Making Good Choices

Uncle Sam. What a fun-hating fascist. (Image from

WEATHER: Wet, sticky, humid, hot.



WHERE TO: Once again — Eastern Market, Mall, Foggy Bottom, Dupont Circle, etc.

MOOD: Silly.


I ran this evening instead of this morning, which always seems to yield way-super-faster runs than just rolling out of bed and going for it (a concept that has some scientific basis, it turns out).  This being DC, every single day the forecast calls for “isolated thundershowers, some of which might be strong,” or perhaps “scattered showers, maybe, but then again maybe not, we just don’t know,” or even “a shower or two, but don’t blame us if there aren’t, because what the shit do you want from us, anyway, you little turds?  Huh?”

So the “tiny chance of maybe a super-bad-ass thundershower at some point in the near future” came to fruition around mile 8 today, and I came in the house dripping wet.

“How was your run?” asked my housemate, the Irishwoman.

“I’m COVERED in SEMEN!” I yelled, dripping all over the entryway, because this is the kind of intelligent humor that we engage in in our home.  “Oh, hey, T,” I added, suddenly noticing her boyfriend.

He looked frightened.  The Irishwoman peed herself in hysterical laughter.  I peed myself in embarrassment and squished my way off to the shower.


But to the point — why did I run in the evening instead of the morning, thus subjecting myself to a two-mile full-body douching?  Because I needed extra sleep this morning.  Very badly.

And why did I need the extra rest this morning?  Because I ran like a rockstar this weekend and in general partook in healthy activities, and thus decided that maybe my legs and entire being, really, could have a well-deserved rest today.

Because I had one or two too many alcoholic beverages this past weekend and decided that maybe I should just sleep in for once to recover more fully.

Because I don’t recall much about the weekend aside from stumbling home from some house in Northeast on Sunday morning at 7 AM, dressed in nothing but a rainbow “Pride!” flag with a keg tap and a live rooster in tow.

Am I joking or not?  Doesn’t matter.  The point here is — do running and drinking mix?  It would seem not — I nearly skipped my training run today because of a fantastically stupid weekend that featured fantastically mature decisions:

Toolish Army Dude: “Why aren’t you playing flip-cup?”

Me: “Because I don’t want to.”

Toolish Army Dude: “What — are you some sort of pansy?”

Me: “Oh dude it is SO ON!”

Because NO ONE calls me a pansy without watching me drink a lot of beer afterward.  It’s just the kind of pride I have.

OK, so my problem today was more sleep deprivation than anything.  But that is part of the point — hangovers and a magic-markered face aren’t the only side effects of drinking.  I present to you two case studies, who also happen to be two of my most loyal training partners — S. and Rusty.  S. is a teetotaller, having decided after his crazy college years that drinking mostly did nothing but waste time, in the form of both (a) taking up a whole Saturday night, then (b) causing you to wake up at 5 AM on a Sunday feeling like ass but — because God hates you — unable to sleep or really do anything but watch a whole season of Heroes, thus making you hate God right back.  So then you feel generally OK eventually, fine, but then you only got negative-two hours of sleep and you have to work on Monday, you idiot, and also post on your goddamn blog, and my God what the balls were you thinking?

And S. has an excellent point here.

But then Rusty is the flip side of this coin — a man about my size and yet I have seen this man drink like a CHAMP (whereas 2 glasses of wine compel me to perform “Faith” by George Michael, even at non-karaoke-featuring events)…and the reason I feel comfortable divulging this about Rusty (you’re the man, Rusty…honestly…) is also because he still manages to kick my ass on a weekly basis, berating me this past weekend on a punishing 14-miler in the 90-degree heat (to be fair, I was the moron who decided to keep adding miles to the run, because — logically! — the only way to feel better on a shitty-feeling run is to make it longer).

The point here — not that I have much of one — is that both of them seem to be doing fine, kicking ass, running either stupidly fast or stupidly long.  And of course, now I realize, the decision doesn’t have to be black-or-white; perhaps I can engage in moderation, be an adult, take respons-

Toolish Army Guy: “That’s f**king weak, man.  I bet you can’t even do a kegstand.”

Me: “Give me that tap, dumbface.”


One response to this post.

  1. to be fair, Faith is a faaaabulous song.


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