Owwie

It has happened. I’m injured. Bite me.

Do you know what an iliotibial band is? I’m really smart so I do, but just so you know it’s more commonly known as an IT band, and it basically hurts on the outside of your knee. This giant muscley-tendony thing actually runs all the way from your butt-hip joint (approximately) to your tibia, or one of the lower leg bones. It’s pretty long and big, and I have no idea how long it takes to heal but it hurts like an annoying, festering ache that just won’t quit.

It started the other day when the Mutt and I were just going on our usual 4 mile run. It wasn’t slushy or snowy, it wasn’t raining, I wasn’t running hard; I was doing everything I normally do which is plod along at my own pace, daydream about not living in a high school dorm, and stop every once in a while to let the Mutt sniff or dig and then pee on something (ahh, the life). All of a sudden it hit me that my knee hurt. This might be the worst part: that I actually hurt myself without any drama. I mean, the last time I got really injured was in my last field hockey game in college when a huge 200 pound beast on the other team decked me in the head, straight-on, with her shoulder and I, obviously, got blasted to the turf where I promptly received a concussion and then threw up a few times. My mouthguard was knocked right out of my mouth and was at least fifteen feet away; I don’t know what happened to my stick. Then there was the time my friend took a ball in the temple and you could hear her skin splitting open from across the field—75 yards away. Have you heard of people getting their teeth ripped out by soccer balls sticking to their braces? Forgive me if I think “all of a sudden” being injured is a little boring.

Now, as a ski racer, knee injuries are particularly exciting (which does not mean I enjoy them). They mean extreme crashes in which helmets, skis, clothes, and possibly limbs go flying across an icy course and slide to a stop against fencing, other skiers, trees, or the finish line equipment and the injured person screams and yells (if he or she is still conscious) and bleeds from the face where skin was rubbed off by the ice and everyone close enough runs over to stand there and pretend they know what to do when really they just have to stand there and wait for a ski patrol person to drag one of those super heavy, bulky, and treacherous looking sleds down the hill where they have to find a place to park it where it won’t slide down and hurt someone else on the way down. And besides the sound of the screams, it is silent, which makes everything even more solemn and horrible. But what I learned is that it doesn’t have to be that way. While it would have been much more rewarding to be kicking and screaming and throwing a fit, getting people to help me and feel sorry for me, and to get a fluorescent cast or some colored stretchy rehab cord or something, I’m pretty lucky it was only a sharp ache that I could deal with for the final mile home. But I’m still going to complain about having to take time off to “recover” because, technically, I just took over two weeks off from running and I’m a little far behind in training.

Oh well. At least I can’t feel bad for sitting on my butt, mindlessly watching tv, and writing on a blog for lord’s sake because what else can I do?

"Nordic Skiing"

Law School BF has a sister-in-law. Not just any sister-in-law though, but one who took time off after college to move to Alaska to pursue a career in Nordic skiing and attempt to make the Olympics. Jealousy (of taking time off and of being an elite athlete, not of living in Alaska). Being a devoted “nordie", she only wants to do outdoorsy activities all day, every day of her life. Somehow Law School BF’s older and nerdier brother, who hates running, has diabetes and celiac disease (no gluten—can you imagine?), and loves computer games, keeps up with her (when he feels like it). Me, I don’t even try. But we all went on ski vacation together, marathon training went out the window, and simply trying to keep up became a grueling exercise in itself.

The reason I titled this entry “Nordic skiing” in quotes is because Law School BF and I have little to no experience, little to no form, absolutely no idea what we are doing, and look like complete fools when we go “Nordic skiing”. It’s that bad that I have to put it in quotes; it’s like a sloppy, retarded version of real Nordic skiing when we get out there. Picture a 6’4” [tall, dark, and handsome] guy who weighs 195 with about .02 percent of his body weight in his legs. Picture him being somewhat uncoordinated to begin with, and watch him ski off with poles six feet tall going in one direction and skinny skis almost as long going in the other. Also, picture him doing the style of skiing called “sprint 100 yards to try to keep up and then stop to rest because I’m going to die but then start over again asap because I have to show how I can keep up with my big brother.” I’m not a lanky mo-fo, and I just diddle along at my own pace, but I’m sure I look ridiculous too. Sigh. However, sister-in-law makes sure we get the “good” rental stuff and she outfits us with “nordie” gear so we at least look like we know what we are doing. Which, of course, is the most important thing.

I imagine when you ski, like, 100kilometers (that’s how nordies measure) in Canada in the middle of winter in nothing but a skimpy, tight spandex suit that an actual running marathon ain’t so bad. I can only imagine, though. So skiing with sister-in-law on vacation may or may not have been a little stressful on my body. Needless to say, there was no running to be done in Montana and Wyoming. It was: eat, ski, eat, ski, eat, ski, avoid the moose, sit/lie like a zombie, eat, sleep. For six days. It certainly took a chunk out of my ability to run, but it was awesome. PS. If you like skiing, go to Big Sky, Montana.

Things I Do Instead of Train

Here is what my current two-week training span is supposed to look like:
Week 1. Rest, run 3miles, run 7miles, run 4miles, rest, run 10miles,
cross-train.
Week 2. Rest, run 3miles, run 7miles, run 4miles, rest, run 15miles,
cross-train

Here is what my current two-week training span actually looks like:
1. Run 10miles. Go to a wedding.
2. Get sick. Watch MTV's “The Gaunlet III” reruns.
3. Work at a ski race. Drink hot cocoa.
4. Party with college kids. Pour hard-a down the ice luge chutes.
5. Go out west for a ski vacation. Don’t run. Ever.

For marathon training, I recommend plan number one. For fun, I recommend the latter of the plans; be warned, however, that it will absolutely make you suck at running, and will, in fact, make you very sad you don’t live in a ski town where it snows every night and is sunny and 30degrees every day and everyone is relaxed and kind and smiley. It will also make you dread going back to your “normal” job outside Boston where everyone moves too fast and is too stressed out all the time and you have to live in a dorm with 25 high school kids who are trading flus with each other and miserably awaiting spring break which is still two weeks away. Well, maybe that last part will be different for you but I’m giving you an example to work with here.

V-Day delight

I have to write about Valentine’s Day, right? Well, I was a pathetic loser on Valentine’s Day and you probably don’t want to hear about it. But obviously I will tell you a bit about it anyway.

We had a gift certificate to the local fancy wine and cheese shop (that is actually called the ever snooty “The Wine Shop”) so I walked my sick and sorry ass down the block to scope it out. The fresh air felt great but not lying face down on the couch felt horrible. Anyway, this shop had the most random teas, sausages, dried herbs, magnets and other weird items you have ever, or never, seen. It was overwhelmingly stocked with boxes poking off of shelves, colorful labels all over the place, and a giant, shiny meat counter, so I panicked and went to the booze. Being Valentine’ Day and all, I went for the champagne section. I know absolutely nothing about champagne except that you can’t call it champagne unless it is actually from champagne. Everything else, to the Champagners’ delight I’m sure, is supposed to be called “sparkling wine.” I don’t know about you but I would rather have champagne than sparkling wine. But I’m poor and cheap so I actually don’t care one bit. And also, some of it is “dry” and some “brut”. I could look up what that means and then pretend I know but I’m too lazy.

So I’m looking at some champagne, and some champagne next to the bottle I have in my hand, and the one above that, and one in a green label, and one that’s dusty…and I realize how stupid this is. I have no frickin’ clue what I’m doing. It’s okay: I’m smart. I take out the gift certificate, see that it’s for $50, and then pick up the bottle closest to $50 that will also let me buy the $5 tea that my aunt likes without spending any of my own cash. Cha-ching—free champagne I would never purchase for myself, ever.

This euphoric feeling gets me to ski practice, during which I have to drive 6 ADHD kids in a cramped and smelly mini-van and then stand outside in the cold for an hour and a half watching them dink around at their last ski training of the year and complain about how they don’t want to have yesterday’s canceled championship race rescheduled because, and I’m quoting here, they “don’t want to have to miss school again.” If you know me at all you will know that this enrages me. What kind of athlete doesn’t want to miss school? I’m all for the idea of the “student-athlete”…but why would you play a sport and then complain about getting to play it instead of sitting in class all day?

So I go home, sicker than before. And also mad. Genius combination, really. And while law school bf doesn’t have a fever anymore, he is still sniffling and hocking loogies and well, gross. Valentine’s Day can be very unromantic.

A Sickness Road Block

I know it’s obvious that people get sick when their bodies are run down, but I don’t think it can be more evident in any one but me. I never get sick—not even living in a dorm full of gross high school boys—unless I have run my body ragged 24/7 for at least two days. After a rough week, I could basically predict the onset of symptoms to the second if I didn’t believe in the power of positive psychology and willing oneself to stay well. For some reason I try to keep believing I am not sick until I have been down-and-out for two full days, blown through three boxes of tissues, eaten all the soup in the house, and smell like a sick person. You know, that stale pajamas smell? Not body odor, and not smelly feet or anything…just sick people smell. Smells like you haven’t moved in sixteen hours, are dehydrated, and don’t care if the ceiling is really boring to stare at because you can’t will yourself to do anything else. Sick-people smell is when I give in. But I hate it.

We were on weekend dorm duty, which means we had to stay up until midnight Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, for the second weekend in a row. Staying up until midnight totally throws me off. Call me a wiener but I need my beauty sleep; I’m talking nine hours at least. Then I’m good to go. I think going back to grad school left me a little spoiled in the good-sleeping-hours department; I hope I never have to have a “real” job. Sigh. Anyway, on this second-in-a-row weekend of midnight nights, my boyfriend became sick. He was shivering on the couch and whining like a pussy for hours on Friday—I almost wasn’t nice to him because it was so annoying that he wouldn’t admit he felt bad and just go to bed already. Not that’s that what I would do or anything. So, he spent the night tossing, turning, kicking, sweating, drooling, coughing, stealing the covers, and breathing right into my face. I got up early (not good on the late nights, remember?) after this wonderfully refreshing night of sleep to drive to Philadelphia for a wedding. Which I went to by myself. This is probably the bravest and most social thing I have ever done, by the way. That adventure by itself was stress on my body, let alone the lack of sleep and exercise it entailed. So then, Saturday, I spent the night at my friend’s house outside of Princeton, which is sort of near Philadelphia, and we stayed up late, drinking red wine, eating cookie dough, and watching Brian Williams on SNL because we used to teach and babysit his kids. He was really good, if you are one for watching back episodes of late-night sketch comedy. You have to ignore the current cast, who is just horrible, but I give Mr. Williams credit.

Needless to say, Sunday morning rolls around and I feel pretty poopy. I had the fat cat sleeping on my stomach all night, I was sunk into the couch which, no matter how wonderful, will never be my own bed, I went to sleep sugar high, teeth stained cabernet, and woke up after not enough sleep. Five hours in the car led me back to dorm duty, which I totally took over for still-really-sick-man (who is very cool for staying by his sick self to cover for me, btw). At this point, there was no chance for napping or even sitting still. Then again, making sure kids turn their lights out on time and don’t sneak out of the locked and alarmed house isn’t really tough work. Alas, it was enough to exhaust me to sickness of the 101 fever, shakes (doesn’t that mean you get to drink?), and plain old misery all over variety. Naturally, it’s my second day in a row skipping my training…and I foresee several more ahead.

Death to Bad Weather

This week’s weather has been total junk. In the first week of February in New England it should be, in a healthy world, pretty cold, snow-covered, and wintry. I’m not saying I love freezing my buns off and driving around with people skidding all over the road going six miles an hour or pulling off the high-way every five seconds to clear their windshields (as happens in Massachusetts) but I do feel pretty badly when it’s pouring rain and 55 degrees in what is supposed to be winter. Somehow the abnormal weather makes me guilty, as if I drive my car everywhere and leave it idling, leave lights on and faucets running all day, don’t recycle and do all the things that cause global warming. I’m not perfect (close, though) but I’m pretty eco-friendly and should not have these pangs of guilt. I’m not even Catholic, geez. So the question is: why should I have to suffer on the treadmill because of the world’s idiots? I shouldn’t. But alas, I do.

For three days of training this week, it has been raining. And I mean pouring raining. Lakes and ponds formed where there used to be yards; rivers expanded to twice their width. The highway department has come around every day to clean out the drainage grates so they can actually drain—that’s how much rain there is. So, there’s not much room for running outside. I can’t even walk the dog for seven minutes without coming home soaked, dripping, and miserable. At first, I was determined to stay off the treadmill. On Rainy Day One, I finished my book on the ever-popular elliptical machine in lieu of treading the mill. The one benefit to the elliptical machine is that one can read while exercising. I figured one day wouldn’t hurt. Then, as weather.com predicted, Rainy Day Two followed right after Rainy Day One. I didn’t feel right shirking my running duties two days in a row…and the forecast didn’t look any better. This leads me to the groundbreaking announcement that, yes, I ran on the treadmill. I admitted defeat, total and utter disappointing and scared defeat. I moped to the gym. I took ten minutes to tie my shoes. I filled up my water bottle four times. I circled the gym, trying to pump myself up for it. I checked myself out in the mirror for awhile, fiddled with the tv stations, stretched…I did everything I could to delay the inevitable. Finally, I got on, punched some buttons…and ran for 1/3 the amount of time I was supposed to. I swear I looked at the clock every seventeen seconds. I couldn’t really read the subtitles on CNN so I didn’t even have that boredom to preoccupy myself with. My iPod was dead too, so I had to listen to myself breathing for entertainment. Now that makes me want to run indoors even more, how bout you?

As much as I hate the treadmill, as much as it makes every ache and pain (I don’t actually have) feel like knives and mismatched gears grinding in my joints and muscles, as much as it bores the hell out of me, I feel that much more successful about completing the workout. Yeah, I only did 1/3 aka 2 miles aka 18-20 minutes aka not really much time at all, but I felt great about it; I came off that stupid machine victorious. Then I kicked it, spat on it, and swore I would never get on it again.

Instead of quitting (quitters never win, and winning is everything) I did something else aerobic-y for awhile to break up the monotony and diffuse some of my hatred. Then, I repeated the same exact process and called it a day. I am already dreading the day I have to get on that treadmill again. It gives me that sinking feeling just typing about it. Ick.

What about Rainy Day Three, you ask, totally enthralled? Well, it wasn’t as much raining as dumping snow. This is much better in the world of ski racers and winter-lovers but not much of an improvement for runners. However, the thought of the treadmill got me in some good snow gear and old sneakers pretty quickly. On top of that, my iPod was charged and my dog was psyched, and we all know how you can’t say no to your dog. It was an adventure too: I had to look straight down at my feet while running if I didn’t want to go blind from the giant flakes sticking to my eyeballs or clogging my eyelashes while at the same time trying to see where the safe parts of the road were and avoiding people driving by and splashing me with brown slush. I was soaking wet and freezing when I got home. Why am I doing this again?

Boredom Central

Have you ever (and the answer here should be yes if you are any sort of normal female human being with hormones and feelings) found yourself drinking a Cosmopolitan, eating cookie dough, with a fork, out of an old Tupperware, sitting on the couch with your sweat-panted legs propped up, in fluffy slippers, leaning on your dog, thinking about how much softer he is after a good bath, and watching pseudo-soap operas such as Dawson’s Creek or Gossip Girl and wishing, just a little bit, that your high school experience was more like the characters’ of said show, which, by the way, is on its tenth re-run because of the damn writers' strike? How about on a Monday night? Cause right now, that’s me. That’s right, I am so cool and fabulous that I’m a little tipsy, way too full on sugar, chocolate chips, and butter, and disgusted with myself over the nonsense I am totally digging on tv...and it’s only Monday. I’m on the couch with Bruschi the Mutt because I know he won’t judge me. He can’t: he’s sleeping. Really, it’s all the rage to be so bored by Monday night that you have to bust out the hard-a and turn on crap television by 8pm.

This is my life since I finished my Master’s degree and found myself stuck between landing a real job and working the quarter-time job I have that barely pays the non-existent rent and utilities. More than one person told me having a Master’s degree would broaden my job horizons but I call their bluff right now. My part time job opening mail for the admissions office for a month and a half (you should have seen my cuticles and fingernails, sheesh) wasn’t exactly stimulating, but Hay-soos boy, it was something. I would rather do that than what I have now done for the past eight days: nothing. Last week I don’t think I changed out of my pajama top once. Well, I guess I went running, which means I wore a sports bra, and consequently showered, once or twice… but why take off your silky, comfy cami when you don’t have to? Don’t answer that.

To top off my most boring week of all time, I just about wanted to quit the miniscule job I do have nine times. The ski team coach made me run practice without any forewarning, which isn’t actually bad but is sure something to complain about. It obviously gets better: the Director of Residential Life tattled to the Dean of Students on us that our dog snapped at her dog (who charged us in our own front doorway, off leash, while Bruschi the Mutt, who is sensitive anyway, was stuck on his leash, per campus rules, smarty pants, and strapped to Mr. Law School Boyfriend with his computer, books, and coffee mug who couldn’t exactly complete the necessary dog-instinct assuaging maneuvers in time). We had to go have a meeting that reminded me of, not that I ever actually had, a call to the Principal’s office in which we looked and felt totally sheepish when actually it wasn’t our fault at all. Truly. Then, I locked myself out of the dorm, twice, which reminded me how much I hate living in a place that doesn’t have a private entrance. Then we were on duty all weekend which means staying up way past my bedtime for three nights in a row. Last night, the Patriots played like ass and lost the Superbowl—to Eli Manning. And today, I had a meeting, for which I was on time and in the place I was told to be, that I had to wait over ten minutes just to find out I was in the wrong place but actually the lady I was meeting wasn’t in the right place either, nor was she anywhere in the building (I know, because I looked everywhere). She was at home with her sick (again) kid and blatantly just forgot about me altogether. Thanks.

So, I may be whining a bit, but I don’t do so very often so I don’t really give a damn what I sound like. I’m a little drunk and sugar high so I have a couple good excuses too. Good thing I’m running so much, it keeps off the pounds. Ten miles on Saturday, to be exact. Actually, if you add up all the running for training I’m doing, which I have clearly done in my boredom, it doesn’t actually add up to that much more running than I do on a regular weekly basis anyway, which means I can’t actually eat that much more than usual and still feel good about it which may actually be the only reason to run a marathon in the first place. Dammit again.