winning that napping workout again

It’s funny, I used write about races all the time. And races are the easiest thing in the world to blog about. They make for hilarious posts napping picbecause I am guaranteed to always do something embarrassing while I’m running, and because they are easy to understand. I don’t have to explain the premise of a race (every reader understands that the goal is to run from point A to point B as fast as you can), which leaves me free to ramble on about the things that I really want to talk about. There are even mile markers to make my stories progress in a (marginally) linear fashion.

But lately, I’ve replaced racing with crossfit competitions. Still fun, but there’s just too much extra explaining involved to actually WRITE about them. Possibly, the root of the problem here lies in the laziness of the author rather than the complexity of the subject matter.

And on that note, I should get a prize for the athlete-able-to-fall-asleep-most-easily-at-a-crossfit-competition, which, considering the noise and energy level at these things, is quite an accomplishment.

Since I can’t really sleep when I’m away from home, I generally don’t hold up all that great at these out-of-town competitions. But when my dear crossfit pal from back home in PA texted me because a friend of hers needed another woman for his team, I agreed straightaway. Partly because M is one of those people I simply cannot say no to, and partly because the attention whore in me suspected this might provide some sort of opportunity for showing off.

Then I found out there was swimming involved. Hello swimming ability of an injured kangaroo. Sorry attention-whore, you just bought yourself an opportunity for extreme embarrassment instead.

My teammates were surprisingly chill about the swim (along with mostly everything else), and I somehow managed to string together seven 95lb snatches later on, so the day still qualified as an overall success. Except that, by one in the afternoon, my ass was dragging like nobody’s business. So I fell back to my usual standby of laying on the floor and falling asleep.

I did wake up briefly for the third wod of the day. Instead of actually warming up properly, I sort of gormlessly stood around staring at a deadlift bar and trying to will 185lbs off the ground with my mental powers.

“Are you okay?” M had to check up on me, “You’re looking a bit … forlorn.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’m just not awake.” I suppose this could have been something to worry about ten seconds before I was supposed to work out, but past experience with the magic of adrenaline assured me that everything would be alright. And it was. I spent 8 minutes throwing weight around like a total champ, and 30 minutes later I was passed out on the floor again.

I now have a reputation with two separate boxes as the girl who falls asleep everywhere and at inappropriate times.

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so what’s the big secret?

I quit my job last week. I’ve never done that before. In a strange coincidence, Roomie also did the same thing a few days later. It’s a complete relief that I can stop spending all my free time on this job hunting process, which is nobody’s favorite pastime, but actually quitting a job for the first time is surprisingly complicated and awkward.

Every time I would ask someone about resigning from a job, they would answer with something like, “Don’t worry about it, people do this all the time. As long as you give them enough notice, they can’t have anything to complain about when you tell them.”

People, that is the answer to a question I did not ask. When I ask how to quit my job, I mean literally, How do I start that conversation? Should I do it in the morning or at the end of the day? What do I write in the resignation letter? Should I answer if they ask what company I’ll be working for? Do I have to tell both bosses or just one? Why am I having a heart attack about all of this?

The only person who really seemed to understand my conundrum was Roomie. But she was, unfortunately, no help at all because she was asking all the same ridiculously nit-pickey questions that I was. I kept texting her for moral support anyhow: “Man, they need to write an instruction manual on How to Quit Your Job. I would totally buy that.”

Except now that I’ve done it once, I’m an expert and I guess I don’t need the instruction manual anymore. But I would have given anything for it a week ago.

don’t forget to scrub your knees and restock the shampoo every once in a while

Hey there WordPress. I haven’t seen much of you lately. My bad. I’m back now, and I’ve had a good reason for not having time to write. And I promise I will explain what I’ve been up to next time. But in this post, I have something much more important to discuss: Why I hate taking showers.

It happens every day: I walk in the door covered in gym-floor dirt and dripping with sweat, I flop down on the couch next to roomie, and start whining about the horrible chore standing between me and the rest of my night.  “Auughh, I don’t feel like showering.”

“Yeah, you say that a lot. I can’t really help you with that.”

Why? Why do I have such a trouble with this normal thing that other people apparently even ENJOY doing? Little freaks. But really, when I apply my brain, I can come up with several, only slightly questionable, reasons why showers are just about the worst thing ever.

1. You have to get wet. I know you’re wondering where I’m going with this, but hear me out. See, getting wet means you can’t just sort of halfway shower and then take a break to do other things. I may not feel like doing the dishes, but I can talk myself into doing them by telling myself that I’ll just wash a couple and then do something else. There are no breaks allowed in a shower. Such. Work.

2. You cannot eat in the shower. Well I guess you could, but it’s not really practical. Roomie and Kate (it’s confusing now that I have two roommates, but we’re just sticking with the original naming scheme here) can verify that I do indeed spend most of the few hours between arriving home from crossfit and going to bed shoving food into my face. So a whole entire FIFTEEN MINUTES spent without a snack is a comparative century.  

3. Showers are boring. You cannot see the TV from the shower. There is nobody to talk to in the shower. (And no, I’m not looking for offers from my male friends to fix this problem for me.) I cannot even sing in the shower when somebody else is home because it’s totally audible from the living room, and nobody except me really wants to hear me sing. This is the one chore that cannot be improved by the presence of an ipod and a pair of headphones. It’s SO boring.

4. Showers require too much preparation. I’m not a planner; I’m a doer! I like to think that anyway. But this means that I spend a good five minutes before every shower walking up and down the stairs between my room and the bathroom to get the towel I forgot, or the pair of underwear I dropped, or the razor that I carried out of the bathroom last night for entirely unknown reasons. And God forbid that some essential soap or lotion runs out mid-shower. This is when you find yourself developing your powers of improvisation: “I can totally use conditioner to shave my armpits, right? It’s white like shaving cream.”

5. It’s easier than you think to mess up the showering process. There are just too many steps to keep track of. I assume that this is less of a problem for men, but I cannot count the number of times I found myself standing gormlessly in the shower holding a bottle of shampoo and wondering if I just washed my hair or if I was just about TO START washing my hair. Or the number of times I notice AFTER getting dried off that only one leg seems to have gotten shaved.  

I think, based on my quick once-over reading of this post, that I may have a mild but undiagnosed case of ADHD. And yes, I still stand by my moderately confusing statements that showers are both too boring and too complicated. I have the worst case first world problems. The. Worst. 

injury, sunburn, and I clearly need to be bubble wrapped for my own protection

I currently have a tissue stuffed down the front of my pants to protect my poor sunburned stomach from the scathingly scratchy waistband of my burlap dress pants. The pants may look like cotton and nylon, but I can assure you that they are definitely made of burlap. Or possibly bailing twine. Normally, I would not have had time to get properly sunburned without a trip to the beach or some such excuse to lay around and completely ignore sunscreen, but after recovering from being deathly ill all winter, I’ve managed to manufacture new reasons to lay around by the pool and be a lazy bum.

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to liven up the wod at Crossfit by falling off a 20-inch box with a 95lb barbell on top of me. These tactics met with smashing success in the attention whoring department because every person in the gym had to stop working out so they could come over and see whether I had broken my neck. It transpired that I had not (also a great success), and that I was now permitted to complain at least eight times as much as usual because my neck hurt, and my back hurt, and my ankle hurt. Sadly, I had to chill out on the self pity when Coach broke his ankle three days later and couldn’t compete in Regionals that weekend.

Well, I just stopped complaining to Coach, actually. Everyone else was still fair game.

My neck and ankle are pretty much back to normal, but my back still feels like somebody took a sledge hammer (or a 95lb barbell) to it whenever I try to lift any real weights. Since I’m exercising about half as much as usual but refuse to stop eating like a house, I’ve decided my best tactic is definitely to just cover up the resulting pudge with a beautiful tan. Or a scalding sunburn that will shortly turn into a beautiful tan . . . if I put enough aloe on it. The tissue in my pants will be worth it in the end.  At least I was actually IN the sun when I got burned. Kate was at the pool this weekend too, but she sat her red-haired self in the shade and fretted about whether or not she was wearing enough spf 50. 50!?! I was wearing spf 8 that I had stolen from Roomie and feeling proud of myself for it. Based on this test group, I’m willing to guess that one’s IQ has some sort of direct correlation with the number on the sunscreen one chooses to wear. I don’t care. I WILL be golden brown.

P.S. Don’t worry, I’ve made an appointment to see a doctor about my back this week. My track record of having problems that doctors can actually fix is not good, but I have not given up hope that there is some sort of quick fix for this. Random thought! Do you think they call a doctor’s customers patients because you must be patient for medicine to work? If so, I’m a lousy customer. 

realizing that I work in a loony bin and also that I fit right in

My work mom left yesterday. Probably not forever, but for the foreseeable future, since she has to fly overseas to manage a long-term project . I sent this email to a buddy (I would call him my work husband, but he is just not work husband material), which I realize sounds somewhat strange in the context of office email:

Mom’s gone. Now I’m depressed : (

On the bright side, I’m slightly bolstered by the escalation of a war that I am waging with the coworker who is saved in my phone as JohnnyG, an eccentric British guy about the same age as my dad. Being the uber professional that I am, I like to pick things up off his desk and thrown them casually onto the floor as I walk by. Or rifle through the pages in books of code he has lying open. One time, I ripped the head partially off of a strange looking little foam soldier he has sitting on his desk. That was an accident though, and I just put it back in a hurry and pretended I hadn’t done anything. JohnnyG didn’t notice the damage until a week later, at which point he blamed it on Josh.

The man totally deserves harassment though, since he called me a dickweed one time. And, since I told him that it was not acceptable to say such things to ladies (we are applying the term lady very loosely here), he now informs me at least twice a week that I am a ‘toad’ and a ‘pest.’ And he called work Mom ‘dip shit’ yesterday! Unacceptable. JohnnyG is the definition of NO-FILTER. Strangely, he and I are actually pretty good friends. I think.

At any rate, he used to sort of take the abuse of me throwing his things with little-to-no resistance (I may have gotten a few pen stab marks on my forearms, but it was a small sacrifice to make for some excellent entertainment), but yesterday, I got a tissue box chucked in the direction of my head.

War is on.

The second or third time I watched the tissue box sail past my nose and skitter across my keyboard, I had to hide it in a secure location because it was in real danger of spilling my mug of tea. But I have kindly left out a number of objects that seem like they would be slightly less alarming when hurled in my general direction.

I need to think of a way to escalate the confrontation now. Throwing his things on the floor will no longer suffice. Hiding stuff perhaps? Or maybe the opposite? Putting all of his drawer things on the desk when he’s not looking? Rearranging the letters on his keyboard? I’m not naturally devious enough to be good at this. But I am apparently a great Pest and a Toad, so I should be able to come up with something.

sometimes you just need a theme song or nothing will make sense

There is a half-finished blog post on my laptop that I started writing almost TWO weeks ago and never finished. I can’t get motivated to wrap it up now, because it’s just so last month. But the fact that I feel like I should finish that one has prevented me from writing about anything else. In order to overcome this ridiculous paralysis of blog posting, I have to just dump my brain out and start over.

Brain dumping. Isn’t that an actual technique that my creative writing teacher had us practice in high school? Or something.

In the past couple of weeks, Roomie and Kate have both turned twenty-four. My goodness, we are so old. Not really, of course, but for the first time in my life I had a moment where I actually thought I was old, for like, a second. Back to normal now. Besides, I am NOT twenty-four yet, so I should be feeling extra young and spry compared to those old ladies. Also, I love hotdogs. (I am dumping my brain out, remember? It doesn’t have to make sense.) There is a connection between birthdays and hotdogs, but I don’t remember what it is. I have had several chances to reaffirm my love of hotdogs during the past two weeks, and I can verify for you that they are just as magically delicious as ever. Although I MUST try a hotdog with crabby mac on top of it, because I missed my opportunity to try one the other day; I was too full from eating nachos.

In other news I have purchased a singlet to wear in my oly lifting competition this weekend, but I think I will be too distracted by how bizarre and silly I look in it to actually lift any real weight. Perhaps it’s for the best. I couldn’t snatch what used to be an easy weight for me in my lifting lesson the other morning, and I was wearing sweatpants and a tank top. When I still can’t lift that weight at the meet, I will blame it on my ugly costume. I am full of excuses. It is a talent of mine. I don’t entirely hate the outfit though; there was a great moment the first time I tried it on when Lizzy yelled “show us your snatch!” in front of several non crossfitters. Their reactions were lovely.

Speaking of food (hotdogs, remember), I have confirmed that I am 100% addicted to caffeine, specifically, Starbucks’ chai tea latte. There was a story to follow that statement, but after starting to type it out, I have realized that it wasn’t actually funny. Not that I really expect anyone to still be reading the post at this point. Sorry to dump my brain all over you all. I think I can be done now.

I like turtles.

very busy doing nothing

I went for a walk without feeling like I was going to die today. It was a big win, since I spent most of the last two days laying about like a slug while hacking up a lung and bits of greenish yellow gunk. That last bit was medically significant information that you all needed to know. In order to distract myself from the depressing fact that I have literally been sick for more than half the time since Christmas, (I know I’m prone to hyperbole, but in this case, that tendency is trumped by my refusal to misuse the word literally) I’m compiling a list of valuable things I have learned or discovered:

  1. Benedict Cumberbatch is very hot and I have a big crush on him.
  2. I also have a crush on Martin Freeman; he is such a cutie.
  3. I will never get sick on watching reruns of Sherlock; I am obsessed.
  4. You can actually communicate a surprising amount with pointing and vigorous nodding. Though this is only socially acceptable when you’ve lost your voice.
  5. Laying outside on the deck is warmer than sitting in a chair like a grown up.
  6. Afrin is addictive because it works. Like magic.
  7. Cereal can be shockingly versatile when you can’t manage to prepare real food. There’s the breakfast cereal, the dinner cereal, the snack cereal … it’s amazing.
  8. HGTV is THE BOMB. Though I pretty much already knew that.
  9. I should not visit the doctor when I’m sick because I never get anything out of it, but I still have to pay. It should be more like it is with lawyers; I pay them if they fix me.
  10. I can still count to ten.