You Better Shape Up!

I'm a runner.

Let me rephrase that.

I'm a "please don't die"-er. And I'm a "just make it to that next curve"-er. And I'm also an "ow, ow, ow, ow, holy crap, ow"-er. And somewhere in there, I've been becoming a runner.

Actual action shot of me running. Taken yesterday.

I'm not gonna sugarcoat it. I hate running. But lately I've been running anyway, and most surprising of all ... NOTHING is chasing me!

My runner boyfriend is excited, because he thinks we'll be running races together someday soon. To that I say, "Ahahahahahahahhahahahhahahahahahahahaha *cough* hahahaha!"

Running sucks.

It started when I went to my beloved gym one night, only to find the doors locked and a sign up saying, "Closed - Sorry for the inconvenience." The next night, I returned to find the doors menacingly chained with a thick padlock, the same useless sign, and another next to it saying, "If you're upset about the closing of this gym, come try ours. We have Polynesian Zumba!"

WTF?

Aside from being confused and a little scared by the idea of whatever "Polynesian Zumba" might be ... which, frankly, sounds like a more exotic form of West Nile Virus ... I had the sinking feeling that my gym might be closed for longer than just a night or three.

You can hear it, can't you?

Returning home with the sad "Charlie Brown" music playing on repeat in my head, I found an email from my gym's management saying that they'd lost a battle with their landlord, and were hoping to have a resolution ... "meanwhile, feel free to use the gym that's 6 miles and 30 minutes of shitty traffic farther away." Um, no thanks.

So after a week of being totally bummed, picturing myself getting heavier and sadder until my entire life would be shattered by this turn of events, I finally forced myself to take drastic measures: I would have to make laps around a local park.

Running with me convo #1: Why the hell do people run marathons?

It's not a bad park, mind you ... I don't know why I haven't spent much time there before. It's always buzzing with activity and, for some reason, disc golfers. Why not? And while I'm at it, maybe I'll give this running thing a try again.

Running with me convo #2: I'm too out of shape for this.

Now, I have not run in a decade (once upon a time, I was kinda good at it) ... not for more than a few minutes at a stretch and on treadmill, at least ... and definitely not since I've seriously damaged both knees in equally painful (both physically and psychologically) falls ... both captured for posterity here and here (with a bonus follow up here). Those injuries' remaining twinges and "sitting in a rattan chair while pulling apart a pop-pearl necklace" sounds are not helping to rekindle a love affair with running.

Running with me convo #3: I need to walk. Wait, why does that hurt more?

That doesn't mean I'm not doing it, however. I mean, I hate it ... and I hate most of the people around me who are doing it, like they invented running or something. But I'm DOING IT.

Speaking of hate, can I just take a moment to ask one thing ... what the hell is up with all the shirtless running dudes? Stop it! Just. Just. Stop. It's not turning anyone on. No one. But it is making the rest us all realize how disgusting we all look under our clothes, drenched in sweat that's running down our flabby bodies. And did I feel some of your droplets hit me as you splashed past me? Gah! Please, for the love of not-vomiting, keep your shirts on!

Don't be THAT guy!

Despite the gross, shirtless dudes ruining it for everyone, I will say that I do enjoy when my park will have the occasional dude with a giant afro, skipping rope around the park...

He was way more adept than this, but I imagine this is how his practice went.

Or another dude wearing all purple, hula-hooping his way around the park...

Or a random hipster kid in a giant stuffed animal head hat, shuffling aimlessly around the park (I keep wanting the disc golfers to take aim at those giant hats).

Damn, hipsters!

I enjoy all of those things very much. What I don't enjoy are the times when a bug goes down my gasping pie hole, or up my nose, or in my eye. Those things do not happen at the gym!

One night, the bugs were particularly bad ... probably because I'd cut it too close to dusk, which is when they all come out, along with other sorts of creepers ... the kind who look at you like they're sizing you up for something. The bugs, along with my deathly gasping for air and loud knee-popping, may have saved me from harm that night, because after an especially stingy-juiced bug committed Hara-Kiri in my eye, I ended up running the rest of the way around the park in the near-dark like so:

Not shown: The snot running from my right nostril, thanks to the stinging bug juice.

The creepers actually stayed waaaay away from me. I can't imagine why!

So when I say I'm a runner, I'm using the term loosely. I am getting better, at least. And I haven't died! The complaining in my head, however, hasn't really relented much. My daughter has started running with me lately, and I've come to realize that bringing her is like bring along a loudspeaker for my inner dialogue:

"I hate this. I can't breathe. I think I might collapse. Can we stop? I really hate this. Why did I come here? I never like doing this. I'm stopping. Can we at least get ice cream afterwards?"

At least it's a good reminder that I need to tone up my own flabby inner dialogue, along with the outer flab. Maybe if I just focus on looking up at all the lovely rainbows and moon and clouds and shit, that'll take my mind off of possibly dying.

Ah, that's better!

Tonight's blog has been brought to you by the letters R, D, the number 3 (as in the three Bartles & Jaymes coolers that I drank while writing) and the sound of awesomeness. More specifically, the whole first album of Brazilian Tropicalia glam rock gods, Secos e Molhados (Dry and Wet). Seriously, these guys are the shizz!

What a Girl Wants...

*swoon*

Kisses on the hand.

Silly little notes to make her laugh. Just because.

Love letters that arrive mail that punctuate what is cherished most about her.

Reminders of her found while surfing the internet, and shared to her page.

Doors held open.

"Good morning," and "good night," texts, if not together ... or even if they are!

Flowers, but not necessarily bought. Picked and handed to her is lovely, too.

Attempts at fixing something around her house.

Handmade gifts.

Shares with the world how proud of her he is, like picture posts or life moment brags.

Holding hands during long walks or short car rides. And not letting go.

Hugs. Just because.

Getting surprised with a dinner (or dinner plans) already made for her.

Hearing the words "I love you" said (or whispered) daily, if possible.

These are but a few of the things we girls want more of.




What a guy wants... 

Blow jobs.




Conclusion... 

Ever wonder if the frequency of receiving those things is directly proportional to one another?

(Answer: It is.)

We girls remember those romantic gestures that you couldn't help but do in those early days. We also wonder where they went, and why you wait for a "special occasion" to dust them off. They're not "sweet nothings" -- they are "sweet everythings"!

Sure, grand gestures are awesome, but it's the small, creative, day-to-day romantic gestures that truly keep our "home fires" burning. We girls love being reminded that we inspire those actions in you, even the smallest ones -- so much so, it just naturally "inspires" frisky reciprocation from us! We don't even consciously realize it, but it's true.

Basically, this is Mother Nature's way of making sure that everyone wins!

Now get out there and pave the way for more blow jobs, fellas!

You were staring at my boobies, weren't you?