The Great Flood, Volume I Saturday, May 31, 2008

There once was a period of great drought, but soon— it happened.  Like clowns spilling out of a circus car, there they were. 
Exhibit #1:  Jack, the running coach
Jack was one of my running coaches during my marathon training (please see below for dramatic recounts).  He was nice, maybe even a little bit cute.  In fact, I never thought of him as anything but Coach Jack, until that faithful day in March. 

(Photo from 'Thomas Hawk' via Flickr)

It was an email I will never forget, but couldn’t delete fast enough—yes, you read correctly, an EMAIL.  We finished training for our race in January, but to selfishly keep up my muscle tone, I had kept in touch with the running group which Jack led. 
In the email he asked if he could take me out for dinner.  At first, I thought nothing of it—he just wants to catch up, I thought.  I hadn’t been to the running group in awhile due to my busy schedule at work, so he probably just wanted to see how life post-race was going.  WRONG. 
I agreed, still thinking nothing of it.  Then came the next email…dun dun dun…he wanted to pick me up.  Uh oh.  This was a date. 
I was going on a date with my running coach, who had seen me at my worst.  He’d heard me whine, seen me sweaty and without makeup (gross), and listened to me cry and complain for five months straight.  I guess I just never saw it coming—I thought of Jack as more of a father figure.  A dad who just put up with all the crazy things I did and said.  The more I thought about it, the more it freaked me out. 
As the weekend grew closer, I grew more anxious.  But my friends calmed me down reminding me that it was just a date—I didn’t have to marry him.  So, I formulated a plan, mapped it all out and got ready for my big night. 

THE PLAN: 
1. Give the ‘friend’ vibe
2. Offer no physical contact (not even a handshake or a ‘half hug’; we don’t want to send off the wrong message here)
3. Avoid eye contact outside of conversation
4. Go dutch
5. Keep it short and sweet
6. Stay in control (for the most part, this applies to conversation topics, but could also refer to the amount of alcohol consumed)
7. And finally and most importantly, talk about running AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE! 

The day came, and I ended up meeting him at the restaurant—I chickened out at the last minute and told him my Godmother had to have an emergency root canal and she needed me to watch her kids, so it would be more convenient to just meet him there.  It wasn’t a complete lie—it was sort of the truth.  She’d had an emergency root canal, just not that day.  And besides, according to rule #6, I needed to stay in control.    
I walked into the restaurant and found him waiting for me near the hostess stand.  Sticking to the plan, I greeted him with a friendly smile and hello.  He did the same, and informed me that there was a 20 minute wait in the restaurant, but no wait at the bar.  In an attempt to avoid prolonged conversation and some forced awkwardness, I suggested the bar.
As soon as we were seated, I realized I had made a big mistake.  The bar was not just a bar.  It was a sushi bar.  Not only was I going to be on an awkward date, it was going to be over raw food, which at this point, I did not know if I could stomach. 

(Photo from 'Swerz' via Flickr)

I had tried sushi before, and would be willing to try it again someday, just not with Jack.  If I am going to put myself through the uncomfortable texture of raw fish sliding down my esophagus, I at least wanted to have it be in the company of someone I was actually interested in.  I ordered a salad and prayed the sight of his food wouldn’t bring me to vomiting. 
Following rule #7, I talked about running as much as possible.  Lucky for me this was one passion we had in common, so it wasn’t too tough.  We then moved on to work and social scenes, but somewhere in between the two something terrible happened.  Jack got serious.
He began telling me about his childhood and his family, going into non-first date detail.  Abort mission!
When he was done eating his smelly, caterpillar-looking sushi, the check came.  I asked if we could split the bill, but he insisted on paying.  Even though I broke rule #4, I didn’t feel too bad about it.   I felt like I did deserve some sort of compensation for having to watch him eat his fishy monstrosity.    
Shortly after, we went our separate ways.  The plan went off without a hitch—and though it was awkward at times, it could have been way worse.  I arrived at my house at 8:01pm, just 61 minutes after I had left. 
I am pretty sure Jack got the message.  I have not heard from him again, and have since found a new running group. 
Stay tuned, The Great Flood, Volume II is COMING SOON!

Run Forest, Run! Thursday, May 22, 2008

For some crazy reason still unbeknownst to me, I decided to run a marathon this year.  It had always been on my big ‘to do’ list (you know, the one that also includes writing a book and aiding in world peace) and thought since I was an ‘adult’ now, that I better get started on crossing things off. 
Believe it or not, I finished the race in a respectable time for my first marathon, and even though I thought I was in hell at mile 21 and gave my parents the finger at mile 23, I am glad I did it.  I learned a lot of valuable lessons about myself and the sport of endurance running during my almost 5 month training, and have included a few of my favorites below. 

1. Geese are not your friends.  Not only do their piles of green feces get in the way of any activity revolving around any sort of body of water, they are mean too.  While running one Saturday by the river, I noticed a very large group of geese in my path.  In an effort to avoid the swarm of crazy birds, I decided to run through the grass.  Bad idea.  Just as I was passing the last goose, I felt something poking at my already aching calf muscle.  At first I thought it was a cramp; unfortunately I wasn’t so lucky.  I turned around to find a goose chasing me while frantically pecking its beak into my leg.  Apparently getting anywhere near their other ‘green stuff’ ticks them off even more.

2.  Food in the form of a gel tastes as bad as it sounds.  Rumor has it in the running world that if you are running more than 6 miles at a time you have to ‘fuel’.  When I think of the word fuel, I think of the smelly liquid I put in my car every two weeks that costs me entirely too much money, not something I want to pour down my throat.  So, in an effort to find the best tasting ‘fuel’, I decided to shop around.  At first glance, I was optimistic about my fuel options.  After loading up on a variety of flavors including apple pie, cherries jubilee, chocolate brownie and even margarita, I went home for a taste test.  Five minutes into my fuel tasting, I found myself wishing I was drinking gasoline.

3. Pit-bulls are even scarier when they are chasing you.  It started out like every other Monday evening run.   I was halfway through my ‘80s Rock On’ play list and approaching mile three when I felt something cold and wet brush the side of my thigh.  I turned around in horror to find a very male Pitt-bull chasing me down the street.  Fortunately, despite the Pitt-bull’s notoriously aggressive reputation, this one was friendly.  But I found myself becoming rather annoyed—the dog seemed to think me running down the street was a game I was playing with him.  Seriously, doesn’t he know I’m training for a marathon here?!  I tried waving down cars for help, but wasn’t successful.  People drove by, turned their heads, even slowed down—but no one would acknowledge my wave for help.  A police car even drove by and didn’t stop; he just waved back and kept on driving.  So much for protecting and serving.  I eventually lost him after repeatedly telling him to “go home” and finding him something more interesting to chase—a horse!

4.  Lockjaw can happen to YOU.  Your legs aren’t the only things that get sore when you run long distances, your facial muscles can give out on you just as easy.  Of course, no one bothered to fill me in on this phenomenon.  During my twelve miler a few weeks ago, I was ‘fueling’ (for definition please refer to lesson #2) after mile six when all of a sudden I couldn’t open my mouth wider than to breathe.  Don’t get me wrong— breathing is definitely more important than fueling any day.   But at that point, nothing mattered more than consuming my black cherry flavored Cliff Shot Blocks.  Three square shaped gummy-like chews with just the right amount of caffeine and calories to take me straight to mile 12 (a big step up from the gels discussed in lesson #2 might I add).  I managed to squeeze them through my paralyzed lips into my mouth realizing chewing wasn’t an option—after that it was all up to digestion.  I shot some Gatorade in my mouth and washed those suckers down like a pill.

5.  Increased muscle mass is not always pretty and can strike when you least expect it.  I was shopping at the mall one

(Photo from 'Rodney_F' via Flickr)

Sunday afternoon and found myself lingering in front of a 30 percent off sign.  There they were:  the most beautiful pair of boots I had ever seen, and at such a great price!  I just had to try them on.  They slid on with ease and right then and there I knew it—I was in love.  But my love affair quickly ended in my attempt to take them off.  I recruited a sales associate to assist me and in the meantime attracted the attention of the crowds of people waiting to pay, becoming the object of their amusement for the next 20 minutes…literally.  The girl, who couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds, pulled with all her might for a good 10 minutes until we heard a loud rip.  My right foot was free, but needless to say the boot had suffered an injury.  The lining on the inside was ruined, and to make matters worse my left foot was still trapped in the fire.  When it did finally break free, I was sweating, exhausted and quite embarrassed.  The sales associate, noticeably worn-out as well, whispered to me, “Maybe you should stick to boots with zippers.”  Ouch!

Mangers are people too Wednesday, May 21, 2008

I was ecstatic to receive a promotion after only 10 months at my first ‘real’ job.  Finally, a little acknowledgement for the long hours I had put in and the initiative I had shown.  Hard work really does pay off, I thought as our human resources director handed me my fancy new job title. 
Yes, I was a big girl now.  Not only could I save more money, I could afford to make more investments—in my closet that is.  I was living large and in charge, until I made one seemingly fatal mistake. 
Before I knew it, it was time to send out a news release.  I was so excited to see my name as the contact I just couldn’t contain myself.  I proofread it over and over again to make sure there weren’t any mistakes and sent it off to every media outlet in the region.    
 As I was checking out the pick-up on the release the next morning, I noticed an email from one of my co-workers with a link from our Google alert.  Upon clicking on it I was directed to a sports marketing webpage containing my release.  Someone had picked it up!  Oh yeah, I was big time now. 

(Photo from ‘Ron (Crawfishpie) Dauphin’ via Flickr)

Later in the day I received an email from my boss asking what I thought read, “Are you really the ‘Manager’ of Media Relations?”  Shocked she doubted the accuracy of my new title, one she herself had given to me, I promptly, and defensively, replied back, “That is what it says on my job description.” 
That’ll show her. 
A few hours later, I walked into her office to find her grinning at me from ear to ear. When I asked her what she was smiling about, she explained to me that I had spelled something incorrectly in the release I had sent out the previous afternoon.  Impossible!  I thought.  I read that thing at least 20 times and even had her proof read it for me.

She pointed to the bottom of the release to where my shining new title lay, reading: 
 Manger, Media Relations and Communications       
I was mortified:  ‘Manger’ of Media Relations and Communications?!  People were probably laughing me out of newsrooms across the region!
It was all coming together now:  The Google alert email from my co-worker wasn’t to pat me on the back or say good job, it was to make me aware of my mistake—as a lighthearted joke, that is.  And my boss wasn’t questioning my new title she was simply doing the same—bringing to light my comical error.
Looks like I need to learn to read things a bit more closely and keep in mind that though a manger was what Jesus slept in as an infant, it is not interchangeable with my new job title.  Who knew?
Thankfully, no one was hurt during this ordeal—if you don’t count my ego that is.