pick things up, walk around, put things down

Too many Indians and not enough chiefs. Not usually the way that problem goes.

I accidentally got too many friends to help us move last weekend. Roomie and I just don’t have THAT much stuff. It took the two of us almost an entire day to pack it all up. But moving everything onto the truck? About 45 minutes. Maybe an hour to get it back off. In my defense, it wasn’t entirely my fault that so many people came to help. I started off with just L and Kate. I figured they pretty much had to help because they are my special crossfit buddies, and besides, we were moving into Kate’s house. She could not pretend to have plans if she really didn’t.

But then I got to thinking: we can lift weights as well as most men, but we can’t lift weights like men who lift weights. It would be good to have at least one guy, so I asked Law. Who did not give me a real answer, or any sort of answer at all, about whether he would help. I assumed this was because he didn’t want to help, although in reality, it turned out to be because I had ambushed him with the question about two minutes after he finished a workout. So he didn’t register anything I said. That’s his version of events anyway. I have a strong suspicion that he just didn’t want to help, but later got guilt tripped into it by Kate. We shall never know.

Well, I thought Law wasn’t coming, so I asked another of my wonderful man friends, Gordon, if he would come. I did not realize that this meant his girlfriend also wanted to help. I didn’t realize that L had informed her husband that he would also be helping. I do a lot of not realizing. Counting me, Roomie, and my Dad, we had nine people moving a little two-person apartment.

It was like assembling an army of polar bears to storm the henhouse. Or something. Those hens didn’t stand a chance.

Needless to say, FASTEST MOVE EVER. Unpacking was another story altogether.

Look guys! I found it.

I’m just that amazing.

Does anyone else ever go through spells when they feel exceptionally proud of themselves for accomplishing perfectly ordinary tasks that almost every other adult can ALSO do. Like, I’m amazing; I can drive my car LIKE A BOSS, or Wow, I just folded all of that laundry. I’m such a grown up. It occurred to me the other day, while I was congratulating myself for calling the doctor’s office and somehow NOT being awkward on the phone, that this is probably not normal. Especially since I possess many skills that are actually somewhat impressive. Or at least they’re not skills that every single other person under the sun has too. Maybe I start this pep-talking business whenever those other skills are deserting me a bit.

Probably, I just like thinking I’m a hero.

Well, operating under this theory, we can all be heroes all the time, and the world is much more exciting when it’s full of heroic people heroically congratulating themselves for getting up in the morning without hitting the snooze button. And stuff.

So. Topic change. I have this weird problem whenever I am out of town visiting people.  I always feel like I am eating them out of house and home, but if I don’t eat all their food then I get hangry. Well actually, more like hrumpy – because being hungry doesn’t make me angry, per se, but I DO get a little grumpy. A lot grumpy. Completely unmanageable. Moving on. (By the way, when I first wrote that sentence I used humpy for the combination word for hungry and grumpy. But that sounded horribly raunchy, and no matter how grumpy I get, it does not make me humpy. Ever. Just so you know.)

ANYWAY. I don’t care so much about clean eating for one weekend, but we are visiting Roomie’s parents since it’s a three-day weekend and I keep snarfing down wayyy more food than every other person in the house. This morning I kept sneakily trying to eat more breakfast when everyone else wasn’t looking. I had a couple pieces of cinnamon toast, so I wasn’t dying of starvation. Then, when everyone left me alone in the kitchen for a second, I ate a big bowl of cereal. I wasn’t really hungry but not full either. Hoping that nobody had really noticed my first bowl of cereal (even though they all did), I ate a second one. I ate some fruit. I had a cup of tea. I figured I had better stop, since I started breakfast before everyone else had and was now the last one still eating.

In other news, people back in Maryland need to stop complaining about how bad the pot holes are (confession: as of two days ago, these complaining people included me), because we have nothing, NOTHING compared to the cavernous fissures afflicting roads in the Philadelphia area. Roomie and I have been cruising around like drunk drivers all weekend, but actually, we are playing the world’s largest game of Frogger. Success rate: about 84 percent. The other 16 percent of the time involves a lot of colorful language and loud complaining about winter. Well, all complaining that I do tends to be loud.

My talking in general is pretty loud.

In fact, during a very strange conversation in which my friend Shannon and I were being compared to care bears (don’t ask) I may have been nicknamed Talks-Too-Loud Care Bear by certain crossfit buddies of mine. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I’m also not going to explain how this came up in the first place. Allow your minds to wander freely.

Oops

Darn it. I wrote quite a long post over the weekend. I finished it on Sunday night, then posted it, and didn’t bother to save the word document on my computer. Because, why would I?

Except, as it turns out, I only posted it in my imagination. Because it’s not on here. My imagination is scarily convincing. Currently attempting various methods of document retrieval, but my computer skills may not be advanced enough to handle this. 

sometimes, you just have to cry about it and take some Motrin

Fan-fucking-tastic. If you say it really fast, it almost sounds like an actual word. Fanfuckingtastic. I had a friend in college who used to say this all the time. Abso-fucking-lutely was another favorite of hers. I could never quite pull it off. These creative compound words always sounded a bit awkward coming from me, no matter how slyly I tried to slip them into a conversation. I wasn’t averse to colorful language; by that point, Roomie (did I ever mention that we were also roommates freshman year of college?) had already educated my blonde country ass on how to speak fluent sailor. No, I think my problem was that I could never muster the appropriate amount of sarcasm to really pull these words off.

Because, of course, fan-fucking-tastic means exactly the opposite of its original, less colorful, counterpart. Like, if you asked someone how their exam went, and they said, fanfuckingtastic thanks very much, you knew to leave the subject well alone after that.

I feel like I have finally accumulated the proper amount of rage and all around bad humor necessary to pull it off. Friends, my last week was, to put it very precisely, fan-fucking-tastic. You can’t tell, because I’m writing instead of talking, but just know that THIS time, I pulled it off. And it was beautifully done, if I do say so myself.

The reason for my general misery is due mostly to a boring combination of bad weather, work, and some extremely drawn-out flu-like symptoms. But that would make for a really crappy blog post. So let me tell you about the somewhat unintelligent decision that started my week off in the wrong direction.

If you have already been sick for the better part of a month and, instead of getting better, seem only to be getting sicker, going to an out-of-town crossfit competition may not be the best medicine. I wish somebody would have beaten me over the head this obvious fact, but I suspect I just didn’t ask the right people. You tend to get biased opinions when most of your friends are crossfitters.

L’s friend Katie had kindly invited us to stay with her the night before the competition, so we didn’t have to stay at a hotel or get up inhumanly early. It sounded like a fun plan at the time. But I remember complaining to Doc (Remember Doc? Of the shoulder injury last April. Yup, I still make him put me back together on a regular basis.) the night before we left that having to spend the weekend with all these people was going to be a lot of WORK. Ugh. I’d have to, like, talk to them and stuff.

I’m not usually right about much (though I will never admit this if you get into an argument with me), but it turns out I was right about this one. Total failure. But I hear that’s healthy for you. Or something. Please tell me that’s true.

I did not sleep on Friday night because I am an insomniac. Saturday morning, I consumed enough caffeine to resuscitate a sleeping zombie, which still didn’t REALLY make me feel much better, and then I proceeded to have an asthma and/or panic attack during the first wod. At any rate, I could not breath, and the cardio wod that would have been my weakness anyway quickly turned into the WORST EIGHT MINUTES OF MY LIFE.

Afterward, I gasped my way back over to my inhaler and then, like the tough and beastly crossfit machine that I am, burst into tears. I don’t think anybody quite knew how to deal with me at that point. I had forbidden L, on previous occasions, to tell me “good job” when it clearly had not been, and crying women are simply not Coach’s forte. The task of piecing me back together enough to get me through the next two wods fell to my dear friend Michelle, who, now that I think about it, was the one who had to do that the LAST time I had a mental breakdown at one of these things. The poor girl is probably going to check that I’m not going before she signs up for her next competition.

Eventually, I DID get myself together enough to drag my sickly ass through the next two workouts, which, thank the Gods, involved little-or-no cardio. Problem was, I was only JUST holding it together. So everyone would see me not crying and think it was safe to have a conversation with me. Those conversations inevitably went like this:

Helpful friend: “Oh, are you feeling better now?”

Anna: (reminded about feeling badly) “Umm, not really?” Starts crying again. Thinks, What the heck is wrong with me?! but is too busy crying now to communicate this thought.

Later that afternoon, after just such a conversation, one of my friends asked if I wouldn’t like some Motrin and cough drops. Motrin changed my life. Or at least my life on that particular day. I was still bummed about having done so dreadfully that morning, but I no longer felt like the world was going to end because of it. Also my throat didn’t hurt anymore, so I could talk again. I celebrated my extreme gain in composure by tracking down most of the people I had cried on earlier and babbling on about how sorry I was for behaving like an enormous boob. There were a lot of people to track down. I’m sure I missed a few, but I was trying, people!

So, yes, life lessons (this seems like a life-lessons sort of post): if your day is going poorly, try taking some drugs.

No? Not good? I’ll stop talking now.