Monthly Archives: August 2009

Conversations with 3rd Graders

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I had to go get a kid out of class this week.

I don’t often have to go to the classrooms in my school.  In fact, I worked there for over a week before I ever saw any part of the school that wasn’t in my direct path to and from the office.

I also never went to public school.  I don’t know what it’s like to be pulled out of class when you’re that little.  During my three collective years of private school education (6th, 11th and 12th grades) I was only pulled out of when I was in Big Whopping Trouble.  (*Perhaps I’ll tell those story soon.)  So as I opened the door to 3rd grade classroom and asked for a student to please come with me, I was feeling really empathetic towards him and his needs.  During our walk back to the heart of the school, I asked the teeny boy, this little kid who had no idea who I was or why I was dragging him out of class, if being called out of class made him nervous.

“When someone comes to get you out of class like this, does it make your heart pound, going ‘BOOM BOOM BOOM?’” I asked him as we walked past the brightly colored cork boards lining the walls of the 3rd grade hall.

“Well,” he answered, “we just got back to class from P.E..”

I was momentarily baffled–not at all sure how this was an appropriate response to the question I asked him.  Then it dawned on me.  I said, “Oh, so it doesn’t matter that I’m pulling you out of class, because your heart was already pounding anyway.”

“Yeah,” he went on to explain, “today we had to do our fitness tests.”

“Fitness tests?!” I asked.  ”What kind of fitness things were you tested on? Like, Pushups?”

“Uh huh.  Pushups, Curlups and getting into a straight line and holding it there.”

“You didn’t have to bench press any of your classmates?”

He laughed.  ”No.”

“You didn’t have to give anyone else piggy-back rides for time?”

He laughed again, looking at me this time.  ”No,” he said, “we just had to do those three things.  Pushups, Curlups and getting into a line.”  He explained it all again to me, this time with an ever-so-slight tone in his voice, hinting that he was a confused as to why I was so utterly clueless as to the normal goings-on of 3rd Grade P.E. Fitness Tests.

I then relented my Fake Fitness Test Category jokes, pleased to have found out so much more than the answer to my original question.  Which, by the way, was No.  He was not nervous about having to go to the office.

Update/HELP ME.

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Regardless of the fact that I have both Too Much and Not Enough to say, it has become apparent to me that I must write a post today.  Why, you ask?  Because my dad called me and told me I was a liar!  POST, he said!  You said you would!

So here. A post.  All I’ve been thinking about lately is work.  I’m super, super busy at work for (what feels like) the first time in my life.  It’s different than the kind of busy that I was when we worked at Camp Eagle.  At camp we had to work however many hours were required to get X done.  At school, I just have to work the hours that I’m allowed to work and hope I get enough done during said alloted hours that I don’t feel like I’m going to die the following day.  I’ve never felt more compelled to stick around and work free overtime as I do in this job.  I know that my job and its tasks are critical, and that if they don’t get done, nobody is going to come along behind me and pick up where I left off.  I really think this is the first position I’ve ever had where this kind of responsibility is resting on my shoulders.  It’s bizarre, really, when you consider the pinto beans that they are paying me in lieu of a salary.

Confession time: After a week of being able to handle all work inquiries, most of which have been in Spanish, by myself, I admitted to Zack that yesterday I had to hand off (not one but) two people who came into the school office.  I was especially baffled by my sudden inability to communicate with these two particular people, not because I think I’m a total Spanish Speaking Badass (which I’m not), but because one of the people that I simply could not understand was speaking English.   It was Cajun English, admittedly, but English nonetheless.  There’s a lady that comes into the school with moderate frequency who must be from Louisiana.  I can think of no other reason that I can’t understand a word that comes out of her mouth.  Mrs. Cajun also has a sister, Mrs. Speaks Normally But Happens To Be From Louisiana Also.  Mrs. SNBHTBFLA stopped by the office again this morning to finish some scholastic paperwork and I admitted to her that I didn’t understand a word her sister said.  Of course, on cue, her sister showed up about 14 seconds later.  Mrs. SNBHTBFLA and I laughed as soon as her Sister The Incomprehensible walked into the room.  She, of course, immediately told her sister that the crazy white girl behind the counter has no idea what she’s saying at any point in time.  Mrs. Cajun has since quit talking to me altogether in person.  Tricky, though, she called this afternoon and I was able to decipher her request into a normal, carbon-copy message worthy request.  However unlikely, it seems that Mrs. Cajun is going to be the benchmark by which I measure my communication progress.

On a totally unrelated note, I might need your help with one or both of the following things:

#1) Zack and I watched an ABC news special (WE ARE PRACTICALLY GERIATRIC) tonight called “The Outsiders” in which they talked a lot about capturing wild horses and tamed them to become service-type animals.  The whole thing totally creeped me out, because, RUDE?! Those horses were perfectly wild and happy, and then CAPTURED and made to wallow in barned misery with kids pulling at their manes for the rest of their lives?  Weird, right?  So here’s the question: Is it better to live your whole horse-y life in captivity, knowing humans and serving humans from 0 until death, or is it better to spend 1/2+ of your life free in the open mountain ranges of Utah or what-have-you, and THEN have to go into servanthood and dedicate your life to said snotty nosed brats?  I’m not even going to tell you which side I’m (obviously) on, so that you’re not swayed to agree with me (that to have never lost is way way way better than to have had an arm then lose it. PHANTOM PAIN.)

and also. #2) If you had a little brother.  And that little brother’s name was Boo.  And Boo decided he was going to “take a year off school” to “work for a while” so that he could “avoid giving up his freedom” and also because “he waited too long and all the classes were full at community college,”  what advice/reasons would you give Boo to encourage him that he should instead take 0.5 years off school and start back at the semester instead of waiting the full year?  In sort, Top 5 Reasons College Ruled.  Let me have it, people.

PEE ESS: I finished week 6 of Couch to 5K AND AND AND ran Run #1 of Week #7 yesterday with Zack.  2.54 miles in 27:30, plus a .30 mile warm-up walk in 5 minutes.  When it was over I felt a bizarre mix of a.) I HATE THIS and b.) KEEP RUNNING? and c.) THIS MUST BE WHAT SAMSON FELT LIKE WHEN HE SLAYED THE PHILISTINES WITH THE JAWBONE OF AN ASS.

Looks Like Somebody Has a Case of the Mondays

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Just so you know, I’m currently being tossed about in the insanity that comes with the first week of a new job.  I was excited to work on Monday and Tuesday, and then by Wednesday night I came home all, ZACK, UNEMPLOYED LIVING RULED.  I did not appreciate my freedom as I should have.  I should have fanned it with fig leaves.  I should have offered it gifts of Frankinsense and Myrrh.  I should have suggested that it turn water in to wine. Or water into funk, if you’re of the Family Guy persuasion.

Right now I have about 35 different projects and thoughts and plans running through my head.  All the new information for the job, all the new systems I’m having to create and put into place there, nevermind the Spanish that I’m constantly thinking in.  I  basically have gone into a Spanish immersion environment.  Those two major bullet points alone would be enough to keep me busy for a long time, but on top of that there is more. Much, much more.  Last night I kept bouncing back and forth between so exhausted that Zack thought I was going to fall asleep in my shoes to laying in bed with my eyes wide open jumping from subject to subject while keeping Zack awake with my stories, thoughts and ideas.  I can’t wait to tell you guys all about it.  Unfortunately, It’s going to have to wait one more day.

(Note: I do not actually think that unemployment is Jesus, though I’m sure he, given his nomadic tendencies and his all-knowingness, knew how awesome unemployment was and appreciated it more than I did.  I mean think about all that “boating” he did.  Dude loved his cruise ships as much as your average retired snowbird.)

Walking the Dog

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The best part about running with Zack is that he’s endlessly useful.  Not only does he encourage me turn-by-turn, he also keeps track of time for me.  I don’t have to compulsively look at my watch at 15-second intervals for fear that I’ll run for even a second longer than I’m supposed to.  When I run with Zack, he does all the compulsive checking for me.  When I get tired of holding Scout’s leash, he (begrudgingly) holds it for me.  And when we get to the end of the run, and I’m so tired I think that I’m going to collapse into some strangers front yard and drown my exhaustion with their evening lawn sprinklers, he chants out a running cadence for me.  He’s always there, matching me step-for-step, helping me think about something else, ANYTHING other than how tired I am of putting one foot in front of the other.

The worst part about running with Zack, on the other hand, is that I can’t listen to my iPod while we run together.  I guess I COULD, but it’d be totally rude of me to expect him to come along as some kind of servant of mine–forced to hold the leash, carry water and operate my stop watch while I don’t even bother to talk to him.  During the early weeks of my “training” (if you want to call it that), I taught myself to run for X number of songs, or to wait until the bridge before I could look at the clock again, etc.  When we’re running together there are occasional bouts of Comfortable Silence that leave me clawing the inside of my brain trying to find something, ANYTHING to think about other than the moderate misery I’m feeling because of this athletic activity to which I am willingly subjecting myself.

Thursday, when Zack and I were walking out the door for my first run in almost a week, I asked him if he was going to talk to me while we were running or if I should bring my iPod.  I thought that the run was going to be particularly miserable because I was out of my running routine and I was willing to be rude and wear my headphones if that was what it was going to take in order for me to survive.  Zack said no, that he would talk to me, and I didn’t have to wear my headphones.

Super, I thought.  I can’t wait to be miserable for the next 30 minutes.

As usual, I was totally wrong.  Zack was uncharacteristically chatty for the run that day.  Not only was he willing to rattle off story after story for me, he turned into Mr. Conversation Guy and was asking me prompting questions.  Had I ever thought about getting another dog, he wondered?  If I had, what kind of dog would I get if money weren’t an issue?  Because I generally hold Scout’s leash for the first 3/4ths of a run, Zack has to run slightly behind me on the sidewalk.  When he asked me that question, the question ending with the phrase, “if money weren’t an issue,” I literally turned around to see if he had a notecard in his hand.  I was like, who is this guy?  Is Zack running with an index card of conversational prompts?  Even when asking hypothetical questions, (which is rare), Zack doesn’t query about a world where money isn’t an issue.  Nevermind the fact that it was surprising that Zack was a.) asking a hypothetical question and b.) asking a hypothetical question where I was to not consider finances in my reply, it was also incredibly shocking that c.) Zack was asking me what kind of pet I would consider if I were to add to our current collection of animals.  (He has a very hard and fast rule: No More Pets Until One of Our Pets Dies.)  I immediately told him that if I could have another dog, any dog in the world, it would of course be a Labradoodle.  I fell in love with a pair of Labradoodles in April and I haven’t stopped thinking about them since.  In fact, (and don’t tell him this) I may or may not have an entire bookmark folder of possible breeders in the North Texas area just incase Zack one day wakes up and says, “HEY SARAH. I FOUND FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS YOU CAN SPEND ON ANOTHER DOG EVEN THOUGH I SAID YOU COULD NEVER HAVE ONE.”

Turns out, Zack was asking what kind of dog I want because he really does want one.  ”Probably not until we have a little more space,” he said, but he has been actively considering the idea of adding another canine to the family.  Not just any other canine, though.  A really, really large one.  Zack and His Increasing Paranoia both wanted Scout to be a massive dog.  Scout, instead, is 40 whole freaking pounds of furry love who happily jumps on anyone who comes in the house and wants to play.  Not exactly the ferocious guard dog that we had originally intended her to be.  After meeting the two 90 lb. Labradoodles that we (we!) fell in love with this summer, he’s been looking as Scout with a longing gaze, a gaze that screams, “I wonder what would happen if I started slipping protein powder into your kibble?”

I, on the other hand, would like another dog for a much different reason.  I want a dog to wear Scout out.  She has always been a high energy dog–she is part Blue Heeler after all–but our new workout regimen has seemed to have the opposite effect on her than we had intended.  Whereas I thought going out and taking 30 minute or hour-long walks/runs with her every day would remove some of her energy and make her a wee bit more lethargic while she’s at home, it has in fact energized her in a fierce and unmistakable way.  Sure she’s tired for the first 3 or 4 hours after we get home for a run.  She comes in the door, strolls to her bowl, laps up a gallon of water, and then crashes for a few hours in a pile of panting doggie fur on the floor.  Invariably, though, the next morning when we let her outside, instead of sitting at the backdoor and waiting for her bowl of food, she’s taken to dashing mad circles and figure-8s around the backyard at a breakneck pace.  Because of this, I have officially given up.  I am clearly not enough woman for that dog.  Since I don’t have any other ideas on a good way to make her tired, I figured we could just get another dog and then it could THE DOG’s responsibility to get Scout nice and exhausted every day.  Sounds like a good plan to me.  Trust me. I’m always right about these things.

The Workout Post. Finally.

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Okay! So the working out! Look at me! I’m actually going to write about working out!

The trick is, I’ve already covered some of the main points.  Let’s see SarahThe can crank out a way to make this crap interesting.

I believe it was near the end of February when Zack and I ditched the whole P90X routine.  We were smoking right along with the workout program, finishing up with Week 5, when I finally admitted to myself that I was too swamped  because of the online class that I was taking at the time.  After a handful of emotional break-downs and near-panic attacks, I told Zack that something had to go.  As much as I believe P90X would have been the answer to all my flabby problems, the amount of time required to do the program correctly–the grocery shopping, menu planning, food scrutinizing, not to mention the workouts themselves–was simply more than I had in my schedule at the time.  Zack tried moving into Week 6 without me, but lost his steam somewhere in the middle of the week.

Nevermind the school stuff and the time stuff, there was one more reason that I didn’t have any problems shucking the P90X challenge.  I was experiencing incredible pain while in the program, both in my feet and my Tibialis anterior.  To those of you who aren’t insane nerds, that’s the muscle on the top front of your shin bone, or immediately below and just to the outside of your knee.

I have always had a tightness in that muscle in my leg, but had attributed it to my days as a BMX racer. (Weird, yes, but true, for those of you who don’t know, I used to race BMX.) During weeks 4 and 5, I started having pain the bottoms of both of my feet.  It got markedly worse whenever I was doing any of the workouts, especially the workouts that required me to bounce around a lot.  (Read: Plyometrics, Kenpo) I didn’t realize at the time that the pain in my foot was also connected to the tightness that I was experiencing in my Tibialis anterior.  Trying to fix the foot cramp, I did several helpful things, including but not limited to a shopping trip to get some new shoes and having (teeny) panic attack (or two).  When the new shoes proved themselves to be not the miracle cure I was seeking (however, very cute), I got desperate and did what I should have done in the first place.  I called a friend who is a Physical Therapist.  Over the phone I explained in layman’s terms the pain that I was having, its location and quality.  Then, over the phone in Doctor Terms, she told me what tendon I was describing and what that tendon does.  After 5 minutes of very confusing conversations and over-the-phone anatomy lessons, she helped me realize that my two problems were Oh So Related and then taught me how to treat it. (Stretching, Heat, Stretching, Heat, Stretching, Wear Stabilizing Shoes.)  (Turns out, the tightness I’ve always had in that muscle has less to do with the fact that I was a BMX’er and more to do with the fact that I have a weird pronation problem with my step, and that muscle is constantly taking a serious, serious beating.) (I am so parenthetical lately, it’s out of control.) Though I could tell her method was going to be helpful, it took a good 3 or 4 weeks of constant stretching and heating to get both legs’ muscles loose enough to eradicate the pain in the bottom of my foot.  Now when Zack and I are sitting around watching TV together, you can often find me on the floor pulling at my legs in this direction or that, trying to ensure that I never again have to quit a workout program because of a crippling pain in the soles of my feet.

So why didn’t I start P90X again when I landed all this extra time on my hands?  I tried to.  Well, we tried to. Zack and I started back at the beginning of P90X about 4 weeks ago.  We completed exactly ONE day of the workout and I was so sore afterwards that I had problems moving for the rest of the week.  I decided that P90X should be something that I start next year, maybe.  Perhaps after I’m in a place where I feel a wee bit more confident in my abilities, perhaps when I’m looking for the “next level” in my work out routine.  For now, I’m not sure that I’m at P90X level.  I’m more on the “trying to make working out a habit, trying to get healthy” level.  Not the “Trying to hang out with Tony Horton every day and impress the socks off of him with my positive attitude towards pull-ups” level.  The differences there are pretty stark.

Almost every time someone asked me about the workouts that we were doing, they would want to know if “I thought it was going to work.”  And my reply was always, “If you work out and hour a day, every single day, for 90 days, it doesn’t matter what you’re doing.  It’s going to work.”  Seriously.  So when we officially failed P90X (for the second time), I sat down with a piece of paper and decided to devise my very own workout plan.  On that piece of paper I wrote down all the work-y out-y things that I can a.) do without dying the next day and b.) that I didn’t HATE.  I don’t hate yoga.  I don’t hate riding my bike.  I don’t love running, but there’s no denying that I need to be doing it, and it at least meets the qualification of not making me suicidal or paralyzed by soreness.  Then beside each of the items (I believe there was 6? 7 if you include walking?) I wrote the amount of time that I typically do those things.  Ab video is 25 minutes. Running the Couch to 5K program is 30. Biking is 1 hour, etc. And then I set my goal.  One Hour A Day.  This goal was fueled by the fact that it was created the very same day I discovered that I didn’t fit into that DAMN BRIDESMAID DRESS.  And fueled by the fact that when I saw my doctor 2 weeks prior I a.) weighed the same as my husband, (yeech) and b.) was informed by my doctor that I could drop a few pounds. (double yeech.)

So long story short, this workout plan seems to be sticking better than anything I’ve ever tried before.  Things did get a little weak-sauce surrounding the wedding, but I’m working back into it starting day-before-yesterday.  I’m keeping a log, I’m not hating my life, and I’m seeing numbers drop from the scale.  My clothes aren’t fitting drastically different yet, but I think I might be getting there.  And even if I’m not, it’s okay. My goals are to stop gaining weight and to be healthier, and I feel like I am well on my way to success with both of those goals.

Today, for instance, I ran.  Zack and I went out together and I ran a self-created half-step between Week 5′s day 2 and day 3.  I ran 10 minutes, walked 3 minutes, then ran 12 minutes. ME! I RAN 22 MINUTES in ONE SESSION.  Three months ago I had a really hard time running 90 consecutive seconds.  I thought I was going to die when the program made me jump from 90-second to 3-minute intervals.  And now, for the last 2 minutes of our runs, Zack and I kick it up a notch, and stride down the backroads of our neighborhood in step while he calls cadence and cheers me on.  I don’t feel like I’m emotionally beat up like I felt while I was doing P90X, but I’m still eating healthy and working out for an hour a day. I’m so proud of myself for finding a plan, sticking to it and making progress that I could burst.  I guess that’s why I didn’t tell you about the P90X failure sooner–the prideful part of me wanted to wait until I could share a victory before admitting a defeat.

P.S. To DFWites:  There’s a 5K in Grapevine (at a winery!) on October 3rd that I’m thinking about signing up for.  I need to find a race to punctuate my Couch to 5K success.  Any takers? There’s a wine-drinking party right after! Drinking before noon with a legit excuse!  If that doesn’t sell you, I don’t know what will.

and P.S. To The Internet:  The yoga video that I’ve been doing is the  YogaX video that came with the P90X videos.  While I like it, and while it is one ass-kicking Power Yoga video, I wouldn’t mind a wee bit of variety er’y now and then.  Do any of you know of any great (ass-kicking, sweaty, strengthening) Power Yoga videos?  Your guidance is much appreciated.

Post-Wedding Word Vomit

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DEEP BREATHS. The wedding is over.

I am, if you hadn’t guessed, an extrovert.  What most people don’t know, though, is that I’m only about 60% extrovert.  65% at the most.  The other not-quite-half of me is a severe introvert who needs quiet/alone/down-time in order to properly function in society.  Weddings, on the whole, do not allow for my 35-40% replenish itself.  As a result, I am effing EXHAUSTED.  I can’t imagine how tired the bride is, my now sister-in-law Jenn, who is about 97% introvert.  Her 3% has been proudly running her life for the last 3, 4 months+ and I’m willing to bet dollars to donuts that she would have been happy holing up in the hotel room and never seeing the light of day during their honeymoon.  I was only forced to live in my 60% for the better part of a week, and I’m still having trouble talking myself into answering my phone when it rings.  Heaven almighty, you can’t imagine the way that I’m currently reveling in the glory of Not Having To Talk. It is TEH AWESOME.

In the mean time, I unofficially go back to work starting tomorrow.  My first official day at the ISD (yes, I took the job despite the pay cut because a. I’m a sucker, b. I didn’t have anything else lined up, and 0 prospects on the horizon and c. The benefits [read: schedule, time off, skills that I will use/hone on the job] still have a lot of value.  An extra letter could also be included; d. I will have ample time to self-promote my photography and supplement our annual income that way. This has been a very long parenthetical aside.) is Monday, but I have 3 odd-jobs lined up for Wednesday, Thursday and Friday of this week, so today feels very much like my “last day of freedom.”  I’ve been pondering all day how I’m going to plan my new life and its new schedule–I’m going to, per usual, attempt to start off with the ‘ideal schedule,’ perhaps forcing myself to get up and work out in the mornings before work.  We’ll see how that goes, but I am determined not to let my work-out dedication fade now that I am not longer living under the threat of “YOU MIGHT NOT FIT INTO THAT DAMN DRESS AGAIN.”

Perhaps If I just shifted that threat from The Wedding to My Normal Wardrobe, I would be able to maintain my current level of tenacity.  We’ll see.

I keep meaning to write a big ol’ blog post about my current workout plan and how it’s going, but for some reason or another it keeps getting trumped. I guess I’m putting it off because I never even tied up the whole (failed) P90X ordeal, and when I think about it, I get all overwhelmed.  Perhaps that’s all you guys really care to know?  That I obviously ditched the P90X plan about a million years ago and now I’m doing something else? And by “something else” I mean “anything at all that I can manage to talk myself into, as long as the total amount of time I spend working out sums to 1 hour a day.”  And really, if you look at what I’ve actually been doing for the last two weeks, it could more aptly be summed up as, “Dedicatedly following the Couch to 5K program, with the exception of the wedding week, and otherwise feeling guilty for not doing the hour-a-day program that I invented for myself.”

Like I said.  Everything starts new tomorrow.  And then everything starts new again on Monday.  New starts are refreshing.  Perhaps I’ll continue to rest my poor and distressed introvert until then.

Facts, On The Run

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THE wedding is tomorrow, and I have, like any good FOURTEEN YEAR OLD, a zit so large and so permanent that it’s currently in a State of the Union meeting to create its own flag.

God, I love puberty.  It’s so fun.

At least I got my dress exchanged, right?  What’s more embarrassing, a zit between the eyebrows or a strapless dress muffin-top?  I think I’d take the Zit any day of the week. Counting my blessings.

The First Sentence Is Obviously A Lie

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There are currently any great number of things in my life that I’d like to whine about, but I’m not going to because whining is unattractive and not fun to read about.

Here are the top 10 things I’m not going to whine about:

  1. I don’t feel good.  My throat is sore and I’m so gassy that I wouldn’t even think about hanging out with A Cautionary Girl and I’ve had a slight (but unshakable) feeling of nausea all day.  I’m not pregnant, don’t even ask if I am.
  2. I am tragically unmotivated to work out.  For some reason I’ve been able to drag myself outdoors to do my running workouts consistently for the last 3 weeks, but somewhere in the middle of last week I dropped out of my “an hour every day, no matter what” habit.  I can’t seem to find my groove again.
  3. It’s hot in here.
  4. Because of the nausea, I’ve been unable to put my finger on the one magical food item that I want.  I have no idea what that one magical food item is, but I’ve almost assuredly decided that it’s not located in my fridge after hours and hours of staring in it and turning up Zero Prospects.
  5. My job people called yesterday and said that yes, for sure, the $10,000/year lower salary is, in fact, the salary that will stand.  I can’t seem to make myself call them and either take it or leave it.  Instead I’m stuck with having to make a choice between joblessness (which I hate) and accepting a truly degrading salary.
  6. The state of #5 has left me so frazzled all day that I began to search the internet for other job opportunities in the area.  There are a 1,000, it seems.  I also felt that way TWO MONTHS AGO when I started looking for a job the first time.
  7. I am 85% done with all of the cleaning and home rearranging that I want to get done before the wedding/shower/friends staying with us for a few weeks commences.  Technically, that commences tomorrow.  And I have done nothing with this day.
  8. Part of #7 is a lie.  I have checked my email three hundred thousand times today.  One of those times I was informed by half.com that yet another one of my nursing books has sold, and is going to go live with a person who has a more immediate need for it.  Right after I checked my email that time, I cried.
  9. Crying over selling my nursing school books has seriously racheted up the Sore Throat Situation, and now I am terribly afraid that instead of having drainage, I really have some terrible, terrible infection and I’m going to be a sick and miserable mess during The Wedding.
  10. I got in an argument with my little brother yesterday while I was telling him about how awesome college is.  I reacted poorly, like a bonafide junior high student crossed with a scolding angry parent, and I haven’t called him back to apologize cause I’m so embarrassed of my behavior that I don’t feel like I can face him.

See?  I’m not whining.  I could be whining about all of those things, and instead I’m sitting here, like a grown up. Not whining at all.

I think I’m going to go stare into the fridge some more.  Perhaps while I’m hanging out in kitchen I’ll find my Ideal Food.  Or maybe, I’ll find some cojones, find my cell phone, and provide a remedy to item #10.

On Being Gross

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You know that conversation some couples have?  That really disastrous conversation where one of you looks at the other and says, “If you could change one thing about me, what would it be?”  I’ll level with you guys.  Zack and I have had that conversation.  I was sitting around bemoaning some part of my body, (back, I’m sure, when I had very, very little to bemoan) and I asked Zack that question.  He said, without even having to consider it for even a moment’s time, that he would remove my gassiness.

He wouldn’t change my nose, make me into a runner, give me a six pack, or even a third breast especially for his own pleasure.  He wishes more than anything else that I would fart less.

I’m telling you this not to brag on Zack for being awesome and ‘above the superficial’ or anything, but because I want you to know that we’re really gross with each other.  I’m aware that there are couples out there who never even fart in front of each other, much less go beyond that into a world where the bathroom door is basically considered “open” at all times.  I’m friends with some of those kinds of people. (Granted, I am usually uncomfortably squeezing muscles to retain the flatulence when I’m around them, but I’m friends with them nevertheless. Which reminds me, I really should put some GasX on the shopping list, but that’s neither here nor there.) But Zack and I are not those kind of people.  We have been moving towards Full Gross with fervor and vehemence for quite some time now.  (I’ll get back to this thought in a second.)

I spent most of the day helping Jared and Jenn move into their new apartment yesterday.  There’s something really fun about helping people move.  I believe what I enjoy about moving is the same thing I like about cleaning bathrooms; moving offers a great deal of instant gratification.  Even though it is generally a dirty activity, and even though usually it’s miserable and hot, the finality of the process is appealing to me.  It’s easy to measure your progress, it usually goes faster than you’d expect (which is the same thing as winning!), and it’s more-than-obvious when the task is complete.  You’re done when the room you’re leaving is empty and clean, when the truck is loaded/unloaded, when the boxes are unpacked and thrown away.  It is truly a beautiful thing to know when something is complete, and to have seen a project through all the way to its very end.

I arrived back at our house at the same time Zack got home from work, just in time for me to start feeling really guilty for missing my morning run. (That’s right. I have been running, despite the fact that this was not Zack’s #1 Thing He Would Change About Sarah.  More on this soon.)  It had been raining most of the day over here and the cool post-rain air was calling for me (er, read: eliminating my excuses).  Zack tagged along with me, despite the fact that he’s a much better runner than I am.  My meager-to-him, misreable-for-me run was the end of the fourth week of Couch to 5K.  So I exhausted myself while Zack tagged along with me, he scarcely breathing heavy while we clipped along at a pace I considered to be an ungodly sin.  (Apparently I run a lot faster when I’m with Zack than I do when I’m on my own.  Let’s chalk that up to my competitive spirit and insatiable desire to beat Zack at SOMETHING, ANYTHING.)

So what does all this have to do with anything?  I told you I’d bring it all around.  Here are the facts you know so far. I was dirty (moving, running), so was Zack (working, laughing at me trying to run), and we are gross people.  Here’s why it matters: after we got back from the run we took a shower. Together, at the same time.  It wasn’t one of those sexy showers like I’m sure you’re imagining.  Far from it.  I had stubborn bits of moving dirt wedged under my fingernails.  My entire upper body was a shade of red-purple that you might get if you crossed a Tomato with a Pomegranate.  I was heaving air in and out of my lungs with such force that I had to pay special mind not to drown whilst rinsing out my shampoo.  The water was on all-the-way-cold with only-an-ooch-of-warm so that we could maybe cool off a little bit.  This shower wasn’t sexy.

I should note here that even though the run wasn’t in any way “challenging” or even “moderate exercise,” Zack still was served his fair share of phlegm-coughing.  I, not being a person who usually runs with him, had not been forewarned about this, ahem, condition of his.  Because we are gross, and because bodily functions don’t bother me in the least, I didn’t pay any mind to the fact that he was hocking and spitting loogie after loogie as we were running around the streets of our neighborhood.  I also didn’t pay much mind when I heard him start the process of the spit while we were in the shower.  With my eyes closed, head back in the water, rinsing conditioner out my hair, I heard the the hock, followed by the spit.  I wasn’t angry.  Then I felt the unmistakable feel of a wad of my dear husband’s running-phlegm laden spit land on my right foot.  I raised my head.  I opened my eyes.  I saw my husband’s face contorted into the most hilarious expression possible–a desperate mix of humiliation, embarrassment, dumbfoundedness and sincere remorse–and I couldn’t help but laugh.  After his face unwound from its expression, he immediately remedied the situation in the only way he knew how: by spitting again, this time missing my foot.