This one’s for you, Mickey Mouse Friday, May 22, 2009

After completing my first marathon in January 2008, I decided to keep this running thing going.  Having a goal in sight usually made training breeze, and I guess the extra muscle tone that came along with it wasn’t so bad either. 
Apparently still on my ‘runner’s high’ that March, I registered for the Disneyland half-marathon, scheduled for Labor Day weekend.  I remembered how great I felt crossing the ‘half-way there’ mile marker (13.1 for those of you non-runners) and thought if I could do 26.2, 13.1 would be cake.
The goal was to start training in April, but I didn’t really buckle down and get serious until late June.  Still, I wasn’t getting in the long runs I should have been, and by late July had still not broken 7 miles. 
Nonetheless, I continued my trainings and eventually did make it past 7.  I made it to 8. 
Whoops. 
But even though the 5 mile gap between 8 and 13 sounded big, I wasn’t too worried about it.  I knew I was in good enough shape that if I kept my pace, I could pull the rest out with no problems. Besides, 8 miles is about where I reach the point where I can’t feel anything anyway. 
My family, being the dedicated fans they are, flew out from the east coast.  Yes, it was not just a running affair, it was a family affair. 
With a crowd like this, you would think the pressure was starting to get to me—but I kept my cool and enjoyed spending a few leisurely days doing the Disney thing before race day. 
The night before, I laid out all my gear and hit the sack early for a good night’s sleep.  When 4:45 a.m. rolled around, I was up and ready to do all my race-day rituals:  eat at a packet of strawberry oatmeal, make at least 3 trips to the bathroom and lube up with body glide (the stuff that prevents everything from chaffing to spontaneous combustion).
I said my goodbyes and took for the start-line along with thousands of other runners and walkers.  The first part of the course led us through both parks—Disneyland first and then California Adventure, passing through Sleeping Beauty’s castle just as the sun was rising. 
But it wasn’t all so magical. 
The runners that flooded the course made the park more crowded than Miley Cyrus’ birthday party.  It was almost as bad as the normal Disney traffic that usually includes strollers plowing you over ruthlessly like bulldozers.   Not to mention it was impossible to keep a pace with these jokers stopping to take pictures with the characters that were swarming the course. You would have thought Mickey was a real giant mouse or something. 
And with Snow White yelling “raise your hands if you are having fun” in her high-pitched Disney voice from the top of Mark Twain’s riverboat, I seriously contemplated heaving myself into the water between Tom Sawyer Island and Adventure Land. 
Too bad Grumpy wasn’t on the course.  I’m sure he would have felt my pain.
By the time we got through the second park, things had spread out.  I was on pace, and it was a perfect day for a race—cloudy and cool.  I saw my parents at mile 3 and after a quick high-five and posing for a picture for mom, was on my way. 
I didn’t see them again until mile 10, where I was feeling better than ever.  But then, something terrible happened. 
The sun came out. 
I guess I shouldn’t blame it all on the sun, but it is an easier scapegoat than admitting I hadn’t trained enough, so let’s just stick with that.  I slowed down my pace significantly and in the rays of the hot summer sun, began to second guess why I ever decided to run this race in the first place.
I cursed my shoes, my sports bra, my SI joint and what seemed like millions of 65-year-olds who kept passing me. 
I was done. 
But just when I thought I was completely drained, I had an epiphany.  Sure, it was probably just the heat, but it sure seemed like one.  It was do or die—give in, or have the mental toughness to push forward and finish in a time I knew I was capable of.
Well obviously I picked the latter.  Did you really think I would quit?!  
I thought of my family and the miles they had all traveled to see me run this race.  I thought of my 3-year-old nephew who in one of my trainings saw me walking and quickly informed that I was “supposed to be running”.  But most of all, I thought my dad yelling over and over again, as he always does when I see him on the race course, “You’re good enough!  You’re good enough!  You’re good enough!”
And then, I ran.  I ran as fast as I could.  I didn’t stop.  I didn’t think.  I just ran.  
I know I crossed the finish line, but to be honest, I have no recollection of actually doing it.  Peeling off the course to recover, my hands hit my knees and I swung my head towards the ground. 
Shortly after, I was greeted by a race volunteer.  Feeling a little out of it, I asked her to escort me to a grassy spot a few yards away under the shade of a tree to recover.  The next thing I knew, I was in a wheel chair.

(Photo from 'J.E.S.' via Flickr)

 
Borderline delirious, I gave it my best shot to stand up and prove I could walk.  No such luck.  I covered my race number and prayed to God that my parents or worse, the race photographer, weren’t watching this all go down. 
I was wheeled into the medical tent where I was surrounded by more IV fluids, bananas and Powerade than I had ever seen in the same room.  Finally, I stopped fighting it and embraced the air conditioned tent and bed-side service. 
I figured that if my family would have witnessed this disaster, my mother would have already forced her way into the medical tent by now.  Thankfully, I was right.    
After proving I could walk in a straight line and drinking two giant bottles of water and three bananas, I was allowed to exit.
It was hard to leave though.  Sure, the AC was nice a plus, but the hardest part was leaving all the other injured runners behind. There were runners who had all kinds of injuries—some big, some small, but each and every one of them had sucked it up and battled through for who knows how long.  I overheard a lady say she felt a tendon in her knee snap at mile 6.  But she, along with everyone else, had finished. 
I left that tent feeling like a real runner.  That is until I remembered what landed me in the medical tent in the first place and my zero recollection of what I’m sure was a dramatic finish.
I gathered what was left of my pride and headed to the family reunion area to meet up with my family—and with the exception of my brother, didn’t mention the incident to anyone. 
A few days later I received an email notifying me that there were pictures available online from the race.  I clicked to view them, and found close to 10 pictures of me high-fiving everyone from Donald Duck and Pluto to Mickey and Minnie Mouse upon crossing the finish line—something I have absolutely zero memory of.
Thanks for the memories, Walt!

The ‘K’ Word Saturday, November 8, 2008

(Photo from 'urbanmkr' via Flickr)

After battling through some lower back and hip pain over the summer as a result of running, I finally gave in and made a visit to my doctor to see what the deal was. 
He informed me that I had something called SI Joint Dysfunction, and referred me to a physical therapist. 
I quickly made an appointment and a few days later, found myself in the doctor’s office once again.    
Never having been to a physical therapist, or even knowing what one was for that matter, I showed up in my usual business casual ensemble, which today conveniently included giant heels.
I was escorted into an exam room and waited for the physical therapist to see me.  Having no idea what I was in for, I found myself thinking nervously of what was about to happen.  And still in pain from the episode that brought me to the doctor in the first place, I paced around the room, desperately trying to find some relief. 
A few minutes later I heard a knock at the door.  Awkwardly trying to get back to my chair before the door opened, I darted across the room as quickly as I could.   Making it safely, yet painfully back to my seat, I watched as the door slowly opened. 
Damn it.  He was cute.    
He began asking me question after question, which as always, I gave entirely too much information for. 
A few minutes into the questioning, he looked at what I was wearing and asked in the nicest way possible if this was what I normally wore every day—specifically, my giant heels.  Probably not the best choice for a back ache, but I have never been one to compromise style for pain.  
He brought me back a pair of men’s shorts to wear, as the pants I was wearing were, I have to admit, somewhat constricting. He left the room so I could change and as I got into the terribly unattractive shorts he had so kindly provided me with, I remembered something.  I had not shaved my legs that morning. 
I know what you’re thinking.  Justine, you have blonde hair—it couldn’t be that bad.  But let me tell you, it was.  It wasn’t that I had just missed a day or two…oh no…it was more like a week or two.  Okay, maybe not that long, but you get my drift. 
Before I could compose a plan, I heard a knock at the door. 
Uh oh.  Here goes nothing. 
He asked me to lay flat on the table and informed me that he was going to be doing some ‘poking and prodding’ to make sure that he had my diagnosis exactly right.  I nodded my head and prayed none of them would involve touching my unshaven legs.    
He went for my feet first, which was another problem on its own.  I’m not saying my feet always smell, but let’s be honest—sometimes when you wear dress shoes all day without socks it can happen.
I clenched my teeth and prayed to God he wouldn’t notice either. 
After navigating his way through the forest that was my hairy legs, he paused to ask a few more questions.  The first two were easy, but the third one was a little different. 
“Do you know what a Kegel is?” he asked. 
“It’s when you pee, hold your pee and then pee again, right?”  I confidently responded. 
“Exactly,” he replied. 
He placed his first two fingers on the inside of my right hip bone and instructed me to do a Kegel. 
Confused at how I was going to accomplish this without peeing my pants, I asked for guidance.  After informing me that it was possible to do a Kegel without urinating, my journey into Kegel town began. 
I laid on the table and tried to find the muscle he was speaking of.  But the more I thought about it, the funnier the whole situation became.  There I was, lying on a table with a guy I barely knew holding my hip bone, trying to figure out how to move what I considered to be my vagina muscle.  
Could this be any more awkward? 
When I’m involved, apparently it can.  Ten minutes had passed, and after a few failed attempts I knew the pressure was on.  It wasn’t like I could just pretend I had done one successfully—trust me I tried—that was the whole point of his hand placement. 
So, being the mature adult that I am, I began to giggle uncontrollably.   He of course remained professional, but couldn’t help acknowledging my struggle with a subtle smile. 
When I was through with my childish outburst, I knew it was time to buckle down and get serious.  I could do this.  It was all about focus. 
A handful of attempts and roughly five minutes later, success was mine.  I had found it!
The remainder of the appointment consisted of learning exercises to practice between then and my next appointment—all of which included Kegels, of course. 
Now that I have a few sets under my belt (no pun intended), I am pretty good at this Kegeling thing—and believe it or not, it has helped my back pain significantly. 
And apparently they offer some other bonuses, too…

Tears for Officer Lame Sunday, October 5, 2008

After a weekend getaway at the Bruneau Sand Dunes (aka the desert) in mid-July, I was more than eager to get back to the comfort of my air-conditioned home.  Sure, the scorpion hunt and star gazing were fun and all, but the 10×10 cabin I shared with four other people was a bit of a tight, sweaty squeeze. 
Upon arriving back in town, I picked up my car and began the drive back to my house for a much needed shower and a hopefully a long nap.  But suddenly, my drive was interrupted by the sight of flashing blue lights in my rearview mirror.
I pulled into the nearest parking lot and waited in silence for the approach.  I had only been pulled over once before, and this 2-3 minute period of waiting was by far the worst part of the ordeal—or so I thought. 

(Photo from 'davidsonscott15' via Flickr)

The officer approached my window and as expected, asked me if I knew why he pulled me over.  Semi-acknowledging my failure to slow down fast enough as the speed limit changed from 45mph to 35mph, I tried to play it cool and chose my words carefully.
The first time I was pulled over, I went through a yellow light a little later than I probably should have.  However, when the officer asked me if I knew why he had pulled me over, I responded cleverly, “I probably shouldn’t have gone through that yellow light.” Tricky, tricky!
After listening intently to the officer’s ‘safety talk’ and promising to be more careful in the future, he sent me on my way.  My choice of words (and maybe a guiltless smile and ‘southern’ accent) won me a friendly warning.
But this time, it was a whole different ballgame.
The officer, who A) looked like he was 12 and B) wasn’t much taller than me, didn’t seem to care much for my clever tactics.  I aborted mission and began to search for a new strategy. 
After informing me that he had not only stopped me for exceeding the speed limit, but also for following too closely and driving on expired tags, I was almost speechless. 
Okay, let’s be real here.  I was speeding, but there is no way I was following too closely.  I am so not that girl. 
And as for the expired tags—I know this might sound a little ignorant, but I don’t handle those things (please recall the title of my blog for further explanation).  After trying my best to communicate this to the officer in the most mature way possible (which was a little difficult considering I am 23 years old), it wasn’t looking too promising.  
He informed me that I had been pulled over during ‘aggressive driver’s week’ and returned to his squad car.  Irritated by his condescending reaction to my explanations and offended he obviously classified me as an ‘aggressive’ driver, I let my emotions get the best of me and started to sob…uncontrollably. 
It wasn’t that I was crying to get out of the ticket.  By the time I started crying I pretty much already knew I was getting at least one.  My tears were more out of fear, confusion and let’s be honest, frustration that nothing I said had been taken seriously.       
The officer returned to my car and handed me three citations.  One for speeding, one for driving with expired tags and one for following too closely—fines totaling almost $300. 
I think now is as good of time as any to bring up the fact that I have had a clean driving record since the day I first sat behind the wheel of my trusty 1990 Ford Taurus at the ripe old age of 16.  Hard to believe, yes, but true none the less.
If I thought I was sobbing uncontrollably before, I obviously didn’t know what sobbing uncontrollably meant.  I was now crying so hard I couldn’t breathe.  Literally.  Though close to hyperventilating, I gathered myself enough to ask a few questions pertaining to the citations.  At this point, I think he was starting to feel bad, but obviously not bad enough to give me a break. 
Normal breathing finally returned, but didn’t remain for long.  As I was reviewing my tickets, I became alarmed at a three-digit number included on each piece of paper.  What was this three digit number you ask? My weight. 
What I recognize as a blessing for one’s self-image, North Carolina driver’s licenses do not include an individual’s weight.  But as I learned that day, Idaho licenses do.  Psh, see if I ever change over. 
The number the officer had ‘guessed’ my weight to be in the area provided on the ticket was a number I have never, and hope to never see on a scale (at least not before I have kids anyways).  He was more than 10 pounds off.  Seriously dude?  You didn’t even see me standing up. 
After crying for another 15 minutes, I finally gathered myself enough to safely drive home.  It wasn’t pretty, but I made it. 
I have since contested my citations in court, and settled with the prosecutor to pay a reduced speeding fine.  As they should have been, the other two citations were dropped on the acknowledgement of my clean driving record and what I like to call strategic outfit selection (aka ‘court clothes’).
And as for the overzealous officer, I hope to God I never see him at a bar.

You’re going WHERE?! Saturday, September 20, 2008

On a spur of the moment road trip with my friend and a few of her extended family members, I made my way south of the border—the Idaho border that is.  It was no spring break in Mexico, but I did incur some equally unique situations. 
We piled in the car and started the journey to Wendover, Nevada (a short 5 hour trip from the Boise homestead) to see a concert we had scored tickets to.  Who might you ask was playing?  Oh, you know, just the Temptations. 
Though my first thought was of utter shock at the fact that the Temptations were A) Still alive and B) Still performing, the more I thought about it, the more excited I became.  I mean, we could be witnessing their last show ever!    
Three and a half hours or so into the trip we stopped at what looked like a junk-yard-turned-general-store.  Confused, yet intrigued, I entered with my fellow travelers.  Wandering around the aisles filled with everything from tractor parts to gummy snakes, I stumbled upon the find of the summer, and maybe even of the year. 
I found myself surrounded by boots and as expected, felt an instant rush of excitement.  I know what you are thinking—“don’t do it, you’ll get stuck again,” but don’t worry, these were not the style of boots I am usually attracted to.  These were genuine cowboy boots. 
Fascinated by the styles, colors and let’s be honest, the idea of someone actually taking me seriously at a rodeo, I browsed around at my options. 
After ruling out the pink pair and the bedazzled pair I had fallen for at first glance, I reached for something more practical.  They were perfect (well, as perfect as I knew a cowboy boot to be anyway) and the brown, classic embroidered style made them easy to rationalize. 
And to top it off, as I loudly (of course) and proudly pointed out to my friend, the style of the boot was called ‘Justin’ just one ‘e’ away from my name.  Holy irony!  This was meant to be. 
But as the ultra-serious boot salesman quickly and sternly corrected me, ‘Justin’ was actually the name of the boot manufacturer, not the style.  Minor detail, right?
Before we knew it we were there and only an hour away from show time.  We made a quick stop at the bar for a glass of the house red, and thanks to Juan the bartender’s nice pour, never had to return.
The Temptations rocked the house and we were so pleased with the show, we rushed the stage for an encore.  We didn’t exactly get one, but we were lucky enough to catch a drumstick.  I’m still debating on whether or not to sell it on Ebay.
Post concert, I made my way to the blackjack table.  I had my new boots on for good luck and was feeling so good about them I almost sat down at the $10 minimum table.
After a few bad hands, a dealer with no patience and a creepy guy with an Eastern European accent ‘accidentally’ touching my leg a few too many times, I decided it was time for a change. 
I found a quiet table, waited for a deck change (apparently this is good gambling etiquette) and sat down.  A few good hands went by and just when I thought I was making friends with the dealer, something terrible happened. 
The game stopped and the dealer along with everyone else at the table was suddenly glaring at me.  The dealer called over a giant man in a coat and tie (that didn’t fit him by the way) and whispered something in his ear.  I looked down to see him pointing to the corner of a card that was bent at the edge. 
Okay seriously, it’s not like I meant to bend it.  I was just a little overzealous about the ‘hit’ motion.  It happens to everyone, right? 
After coming to the conclusion I was not trying to ‘mark cards’ the big guy (whose real name I truly thought was ‘Pit Boss’ until we were 2 ½ hours into our car ride home) finally left the table.
A few hands later, just when I thought I was getting over my card bending drama, out of nowhere a guy one seat down from me nonchalantly asked, “So, how did you break your nose?”  
Is this guy for real?  I hoped to God that wasn’t his pick-up line.   
Shocked for a moment by his downright rudeness, I was speechless. But don’t worry, it didn’t last for long. 
I put on my sassy pants and promptly informed him that I had never broken my nose.
Acting like what he had just blurted out was no big deal, I of course felt the need to share with him the impoliteness of his behavior.  Unfortunately, the poor guy could not understand why what he said was so offensive.  After more than a few words and me almost being dismissed from the table, I think he got the picture.

(Photo from 'Jesus V' via Flickr)

Just as I was re-gaining my focus, the cocktail waitress approached our table.  She offered everyone at the table a drink and all welcomed the proposal with the exception of the guy to my left who was drinking a giant Slurpee.   
I turned to him and jokingly said, “Geeze, maybe I should try Slurpees instead of beer when I gamble—I might come away with more chips!”
The man looked at me, turned up his nose and in the most serious voice I have ever heard said “I don’t drink—I’m LDS.”
Seriously dude?  Are you really going to judge me for drinking a beer when you are sitting at the same blackjack table as I am?  A sin is a sin brother. 
Since what I would have said in response would definitely have warranted exiting the table, I decided to say nothing and focus on my chips instead—believe it or not, I was ahead.    
But after some bad luck and a dealer change, I decided it was time to cash out for the night.
As my friend and I were on our way to the room, we made a quick stop at the casino bathroom.  On our way in, I saw who I thought was my dealer from earlier in the evening and proceeded to yell his name and wave obnoxiously to get his attention. 
“Mario!  Mario!” I yelled to him, waiting for him to recognize me from earlier. 
I stood in sheer embarrassment as who I thought was Mario, my beloved dealer, looked right at me and said “I’m not Mario,” and continued walking.
Bummer.   
In my defense, all the dealers A) had on the same black pants, white shirt and blue vest B) were for the most part of Hispanic decent and C) it was 2:30 a.m.  An honest mistake, right?   
The next morning before departing the wonderful town of Wendover, I once again returned to the blackjack table.  Strangely enough, I ended up winning back all the cash I had lost the night before, but in the process learned a very valuable lesson. 
Apparently aces can be worth 11(high) or 1 (low), which I had gone my entire gambling career (of one whole year) without knowing.
I threw the dealer a chip for sharing his wisdom and left feeling like I had just won a million bucks.

Cowboys do Exist Tuesday, August 26, 2008

After moving out west last summer, I was introduced to a new concept—RODEO.    
The first thing that crossed my mind, as it always does, was what the world I was going to wear. Despite my well thought out efforts, I stuck out like a sore thumb— but it wasn’t because of what I was wearing.  Apparently there is a certain amount of hairspray that goes into getting ready for a rodeo.  At one point I thought the lady next to me was going to catch on fire when she lit her cigarette. 
Close to 3,000 people filled the grandstands and the night began.  After recognizing all the veterans and current service men and women in the crowd and a brief cry session by emotional basket case yours truly, the announcer asked if there were any first-time rodeo goers present.  Excited, I stood up smiling and waved, of course catching the attention of everyone around me. 
I could feel dirty looks glaring at me from all angles.  No one believed me—not even the announcer.  I quietly sat back down.   
The first event of the night was called bare back riding.  From the looks of it, the object was to hold on to a bucking horse as long as possible.  The name didn’t make much sense to me though because there was definitely something in between the cowboy and the horse.  Despite the confusing name, the event was still quite entertaining.    
The next event was called calf roping.  Thankfully, the name of this event made a little more sense.  In calf roping, a cowboy (or cowgirl—not that I saw any, but let’s be politically correct here) chases a calf on horseback, lassoing it with his rope.  He then proceeds to jump off his horse, tackle the calf, and tie three of its legs together. 
Everyone around me swore to me it didn’t hurt the little guy, but I couldn’t get over the look in his eyes laying in the middle of a dirt pen surrounded by thousands of people with three legs tied together.  In the calf’s honor, I staged a protest at the beer tent the next go around.
During my protest I heard a few people talking about something called mutton busting.  Intrigued, I listened in. From what I gathered, mutton busting is nothing more than a bunch of kids riding around on sheep until they fell off.  Rumor has it, it gets pretty wild—but don’t worry, they wear helmets. 
On my way back to my seat, I received more than my fair share of eye bullets (aka dirty looks) from the lovely ladies in attendance.  Perplexed as to why, I consulted a veteran rodeo goer who had been showing me the ropes.  “They can smell the city girl in you,” she said with a smile.  How did they know?!    
As the events came to an end, we made our way to the beer garden for the post- rodeo dance.  Before long, I found myself dancing with a cowboy who was spinning me around so fast I almost wound up on the floor.  In between dances I asked him what he did for a living, and his response still rings in my ears to this day:  “I ride bulls, ma’am.” 
Cowboys really do exist.  Who knew?

Camping 101 Wednesday, July 30, 2008

(Photo from 'Katie@!' via Flickr)

In all my 23 years of life, ‘camping’ has never been a word in my vocabulary.  And I never really understood why people were so into it—I mean, I liked being outdoors as much as the next person, but there is a big difference between being outside and sleeping outside.  
But something in the great outdoors was calling me and for some reason I just couldn’t let this pass me by.  Okay, let’s be honest—I just didn’t have anything better to do.
I wasn’t quite sure why, but I was overly excited about the weekend in front of me.  New adventures, the great outdoors and good friends—what could be better? 
I made a trip to Wal-mart for all the necessities and after consulting with a few veteran campers, packed my bags.    
But when I woke up the next morning, panic set in.  What was I thinking?  I couldn’t go camping!  There were so many things I hadn’t thought of until now and were taking over my mind.  Who was I kidding?—this was a bad idea.  
If you know me at all, you know I am more than a little bit girly.  Sure, I don’t mind getting dirty, but I do recognize the value of running water and a flushing toilet.  I thought back to my family and friends’ reactions the day before when I had announced to the world that yes, this girl was going camping.  Their stunned responses ran circles through my mind. 
“You?!  Camping?!  I never thought I would hear those two things in the same sentence!” and, “You know there are bugs out there, right?” were among the two that stuck out the most. 
But there were some who had faith in my ability to survive in the wild.  And, according to some professional campers, I wasn’t really camping since we were going to be sleeping in an RV. 
After a quick pep talk and watching two coolers full of alcoholic beverages being loaded into the RV, I was back on track and ready to hit the road. 
The RV we were borrowing (not hijacking as some may claim) for our trip actually belonged to the organization I worked for.  But it wasn’t your typical RV—not only was it bright blue and 30 feet long, it was covered with giant pictures, making it stick out like a sore thumb.  Needless to say the ride up was marked by honking horns, head turning stares and the occasional dirty look. 
I was quite fond of the camp site we had selected partly because it was right on the lake, but mostly because I saw a brick building 50 yards away with what looked like bathrooms.   
I couldn’t wait to get out and explore, but as it tends to, nature called and I headed towards the brick building in the distance to what I thought held the gift of the weekend—flushing toilets and running water.
I sat down and suddenly realized I had made a big mistake.  I felt a cool breeze (not the kind that feels good, I might add) shoot a draft between my legs.  What the hell was that?!  I jumped up and looked down to make sure no one was down there blowing up my skirt.
I was later informed that I was using something called a latrine.  If you aren’t familiar with a latrine, it’s esentially a hole in the ground with a raised seat.  People may try to trick you into thinking it is a real bathroom, but don’t be fooled—it is nothing more than a stationary port-a-john with frequent wind gusts. 
I spent the rest of the weekend peeing in the bushes as much as possible, which I was surprisingly okay with.  In fact, I thought it was pretty cool. 
The weekend primarily consisted of eating, drinking and fishing, which I was perfectly fine with.  We lounged around, took in all the amenities of Mother Nature, and for the first time in a long time I had this strange but comforting sense of tranquility—it must have been something in the air. 
It didn’t bother me that I hadn’t showered in two days (apparently swimming counts as showering when you are camping) and I didn’t even realize I was covered in dirt.  It was awesome.
We cooked over the fire, gazed at the stars and I even watched a fish being gutted and still ate him (we named him Pete if you were wondering).  And even though I got a million bug bites and thought I had West Nile for a week, it was the best weekend I have had in a long time.
My friends, who also experienced my first camping trip, had their doubts about me at first but by the end of the weekend I was told I was “the right guy away from a six-day backpacking trip through Yellowstone.” 
I’m not so sure I would go that far, but I am not ruling it out quite yet.  I do think my camping trips will progress in phases, however.  Phase one (which I have already conquered) consisted of RV or cabin camping; phase two, tent camping; and phase three, sleeping outside with no amenities beyond what you found in the great outdoors.
I have to say, I definitely surprised myself.  Who knows—maybe I’m more outdoorsy than I thought.

Eye wasn’t ready Wednesday, July 9, 2008

It all started with a scratchy eye. 
I attributed the re-occurring issue to the dry climate and being on the computer all day, but still thought maybe I should get it checked out.  Besides, I had met my health insurance deductible for the year (yes, I know what that means now) and realized that in all my 23 years of life, I had never actually been to the eye doctor.    
I expected scheduling a standard eye exam to be similar to that of a yearly sports physical or bi-annual teeth cleaning.  Nothing is available more than two months in advance unless you are having a problem or some kind of emergency—and I was definitely not having either.

(Photo from 'moirabot' via Flickr)

That said I was shocked when the receptionist informed me that she had scheduled me for the following morning.  I instantly felt a wave of panic gush through my bloodstream like a warm shot of Tequila.  Tomorrow?! 
What do they do at an eye exam anyway?  Whatever it is, it can’t be pleasant.  Have you seen those terrible sunglasses people walk out of there wearing? 
I spent the remainder of the afternoon questioning my co-workers and researching the events of an eye exam.  The majority of them eased my worries.  However, I was a bit alarmed when one of my co-workers poked his head over my cubicle and whispered “beware of the puff.” 
When I arrived at my appointment the next morning, a little old lady named Marcel called my name and brought me into a room with a lot of unfamiliar looking machines and giant posters of eye balls covering the walls.  She asked me to sit down in front of the largest, scariest machine of them all and told me to look at the red light. 
I hesitantly obeyed, and seeing a bright flash immediately jumped backwards into my seat.  “Is something wrong?” Marcel asked.  I explained my optical virginity and she kindly offered to hold my hand during the remainder of the retinal scan.  I told her I thought I could handle it.
We then ventured to one of the smaller, less intimidating machines.  Thinking the worst was behind me, I walked into this one with ease.  Marcel told me to focus on the hot air balloon in the distance and the rest would just happen. 
I focused on the hot air balloon with my left eye and heard a quiet beep.  Seconds later, I felt a blast of air penetrate my eyeball.  What the heck was that? 
Obviously shaken, Marcel comforted me.  “Some people call that one ‘the puff’,” she said with a smile.  That explained a lot. 
As I focused on the balloon once again, this time with my right eye, I squinted, in fear of ‘the puff’.  It finally beeped and, as expected, forced a blast of air into my eye.  “Whoops, looks like that one didn’t turn out,” Marcel said. 
Of course it didn’t.
This time, it was serious.  I opened my eye as wide as I could and starred down that hot air balloon like a slutty girl who had just slept with my boyfriend.
The air puffed.  And I didn’t flinch.
Marcel patted me on the back and led me into another room. We said our goodbyes and she wished me luck.  Gosh I missed her already.    
The doctor entered the room a few minutes later.  Projecting rows of letters onto the screen, he asked me to recite row after row, what seemed like a million times.  I read the very bottom line all but twice.
“Great job,” the doctor said.  “You have 20-20 vision.”  Psh, I knew that already.
During the next portion of the exam, the doctor clicked back and forth between two different slides, asking me to tell him which looked clearer.  Now this was easy.   
Confident I had aced the entire exam, I was shocked, and let’s face it, a little devastated when moments later he informed me that I would be needing glasses. 
Glasses?! I was sure I had passed all the tests with flying colors.  I didn’t realize I had blurted this aloud until I heard the doctor explaining to me that was not the way it worked.
I had something called a stigmatism, and he attributed the scratchiness I had been experiencing in my eyes to needing a slight magnification.
Geeze this was confusing.  How could you have 20-20 vision and still need glasses?   
He handed me my prescription and walked me into another room where he introduced me to the lady that helped you pick out your frames.  Was this really happening?!
Twenty-three and losing my vision—looks like it’s all downhill from here. I picked out a pair I could live with and made the slow walk to the car.  At this rate I’m going to need Botox and a boob job by the time I’m 30!

The shoe room scandal Thursday, June 12, 2008

After very publically getting stuck in a pair of boots only weeks before, I decided it was time to face my fear.  There were plenty of people who wore knee high boots that had calves bigger than mine—it was just a matter of finding that perfect boot. 
It happened unexpectedly, but it just seemed so right.  I stopped by the mall one evening after work and stumbled upon the deal of a lifetime.  A pair of Michael Kors black suede boots.  They were beautiful, and what made them even more beautiful was the price tag—they were on sale for almost a third of their original price.  Was I dreaming? 
 After finding a safe place in the corner of the store, I asked the sales associate to bring out my size.  It was the moment of truth. 
I wanted them to fit more than I had ever in my life wanted anything to fit.  More than my high school prom dress, more than my first pair of Sevens and even more than my bras before I went on birth control.  And let me tell you, that my friends, is A LOT. 
She brought them out and opened the box—but inside the box was only one boot.  She explained that the other one was probably just the ‘display’ and scurried off to find it.
While she was tracking down its counterpart, I had a heart-to-heart with its sole mate.  Please, I whispered, please fit.  I began to slide my foot down and inside feeling something I had never felt before while boot shopping—effortlessness. 
It was destiny.  It fit perfectly, with calf space to spare.  I could even take it off without causing a scene.  I walked around the store basking in my success.  I had done it! I had found a beautiful pair of boots for a decent price that actually fit!  
Or so I thought.
As I sat there, anxiously awaiting her return with the other half of my perfect pair, I began to get nervous.  I realized she had been gone for quite a long time.

(Photo from 'Big Fat Rat' via Flickr)

A few minutes later she returned empty handed.  “I couldn’t find the other boot anywhere,” she explained unsympathetically.  What did she mean she couldn’t find it anywhere?  It’s a freaking boot it’s not like it just walked out of the store! 
I politely, yet firmly requested that she look again. 
I tried not to let myself hyperventilate.  She would find it, I would buy it, and we would all live happily ever after.  Gosh, the suspense was killing me!
When she once again returned empty handed, I felt the store suddenly get hotter.  Her voice trickled off and everything began to spin.  This could not be happening. 
She apologized and asked if she could assist me with anything else.  “No,” I replied with tears in my eyes. 
I sat there for a minute stunned.  How could the other boot have just disappeared like that?  It just didn’t make any sense.  My retail wheels began to spin.    

The more I thought about it, the more suspicious I became of foul play.  Maybe the matching boot wasn’t really lost.  Maybe it was a matter of someone hiding it.      
Could I have uncovered a shoe room scandal?
As a former retail employee, I knew all the tricks—what was going on sale, when it was going on sale, and more importantly, where to hide the things until payday.       
Just to make sure, I recruited a third party to uncover the truth.  I watched my unknowing accomplice (the only male I could find working in the women’s shoe department) enter the back room with a watchful eye. 
When he came out of the back room empty handed, my heart sank.  But my sadness turned to rage when I saw the female sales associate who had helped me before come out behind him—proof she had sabotaged my quest for the missing boot.    
But I didn’t leave without a fight.  “I hope you enjoy your new boots!”  I sarcastically remarked upon exiting the store. 
I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.

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!