Archive for March, 2010

Another Moment of Grace and Elegance.


WEATHER: 45ish and super-windy.

MILES: 8 or 9

WHERE TO: The Mall, up Rock Creek Parkway a little, back home.

MOOD: Delightful but frazzled.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

Today I ran into an SUV.  No, it did not run into me; I ran into it. It was pulling off of the ramp from Pennsylvania Ave. onto Rock Creek Parkway, and it stopped short just at the end of the ramp instead of gracefully merging onto the Parkway.  I, expecting the merge, said, “<thump>.”  Or, rather, my torso said it as it smacked into the rear of the vehicle.  I’m sure the driver was weirded out.  Or, more precisely, freaked out.

Yes, driver, I hit your car.  I’d be sorry but I’m more just in awe of my own intelligence and coordination.

That is all.

My Bad, Universe.


Look! I brought you flowers AND the plague!

MILES: 0

WEATHER: Overcast, constantly threatening rain without actually doing it.  Man the fuck up, nature.

WHERE TO: My bed, where I watched a terrible formulaic awesome episode of Grey’s Anatomy.

MOOD: Remorseful.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

Today I succeeded in getting snippy or downright outwardly-bitchtastic with just about everyone I know, either over e-mail or face to face.  Better people than I would call this a “lack of self-control” or “personality deficiency.”  I personally choose to call it “how I deal with shit.”  Sleep-deprived, overworked, friend sleeping over for all of next week, new housemate moving in this weekend, two all-day school commitments next week, plus work.

<le sigh.  Clearly I’m not living the good life.>

Thus, I came home from work and collapsed on the bed and watched the most mindless crap I could think of.  I did not come home and run, and I most certainly did not come home and do schoolwork.  Which is where I now turn my attention.

So anyway.  If I had any contact with you today,* I am truly sorry about the vibes.  If you have no idea what I’m talking about, call me and I’ll flame you mercilessly for a few minutes.  Then you can be part of the club.

———-

*Exception: gorgeous, distinguished-looking young man in the cafe this morning.  I was not mean to you; I held the door for you and made a valiant attempt to not give you the creeptastic eye.  Yes, you, guy with the two canes.  Even hobbled by some-congenital-defect-or-another, you looked divine.  Annnnd I now have a new stalker hangout.

Waxing Poetic


MILES: 10

WEATHER: Chilly (45?) and dark.

WHERE TO: Lincoln Memorial, around Tidal Basin, to Capitol, home.

MOOD: Fantastic.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

One of my favorite things about running is how it lets me get to know whatever place in which I’m living.  Especially not-having a car here in DC, I scope out most of my new places/neighborhoods for the first time at about 8 miles per hour in the wee hours of the morning.  During my knee convalescence, I started to have this very strange feeling of not being a DC resident anymore, purely because it had just been so long since I had seen the Mall or Georgetown or the Cathedral.  So it was especially gratifying this morning to extend my run all the way around the Tidal Basin, where I had not trekked in ages.  Gawwwwd, it was awesome.  In case you hadn’t gathered from my most recent posts, let me say it explicitly: I’m sleep-deprived, stressed, working, going to grad school, and juggling my usual man-harem…

…and still KICK-ASS.  Being able to run again?  Yeah.  Improves the quality of life by a factor of a bajillion.  If life without a morning spin around town is eating your peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich over a hurried half-hour lunch break on a small patch of barely-dry, balding grass in the middle of Farragut Square, life WITH a morning jog is like eating an industrial-sized barrel of grandma’s thanksgiving stuffing on 50 hectares of cow-munched meadow in the golden northern Italy sunshine.

Stop cocking your head and looking quizzical.  You feel me.

Well, gosh.  I had another idea for a post today, but it can wait.  Because now I’m feeling all poetic and writerly, especially since I’m sitting in the neighborhood indie coffee shop, where you just KNOW the next Jonathan Franzen or David Sedaris or <insert name of other vastly overrated author here> wannabe lurks behind his Macbook.

And so I give you a poem, written on the fly, about the beauty and joy and poignance and ennui and joie de vivre and je ne sais quoi and gateau de poisson that together comprise my inner life.

Also, I’m fucking sick of looking at my thesis.

——-

Ode to the fellow who just walked in wearing a suit oh my God

I wanna get weird with you, baby,

And then do it again.

It’s March twenty-third

Two thousand and ten.

.

You’re scrumptious as hell

I’m trying not to stare

Oh shit you just saw me

Now I’ll just look over there.

.

Dude, I’m not a stalker,

I just think you’re fly.

Let me touch your face

And tell you just why.

.

You reading the Times

Makes me crazy, you know.

And your gray suit and pink tie

Are smokin’ like whoa.

.

So come back to my place

Take off those itchy pants,

And open my…Holy shit.  Are you LAUGHING at something Thomas Friedman wrote?  Laughing appreciatively?  Really?

Fuck.  Nevermind.

.

Send your Pulitzer nominations here.

You’re welcome.

Oh, HELLO, old friend.


Awwwww, shee-it, Doctor Pixie-Cut is feelin' granny's sweet assy goodness.  Keep it up, homegirl, dontcha quit.

Awwwww, shee-it, Doctor Pixie-Cut is feeling all up on Granny's sweet assy goodness. Keep it up, homegirl Pixie. Ooh, dontcha quit.

Physical therapy is sort of awesome, aside from the fact that going to it means that you’re…you know…still a gimp.  It’s one hour, twice a week, where one person is focusing all their attention on making you feel better, and occasionally massaging the shit out of your hip joints.  Which — once you get over her having her hands all up on your pelvis — is really kind of pleasant.  And all of my appointments are at 8, before work, which means that I get my daily dose of selfish before wandering off and selflessly performing research for the betterment of America.

Anyway.

This week in self-knowledge: as Madam Physical Therapist has found, I have one leg longer than the other.  No joke.  Who knew?  So this is apparently what I am up against — asymmetry and a lack of an ass.  Huh.

The recovery continues to go well.  We’ve been on a couple of (pain-free!) 10-plus milers, though I haven’t told the PT.

…who may or may not have told me that she doesn’t want me running yet.

…but still.  A small part of me has had this bad-ass thought — that maybe I can eke out 13 to 15 this weekend someday, and then next weekend try a 18-20-miler, and then when Boston rolls around I’ll be in shape, and that weekend I can just think, “How am I feeling?  Can I do this?” and if the answer is “Yes,” I will nonchalantly hop on a train up to Boston, call a friend so I can crash for the weekend and nonchalantly crank out 26.2 leisurely miles of ROCK and kickass and-

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” says Madam Physical Therapist.

Pipe down, lady.  I didn’t even tell you about this plan.

“You’re a dumbass.”

“And you can’t say no to my totally adorbz Jordanian accent.”

True enough.

She actually has me doing this thing now where she puts electrodes on my left quad and cranks up the voltage on this little box until my muscle jumps and tenses involuntarily.  It’s sort of a cool feeling, and I sit there on this table, getting my twitch on for ten minutes at a time.

So.  Electroshock therapy.  We all knew I had it coming.

Anyway, in other good news, I also went on a 10-to-11-miler last weekend in the cold, cold rain.  All was well until somewhere in the middle of the Mall, when a cold ball of awfulness settled in my gut.  I looked down and politely addressed my colon.

Oh, hi there.  Welcome back.

Have I told you all about the poop yet?  I feel as if I have.  If not, suffice it to say that if you’re not a runner, you think I’m just being gratuitiously gross, but trust me.  I’m not.  Soccer players get ACL tears, football players get permanent brain damage, rugby players get thumbs to the eye, and runners get the trots.

I just speak the truth.

So it’s 45 degrees and the rain is horizontal and awful, and I’m circling a 5-block area around the Eastern Market building — the only place I know of with public commodes that is also chaotic enough that no one will judge me as I go in and have a body-chilling, clutching-knees-to-face, questioning-if-there-is-goodness-left-in-the-universe experience.

Several times.

Ohhh, I remember this.  <shiver, sob>

And it was AWESOME.

Guys, I’m bizzack.  Well, mostly.

Calming Down…


Let the Annual Foodgasm Commence!

OK, team.  Auntie DJ is sorry she got all superpissed about…well, everything last week.  I’ve gone to my corner, come back a new woman, blah blah…

The crazy has been coming back to a certain degree.  Remember my tarot card post?  That was riiiight when this whole injury started nagging away.  A part of me has wondered if perhaps the tarot cards brought this on — that the unholy demon that has attached itself to my left patella and has been humping away at it for a month and a half was brought home from Barnes and Noble in that one fateful seafoam green box.  So when I came home from school in my usual exhausted heap the other night, that little part of me reached for the cards and held them dramatically above the kitchen garbage can, ready to send them the way of coffee grounds and Red Bull cans I’ve slammajammed at 3 AM during paper-writing-fests.

But hey.  Let’s all calm down for a second, because we know which “part of me” is talking here.  It’s the part of me that went to Bible camp and came away convinced that Ouija boards (manufactured by Satan himself) (oops…no, I was mistaken…Parker Brothers) would condemn me to a life of damnation and sadness and that perfectly nice gay people would one day be dragged into the fiery pit to assume their places alongside murderers, single mothers, genociders, and Buddhists.

So I did not throw away the cards.  I decided to take a deep Goddamn breath, close my eyes, count to ten, sing a few calming choruses of Avril Lavigne’s “Girlfriend,” and take stock of life.

The truth is that I’ve learned a few extremely valuable lessons in this time off from running.  Yes, this is where the oboe starts playing and we all get didactic-ified.  So sit down, sack up, and deal with it, pussy.

1) If I stop running, I will not cease to exist.

…not that I thought I would actually wink out of existence upon not doing my morning fartleks (but then, who knows?  I had never tried it.).  But it sort of was my “thing.”  It was how people (people who don’t know me terribly well, mind you, but still) introduced me at parties.  And somehow — though I am a smart, fantastically interesting person — I let it become my definition.  Which is scary, because we’ve all met that guy who can ONLY TALK ABOUT WEIGHT-LIFTING, and eventually we just want to punch ourselves in the teeth just hearing him talk about Romanian dead-lifts and squat-thrusts and Muscle Man 9000 Creatine Powder.  I fear that I was becoming VO2-max-and-shin-splints girl.  Perhaps I was.  And then it disappeared for <shudder, hands to mouth> SIX WHOLE WEEKS.  And I only barely held on to my sanity.  Which leads me to:

2) I need to take a freaking chill pill.

Yeah.  Know who’s in friggin’ grad school?  Me.  Know who needs to graduate and find a job?  Me.  Know who let running, a running injury, and then freaking the shit out about a running injury get in the way of a crapload of schoolwork?  This kid.

3) If I stop running, I will not become morbidly obese.

Militant feminist though I may be, the patriarchy’s obsession with having a kickin’ bod is still residing comfortably in my head.  And to be perfectly, brutally honest, it took me two or three weeks of doing a crapload of elliptical and subsisting on dust and sparkling water to understand that I wouldn’t be muffin-top-ing all up in everyone’s face if I didn’t get to jog every morning.  Sad?  Perhaps.  But we’ve learned our lesson.  As I type this, in fact, I am currently chomping down a handful of nature’s most perfect food, Cadbury Mini-Eggs (Slogan: “Ruining your life deliciously — every spring since you were 5.”).

4) Yoga is really kind of fun.

And here I thought I’d hate it.  But it allows me to be strong, flexible, and oh yeah make lots of fun observations about the yoga culture.  For example:

5) Most men only go to yoga when dragged by their girlfriends.

OK.  I hate gender-based generalizations.  I really do.  And I wish I could say differently, but this appears true in 99 cases out of 100.  Trust me, ladies, next time you’re hoisting your thigh over your shoulder to the strains of Thievery Corporation, take a glance over at Kevin.  He hates every second of this.  He’s red and shaking not because of a good workout but because his scrotum is stretched so thin it’s transparent.  Know what?  Next week, when Heated Bikram 1-2 rolls around, let ol’ Kevin stay home and drink bourbon and scratch his hairy ass (How do I know it’s hairy?  He was doing 20 gazillion downward dogs in front of me in those silly shorts you made him wear, OK, Brenda?) and sniff your undies for a few hours.  You’ll both be happier.

6) Physical therapy works…eventually.

How do I know?  Because…

HOLY FUCKING GOD I RAN EIGHT MILES TODAY WITH MINIMAL PAIN AND I FELT LIKE A REAL PERSON AGAIN!  I mean, OK, yes, I could be a person without running, but I was also a person who was forgetting what Georgetown or the Mall looked like or what it feels like to blow past some 50-year-old buzz-cut tool who refuses to let a girl of all things pass him.

And then?  You guys?  I came home?  And walked down some stairs?  And felt almost NO CLICKING!  How did this happen?  WHO CARES, BITCHEZ?  TOUCH MY KNEE AND BELIEVE, YE WHO DOUBT ME!

Interestingly, a very good friend and fellow marathoner, who I will call The Mountie, has been nursing runner’s knee for I think even a little longer than me, and she also started magically getting better this week.  It’s, like, a CONNECTION, man.  Like we just KNOW in our bones that it’s HEALING TIME, right?  Far out, yo…

Anyway.  I salute you, Mountie.  We are kicking this.  Tasty-style.  I’d invite Mountie to do a victory dance with me, but she’d put me to shame.  So I’ll just sit here in the corner and sing a triumphant rendition of the Indiana Jones theme song while she busts a move.  Are you all watching?  Goddamn right you are.  This is what VICTORY looks and sounds like in the Republic of DJ — off-key and hilarious, yet strangely sexual.

Yes, I’m aroused, too.  It’s OK.  Embrace it.

Underdeveloped Butt


This is apparently what I'm going for now. BRING ON THE CREAM-BASED SOUPS!

So I’ve received some saddy-pants texts and e-mails asking where the blog-posting has gone.  Well, I’ll tell you where — it has gone to the land of shadows and sadness and Mordor and doom and poop and awfulness.

See, here this was going to be a HILARIOUS post about physical therapy, and how apparently one of my key problems is that my butt is underdeveloped.  Yeah, that’s right.  The nice therapist lady pushed and pulled on my leg, then had me push and pull against her, and when we got to the butt exercises, she said, “OK, go!”

“Um, I AM going,” I said.

“Huh.  Your butt is weak.”

I’d giggle if I didn’t want to cry.

So excuse me if today’s post isn’t all clowns and helicopter hats, because I am PISSED.  What was the first thing I did when I got out of bed this morning?  Well, aside from getting rid of my morning boner (???) and hopping into the shower, I cried as I put on my makeup.  Yes.  Cried.  True story.

Because MOTHERFUCK, people.  I can’t run Boston, which is bad enough, but what if I just can’t run a marathon EVER AGAIN?  Like, I had been going jogging for a few days but then it started to hurt and this physical therapist lady, lovely as she is, doesn’t appear to be able to do a goddamn thing for me, or even to know exactly why my knee is fucked up, or how to fix it, or IF she can fix it.

Motherfuck.

And I love you readers, I really do, and ordinarily I would tell you to publicize the blog and send it to alllll your friends and up my hit count so some awesome media organization can discover me and sweep me off to a land of creativity and employment and job security.  But today I’m so angry I could just spit.

So I promise better posts after today.  But until then…

YOU WILL READ THIS POST AND YOU WILL LIKE IT BECAUSE IT’S ALL I CAN DO AT THIS POINT TO EVEN WRITE ANYTHING, PERIOD, GODDAMMIT.  I AM GETTING A MASTER’S THAT I DON’T REALLY WANT, IT TURNS OUT; I AM NOT SLEEPING; I AM WRITING THE WORST THESIS EVER WHICH IS APPARENTLY TWICE AS LONG AS ANY OTHER SCHOOL REQUIRES; I HAVE A TRULY MINDBLOWING CASE OF JAWLINE ACNE; I HAVE NO ROMANTIC PROSPECTS; I UNCLOGGED THE BATHROOM DRAIN LAST NIGHT AT MIDNIGHT AND IT SMELLED LIKE ASS.  AND ALL I WANT TO DO IS RUN AND RELIEVE ALL THE STRESS AND MAKE THE PAIN GO AWAY AND THE UNICORNS COME BACK AND I CAN’T DO IT AND I JUST WANT TO DIE THE END LOVE AND KISSES, DJ.

<throws puppy>

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