catheroominations

Oh! My Half Marathon playlist runneth over! For realz! I got so many songs, I had to narrow down my choices and have just one per submitter, so I could fit everyone! Seriously, y’all rock. I got about 30 emails’ worth of songs too, so I now have enough to last me almost 5 hours. Hopefully I won’t need to hear all of them.

By the way, even if I don’t like a song someone suggested, I added it to the playlist. Because it was important to them that I play the song. I told one friend, “I’ll be sure to notice at what mile your song comes on and I’ll recall later that that mile sucked ass because the song totally bit.”

If you want to see what I’m running to, you can see the list here. Some songs just plain rock and have a great beat. Others have sentimental value, or inspiring lyrics or titles.

With such great music, I’m sure to have a great Half Marathon! Hell, I might keep running past the finish line just to keep listening! (Or not.)

Special thanks to blog babes Ali, Mere, Tobie, Annie, Jenni (and I even added Vika’s suggestion!), Music Mama (even though I couldn’t find the songs online), Sandi, Saj, and distractedspunk.

*That’s a song by ABBA, but is too slow to run to.

Even though that bit of wisdom was on the inside of my Dove Milk Chocolate today, I don’t think it meant, “Think you can only eat 5 of these? Go ahead, eat more! Keep going! You can DO IT!” Seriously, I don’t need a fortune to tell me to eat more chocolate, but it’s nice to have the permission to do so. (I refrained, by the way. The chocolate, he will not win!)

BUT! I did take the sentiment to heart, with regard to my upcoming half marathon on Sunday. Sure, I’ve never run 13.1 miles before. My limit is 10 miles. That’s as far as I go. Ten. That’s it. But on Sunday, at mile 10, I will keep going because 1) awesome people have donated over $3,000 to the cause, in good faith that I will actually complete this endurance event for which I solicited donations, 2) I want a freaking medal, 3) my husband, my friends, and perfect strangers will be cheering for me as I pass them on the course and 4) I want to run farther than I’ve ever run before. Ever.

Yes, I want to run the distance of Manhattan from tip to tip. I want to pound the pavement running around Golden Gate Park for nearly 3 hours (and hopefully stay under that time, please, oh please). It might be raining. It will be cold. At times, I will rather be on my couch in my jammie pants and slippers under the soft and fuzzy Green Bay Packer blanket, playing Super Mario Galaxy on the Wii, while eating Dove dark chocolates and sipping Murrieta’s Well Zarzeula. But instead of jammie pants, there will be panting. Instead of slippers, Brooks running shoes. My black running pants and official TNT race shirt will keep me warm and toasty, and I will be playing my iPod. Chocolate and wine will be replaced by Jelly Belly Sports Beans and Gatorade.

And when I am done, when I have crossed the finish line, there will be tears.* Tears of joy, of pain, of relief. Tears that say, “Sweet Baby Jeebus, I did it!” Also, possibly tears of not receiving a medal because I ran slower than 6,000 people and those tears will say “I ran a @#$%ing half marathon and all I @#$%ing got was this @#$%ing stupid @#$%ing t-shirt. @#$%ing @#$%!!”

I am ready.

*Coincidentally, this also often happens while I play Super Mario Galaxy.

I ran 10 miles for the second time yesterday. This time I hardly walked at all, except for the 1-minute walk portion of my 5-mile run, 1-minute walk interval. I ran with a TNT teammate, we took it very slow, and we took a LONG time. I run like a snail, I really do. This concerns me because only the first 6,000 finishers receive medals at the half marathon I am running IN TWO WEEKS. They allow 10,000 to register. That means, I have to run faster than FOUR THOUSAND PEOPLE. Not going to happen, nope.

It should be noted that I have never won a medal, trophy, or ribbon in anything, except for a First Place prize that everyone in my 5th grade class got who submitted a book for the elementary school young author’s book fair. And that ribbon was a piece of blue “ditto” paper, cut into the shape of a ribbon, pasted to the inside front cover of The True Story of Smokey, my cat. Around that time there were several unauthorized autobiographies about him, but I wrote the truth.

Now where was I? Oh. Yeah. I want a freaking medal for running 13.1 miles, dammit. Just knowing that I completed such an event should be validation enough for me, but it isn’t. I want concrete, material evidence of my efforts! Bragging rights! So I can be all, “Look what I did! I have a medal! Do you have any half marathon medals? No? I must be better than you then!” I would then huff hot air on it and polish it on my shirt for effect. Also, if I get a medal, it means I did not come in last, which is something that is unacceptable to me. I hate don’t mind that I’m slow, or that I am the last person to finish a timed trial at our workouts. There are just 40 or so people there, and most of them have done this whole running thing for years. But out of thousands of people, surely there should be a few slower than I, right? I mean, I have to be faster than the walkers, don’t I? Please, can 4,000 people be walking that day?

Maybe I should look into buying those shoes with skates on the bottom. Heelies? Is that what they’re called? Maybe then I’ll gain some speed on these people.

Maybe Barry Bonds can juice me up before, since I will be in San Francisco and all.

I know! Have Taye Diggs running ahead of me in nothing but black boxer briefs, and Dexter chasing after me with a hypodermic needle and cranial saw. Then, maybe I can run faster. Maybe.

Ooh! I could put Ex-Lax in the water at the hydration stations. Scratch that. It’s just mean. Plus, it could backfire because I would probably need the facilities at some point, and the lines would be insane, thus extending my time even more.

Le sigh.

Perhaps I should hail a cab and ride to near the end of the course, and then sprint across the finish line, all fresh and lovely like Katie Holmes did in New York. (NOTE: I’m saying she finished looking lovely, not accusing her of taking a cab or being transported by Xenu-led aliens or anything.)

Did you know that the winning team in the Super Bowl gets a trophy AND each player gets a big, huge, gaudy ring, even those who DID NOT PLAY in the game? And some of the players already have a ring or two. Award hogs! Can’t there be a rule at this half marathon where those who already have medals wait until medals are presented to all who have never received one? That seems totally fair to me. Were I one of those people with piles of medals, I would surely offer mine to a poor soul who ran too slowly in her first half marathon to beat four thousand other runners. Because I’m nice like that.

Just after I posted this, I had a sudden change of attitude. I guess it took spewing it out on my blog to realize that the day was going to be only as bad as I allowed it to be. Sure, getting a speeding ticket sucked, but whatever. What’s done is done. And yeah, I ached after the long run, but I had a choice. I could sit on the couch, watching bad TV and whimpering while missing a fun wine tasting birthday party, or I could suck it up.

Aches and pains be damned! I sucked it up.

I quickly showered, got ready, and looked up the wineries that were included in the bus tour everyone was on. I had enough time to meet the party at the second winery, so I headed back down Hwy 17, passing the scene of my earlier crime. This time, I passed it going just over 50 miles per hour with the cruise control on.

As soon as I saw everyone on the gazebo, I knew I’d made the right decision by getting off my sorry ass and joining the party. Everyone was happy to see me, as Matte had told them about my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. No one expected me to show up, but I surprised everyone by doing so. And I love surprising people. Someone said “you should sit down!” so I did, while sipping a lovely Burrell School pinot noir. And then someone handed me some lusciously rich dark chocolate. Awesome.

The next stop on the bus tour was Savannah Chanelle, but Matte and I took my car so I wouldn’t have to pick it up at Burrell School later. At Savannah Chanelle we got to hear the interesting history of the winery, and saw a split-root tree on the property that sits RIGHT ON the San Andreas fault. Friggin’ cool. I tried jumping up and down to trigger it, but I don’t think I was able to make it rumble.

Wine-tasted out, we headed for Rachel (the birthday girl) and Shawn’s house for some eats. The menu consisted of gazpacho (I blew on the first spoonful in case it was too hot, out of soup-eating habit. But duh.) and paella (with sausage, chicken, shrimp, and bigger shrimp). Sweet Jeebus, that was some mighty fine food! We drank more wine…a fabulous 1991 something-I-can’t-recall-nor-pronounce-but-was-Spanish. Dinner was followed by a creme brulee-like dessert (also Spanish, the name of which is also escaping me). I was almost falling asleep into my dessert (at 7:30 pm), so Matte and I left for home so I could get a foot massage.

My day ended so much better than it started. Because I was not going to let the crappy day stay crappy. I would not let it beat me. And today I am sore, but it’s the good kind of sore, that reminds me that I went beyond my physical comfort zone and ran double-digits yesterday.

I am campaigning. I posted a photo in the Split-second theme for consideration in the next issue of JPG magazine.

Please go vote for me here.

Have you ever met someone with whom you felt an instant connection? A person you knew you could be with for, possibly, the rest of your life? I’m talking about the kind of person, who, when you find them, you know you are done looking. For good. For most people, like me, it can take years to find this special someone. Someone who gets you. Who understands your fears, and even encourages you to embrace and overcome them. This person will hold your hand and make you feel safe while you confront these fears and smack those bitches down.

Most of us at one time or another have thought we’ve had someone like that, but inevitably something happens to break our trust in that person. The one who used to fulfill our needs suddenly just doesn’t do it for us. It’s hard not to place blame when things go wrong, but when they do, if we’re smart, we leave. Even a glutton for punishment will learn that when it’s not right, it’s best to move on.

But after you’ve left a relationship, it’s so hard to trust again. It’s hard to put yourself out there and start over. And yet. You must do it. Often a friend will offer to help (“Hey, I know someone for you!”). Out of desperation, sometimes we take a friend up on their offer. And even if we have to go from person to person to person, eventually the right one comes along.

When we do find them, we hesitate at first, afraid of being disappointed once again. But in time, the trepidation disappears and we open ourselves up to new experiences. Past heartbreak is forgotten and we are happy again.

And once in a while, we get so caught up in this person that we do things with them that we never would have considered doing with anyone else. Something that once was outlandish and crazy suddenly becomes rational, because we have the confidence to do something new, something spontaneous. Before we have time to think much about it, we’re already doing it. Because this is just the person to broaden our horizons.

I have found such a person. We met through a mutual friend. And yesterday, as I sat in a leather chair, I let her color my highlighted-for-years blond hair to brown-red.

I <3 my hairdresser.