three-day weekends are just long enough to get myself into trouble

I hit roomie’s car with mine yesterday. WHILE she was in the car with me. Holy craploads of less-than-awesomeness. Don’t ever let me borrow your car; I will probably run it into something. Although if you live near me, you might want to lend me your car so that it’s not sitting still anywhere that I can run into it with MY car. Mostly, you probably just shouldn’t live near me OR lend me your car. In fact, I really just shouldn’t be allowed to drive. Not only do I end up three counties over from where I mean to go, but apparently, I’m simply not coordinated enough to steer around stuff instead of plowing into it. At least I have boring car accidents. They usually take place in parking lots at about three miles per hour.

As it turns out, I did almost no damage, and Roomie is going to the mechanic anyway for something else, so she can just have them touch up the paint while she’s there. Roomie was impressively chill during the whole incident. I’m sure this one will NOT cost me $750 dollars to fix. Though I imagine it’ll still cost significantly more than not running into anything at all. Like I would have done if I was a normal person. Who could drive.

On a brighter note, happy belated Memorial Day everyone! Other than running into roomie’s car last night, I had a fantastic weekend and went to FOUR parties in three days. That’s right. I have friends. I felt super cool for having all these fun plans over the weekend, even if it always turns out that I’m still the least-cool person at the party.

I was trying to leave a party with my CrossFit friends around 11 on Saturday night. I was tired. It was past my bedtime.

I know, I’m lame.

On the way out, I got a lecture from a friend, who is probably 10 years older than me, about acting my age.

Alex (in a rhetorical question sort of way): “Anna, how old are you?”

Me:  “Umm, twenty-two?” (I DO know how old I am, but I feel the need to answer with questions if somebody is telling me off for something.)

Alex: “That’s right. And how old are you acting?”

Me (head hanging): “Ninety. I know.”

I feel like a lot of kids have gotten the reverse of this lecture from their parents. I never did. But sadly, this is not the first time I’ve been told off by my friends for acting like an old lady. In fact, I’ve even been told off by old ladies for acting like an old lady.

Still the fact that I have cool friends to tell me off for this is a good sign. I’m at least SLIGHTLY cooler by proxy. Right?

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silly putty and other reasons I can’t seem to act like an adult

A bunch of stuff happened this week. Most of it has confirmed my growing suspicion that I will never actually be able to act like an adult, no matter how grown up my life appears to be.

Today, I opened a drawer in my desk to get a teabag, and I found a coffee mug. A dirty coffee mug. Huh. What could that be doing in there? Well, as it turns out, I stuck it there. A couple weeks ago, Boss sent out an email that saying, “You all are slobs and need to at least attempt to clean off some of the crap you leave on your desks on Fridays, so the cleaning people can dust.” Obviously, he was a bit more polite than that, but being the master communicator that I am, I could tell what was REALLY meant.

And I DID clean it off that week. Or at least I sort of haphazardly stacked some of the papers, so it LOOKED comparatively less messy than before. After that, I figured the cleaning people had gotten their opportunity, and I wasn’t too concerned about tidying this week. Until I realized I was actually leaving dirty dishes around for the entire weekend. But I was already late for crossfit, and couldn’t be bothered to walk ALL the way across the office to the dishwasher.

So I stashed the mug in my drawer. Problem solved. If you don’t feel like dealing with something, hide it. Then nobody else has to deal with it either.

Another childish event: internet shopping for silly putty. I don’t have an internet shopping problem. I promise. I suspect that one of my coworkers just buys things for the fun of getting packages delivered to the office during the day. But I really NEEDED my silly putty. In fact, I have a whole Christmas list worth of CrossFit-related things that I’m dying to buy but don’t really have the money for. So I picked one.

I couldn’t have picked something cool like the speed rope I wanted. No. I decided what I needed most in the world was the grip putty.

“Look guys! Look what I just got in the mail.”

“What the heck is this stuff?” John (the chronic internet shopper) demanded once I had chucked it at him. “How much did you pay for this? It’s a giant glob of that putty stuff kids play with.” (Apparently the name Silly Putty was escaping him at the moment.)

“Hey John, remember how enthusiastic I was when you showed me those car racing shoes you got in the mail the other day?”

“Oh right. COOL. Look it stretches and . . . stuff.”

“Whatever. It’s for strengthening your grip. I think it’s going to work.”

The theory, of course, is that I will work at my desk and simultaneously squeeze the putty in various ways that will transform me from Feetus Fingers to HANDS OF STEEL. I will be like Superwoman. I can multitask like this because squeezing putty is totally brainless. Or so one would suspect.

Usually, I pick up the putty, give it a squeeze or two, realize how weird the texture gets when you stretch it really thin, start poking holes in it with my finger, suddenly realize that I haven’t gotten any work done for five minutes, and shape the stuff into an octopus before I set it back down on my desk. Until I absentmindedly pick it back up again and start the whole process over.

The other day, I had the wad of blue putty in my left hand when I felt the sudden need to roll up my right pants leg to see how my battered shin was looking (aka, see if I could cause any more damage by picking at the scab, since I love to pick incessantly at my skin. Yuck. Anna, why would you share that?). Then Boss came over and got all the way up to my desk before I noticed him. I realized I hadn’t put down the silly putty. I could tell he was wondering how to react. I obviously wasn’t working; I had a wad of something blue and oozy in one hand and was hurriedly rolling down my pants leg with the other. But then again, I obviously wasn’t on the phone or the internet or anything that I shouldn’t have been doing either. He settled for shaking his head and patting me on the back: This poor child obviously has something wrong with her. I should be nice.

alright box, you win this round

Coach says I need to be bubble wrapped. He may be right.

Last week, I clocked myself in the jaw with my barbell while getting a little over enthusiastic with my push press.

This week, instead of jumping ON a box-jump box, I decided it would be more fun to crash my entire body INTO it. This produced some spectacular results in the bumps and bruises department. And since I accomplished all this excitement on the second box jump in the entire workout, my right shin had plenty of time to start bleeding all over everything and look super impressive before I wrapped it.

After CrossFit, I went to the doctor’s office for this week’s shoulder appointment. I could tell that everyone in the waiting room wanted to know why I had a bunch of gauze and half a roll of tape wrapped around my leg. I had fun smiling and acting like everything was totally normal. They didn’t ask. Polite people just don’t know what they’re missing. Doc, who is great because he doesn’t tell me off for subjecting my body to abuse like this, casually asked if I needed stitches for my leg or anything—but I suspect he really just wanted to see exactly what kind of damage I was hiding under all the wrapping. I said no thanks.

Later, while I was standing in the shower with blood still gushing out of the missing chunk in my leg, a bit of a dilemma occurred to me: I didn’t actually have any gauze pads of my own. Coach had given me the one I had on earlier.

But wait, I’m a creative genius. Are you ready for this?

I just taped a Maxi Pad to my leg. It was perfect. They’re meant to soak up blood anyway, right? I was disappointed that Roomie was out of town and I didn’t have anybody with whom I could share my brilliant idea. So I decided to put it on here instead.

Of course, it occurred to me this morning that I didn’t really fancy going to CrossFit in shorts with a sanitary napkin taped to my leg, so I stopped at Walgreens for some real gauze and some Neosporin on my way to work this morning and rewrapped my shin at lunchtime. Thank God nobody caught me. Everyone at work already thinks I’m a lunatic.

Also, another public service announcement: Neosporin makes some sort of lip moisturizer, which is apparently what was actually in the tube I bought this morning. It was NOT clearly labeled, let me tell you. But I stuck it on my leg anyway. I figured it can’t hurt. I mean, lips are made out of skin, and skin is what I would eventually like to have on my leg again. Close enough. I paid five bucks for that shit; I want to use it for something.

the post I wrote on Monday and forgot to put on the internet

Isn’t it fun to go all retro and communicate with little notes sometimes, instead of the usual call, text, or email options we use all too often? It’s like passing secret notes back in grade school to discuss the cute boy sitting two seats in front of you. Or I imagine it would be, since I was homeschooled and never got to try out the whole note passing shindig. I wonder what other important rites of passage I might have missed out on. No wonder I turned out to be such a strange adult. It’s not my fault at all.
 
At any rate, I’ve been having a wonderful exchange of notes with my local UPS delivery person over the past several weeks (although I admit, I might have ruined the mystique with a couple of phone calls; it couldn’t be helped). This is because UPS doesn’t like to leave any package (no matter how insignificant) outside of my apartment building without a signature, so they leave little sticky notes with instructions for us to sign them and stick them back on the door.
 
I’ve previously discussed (read: whined endlessly about) my broken computer and how long it’s taken to fix. I don’t know why I’m still whining, since I’ve been perfectly fine ever since Lawrence lent me his old laptop to use. I’m whining on principle. It’s been over a month.
 
I got a little sticky note over the weekend, and I’m hoping own laptop will be waiting for me when I get home tonight. Though my hopes aren’t high, given the previous record of communication between me and the UPS people. This may just be the beginning of another week-and-a-half long note exchange. What excitement I have in my life! Secret correspondence with a nameless, faceless admirer. Okay, I made up that admirer part, but they COULD be an admirer of mine. I have no evidence to the contrary.
 
So, when I first moved in to my apartment (and by ‘first moved in,’ I’m taking about the first six months, AT LEAST), I forgot my own address on a regular basis. Now I don’t forget the entire address anymore, I just tend to leave off crucial bits and pieces. Namely: my apartment number. This is a bad bit to leave off because people don’t necessarily notice that you’ve forgotten anything (as opposed to a missing zip code or street name) and won’t remind you that you’ve gotten it wrong. Apparently, I had this exact problem when I told the computer warranty people my home address.
 
They were supposed to send me a box in which I was supposed to send them my computer to fix. I know, right? They didn’t think much of my suggestion that I just use my OWN box to send it. Anyway, I was supposed to get said box in 3-5 business days. 10 days later, I gave them a disgruntled telephone call:
 
Me (furiously): “Where’s my box?” 

Nice man on the other end: “You forgot to put your apt. number in your shipping address. UPS can’t deliver your box without it.”

Me (much less furiously): “Oh. I, uh—hmmm. How’d that happen?”

Nice man on the other end: “Would you like me to transfer you to UPS, so you can tell them your apartment number?”

Me: “Yes, please.”

On day two, I got a little note to sign, which I did.

On day three, I get a text from Roomie around three in the afternoon: “Hey, you forgot to sign that slip for UPS. They left you another one saying it was their second attempt.” I couldn’t even get offended that my dearest friend in the world thought it likely that I would have brought the slip in showed it to her, failed to sign it, and then gone back out to stick it on the door. This is totally something I would do, or have previously done. BUT NOT THIS TIME. This time I was super positive I had signed it.

What the heck was going on? I know some secret admirer out there is obsessed with collecting my signature. Which is totally creepy if you think about it too much. But I’ll take it.

I hate talking on the phone. I really do. One time, I sat in front of the phone for 45 minutes trying to work up the courage to call someone. It wasn’t someone important or anything; I think I was scheduling a doctor’s appointment. It’s that bad. Is that some kind of thing? I feel like it should be, if it’s not: phoneophobia. I’m so scientific. But I called UPS AGAIN to see what was going on. The verdict: it will be delivered tomorrow. If it is not, call back.

What a waste of a phone call. I could have used all that stress up on something normal instead.

Next day. No computer. Same note still on the door.

Angry phone call number three was in order. I was feeling so furious about the whole situation that I was prepared to give whoever was on the other line a good haranguing. But the lady I talked to was so nice that I just couldn’t do it. I could not be mean. I was super polite and understanding instead. WTF!? It’s too bad that I was on a cell phone, because, afterward, I was wishing I could have made up for accidentally being so nice during my angry phone call by slamming the phone down in the receiver. That would have been satisfying. Maybe.

I had to make do with hitting the hang-up button as angrily as I could. VERY anticlimactic. It wasn’t even a real button, just a fake button on the touch screen. They should think of these things when designing cell phones. The passive aggressive population of the world needs a way to take out some rage at the end of a frustrating phone conversation. Somebody get on this.

Eventually I did get the box. And I’m sure that I will eventually get my computer back. I think I might have to break it off with my secret admirer though. It’s getting a little weird. Maybe I’ll just let L try to set me up with a real person instead; she’s totally dying to. It’s adorable. She has yet to witness the destruction that I bring to relationships. Okay, I can sense a major tangent coming on here. It’s late. I’m going to bed.

isn’t a 5k supposed to be easy?

Twenty-seven minutes and fifty-seven seconds. I was aiming for under twenty five. Guess I might need to run a little faster next time.

So I celebrated having the full use of both legs again this past weekend by running the Race for Hope 5k in DC on Sunday. And now that I think about it, I suspect that the best way to train for a new 5k PR is not to spend the three weeks preceding the race waddling around on a gimpy ankle and doing absolutely NO running. But I am the boundless fountain of unfounded hopes, and I hung on desperately to this one until about two kilometers in.

It’s okay. This is one of the few races I signed up for because of the cause it supports, not because I wanted to run it. I was doing it for my friend Will, who isn’t here anymore to run it with us. I thought of him while I was trying (and failing) to keep up my pace toward the end of the race. I thought of him running a sub-five-minute mile ON THE BEACH, while I was running all out to get my nine-minute miles on pavement.

Anyway, about actually running the race.

I’ve had the curse of cold-weather races this spring. Of course, it was gorgeous on the day I was SUPPOSED to run the half and couldn’t, but this one was a bit on the chilly side. Actually, it was freezing. Actually, it might just be that I was freezing because I failed utterly when it came to dressing appropriately in the morning. But it’s not really my fault because the weathermen LIED to me. So my race day started with me and three friends standing in the wind wearing short shorts and t shirts waiting for the subway train to come. And waiting. And waiting.

Apparently, we picked the stop where the train was having technical difficulties and took 25 minutes to get there. Which led to a slightly late meeting with the rest of our group in DC. Which meant that those of us who were running were not anywhere near the front of the approximately 10,000 people who were just waking the race.

I was a little alarmed when I got to the start line and realized that the crowd was not breaking up at that point. How in the world was I going to hit the time I wanted if I was stuck behind all these walkers? I pretty much just refused to cross the start line once I got there. My time chip wasn’t going to cross that line until I had space to run. I started to sort of sidle sideways in an attempt to get to some open space on the sidewalk, which would have worked great if I had thought of it before I was actually AT the start line. At that point it basically resulted in me moving straight sideways while everyone around me attempted to move straight forward and gave me funny looks as if they suspected that I didn’t really understand how this whole 5k thing was supposed to work.

I finally got going and was doing pretty well for about five minutes. Maybe even 10 minutes. I felt like I must have been going pretty fast because I kept passing people and passing people. Almost nobody was passing me. Until…

A lady pushing a stroller and chatting with a friend sped past me. But wait. I had definitely passed her earlier on; I remembered the green shirt. Crap. I must be slowing down. I decided to pace with the stroller lady. I mean, she was pushing A STROLLER in a crowd for goodness sake. AND talking to her friend. I must be able to keep up with her. Pacing with her turned out to be a good idea because stroller lady turned out to be a pretty fast runner and probably helped my time.

I never did manage to pass her, so I became very familiar with the back of her shirt, which said that she was running for Dad, Pops, and Uncle Dan. This made me smile.

Around mile two and a half, I confess, I had to walk. I know, you’re judging me for making it that far and not being able to crank out one last half mile. But weeks of not running had caught up with me, and my legs felt like they were going to fall off. Try to hold the judgment! I only walked for about 20 feet, okay? It was too depressing to see people passing me, when I was the one who had been passing other people the entire race.

I vaguely recall that my largest concerns during the last few minutes of the race were 1) that I really needed to blow my nose but wasn’t sure if blowing it in my shirt was kosher with so many people around and 2) that many of the people who seemed to be running the home stretch faster than me were 12 years old. Cripes. The bad-ass crossfit girl can’t even beat a 12-year-old? I really need to do more speedwork and less distance.

Once I had finished, and done some fast math in my head to figure out how slowly I had gone, I decided to turn around and run back to find the walkers in my group. I did this partly because I wanted to hang out with them and partly because it made me feel like less of a slow-running failure to at least be one of those obnoxious people for whom five kilometers is not a long enough distance. It worked pretty well, although I had a lot of people point out to me that I was going the wrong direction. I hope none of them were the people I accidentally stepped on or elbowed at that start line; they would REALLY think I didn’t know how a 5k works now. First sideways, and now backwards.

Actually, the coolest part about turning around and running back was that the race ran past some fantastic DC landmarks and views that I had totally missed on my mad dash to the finish. Maybe I should make a habit of running them twice.

does anyone have some common sense they could lend me?

You know that Taylor Swift song, “Stupid girl. Should have known. I should have known”?

That’s how I feel.

It turns into a breakup song after that, and, since I’m usually the one doing the breaking up, I can’t relate all that much to the rest of it. I was still super into it freshmen year of college though. Anyway, that one little line of it has been echoing around in my head all week.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Sometimes, I start feeling totally indestructible. This is a bad sign. It’s usually accompanied by a brief period of euphoria, during which I think that I will eventually be able to accomplish (insert impractical/impossible goal here), and then followed by some disastrous reminder that I am, in fact, only human.  

I’ve been on a blog-writing hiatus for a while because of my broken computer. Well, I finally have one again! But only because I have lovely friends who apparently have old laptops sitting on shelves collecting dust. My OWN computer is still bouncing around somewhere in Texas, while the warranty people attempt to get their act together and fix it (for the fourth week running).

At some point while I was busy not writing, I fell apart. Or at least that’s how it feels.

Two days after the mildly uncomfortable shoulder injury I got during my Tough Mudder, I thought it would be a good idea to do some overhead squats at the box. Stupid girl. I thought my arm was going to fall off. I swear I could actually HEAR something in my shoulder crunching and ripping at the same time, (although nobody else did, so my brain may be adding in a few theatrics of its own).

I’ve never been in tears at the box before. I’m not a tearful sort of person in general. It was horribly embarrassing. Especially when I kept responding to people’s concerned questions with the obviously untrue (and slightly rude), “I’m not crying. Go away.”

My shoulder hurt so badly that I didn’t go back to the box for THREE DAYS. Major holidays or vacations excluded, I think this may be a personal record for me. Within those three days, what I had thought was a mild case of twisted ankle (also a gift from my dear friend Tough Mudder) turned into a full-on sprain. I spent the end of the week doing  WODs of my own invention, which consisted of the few things I could come up with that involved neither my feet nor my shoulders, and trying to will my ankle better in time for the half marathon I was supposed to run that weekend.

Stupid girl. Why would you stack your races like that? I didn’t run it. I wouldn’t have made it 400 meters.

At the moment, my ankle is at least mended enough that I could run a somewhat slow 5k on it yesterday (which I promise I will write a proper post about soon), but my shoulder seems to be on a downward spiral. I hurt it again a few days ago snatching a measly little 55 lbs. I miss being able to throw my body around. I miss moving fast. I miss lifting heavy. I miss feeling like I’m not afraid of getting hurt.

I miss being on my parent’s health insurance.

I caved in and made an appointment to get it looked at today. I suppose the bright side to all of this is that I’m finally getting a four-year-old injury treated. Or evaluated, at least. I’ll have to somehow make my bank account get along with my insurance deductible before I actually get anything fixed. I guess I could give up entering races for a while. Mmm, but there’s a half in Virginia Beach that I really want to run in September. Running AND the beach. How can you possibly say no to that?