Feelin' fine, everybody. Just flippin' fine.
The knee is still not better, and Boston is looking less and less likely by the day. Pain = gone, clicking = still there, probably exacerbated by over-vigorous elliptical-ing. So. No more gym for a while.
In a way, it’s a little bit of a relief to be giving the gym the middle finger for the next couple of weeks. The elliptical machines had been provoking what I would call a mild homicidal rage in recent weeks. Though this was worsened by middle-aged fellow who saw me wearing a race shirt and had thus started striking up conversations about how “the elliptical is so much better for you than running, you know.” Oh, really? How so? I thought. But instead I just palmed his face and calmly continued with my lat pull-downs.
I mean, we’ll survive. We’re just setting our sights on a new race. A 50-mile race. Because as they always say — when life hands you lemons and runner’s knee, take a big sour chomp and plan a 50-miler. Because that makes sense.
The bottom line here: a few of you wonderful readers have been asking, “Where are the new posts? Where are you?”
Now you have your answer: Crazytown.
Never been to Crazytown? Allow me to tell you what life is like here:
We shuffle around the house all weekend in our orange Jagermeister beater, oversized Clippers shorts, and bright-coral-and-turquoise-striped knee socks, clutching a Costco-king-sized bag of raisins in one hand and a 2-liter Diet Coke in the other.
“How’s the knee?” says well-intentioned roommate.
In Crazytown, we react to this by bursting into tears and burying our face in the raisin feedbag.
Why raisins?, you ask? Well, why not, you little turd?
Perhaps the most prominent feature of residency in Crazytown is severe emotional volatility. This can pop up at any time, and is often alleviated by a tearful call to Mom and Dad (a.k.a. The Nicest People Ever), who have no idea how to react, because they’ve gone cheerfully without running for 3 decades, whereas less than 3 weeks without running turns their daughter into a freaking wackjob.
But the emotional volatility probably most often manifests itself at school-or-work-related open-bar receptions, where after a few lemontinis, Casual Acquaintance’s Girlfriend (CAG) asks you the same damn question she asks you every damn time she sees you: “So are you seeing anyone?”
“How long have you lived in DC?”
“A year and a half, CAG.”
She looks thoughtful. And after a few minutes — the amount of time it apparently takes for this bombshell information to sink in: “…have you dated ANYONE since you’ve moved to DC?”
…at which point other tipsy acquaintances decide it’s time to turn the still-single freakshow girl into a case study. “Yes! What ARE your standards, anyway?” “Too busy for a boyfriend? PLEASE.” “Well, where have you been going to meet people?” “You do know that militant feminism is terribly unsexy, right?”
They all said other things, but I didn’t hear, as I was busy clutching my knees to my chest underneath the table, rocking, and suckling down sweet, comforting Sweet ‘n’ Low packets from the bar, dreamily imagining an alternate reality in which I administer a simultaneous face-palm and flying-scissor-kick-to-the-hoo-hah to CAG.
But let us ask ourselves: did she even “mean it that way”? Well, perhaps not. Perhaps I’m being unfair. But like I said, kids: EMOTIONAL VOLATILITY.
At which point Enthusiastic-Acquaintance-Lady (EAL) asked, “HaveyoubeenrunninglatelyDJ?”
<rock, rock> “nnnooooo….” <rock, aspartame-induced twitch>
“Ohyou’reinjuredthat’srightwellIhavebeenrunningalotsoIthoughtIwouldaskandIjustloverunningdon’tyou,” said EAL, who under normal circumstances would be greeted by cheerful agreement from me. But instead…
<rock, sob, quiet singing of happy-go-lucky showtunes> “Iiii haaave confidence in” <choke, sob, sniffle> “sunshine….”
What does this have to do with running? Well, under normal circumstances, I’d shrug and mentally pump my fist in the air in response to CAG and EAL, thinking, “Fuck yeah! At least I still have my bad-ass gams that allow me to run LAPS around allllll of life’s problems!” Then I would quietly plan the next morning’s 5:30 AM 10-Mile Anger Run.
But no. Instead, I quietly lowered my shoulders down and back, releasing all tension, and thought about how my next morning’s Heated Flow Yoga 1-2 Hatha-Inspired Happytime Meditative Restorative Silent Contemplation class would release all this tension. I closed my eyes and let go of it all, squeeeeeeezing my fists tightly for a count of 1…..2……3……
<SCREAMS OF PAIN>
“DJ, why are you squeezing the bejeezus out of skeezy waiter’s testicles?”
“Oh! Oh. Oh, dear. I let my chi take over, and it just…you know...felt right.”
“Oh. Carry on!”
That’s it. I’m starting an Anger Yoga class. We can all <inhale> gaaaaather up our energy and put it behind our left-fist chakra, <exhale> propelllllllling it forcefully and purposefully forward into the face of anyone who ever mentions master’s theses, dating, or running ever again to us.
Seriously, everyone. It’s all gonna be fine. We have a doctor’s appointment on Monday, assuming DC can de-paralyze itself from Snow-Flipout 2010. Until then, send good vibes. Send hugs. Send money. Send a feather boa and a machete. Send a nudy poster of Jason Alexander on the hood of a 1987 Buick Skylark. Because in Crazytown, that’s just how we do things. Booyah.