional napper, or an actor playing someone who's in a coma. Lucky for me, work didn't require much physical energy, just a lot of social shmoozing to recruit volunteers for the non-profit at the college "Service Learning" fair.

My ceramics time was being intruded upon by the volunteer event, and the rain was making the idea of forgoing my clay time rather tempting. I was also craving my Saturday cheeseburger... as I didn't treat myself to one last week because I had dinner plans that night. But, when I got back to my car, I realized that my cheeseburger money was in my pants pocket... freshly laundered and fabric softened. Pffft!

So off to ceramics I went. Feeling lazy, and certainly uninspired. All of my pieces had been glazed and were awaiting firing, so I was going to have to create something. I actually considered making a cheeseburger, because that was what my mind was dreaming of, but I was afraid I would chip my teeth in an attempt to eat it someday. For the sake of retaining my ability to chew, I decided to go with the ol' standby... a few more serving dishes. Easy. Brainless. Non-cheeseburger-fantasy-interrupters.

Suddenly, a few minutes after two in the afternoon, I became very light-headed, and thought I might pass out. There is nothing soft, or cushiony, in the studio... so falling unconscious and cracking my head open like a ripe melon did not seem like a good idea. There were only two of us there at this point, and I was too uncomfortable with telling LeeAnn how funky I was feeling. I hate drama. So, I kept it to myself. I tried to sit with my head by my knees. Tried focusing on breathing. Nothing was working. I've had these spells periodically over the last two years, and last summer I sought medical attention for those symptoms, as well as having pain in my chest. Unfortunately, I had already lost my job, so getting the necessary follow-up blood work to explore other possible causes wasn't an option. And... the Indian Medicine Woman Doctor Lady's constant insistence that I could be pregnant annoyed the hell out of me. I hadn't had sex in over a year, and having someone try to convince me that Jesus would choose me for his second coming, or I was gonna push out a toddler in a walker, was just insulting. I'll finally confess that I have been secretly concerned (for years) that I may be diabetic. I absolutely hate doctors, and always fear that I'll have some incurable, terminal illness, one that requires me to wear an Eva Gabor wig, and wish that I would have joined a band before I became bed-ridden. It's really rather juvenile... but it's my reality.

Here it is some seven hours later, and I am still not quite right. I had to cancel a visit from a friend to try and nap it off. I've eaten. Rested. Am still drinking water... Tried to hit all of the obvious causes: dehydration, low blood sugar, exhaustion. My last "episode" was within the last two weeks and occurred while I was walking down the hallway maze at work. Again, I was more worried about embarrassment, or an over-reacting do-gooder calling an ambulance and being socked with an astronomical bill... but I think I might have to deal with whatever this is... soon. I'm gonna have to hang up my chicken shorts, and go to the evil man with needles to find out what is going on before I pass out in public wearing ugly underwear. Grandma says you should always wear clean ones in case you get in an accident. I'm happy to report that I do always wear clean ones, but the thought of passing out in front of people is more horrifying than wearing dirty ones. Maybe not.

Anyway...

I did manage to muster up enough energy to move things around in my garage to make room for my brother's motorcycle. He's going to be storing some things in my garage and attic while he searches for a professorship job down state. We haven't been able to see each other much over the past several years, as he's been out of the country, and out of state until recently. The only large item I had to move was my old dishwasher; the only appliance this palace of a house came with when I bought it. I had been wanting to unload it since 2007, but my Honda Civic isn't built for large appliance transport to the dump, so there it sat, for almost two years. I wheeled it out to the curb around 8, and because I live in such an affluent neighborhood, it was snatched up before 9 o'clock! Hell yeah! I'd like to believe a poor woman with five kids picked it up to make her life easier... but I bet it's going to the scrap yard to get $5 worth of malt liquor. What do I care? It's out of my garage, and out of my life.

We can get rid of old shit that we don't have use for rather easily, but we can't rid ourselves of getting old. That's what sucks! When you get to a certain age, you begin to realize that things can start to go wrong; start hurting, stop working, and fall apart. I'm sure it's nothing serious. In fact, the only serious thing about this "gettin' dizzy with it," is my seriously immature phobia of doctors. (Oh... and the needles... do I ever hate the needles!) I've got a job now, so I'm out of honest excuses; and I've always said, "I'm not going anywhere. There's a few more people I'd like to piss off!" So don't you try to make a claim on my 90's era "Booty Mix" ill-chosen CD collections, or come after my new dishwasher just yet.