November 2009


Well, let’s start with the time: 51:49:32 or 10.22/miles.

Which…is not great. But it is okay AND it could have been much, much worse considering I didn’t make it to the gym at all in the last 2 weeks before I moved and my training plan since I moved has been as follows:

1) Walk everywhere. I generally get in about 1 1/2 – 2 miles a day at a pretty brisk pace

2) Take the stairs at work instead of the elevator (Oh, wait, those of you who follow me on Twitter thought I was joking about that? Yeah, no).

3) Think about joining a gym, but put that off by telling myself that I am still adjusting to my work schedule and therefore don’t know when I’ll actually go and that therefore I shouldn’t waste the money right now (because, as it turns out, gyms are expensive! and I am cheap).

4) Think about just going out for a run in the neighborhood, but don’t do that because I am lazy.

So, as you can see, there was really no training plan and this was the first time I’ve run in about 6 weeks. And, actually, it was a pretty easy run (except for the GINOURMOUS hill next to the Browns stadium leading to the finish) so I was pleased about that because I did think I might have to do the last mile or so on pure will power alone* and while I’m not opposed to the pure will power thing, it was nice not to have to rely on the reserves.

There were definitely some things I could have done differently that probably would have improved my time, namely not wearing 4 inch heels all week to work because I suspect there is a direct correlation between said shoes (but they are so cute!) and the searing, cramping pain that started in my arch at about mile three and continued on to spread through the ball of my foot and up through my achilles (any more pre-racing stretching would have been good too). I also did a pretty piss-poor job of hydrating in general this week, which explains why I am starting in on my third 20 oz of gatorade (I know, I know – I should be drinking coconut water or at the very least this, but it’s all that’s in the house) and am still extremely thirsty.

I won’t tell him this because he might attribute this not to his pacing abilities, but the tough love he utilizes when we race together (“You did NOT hit the wall! You do not know what the wall is!”),** but I do run much better with the boyfriend because he is an awesome pacer and keeps us on negative splits when we run together and he pushes me more. Today I ran with two friends of mine and we were definitely not pushing each other.***

Still, even though I know it’s a fine time, I’m still a wee bit embarrassed. I am incredibly extremely intensely mildly competitive (it’s where my type-A-ness really expresses itself), so Turkey Trot 2010, YOU ARE ON NOTICE. Because it will be brought.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE! I hope everyone has a wonderful day wherever you are and with whomever you are celebrating.

*Even when I am going to the gym daily (and by daily, I mean week-daily. I am not a weekend gym kind of girl) the most I run is 3 miles because I have some knee and hip issues.

**In his defense, that particular incident occurred at like mile 4 of 10K when I was being a tad whiny about the freezing rain. He was training for a marathon at the time and regularly cranking out double-digit mile runs. So his lack of sympathy was understandable.

***I did note, which I thought was kind of interesting, that I never was able to find my stride during the run and I think that’s because I was trying to run in line with my friends so we could chat and catch up. Only problem is that they are a good 7 inches shorter than I am, so whereas they were striding comfortably, I was taking really shortened steps. I will have to ask the boyfriend if he feels that way next time we run together (although, I am pretty much all legs so his legs aren’t that much longer than mine). Something to ponder when I go into the post-turkey daze later.

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I cancelled my Vogue subscription last month because, frankly, it no longer interests me. The articles and the fashion are just same old, same old every month and, without jeffrey steingarten writing something every month, I don’t think it’s worth sacrificing the trees. While I could never afford anything in Vogue, I used to get fashion inspirations from it, but there’s really nothing inspiring about Vogue these days (although I hear the lady gaga spread this month is pretty cool, models jumping month in and month out is BOR-ING).

Anyway, so I cancalled the subscription. And now Vogue is stalking me with these “your subscription is about to expire so renew with our super special deal” (which is really not so great truth be told) notices.

To which I say: stop trying to break up with me Vogue. I got there first and it is OVER.

I know what true magazine love is and it is Vanity Fair thankyouverymuch.

Or, the Snarky Verizon Guy‘s Revenge*

As I have mentioned previously, when I started work, I got a Black.Berry for work. And I got a phone plan because I am trying my best to keep my personal life personal and am willing to carry around both a Berry and a phone to do so. The Berry phone number is the only number work has and no one else in my life has that number.

So Verizon gives me a new number. Great. However, today the Berry starts blowing up with texts from people who don’t know or forget that the person with this number before changed his number.

And these texts? All congratulations texts. Why congratulations? Because dude-who-used-to-have-this-number just got engaged.

Somewhere, someone in the universe is laughing right now.**

* Of course, this actually has nothing to do with him. But still.
** I will concede, Well Played Universe, Well Played.

Apparently it is a compliment for him to tell me I am an “extremely proficient” cook. Am I asking too much to want to be something more than just proficient? Maybe I am being too sensitive to word choice here.

I cooked dinner tonight. This is nothing particularly special as I have cooked for myself pretty much every night since my junior year of college. Tonight was also nothing big- just whole wheat pasta with roasted tomatos, spinach and white beans. But the boyfriend RAVED about it which was very sweet.

And then he said, “you know, you’re almost as good of a cook as my sister.”

Really?

“Well, of course you’re not as good a cook as my sister. She does have a cookbook.”

And you, dear readers, know how I feel about that. You will be glad to know that I bit my tongue and didn’t say anything mean beyond that it would be nice if he didn’t compare us. But I am not particularly happy right now either.

That’s a good way to start off a post, no?

The boyfriend’s sister-in-law and brother had a baby last week. Everyone of course is thrilled, except perhaps for the newly annointed big sister (“Uncle Boyfriend. You take baby home.”) and he is very cute and sweet as babies generally are. So this is all very exciting and a happy time.

But the boyfriend’s sister took it upon herself to post 50 of the pictures she took at the hospital when they all went to meet the baby on facebook. Which is nice and all, but shouldn’t the parents get to do that? The boyfriend’s sister-in-law is all about facebook so I can’t imagine she’s going to be thrilled about this. Especially now because the boyfriend’s sister is now getting congratulations from both friends and family, i.e. “Congratulations Aunt Stephanie. He’s adorable!”

I mean, he IS extremely cute but Stephanie really gets no credit for that, right? I find it weird.

My night last night involved some possibly pending really awesome news that I would prefer to share if and when it becomes official, but, for right now, suffice it to say it involved a dog (the news has nothing to do with that per se). A very sweet dog whose cute little head I naturally petted repeatedly.

I then went home where the boyfriend and I interacted. I possibly also ruffled his hair at one point as he was laying (lying? I can never remember) on the couch when I got in.

Shortly thereafter we decided to go out and grab a pizza. As we were waiting for the elevator, he asked about how my post-work appointment went and I casually mentioned the dog.

And he freaked out. FREAKED OUT. As in, went back in the apartment and scrubbed his hands and then accused me of touching a dog and then touching him without washing my hands (I mean, all true, but really no big deal, right?).

I think therapy is in order.

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