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

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.

This is the story of my red, right ankle.

I've re-injured my ankle.
Last time I hurt it, I was doing laundry, fell down (three) stairs and launched into a major panic attack that I was going to die alone at the bottom of the stairs. This time, I hurt it by exhibiting behavior in preparation for dying alone: I was desperately trying to get my cat to pay attention to me.
I got home to California on Wednesday and was alone in my parents' apartment for a few days. My mom and sister were in Colorado, my brother hadn't made it to the West Coast yet, and my dad was working during the day.
So, while catching up on my Maury one morning, I leaned forward on the bed and tried to reach the family cat, Jelly Bean (note: I did NOT name her). As I was commanding the feline to "look over here" and "why don't you love me? I feed you!" I leaned back on my legs and all my weight hit my right ankle strangely and I heard that familiar pop I heard last time.
Many hours later, when my mom and sister came home, I started to whine that my foot hurt - but mostly to get that attention my jerk of a cat was denying me earlier. My mom and sister told me I had a contusion; I trust their knowledge as they are an on-disability nurse and a frequent patient, respectively.
My mom wrapped me up, iced me down and smoothed my hair. Despite asking for an amputation last night, I think I'm going to live ... and not die alone.

These Boots are Made for Sulking

I recently bought a pair of boots that I thought only existed in my dreams. I wanted a brown, slouchy, cowboy-esque pair that would last through the seasons and I could walk in them all day without any pain.
I found them last weekend, wore them out on Saturday for a Ladies Who Munch dinner with nothing but supreme comfort. At work today, I paired them with a cute black dress and a blue button up shirt - marveling at my warm calves.

Stepping out of the bathroom at work, my heel caught on the tiles and I stepped forward one inch lower than I had started out. The heel was sliced in half; the cleanest break I'd ever seen from a shoe.

I'm so sad. But, at least I still have my drawer 'o shoes at work to choose a new pair from:

Bathroom etiquette

I've had issues with my work bathroom before.

I'm finally going in there again, but there is this girl who always uses the middle stall to go number 2, which makes it very uncomfortable in a three-stall bathroom. I'd imagine, for boys, it's similar to what happens when someone stands right next to you at the urinal.

I know it's the same girl because she has the WORST taste in footwear: all her shoes look rather hooker-ish (except for her Baby Phat shoes, I loves Baby Phat footwear). Of course, every time I go into the bathroom and there's someone in the middle stall I have to peek at the feet. It's her EVERY TIME. I quietly grimace and shake my fist and the pee anxiety sets in.

Without water running or someone else peeing I totally freeze up. I need encouragement. It becomes even more of a problem with someone is sitting right next to me probably going through the same anxiety as me - only, she's trying not to fart, probably.

So, my message is, don't use the middle stall if you're in a three-stall situation. Give your fellow pee-mate some privacy in an already uncomfortable situation. Oh, and also, stop wearing hooker shoes to work.