I crack myself up

I need some sort of forum for posting quotes from yesterday’s crossfit. Sort of like texts from last night. Probably, they’re much less funny than I find them to be, but I have to write this one down before I forget it.

“I would date you if you were a man! No wait, what was it you texted me the other day? I would date you if I were a man! Whatever. I would date you if one of us were a man . . . and if you weren’t already married.”


at least I know that I’ll make it 0.61538 of the way through my marathon

Oh my goodness, I want a waffle so much right now. Or some peanut butter cookies. Or maybe chocolate chip pancakes. I was bad last week. Terrible, actually. I pretty much just ate like I was on vacation (we all know calories consumed on vacation don’t count), and I had alcohol TWICE. And I decided that it was totally okay to eat whatever I wanted all weekend too because I ran 16 miles on Saturday. So I NEEDED to eat the carbs.

See how I slipped my mileage in there like it was no big deal? Actually, 16 miles is one mile further than I have ever run before. Ever. And I didn’t even feel like I was going to die at the end of it, which was kind of a nice change from my usual long runs.

Lizzy had a triathlon last weekend, and Kate is in Maine, and I was going to be really grumpy having to run for almost three hours by myself, but then Josh volunteered to go with me instead. I was surprised, since this meant that he had to run at a glacially slow pace. But it may have helped that I bribed him with caffeinated chocolate Gu. I suspect that Josh is a caffeine addict, because I’m pretty sure he started drooling when I told him that caffeinated Gu was a real thing. Honestly though, I think I might be turning into a caffeine addict too. ‘If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,’ right? Or just start your own party, I guess. But you might need some extra energy for all that party planning, so you’d better have some more caffeine.

I think I might have to buy one of those made-for-running fanny pack things that I’ve always thought looked so dumb on other people, so I can wear it in the marathon. Mostly because I want to bring my caffeine with me, but also because I refuse to go through the hassle of checking a bag and don’t have anybody coming to watch. (Not that I blame them; I can’t think of anything more boring than watching a marathon.) And there is a limit to the amount of things you can stuff into a sports bra without risking some serious chafing. I know this because I have discovered the limit during a previous experience: driver’s license, car key, cell phone, MP3 player, fruit snacks, and chapstick. No, I do not have humongous boobs. Yes, I’m sure I looked a bit lumpy on that particular occasion.

Josh has pockets in his running shorts. Why don’t they put pockets in ladies’ shorts too? This doesn’t seem fair.

I must be feeling pensive to write two thinking posts in one month

“That was all so much fun. Isn’t life great?”

This was a text message that I got about 9:30 one Thursday in the middle of the summer. It sounds a bit like the recap of significant life event or something, but really, it had been a Thursday night when I did pretty much the same thing I do every Thursday night: hurry out of the office – get to crossfit a little late anyway; try my hardest and still not manage to come within spitting distance of Lizzy’s score; book it out of the gym to try and get to the college in time for a six o clock track workout.

That particular night it was a little overcast. A little wet. Our legs were a little wobbly from the pre-run WOD. I was more than a little tired when we showed up for the run. But I still liked to hit the track workouts that Lizzy’s coach and triathlon buddies ran on Thursday nights. Maybe it was getting being outside on a summer night or maybe it was the ridiculous (probably unhealthy) combination of an excruciating WOD followed by an even more excruciating run, but Thursday nights this summer made me feel ridiculously happy about life.

Maybe it was because I felt like I really deserved to sit down at the end of my night.

Maybe it was the fact that I had actually beaten my super-human workout buddy on ONE of the six 800s we had just run.

Maybe it was the absolute lack of guilt that I felt when we decided to go out for pizza afterward.

Have you ever read The Five People You Meet in Heaven? If not, the premise of the story is that when you die and go to heaven, you really just get to spend forever reliving the happiest part of your life. But some of the characters are surprised to realize what the happiest part of their life actually was: working as a waitress in a tiny coastal town or growing up in an absolutely average little house and roaming the streets of an absolutely average little suburb.

The idea, I think, is that we shouldn’t take happiness for granted. That we should try to recognize the goodness around us, even if it’s disguised as something ordinary. That the question, “Isn’t life great?” can apply just as easily to an insignificant Thursday night as it can to celebrations and milestones and events that we’ve spent months looking forward to.

The end of summer always makes me feel a bit nostalgic. I promise I’ll be back to keeping my weekly log of entertaining ways to embarrass yourself soon.

UPDATE: Also, I realize that all these posts lately make it seem like I only have one friend who is not roomie (giving me a grand total of TWO friends), so I feel like I should clarify that this is NOT true. But for some reason, everyone else doesn’t come up in my blog as often. Possibly because I’m too lazy to go through the work of introducing a new character when the old ones are so interesting.

it’s amazing that I ever manage to get anything done

I’m terrible at texting with a touch screen.  I was lightning fast when I had a keyboard, but now I find myself weighing the necessity of every text against the five minutes I know it will take me to type all 10 words of it. Of course, I always decide it’s necessary in the end, even though 50 percent of all my text messages are just texts to L talking about crossfit—conversations that we could probably save and talk about AT crossfit every night. But who has the patience to wait a whole eight hours to tell your buddy that you have a sore butt?

Here’s an example of the type of conversations we have on a daily basis.

L: “I decided I didn’t need a shower last night because I went swimming. I’m so sore from snatches yesterday.”

Me: “Good for you! Showering is overrated. I wish I was better at snatches. We should practice those this week.”

L: “I just want to be good at everything!! I’m going to Google ‘How to get better at crossfit.”

L: “Google said to make a list of the things you’re bad at and practice them every day. Here’s my list (insert list a mile long).”

Me: “Ohh me too. I’m making one now…”

L: “And pistol squats for me too.”

Me: “Here’s mine: (insert an even longer list).”

Me: “Oh, and bench press.”

Me: “And strict pull-ups.”

L: “And hand-release push-ups.”

Me: “Hmm, kind of seems like we listed all of crossfit. Oops, I just ate a doughnut. Maybe that should go on the list: not eating doughnuts.”

I suspect we might be obsessed. Somehow, talking about the same thing every day never gets old.

because it makes a better story

It’s hard to explain what’s so special about your friends to somebody who doesn’t know them. I usually refer to Becca as my college roommate, because I did share a room with her for three of the four years that I spent in school. But that doesn’t quite cover it. A friend of mine who knew us in college recently gave a much better explanation when trying to explain our relationship to someone else:

“She’s the other half of Anna and Becca.”

At least it seemed more accurate to me. It might not have made sense to anyone else.

So, my darling Becca got married last weekend.

What’s up with that? Is it just me, or do other people feel like the rest of the world is growing up without them? I’m absolutely not getting any older, and for that matter, I’m only getting marginally better at pretending to be a grown up. But everyone else seems to be mastering adulthood with ease.

But maybe “seems to be” is the key phrase in that sentence.

“Ohh good. I’m glad your shins are all beat up because, look, I have this giant burn on my arm and a cut on my finger that won’t stop bleeding if I don’t wear a bandaid,” were some of the bride-to-be’s first words upon seeing me at the Friday-night rehearsal. “Also, I need your help with some espionage tomorrow morning. If you’re ok with getting up early. But don’t tell anyone. I’ll explain later.”

It didn’t quite turn out to be espionage in the traditional spying sense, but her plans for the next morning definitely fell under the category of generally sneaky business. So I was, of course, totally on board.

The problem was, it transpired, that the wedding ceremony was to take place just over the state line in New Jersey, but since they were getting a Pennsylvania marriage license, it had to be signed and the vows exchanged in Pennsylvania. Now, I know you are already seeing a million simple solutions to this problem (up to, and including, simply fudging the location or dates on the license) and I saw them too. So did Becca and her fiancé Mason.

“But this makes a better story,” Becca explained when we were in the car at 5:30 the next morning, on our way to the park to meet Mason and his Uncle Bob, who would be performing the ceremony. Both ceremonies actually. The solution to the marriage license problem was this: sneak out and get married really early in the morning, hours before the actual wedding. Thus the actual wedding would take place in Pennsylvania, and the date would right. My presence was required because Becca didn’t have a car, and Uncle Bob needed to be there to marry them. Nobody else came. It was lovely.  

On the way back to her parent’s house, Becca and I stopped for doughnuts. We had decided that this was going to be our cover story if anyone else woke up and noticed us sneaking back in. I know going out for doughnuts at 5:30 in the morning on your wedding day doesn’t sound like the most likely scenario, but it makes perfect sense if you know us. 

made my day

So, life has been sort of escaping from me at the moment, which may not be my favorite feeling in the world. But it does make the shining, little, ray-of-sunshine moments stand out like the glowing outline the sun leaves on the inside of your eyelids.

This happened at some point last week, but I haven’t really had a chance to write.

I burst into crossfit about .86 seconds before the beginning of class, barely containing the rant about work that was just dying to escape from my lips. Glad to see a couple of friends there, I bee-lined over and informed them that they had to let me share their deadlift bar for warm-ups because I would be too late to set up my own once I had changed clothes.

Obviously, this wasn’t a day that I was feeling contained. Not a day on which I looked like an expert at anything or felt like I was going to rock the WOD. I just wanted to get a WOD in. End of story.

I usually make an effort to talk to the new people when I see them instead of just heading for my friends. (I still vividly remember the terror I felt when I first joined the “real” classes.) This particular day, I just didn’t have the energy to look around and see if anyone looked lost or was warming up by themselves. I wasn’t really thinking about it, when I turned around and saw one of our newest members warming up behind me. She looked familiar. I was sure I’d introduced myself (possibly multiple times—it happens frequently), but I couldn’t remember her name.

She was obviously done adding weight and was practicing with the bar she planned to use for the WOD. I don’t usually coach anybody unless they ask for advice, but without even thinking about it, I shook my head and said, “Too easy.”

And I knew I was right.

She looked a bit startled. “I don’t know. It feels pretty heavy.”

This was a conversation that I’d been on the other end of on many occasions. “No, it looks easy. Here, try this bar. Don’t worry; it’s supposed to be heavy.”

In the end, she added 20 more pounds, which made me happy. After I finished my workout, I asked a friend what the new girl’s name was. I felt like I should maybe cheer her on a bit before she finished, because she was probably cursing my name right now for making the end of her WOD just that much more painful.

After the clock had stopped counting and all the weights were put away, I was brainlessly chatting away and procrastinating leaving for the three-mile tempo run I still had to fit in that day. New Girl walked over to me.

“Hey, I just wanted to say thanks for making put more weight on my bar. I would never have done that on my own.”

I smiled, because I know I say some variation of these exact words to Coach at least once a week: “Thanks for making me . . .” And those are the days that I leave feeling best about myself because I just finished something I didn’t think I could do.

My offhanded remark had just done that for someone else, and it totally made my day.