Fever Dreams

Still sick. And, now, I may not be able to run in the half marathon I've been training for for the last 3 months. I saw a new doctor yesterday, despite my prejudice about medicinal practices in Queens. I assumed any doctor in Queens was kind of going to be like Dr. Nick from the Simpsons. I was only half right. The most suspect part about the office was a framed (I'm assuming, not original) Van Gogh painting that was labeled as a Monet.

What drove me to the doctor was a "Type A" fever dream I had this weekend. For the last few nights, I've been waking up in the middle of night covered in sweat (ew). This weekend, I woke up next to a tidy pile of pillows according to size, and then on top of that my sweatshirt and the shirt I was wearing folded like I'd been working at the Gap for years (sorry for the n00d imagery).

This isn't the first time for weird, sick dream behavior: I've fallen out of bed and woken up on the floor and I've jumped out of bed and screamed at my ex-boyfriend like he was an intruder - fun for everyone!

The doctor, a fellow runner person, prescribed me some pretty heavy medications to try and have me in fighting shape for Sunday. The least I hope for is to not wake up with my closet organized by color, or me alphabetizing the contents of my apartment building's trash in another sweaty fit.

I'm With Stupid

I found out why today exercise is bad for you (read: me). With all the concentration on my running, I've stopped using my brain. After running 3.5 miles on my lunch break (!!), I was rushing back to work and thought I'd forgotten my running shoes in the locker room. They weren't in my gym bag, just my soaking wet clothes and my shower flip-flops.
I took out my phone to call my runner person to see if she could grab them for me and give them to me at book club tonight (I read!). It was then that I realized, on my way back to the gym, that I was wearing the running shoes the whole time. I'm so stupid.

p.s. I "won" the lottery and now I HAVE to keep training

Day 2 of Training: Completed!

I did it. I ran 3 miles on my lunch break with my runner person. I feel good; I think I'm still sweating, but that's OK. Last night was stretch and strengthening with yoga. The yoga teacher wore orthopedic shoes during the whole class. She moves at my speed, that one. Also, a fire alarm was going off during our "meditation time" at the end of class. Chi: Unharnessed.
I did a little more stretching and strengthening on my walk over to the gym, too. Only this time, it was because a rather large, elderly woman tripped and fell in the middle of a crosswalk on Madison Avenue. Usually, I'd laugh my head off, step over her and continue laughing, but we're at the tail end of the giving season so I tried to help her up.
It was difficult, but not because she was of above average weight. She was wearing a disgusting floor-length fur coat (for shame!) which was VERY slippery and slick from the lubricated souls of murdered animals. I tried to grip her arm, but it was so gross and sliding all around. She just kept saying, "Ohhh, help! Help me up!" Jesus, lady, I'm trying! I wanted to tell her that she should walk more like me: without a fur coat and with your head down at all times. Looking people in the eye and making human connections is very hazardous.
Tomorrow: 2 mile run or cross training.

Impending Doom

So, yes, a half marathon. That's 13.1 miles. That's a little more than three times the distance I've ever ran in my entire life. Sit with that for a moment. Are you scared? Because I'm scared.
The race is on March 21st, but let's not call it a race. Let's call it an impending accomplishment. I can do this, right? I find out on January 6th if I even have a slot in the "impending accomplishment" (sidenote: after googling "impending" to make sure I'm using the word correctly, the first suggested drop down is "impending doom" - gulp).
After I - ahem - win the lottery, I get to pay $90 to run until I can't feel my lower extremities. I've already been warned that my toe nails are going to be doing some strange things over the next few months (!!) of training.
But, let's back up. A few weeks ago my dear friend and lifelong member of Team That's What She Said emailed me asking if I wanted to sign up for the lottery with another member of Team TWSS. I hesitated, but thought this would be a great reason to get in shape and have a goal to work towards. When I went to sign up, the site asks a very obnoxious question: "What is your projected finish time?" And, really, what do I know about running times? I selected 4.5 hours - seems reasonable, right? Well, I get a pop-up that says, "For the safety of you and the other runners, you must complete this race in under 3 hours and 30 minutes". Shoot. Not looking good so far.
Tonight is the first day until the end of my life, er, of the rest of my life. I'm following this training program, so expect to hear very loud whining from across the New York Metropolitan area on every Sunday until March 21st. I think it's very cruel to make me run 3 miles on day TWO of the training, but we'll get there guys. Also, I've decided that whether or not I'm accepted, I'm still going to train.
Luckily, I have the support of two wonderful friends, the new running shoes from Santa Claus and various running outfits to pull sweat away from my body. Did I ever mention that during a 5K, I sweat so much that my iPod stopped working? Yes, it was tucked in between the two sports bras I have to wear - not the best safe-keeping place - but still, pretty gross.

Taking the Fun out of Fungi

I've been thinking a lot lately why I've probably had bronchitis twice in the last two months (I say probably because I haven't actually been to the doctor. I picked the wrong insurance plan - the one with an insane deductible and also the one with mental health coverage for my inevitable nervous breakdown which I can't afford - mentally or financially).

Yes, bronchitis voice can be sexy - Rod Stewart made a career out of it. But, outside of topping the Billboard Charts, spitting up green globs, stifling coughs during conference calls at work and constantly clearing my throat is less than attractive.

Two nights ago I had one of the worst nights I've had in a long time; I shivered so much from my fever that my jaw was sore the next morning. For whatever reason, I still decided to go to work but arrived looking menopausal with sweat teeming down my face. My boss sent me home and I slept for an impressive 21 hours.

I feel much better now, but have a new development: when I exhale or yawn, my fingers get very tingly. I did some research, and the Internets have told me that I have multiple sclerosis. Has this sensation happened to anyone else? (outside from eating a York Peppermint Pattie)

After my extensive research (read: Google), I looked around my apartment for clues why I might be sick.

First, in my bedroom I have one window that still has the air conditioner unit in it. This air conditioner is very old - it wasn't mine to begin with, it was my ex-boyfriend's, but I decided that if I had to pay for our sin apartment all by myself after he moved out, I could at least keep the AC. I'm sure it's seeping death/failed relationship particles into my room at night, but one of my best friends/resident male handymen recently moved back to Chicago. I'm usually not THIS girly, but I do need a man for a few things.

Then, there's my Brita filter. I have not changed this filter since I moved back to New York ... in April of last year. I've essentially been sifting dirty New York water through a dirty Brita filter into my body. No wonder my lungs feel like those of an 80-year-old smoker.

Since I was in my kitchen, I looked around for other signs. Here is a towel where my roommate and I dry all our dishes. Full disclosure, sometimes these dishes sit here for days not being put away. But, look at what we have here - mold!:

Then, I knew what I was going to find in my bathroom. I've been ignoring it for a long time - passive aggressively hoping someone else would buy a new shower curtain liner. I'm embarrassed to share this, but if I put it out there, maybe I'll change it:

I've taken the same passive aggressive approach with the Irish Spring in the shower, too. Whose IS that?
I can't keep spending money on NyQuil knock-offs and killing my lungs, especially if I refuse to pay my voodoo doctor more money to cure me when I know what I'm doing wrong. Tonight after work, I am going to clean my apartment head to toe to make sure I don't get sick anymore, because if you want something done ... wait until you're on your death bed and are finally forced to do it yourself.

I don't fit in at my gym.

Here are a few things the girl in the first row of treadmills thought about at the gym:
I hope they're playing my favorite House music re-mixed by DJ Clue.
There better be at least five guys who can bench press double my weight who will stare at me as I mount the treadmill.
I hope the booty shorts I decided to run in don't cover up my Playboy Bunny tattoo I had strategically placed on my lower back for such occasions.
The shirt I decided to wear looks really great on me, but you know, it looks better off of me and hanging on my treadmill.

Here are a few things I thought about at the gym:
Doesn't my iPod volume go up any higher to drain out this awful music?
Good lord, why couldn't every guy decide to skip the gym today, I'm sweating too much.
It's best to wear two sports bras at once to create the best pancake boob effect I can.
My droopy sweatpants and extra large Loveburger shirt are perfect to exercise in because you can't see any of my parts moving.