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Today my sister Weenie ran her first ever 5K, and I went along for the ride. She thinks we sucked because we were poned by a paraplegic, countless chubby chicks and a 78-year-old liver spot disguised as a man, but I maintain that this was one of my best races EVER.
I was a tad bit concerned when I arrived at Weenie’s house this morning. She was dressed, you see, in cotton capris, a cotton tank and flip flops. (But at least she wasn’t wearing cargo shorts, so she’s got SOME sense.) She ditched the flip flops almost immediately, but even if she hadn’t she would not have been wearing the oddest footwear today. That’s because we met a dude wearing those crazy Vibram FiveFinger “shoes”. Weenie engaged this guy in discussion, but I mostly just eyed his monster feet with suspicion.
The race volunteers were especially helpful and nice, and they let us trade our oversized shirts for smaller sizes. Did I mention that they were tech shirts? Score!! We attached our chips, and headed to the portapotties. Weenie swore she didn’t actually need the portapotties, but I badgered and nagged her into it, because if I have to sit on the congealed shit of strangers, then so, too, should she. (And, speaking of chips it has just now occurred to me – How the hell does Mr. Monster Feet attach his race chip, what with his utter and complete lack of SHOE LACES!?!? I’m seriously thinking that monsters should probably not register for human races.)
We started out in the way, way back and we pretty much stayed there throughout the race. Our first mile (11:11) was not too shabby, especially for a non-runner who just quit smoking one week before. Soon after that, though, Weenie developed a painful cramp which just would not go away. I continued babbling away like an idiot, because it always seems that if I do all the talking then the afflicted party can be released of conversational responsibility, and just focus on running. Either that, or I’m just a clueless, freakin’ motormouth. When I was not boring/irritating Weenie with countless, pointless stories, I was screaming to random strangers and race volunteers, “This is my sister!! It’s her first race ever!! Isn’t she AWESOME??!!” Mostly they humored us.
The route was very, very flat with just one exception. There was a minor hill early on, and we soon came upon the lone wheelchair racer struggling to climb the hill. Weenie and I ran past him, but she felt as if we should go back to offer assistance. I was not so sure. While I’m generally all about helping my fellow man (Okay – not really), I absolutely did not want to rob this man of his dignity or come across as condescending: “Oh, you poor, pathetic cripple. Let me help you, you sad sham of a man.” As I struggled with this moral dilemma, another group of runners offered the man assistance, which he politely but firmly declined. “Good for you!” I thought to myself. “Way to maintain your dignity and independence!” Later, though, my good will towards this man evaporated when I learned that he beat us by SEVEN MINUTES. We should have disabled that gimp’s wheelchair when we had the chance.
We hit the second mile marker at 24:35, and I remember thinking that all those runners who were already in BETTER not be eating all the bagels. To distract myself from the possibility of a bagel-less future I yelled out to another race volunteer, “This is my sister!! It’s her first race ever!! Isn’t she AWESOME??!!” The volunteer responded, “That’s GREAT! I bet she catches the bug!!”
It was then that Weenie became crazed with hysteria. “Bug??!! AHHHH!!! What bug? I don’t want some freakin’ BUG! GodDAMN it – you never told me about any BUG!!” (Have I mentioned that Weenie is a bit of a hypochondriac? Well, she is. After her massively oversized biceps it is her most defining characteristic.) All the while that Weenie is shrieking in bug-induced terror she is swiping at her body, frantically checking for signs of rash, fever, growths or discharge. I let her panic for a bit, only because it was funny as hell, and then I assured her that it is only the running bug and not some blood borne pathogen. (Poor naive Weenie. She has no clue that the nastiest, deadliest Third World bug out there is preferable to contracting the running bug.)
As we neared the third mile marker, we saw just one runner behind us. It was this 60-something woman with a comically misshapen ass that we’d noticed before the race. We began running again, determined not to be behind this woman. We managed to beat her, but not by much, and we never did catch the SEVENTY-EIGHT year old shuffling man in front of us. That geriatric could MOVE.
We cheered for ourselves as we crossed the finish line in 39:38. We are easily impressed.
Race Stats: (Don’t laugh at me. I’ll know if you did, and I’ll come for you.)
39:38
12:46 pace
118/125 total runners
58/62 females
13/13 age group
This is my PW 5K, but only in terms of an actual finish time. In many regards it was a PR, for sure. It was nice to be reminded that running can be FUN – that one can talk and laugh and socialize and have a pleasant experience. Thanks for running with me, Weenie! I hope you caught the bug!
PS: As a bit of a running masochist, I didn’t feel sufficiently broken down and abused at the end of this race, so I went to Pollutadaga Lake Park on the way home and ran 12 more. Now I am all fucked up. And loving it.
Yearly mileage: 965
Just in case you thought I was kidding regarding that whole “Vile Abandoner” printed in gel on an ice cream cake…I never kid about ice cream cake. Or abandonment, for that matter:
By the way, Teh GirlMoose STILL has not returned. But what can one expect from such a vile abandoner, hmm? It’s okay, though, because I have since turned her bedroom into my very own gym. I’ve got a yoga mat and a ball up there, and I can finally do yoga in peace without giving Mr. Moose any peculiar ideas. He’s of the opinion that yoga poses exist solely to provide greater access to my genital region. Whereas we all know that such poses exist solely to leave one feeling bitter and disappointed over their lost youth and flexibility.
Yearly mileage: 950
Last year a terrible tragedy occurred in the Moose Family. It left me profoundly grief stricken and devastated. Never before had I felt such grief or mourned so much. And then I went and blogged about it, hoping to score some sympathy, but you people were less than forthcoming. Yeah, that’s right – I just called you people “you people.” Ha! That’s what you get for withholding the compassion when I needed it most. Kimcheegirl (“Teh Artist formerly Known as L.”) was my ONLY commenter. She was good for a sad face, and so she alone has avoided my wrath.
Alright, alright. Quit yer whining. We moose are not terribly wrathful beasts, and so I’m willing to give you all a second chance. That’s because the tragedy of August 2008 has reoccurred.
Yup. It’s true. Teh GirlMoose has abandoned us yet again. Seems that SOME PEOPLE are such slackers that they are unable to obtain a bachelors degree in one year. WTF, GirlMoose? Last August when you turned your back on the family to attend Teh State University of Just Far Enough Away to Dissuade Regular Parental Visits, we had no IDEA that you’d make a habit of it. But now you’ve gone and done it AGAIN. We raised you better than this.
We likely won’t see teh GirlMoose again until Thanksgiving, and so yesterday we planned a “family fun” day. We ate our faces off at Golive Arden, we went to see “Binglorious Asterds”, and then we stopped by Carvel for a tasty ice cream cake. We had the message “Vile Abandoner” printed in delicious green icing across the top, but teh GirlMoose was unmoved. She still left us.
I did not run today, but my nose sure did. Regarding that aforementioned sympathy? Bring it on…
Yesterday I ran with my sister, Weenie the Lethargic Smoker, for the first time. We’re training for the 5K that we’ll run this Sunday, and it was Weenie’s first ever experience as a runner. We went six blocks, and she did an AWESOME job, especially given the fact that she goes 525-pounds and smokes like a chimney. Her major complaint? Not shortness of breath, sore quads or imminent heart failure, but “Why can’t I just wear my flip flops?” As if flip flops could adequately support the weight of such a nicotine-stained heifer. Gawd!
I jest, of course. Although she is a smoker she’s cut waaay back, nearly to the point of quitting completely. And I may be off on the weight estimate by about, oh, maybe 400 pounds or so. She is actually a tiny waif of a girl, except for her arms which are freakishly large and muscular. Here is one of my favorite pictures of her: 
Yup, that’s Weenie, my beloved baby sister. Or maybe it’s some random ‘roid addict with ambiguous genitalia, I can’t be sure. (It’s definitely NOT Vanilla, because if it was we’d see the telltale sign of cargo shorts hiked up beneath his armpits.)
Now while Weenie has little running experience, she does have those massive guns, and so I’ve devised a fantastic race strategy. When her little chicken legs get tired out I’ll toss her to the ground, grab her by her ankles and wheelbarrow race us to the finish line. Her bulging biceps can probably do a six minute mile, easy. And maybe while she’s down there all close to the road she can find some discarded old cigarette butts for after the race.
We are totally gonna kick some butt on Sunday.
Yearly mileage: 937
Ha! You sneaky bastards. I KNEW I’d find you here, and I know, too, that I was NOT your first choice. Admit it – you’re only reading this blog because your favorite bloggers have all abandoned you. Glaven is with Teh Heisenfambly visiting Teh Great Concavity. Xenia’s off happily digging up the past. The Nitmos Clan is vacationing, probably at LegoLand or LlamaLand or some such place, while Vanilla is off frantically acquiring more cargo shorts. I’ll try not to be bitter that I’m on your B-list, but it won’t be easy.
So sometimes running proves to be quite profitable, and today was one of those days. I’m doing a five-miler this morning, listening to “Sunday Bloody Sunday” and wondering how Bono got so freakin’ smart. Because even though it’s not actually Sunday, it was Sunday just yesterday. And I AM absurdly bloody, what with my uterine effluvium and all. And, NO, you silly ignoramus – when Bono wrote that song he was most decidedly referring to MY uterine sloughing, and NOT to The Troubles in Ireland. Jeesh. So there I am all, “Wow. I just love that Bono. I sure wish he was my gynecologist” when – kazowie!! – I see some cash on the side of the road.
I often find money when I run, but it’s almost always coins. This time, though, it’s a wad of bills, so I’m giddy with excitement. I pick up the money and see that it is five one dollar bills. Score!! I start imagining what I can do with such a vast sum of money – $5 Footlong, anyone? – but before too long I remember a movie that Mr. Moose and I just watched, and that changes everything.
In this movie, “A Simple Plan”, three people discover 4.4 million dollars in the middle of nowhere. They should live happily ever after but each character suffers from some troubling combination of paranoia, fucktardedness and drunkeness, and so of course it all blows up in their faces. A massive fail fest ensues, with one character blowing away his best friend before being shot by his own brother. Who then - fucktard that he is - BURNS UP ALL THE MONEY. Did I mention that these characters were fucktarded? And that one third of all characters were named Billy Bob Thornton? Yeah…
I instantly see the similarities between my situation and that which was portrayed in the movie, and I grow terrified. Shit! What if my brother shoots me in the back? What if I shoot him in the back? What if I bludegoen a kindly old snowmobile driving geezer, then shove his carcass in a frozen river? What if the mafia guy with dead snake eyes poses as an FBI agent and toys with me before shooting the beloved small town sheriff/neighbor/friend right in front of me? I HATE when that happens!! My paranoia grows exponentially and also my fucktardedness. At least I’m sober, though, so that’s a good thing.
The subtitle for “A Simple Plan” is “Sometimes good people do evil things.” So when the Amish dude approaches me in his horse and buggy, I freeze in terror. Sure, he LOOKS wholesome and good, what with his straw hat, his douchey, angular haircut and his Amish-y suspenders, but I know better. He’s got jars and jars of preserves in his buggy, as well as corn and zucchini. I know he’d gladly give it all up, though, for a $5 Footlong. This sly Amish dude is going to murder me, I’m sure of it. And he’ll do it all weird, too, probably smothering me with a quilt or beating me with an exquisitely crafted chair.
I surreptitiously pat my treasure, which I have hidden deep within my Gu pocket. (And I can only get away with writing the phrase “deep within my Gu pocket” because teh Glaven is far, far away at teh Great Concavity. The rest of you sane, nonperverted people know that I refer to the small inner pocket in my running shorts, yes? The one that is just the right size to hold one Gu packet, yes? I am NOT referring to my vajango here, as I rarely use that for storage purposes. Except when crossing the border.)
I nervously say “Good morning ” to my would-be killer, then brace myself, waiting for his attack. He nods serenely and continues on his way. The Amish are wily like that.
I finish the rest of my run without incident, but my paranoia level is through the roof. I decide that finding this $5 is the worst thing that has ever happened to me. And so I burn it up and off my brother. The End.
Yearly mileage: 931
Ambiguous Genitalia…Would that not be the best punk rock band name EVER? I would totally buy any CD by such a band, even if the only instruments they could play were their own moist sphincters. Seems, though, that ambiguous genitalia might have more to do with running, and less to do with amusingly named imaginary bands…
At the 1932 Olympics a female Polish runner named Stanislawa Walasiewicz won gold in the 100. It was later determined that said runner had “ambiguous genitalia”. Now, Caster Semenya, a female South African runner, just won gold at the World Champions in Berlin. Seems that she, too, is now undergoing scrutiny. Her “muscular build” and “deep voice” have caused some to question her gender, and now testing is being conducted to determine whether she is actually female. Her former school master is reported as saying that until Caster was in the eleventh grade he was under the impression that she was a male. I’m thinking she’s gotta be a dude, and here’s my hard core, concrete, incontrovertible evidence: she’s got “semen” in her surname. No woman would tolerate such a craptastic, taunt-inspiring surname. Also, I’m pretty sure that she’s wearing long shorts in that photo to ensure that her scrotum stays hidden.
I’ve now decided that each and every woman who beats me in a race MUST have ambiguous genitalia. That bee-yatch who I just could not catch at the 5K last night? DEFINITELY a dude. I demand gender determination testing.
The weekly fun runs ended last night with the traditional “War Along The Shore”. Runners form teams of three and compete against other teams in one of three divisions: Open, Masters and Family. Each runner runs the same 5K route, and finish times are totaled and averaged to determine the winning team. Each team must have at least one female, so I was kinda hoping that I’d have lots of men fighting over me.
In my fantasy I’m being eyeballed by dozens of hot runner men. They eye me hungrily and lick their lips. The boldest of the two come towards me, eager to stake their claim. Next thing I know, I’m sandwiched betwixt these two hot, sweaty runner men. I can smell the testosterone as they face off with one another.
“She’s mine. Back off,” says the one who looks like Denzel Washington. His muscles ripple menacingly.
“Think again. She belongs to me,” responds the Brad Pitt look-alike.
I maintain my haughty, aloof exterior but am inwardly swooning. I feel thankful that I’m wearing moisture wicking shorts.
Surprisingly enough, the aformentioned scenario is almost EXACTLY how things played out. Only instead of attracting tons of attention, I actually attracted NO attention. And instead of men eager to team up with me, I was actually shunned and reviled.
So I teamed up in the Open division with Teh Boy Moose and Teh Nemesis. Yup, that’s right – me, my son and the ten-year-old running prodigy who I might have referred to as a “mama’s boy” or possibly a “fagelah” on this here blog. Teh Nemesis looked decidedly uncomfortable with the whole arrangement, but before he could raise any objections or nurse from his mama, the gun sounded and off we ran.
There were some amazingly good runners out last night, and the competition was just fierce. I ran hard, eager to put my lame performance at Saturday’s 15K behind me. It was really hot and humid, but I was determined to not be the weakest link in my team, so I pushed on. I saw Teh Boy and Teh Nemesis after the turnaround, and I knew our finish time would not be good. Teh Nemesis was over a minute behind me, while ordinarily we are very closely matched. Damn!! But this is what happens when one aligns oneself with the frail and prepubescent.
I ran as hard as I could, and really gave it my all at the end. I passed two guys at the end but try as I might I just could not catch the 40-something woman just ahead of me. I finished in 23:14, which is 51 seconds off my 5K PR, then I waited for Teh Boy and Teh Nemesis. Nemesis finished in 26:20, with Teh Boy Moose right on his tail at 26:26.
Our total time was pretty failtastic given the quality of the runners in the Open division. We placed 23rd out of 34 teams. There were prizes for all, but by the time they worked their way down to TWENTY-THIRD, the good stuff was gone and all we got were water bottles. Too bad Teh Nemesis is not yet weaned and so can not make use of his prize.
Yearly mileage: 912
By the way, there’s a new runner-blogger out there, and he’s under the mistaken impression that I am his only reader. It is not right for one lazy, indolent moose to have the sole responsibility of reading and commenting, so for dog’s sake help me out. You’ll like him, I swear, and if you don’t you can always have fun messin’ with him because his nickname is…get this…NEEDLE DICK!!! So head on over and show him some love…or some heckling…whichever. (Sorry, Needle, I had to do it.)
I woke up this morning stuck to Mr. Moose. And it wasn’t even that good kind of “stuck”, the kind comprised of sticky love juice and errant, twisted pubes which have formed a Super Glue-like substance overnight. Nope, this was just plain ol’ heat/humidity/muggy stuck, and I HATE when that happens.
I’m telling you this, of course, to lay the foundation for my monumental fail at today’s Race Around the River 15K. I perform craptastically in the heat, and today was no exception.
BoyMoose and I picked up our race packets and were immediately instructed to fill out the emergency contact information on the back of our bibs. And these race volunteers were not playing around. One stood over me as I dutifully wrote down my sister’s name and phone number. (Weenie is a great sister. She would TOTALLY claim my stinking, unconscious carcass and bring me back to life. Mr. Moose, though? Playing WarHammer with Canadian D. today, so he’d likely let me linger for awhile before he could tear himself away from the Orcs and Goblins. And, no, Glaven,“orcs” and “goblins” are not euphamisms for D.’s man junk. At least, I don’t think so. But I could be mistaken, because who KNOWS what crazy word the Canadians have for their naughty bits. Pamplemouuse, maybe?)
I ran the first mile in 7:15 which was just plain foolish given the heat. It was SO hard to slow down, though, because I could see the two leading females just ahead of me. One is Beth, a very, very fast local runner who wins most every race. She’s so much faster than me that she doesn’t even make a very good nemesis, because I always have been of the opinion that a quality nemesis is someone that you can maybe, possibly beat on rare occassion. The other lead female runner was unfamiliar to me. She was ridiculously muscular and buff as hell, and it took just one glance of her before the race to know she’d easily kick my ass. I’m not saying she’s a herm like Lady Gaga, but only because I think he/she might beat me to death with her turgid orc-goblin.
Until Mile 3, I briefly entertained the notion that I could be third overall female. And then reality set in. The heat was just killing me. There were water stops at every mile, plus I was carrying my Camelbak which I refilled twice, but it was not enough. Near Mile 5 I saw the fire station and felt a tiny bit of hope, because the fire fighters put out a large sprinkler system for the runners. It was SO, SO, SO nice. The water was cool and wonderful, and I ran right through the middle of it so as to get maximum soaking value. It was the best water ever, like running through the ejaculate of God. I wanted to rub it all over me and swallow as much as I could. Mmmm…tasty God goo.
There were hills and plenty of ‘em. I told myself, “Hills? Screw that! You ran up MOUNTAINS at the Mount Misery 10-Miler. You finished 10 mountainous miles in 1:19, so 9.3 hilly miles is a piece of cake. You did this very run last year in 1:13, and you’re gonna do it again today, too!” And then I promptly ignored myself.
I walked up lots of hills, and got passed by dozens of runners. And I didn’t even give much of a shit. “You people can grab a spoon and EAT MY ASS!”, I said to myself. (Because I’m very classy like that.) I convinced myself that I’d catch up with those that passed me, but of course I never did. At one point I saw Linda, this awesome woman who I met at the Hudson Mohawk River Marathon. (She always calls me her “angel”, and credits the few miles we ran together for helping her to finally BQ after dozens of previous attempts. She’s addled, of course, because I only stuck with her for a few miles, then promptly ditched her old, withered ass when I realized that her BQ time was much slower than my own.) Linda was with a buddy and as she passed me on the hill today she said, “Run with us! You can do it!” I declined her kind offer, told her how well she was doing and cheerfully waved her on. Then promptly cursed her for abandoning me. Because didn’t I give that old bitch a BQ? And THIS is how she repays me?? Freakin’ ingrate.
I thought that this race and my misery would NEVER end, but it finally did. I seriously almost cried at the finish line, that’s how relieved I was to finally be through. My time? A dismal 1:22, or NINE MINUTES slower than the year before. If I keep this up, soon I’ll be as slow as this guy. And that will never do.
Despite my dismal performance I won a second place age group medal, and so did Teh Boy Moose. (He finished the 5K in 26:26. Go, Boy Moose!) We’re big cornballs, so we wore our medals home, then rifled through our goody bags like crazed, frantic trick-or-treaters. It was not a craptastic bag, as it contained the following: Teeth whitening strips, granola bars, pony tail holders, gum and pedometers.
I’m waaaay too exhausted to think about dinner today, so it looks like it’s gonna be Nature Valley Fruit ‘n Nut granola bars.
Yearly mileage: 900
Exactly one year ago, I wrote this touching homage to my magnificent Mr. Moose. If I had any decency or creativity at all I’d write a new “Happy Moosiversary” tribute. But I am one lazy beeyatch. Also, it’s good to recycle, yes? I wouldn’t want to be responsible for hundreds of coffee ground-covered, onion skin-stinking words just sitting in a landfill somewhere. That wouldn’t be responsible of me, and it might just inspire Captain Planet to kick my polluting ass. So kindly reread this, but substitute “twenty-first” for “twentieth”.
Many, many years ago today, Mr.Moose and I were joined together in holy matrimoosey. I’ll not tell you exactly how many years, but I will offer some helpful gift suggestions: fine china (or even a package of some cheap ass Chinet paper plates), Chinese food (but NOT egg rolls, ’cause it’s just plain wrong to create something that looks so good, but that is stuffed with vile, vile, vomit-inducing cabbage), consumer electronics (’cause they’re all made in…China), or an all expenses paid trip to Beijing. OK, OK…If you’re dense, deliberately obtuse or just hung over, I’ll spell it out for you: It’s our 20th. The traditional gift is china. We’ll be expecting, post haste, delivery of the aforementioned gifts. Monetary tokens of your esteem, in increments of twenty, will also be deemed acceptable.
Poor, poor Mr.Moose, ’cause he never signed up for any of this. Twenty years ago, I was NOT a runner. Twenty years ago, I believed runners were just a leetle bit wacky. I engaged in NO sport or exercise, and as a result I was a much better smelling individual. Twenty years ago, all of my veins were safely contained on the inside of my body. Now, poor Mr.Moose must deal not only with me, but also with Veinessa, my sentient and often belligerent varicose vein. She’s frequently cranky, and a known bed hog so it’s best not to incur her wrath. Twenty years ago, I ate a rich and varied diet. Now, I eschew anything that could possibly end up half digested in my pants the next day. As a result, Mr.Moose and the calves might be a wee bit vitamin deficient, ’cause if I’m not eating salad, then no one is eating salad. Twenty years ago, I owned some underwear, lacy and black, that highlighted my naughty bits. Now my goal is not to lift and separate, but to smoosh, bind and wick away moisture. Poor, poor Mr.Moose.
They say that there are circumstances that can really test a marriage – a sick child, job loss, relocation, financial difficulties. I maintain that a mediocre runner who insanely believes that she can somehow BQ is the biggest test of all. Thank you, Mr.Moose, for supporting and encouraging my dreams, for tolerating my stanks, and for always climbing back into bed after Veinessa pitches you out. I love you, love you, love you from my hooves up to my antlers.
Despite my shameless begging, not one of you miserly readers forked over a moosiversary gift last year, so I’m not expecting much this year, either. It seems that Mr. Moose and I will have to provide our own gifts, which is just plain WRONG. We kind of don’t DO anniversary gifts, in memory of the early years of our marriage when money was tight and extras were just not possible. (And by “extras”, I mean things like intact undergarments, citrus fruits, a box spring, bulge-free canned goods and two-ply toilet paper.)
I don’t need no steenkin’ gifts, though. Did you know that Mr. Moose taught me to drive? (Although NOT on a standard transmission vehicle, because I just can’t be taught.) Did you know that he saw me through chicken pox when I was 16-years-old, and that he pretended my oozing, dripping leperous flesh was perfectly beautiful? Did you know that he put this “nontraditional student” through college and grad school, too, when I returned as a neurotic, anxious, self-doubting bundle of nerves? Were you aware that he turned a structurally sound but horrifically outdated/unattractive dwelling into our dream home? (Well, except for the hideous kitchen) Did you know that he taught our exceptional moose calves to always respect themselves and other people, and to be kind and good and capable? Were you aware that when he affectionately reminisces about my deceased dad, I feel blessed to have found someone who recognized the character and worth of a flawed man? Did you know that everyday for 21 years I have known for a fact that I’ve someone in my corner who will protect me and challenge me and respect me and grow with me?
So I definitely don’t need a gift.
My typical running route brings me past the home of Frostbugg’s one and only hippie. She’s right outta Woodstock, with the groovy sundress, the faded tattoos and the dirty bare feet. (Damn. I just wrote “groovy”. I now feel as old as Teh Glaven.) I don’t know Anne well, but my initial impression is that she’s a really cool person. She quilts and weaves baskets, and she’s always good for a friendly wave and a chipper “hello” as I run by her house. She’s got this fantastic front yard, which is just a riotous garden gone wild. No lawn at all, just flowers and vegetables and tall arbors made of grapevines. She’s got another arbor leading into the backyard, and it’s just lush with climbing bean plants . The backyard garden is much more secluded, and I kinda suspect that it’s home to plants other than flowers and vegetables. Anne is a bit of a burnout.
Today as I ran past, Anne yelled to me about her sister who has just begun a 60-mile walk to raise money for breast cancer research. I’m kinda interested, but not nearly as interested as I am in just continuing my run It’s a crazy muggy day, and I’m just wanting to pound out four or five miles before heading home. Anne is not so easy to brush off, however. She starts telling me about this technique that her sister uses to help her focus on her long walks, and she insists on teaching me this same technique for my running. And I’m telling you, there is absolutely no dissuading a hippie burnout from disseminating New Age-y nonsense. I reluctantly turn off both Vic and my iPod and settle in for the long haul.
Anne tells me to imagine a string of light coming from my belly button and connected to a distant object in the horizon. I’m to visualize running into the distance, being pulled by my light string. As I reach each object, I should pick out a new one and continue with the visualization. This should allow me to better manage pain and discomfort, and to focus on reaching my goal. Well alrighty then, Anne of Weed Gables.
Up to this point, Anne hasn’t completely creeped me out. I sometimes actually use visualization, although it’s never such “one with the universe”-y crapola. (Usually I like to visualize all women in my age group being plagued by simultaneous, debilitating hamstring pulls. I alone am spared, and I float gracefully over the finish line, to the cheers of my adoring fans. Unlike in real life, my shorts are remarkably unsoiled and I am attractively flushed and dewy. Veinessa has retracted into my thigh where she belongs, and my musculature is just exquisite. Oh, and my butt looks hot, too. Hey – fuck you. It’s MY visualization.)
Anne is not done, however. Next, she tells me how she corrected her sister’s faulty gait:
“My sister used to walk so straight, you know?”
“Huh?”
“You know. So straight and upright. And that’s not good or you. It’s just NOT.”
“It’s not? Are you sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure. You have to lead with your womanly power parts.”
(Mentally, so that Anne does not kill me, grind up my bones and use me to fertilize her marijuana plants) “Womanly power parts?? AAAAGGGHHHH!!!!”
Then, and I only wish I was kidding here, Anne constructs a triangle using both thumbs and pointy fingers, and uses said triangle to frame her dirty, hippie vagina. Yeah.
“You have to lead with you feminine essence. Think about it!! Think about how strippers and burlesque dancers walk. They put it right out there.”
Anne demonstrates as we walk down the road together. Her pudenda is ahead of us both, by about a quarter of a mile. I’m gonna beat smart Xenia to the punch by telling you all that “pudenda” comes from the Latin for “shame”. And ashamed is kinda how I’m feeling. ‘Cause I’m totally being shown up by a sixty-year-old mud-caked burnout. Anne is working it, people. She’s strutting her stuff, and I’m starting to wish I had some bills ’cause I’d totally be into a buck tuck right about now. Daaamn – she is one hot hippie.
I’m still not certain why Anne shared with me her secrets about the womanly power parts. I don’t see how it applies to running, because if I tried to do that while running, I’d surely sprain my vulva. Also, it would be SO embarrassing if my pudenda crossed the finish line before me. I hate when that happens.
Yearly mileage: 882
