Oblivion

Wow. . . I just glanced over my shoulder into a mirror and realized, for the first time, that my hair reaches almost halfway down my back. How could I have gone the last few months without even noticing that? It always just seemed kind of normal to me, a little past shoulder-length, no big deal. I guess when you see a frontal reflection of yourself every day. . .

I've coveted hair of this length for years. Of course, knowing me, that probably means I'll be disillusioned and restless and in the mood to chop it all off tomorrow.

Yawn

Sick of writing half a dozen entries to a brick wall and never getting any comments except occasionally my own. BORING.

Think I should retire this thing?

Non-mistake or great idea?

Would anyone even notice?

Cuisine Review

So. . . I HAD A McDONALD'S HAPPY MEAL TODAY! Meaning, I GOT A TOY! Isn't this exciting?!

I don't know, maybe I'm going through this overly-whimsical-and-childlike phase, but McDonald's food (which I normally don't even like all that much) seems to taste about 15 times better when served in Happy Meal format. This applies even when they put entirely too much ketchup on the hamburger (making it look freakishly tourniquet-like) or when your age is, er, wayyy closer to 30 than to 20. Besides, I was just arbitrarily in the mood for it this afternoon. Fierce cravings that last for about three hours have a tendency not to make any sense. So sue me.

I must say, however, I wasn't crazy about the Orange Arctic Shake (which is apparently made of sherbet). This tasted too much like a Creamsicle, which shouldn't have been a surprise, but I guess I'd expected something with a little more kick to it -- maybe something with a splash of orange juice? In a nutshell, I like Shamrock Shakes better. Maybe some March, I'll get a Shamrock Shake and dip a couple of French fries in it if I'm feeling especially bold and daring.

OK, I'm done attempting to be a sort-of quasi restaurant critic now.

Did It!

Well, despite being the most out-of-shape person in the history of this planet, and despite having done almost ZERO preparation, I rode for Roswell! And as you can possibly guess from my sitting here and writing this right now, I am still alive!

One caveat: Instead of the 30 miles, I chose to do 20 miles. After my June 23 blog post, I realized that I didn't have to do the exact route for which I'd registered. (We'd mistakenly signed up to do 33 miles instead of 30, anyway, which I should have remembered!) It just plain worked out better because yesterday afternoon was insanely busy (as June 27 tends to be -- as you may recall from the earliest weeks of this blog). Besides, riding 20 miles enabled me to sleep an hour later in the morning (priorities, right?), and I just didn't think I was fit enough to ride 30 miles at this time. However, I'd like to train for the 30 miles for 2010. The 20 miles weren't all that tough, except that my hands and arms felt a little uncomfortable sometimes (and my butt was killing me afterwards!), so yes, I think I can do that.

Just a few notes:

• The rest stops did not have S'mores-flavored granola bars, after all, but instead provided bananas, apples, oranges, drinks, and peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches. (I must have predicted S'mores-flavored granola bars because they offer those at the Walk for Diabetes. Yeah, yeah, guilty as charged for name-dropping! I guess I've been around the block with some medical fund-raisers over the years.)
  
• I guzzled so much bottled water that it almost made me sick.
  
• There was a cute golden retriever who broke free from his home and galloped merrily out into the middle of the crowd, but luckily, his owner rescued him from getting run over by determined bikers.
  
• Some cops had to redirect cars that weren't where they were supposed to be.
  
• A couple of bikers apparently hurt themselves, maybe by crashing into each other, I don't know.
  
• I learned that it's not a good idea to hold onto a water bottle for the first four miles of the ride, because it really causes your hand to cramp up.
• Hearing yells of congratulations from volunteers, while approaching and crossing the finish line, was sweeeeeet. Made me feel a little like a movie star (albeit a sweaty, tired, frumpy one with a broken helmet strap and fried hair). So. . . yea!
  

Altogether, the 20 miles took me two and a half hours -- or actually, not quite that, because there were three rest stops and I spent a few minutes at each. There are about 75 other things I could report, but frankly, I'm tired and want to go to bed soon. I'll simply say, all in all, it was an awesome morning that left me feeling proud and accomplished. I look forward to doing it again next year!

The major problem with this weekend was that I needed all of today just to sit around lazily and recover from the nonstop running around in the sun yesterday. I guess that's par for the course in the summertime, though. Like how you have to do laundry three times as often because you routinely sweat all over your clothes, or how your fingernails grow at breakneck speed, or how your teacher friends' Facebook status updates have lately all consisted of countdowns to the last day of school, or how you can't walk even 10 steps without running into yet another GARAGE SALE!!

(Yeah. . . can you tell I heart garage sales? Because I totally, totally do.)

Now, here comes the utter insanity that is July. . .

Quoteworthy

Dad: "It's funny how Mom gets into these phases where she obsesses over something. Like, a few months ago, it was The Rolling Stones. Today, it's Michael Jackson."
Me: (blink)

Wow -- Michael Jackson. . . today? REALLY?

Crunch Time!

To put it mildly, I am feeling just a little bit concerned.

Looking back on my schooldays, I might liken this to facing a massive project or presentation due the next day, maybe a final exam covering a full semester's worth of material, and having done absolutely nothing to prepare for it yet.

In February, my now-ex-boyfriend started talking about doing the Ride for Roswell, and I naively leaped at the chance to join him. We finally went online during Memorial Day weekend and signed up for the 30-mile route. I figured, OK, there wasn't too much time left to train for it. . . but I would take total advantage of the month remaining. . . would bike religiously most nights, walk, lift weights, whatever I could do, and biking 30 miles on June 27 shouldn't be a problem at all.

On either June 3 or June 8, depending on one's interpretation, he told me I could kiss the single life hello. Again.

Not exactly the kind of event that makes most people jump for joy. Despite hearing a few statements of "You're dealing with it well!", I don't think I handled it too swimmingly at first. Temporarily gone were the ambitions of biking, improving my fitness, feeling healthier. I just didn't know what to do and didn't seem to care. For the first week or so after June 3, I was going blankly through the motions, coming down with relentless migraines (though that's nothing new), not wanting to sleep or eat, so forget about working out whatsoever! I eventually threw myself headlong into trying to buy a house, but that turned out to be a bust. That's OK. In the back of my mind, I probably would have seen it as "the rebound house" forever, even if I lived in it for 15 years and eventually forgot what his last name was. The ceiling would likely have crumbled onto my head in the first month as payback for my emotionally rash decision. I'll find a new home when I'm in a more composed, dignified state -- less frantic.

Anyway, that's been my June so far. Somehow, through all the confusion, it's vanished from my grasp more quickly than I could wipe sweat from my brow. And then, I realized today that it's June 23. . . and the Ride for Roswell is June 27, which (for the gravely math-challenged) is FOUR DAYS AWAY. . . and I haven't started getting ready for it yet. What should I do? Should I skip it and just stay home? But, no. I'm feeling too (stupidly) determined. We already paid the registration fee. I'm not about to avoid him and sit around like a sad, abandoned puppy dog with my tail between my legs. No, I'm going to be proud and courageous. . . and I'm going to venture boldly out there. . . and I bet 10 bucks I'm going to injure myself while attempting to bike 30 miles under these circumstances. . . but the important thing is that MY SPIRIT WILL NOT BE DEFEATED! (Much!)

I'm striving to remind myself of the positives, and the result is a mess of pure rationalization. First, of course, it's for a noble cause and all of that. Then. . . true, it may be 30 miles, but it's still biking, something that has always been fairly easy for me, or at least easier than walking long distances (post-biking butt soreness notwithstanding). I've adored riding my bike ever since I was a klutzy kid. I've done five-mile walks for diabetes and Cystic Fibrosis (and routinely used to take four- or five-hour walks with my college boyfriend) without even stretching beforehand, and those went fine, didn't they? The scenery will be gorgeous beyond words. There will be frequent rest stops with bottled water and idiosyncratic snacks such as S'mores-flavored granola bars. My bike is sparkling clean, the tires are pumped full of air, and the seat is hands-down the comfiest bike seat I've ever had.

But, but, but. . . on the other hand. . .

30 frigging miles.

Am I really equipped for this? I've biked seven miles at a time before -- maybe even 10 -- but 30? Am I crazy? What on earth was I thinking, agreeing to this? I mean, just look at me. I'm fat. I am lazy. My idea of strenuous exercise is reaching for a cereal box that has fallen into the very back of the kitchen cabinet. I haven't felt halfway-confident in a nightclub since April 2002. Last night (if you recall!), I picked up pizza for a late dinner. After a long winter of drinking too much orange-pineapple juice and playing too many Wordscraper games on the computer, I now have arms like marshmallows (except that my arms are paler) and hips that could sink a battleship. In seven months of dating the now-ex, I gained 20 pounds (10 of them in the first month alone) because he liked to go out for donuts on weekends, and I'm betting there are a few other reasons, but I don't want to delve into some headache-inducing self-therapy session in this blog. The point is, I, um, don't know that this is such a fantastic idea. I really don't. In fact, it might be rather hideous. Especially since it entails waking up early in the morning.

But -- like the stubborn, masochistic moron I am -- I refuse to back out. We'll see how it goes. Though I'm pretty sure this cannot end well, maybe I can still do some damage control in the next four days and minimize just how gruesome my horror story will be on Saturday night. I began biking for real this evening (yeah, slightly delayed reaction) and didn't bring a wristwatch with me. Had to adjust the handlebars constantly, because gripping them made my hands so numb, but it wasn't too traumatic otherwise. The whole time, I was thinking, "Wow. . . well, this isn't so difficult. I'm doing great! I bet, when I get home and check the clock, I'll have biked for an hour, easily!"

The verdict?

35 minutes altogether.

I am so doomed.

Pizza Paranoia

Hi! I am blogging from. . . (drumroll). . . A NEW DESK! (You thought I was going to say Spain or Russia or something remotely interesting, didn't you? Well, how very silly you were. Me -- travel somewhere fun? Please, I have a better chance of hearing Loverboy's "Working for the Weekend" without bursting out laughing.)

Really, though, I'm amazed by how much giddier I feel over here. I realize this post is about to turn rather feng-shui-infomercial-esque in tone, but I was crazy sick of the office setup I had before. Sometimes I would just slump over and stare blankly at the computer screen for hours, never accomplishing anything except, oh, making my posture even worse. Now, my energy levels are through the roof, to the extent that I can barely focus on this because I keep rising from my chair and running around like Speedy Gonzalez on a Frosted Flakes high.

Moving my computer has somehow inspired me to throw out four candles and about as many expired coupons, wash my dry-erase board (which had displayed the same to-do list since January 31), ditch an annoying floor lamp that hadn't worked in at least a year, contemplate selling the mini-stepper that wasted my money from day one. . . YAY! (Note: As you see, even just contemplating selling something pointless is a big deal for me. So sad, but so true. Give me props for at least letting the notion creep unfettered into my mind, won't ya?)

One drawback of dusting off and rearranging everything was that I, um, apparently lost "something" (according to my sister's diagnosis) that I kind of need for hooking up the printer. Yeah. . . really specific description, I know. But anyway, whatever the heck it is, it's nowhere to be seen. Therefore, the printer is currently a piece of junk that takes up space. Therefore, my desk is currently printer-less. No worries, though. The printer must be at least a bajillion (OK -- 10) years old, and I was seldom printing anything, anyway. Yay (yes, another "yay") for going paperless! Save the trees! Not just that, but HUG them! Get your butt out there and wrap your arms around the first tree you see! Embrace the living hell out of it until the blessed sun goes down! All right, I'm done with my I'd-like-to-teach-the-world-to-sing hippie moment now.

Tonight, I ordered pizza merely 10 minutes before the pizzeria closed. Lest you think I'm a completely heartless, unfeeling jerk who enjoys torturing people, I was not aware of this important plot development when I called. (I've worked in food service before, albeit briefly. I know full well the pain of being scolded for clocking out late because some family thought it would be a great idea to order eight hot dogs five minutes before the snack bar closed, and right after I'd finished cleaning up the whole place.) The girl took my order, first name, phone number, everything, then told me I had only 10 minutes to come pick it up. I sort of panicked at that moment (wondering if I should cancel my order?), then guiltily rushed over there with visions of Very Ticked-Off Pizza Workers dancing in my head. (I mean the visions were dancing, not the pizza workers, whom I'm guessing were too angry and petulant to dance.)

When I arrived about seven minutes after closing time (not that I obsessed over the clock in the car or anything!), the girl behind the counter gave me a Look of Death as she collected the money. While watching the cooks scrambling to sweep up in the back, I felt as if I should have some incriminating sign pinned to my forehead, like a scarlet letter. Dammit. . . I'd held them up. They would now be punching out late from their shifts and losing a valuable 15-some minutes of sleeping or drinking beer or whatever it is they do after work. They'd probably all erupted into a fit of yelling and curse words when I'd chosen such a wildly unfortunate time to phone in my order. OH, NO. . . the horror! I was now officially Chett from the end of the movie "Waiting"! Only with a lower salary!

"I am never gonna live this down," I told myself. I swear I felt such remorse, I nearly offered to make it up to the girl by someday being a surrogate mom for her first child. While walking through the parking lot afterwards (and hanging my head in abject shame), I saw someone sitting in a car, evidently waiting to pick up one of the employees. I half-expected that person to hurl rotten fruit at my vehicle, or at least shout out the window, "Hey, DUNCE (though, in my imagination, "dunce" wasn't exactly the word that the person used), I HOPE THAT PIZZA IS MEDICALLY NECESSARY FOR KEEPING SOMEONE ALIVE! Like, SOMEONE WHO HASN'T EATEN IN ABOUT, OH, 16 DAYS!! Are ya HAPPY!?"

What -- melodramatic. . . ME? Why, no. Of course not. Never!

Somehow, miraculously, the pizza and I made it home unscathed. What's more, I now am the wiser for this experience, having learned that this particular pizza place closes at 10:00 on Monday nights. Thank goodness I have survived to pass that crucial, life-changing message on to the next generation.

By the way, if you haven't seen the movie "Waiting," you should totally see it. Let's just say you will never feel 100% trusting towards an effusively gushy, hyper-friendly waitress EVER AGAIN.