Inverta-Year, More Evidence

Check out the San Francisco weather. First, it was raining fire and brimstone hail globs in March. Very un-March-like. Then, it became desert hot for over a week. Equally un-March-like. Now, June wind; quite un-April-like. Yesterday, it was so windy that I thought my balcony was going to break off. The palm trees went sideways. Squawking parrots torpedoed by like green frisbees. The sand dunes crossed the Great Highway. So windy that the only thing not moving in all of Ocean Beach's vicinity...


... Gold Gate Park's Phallic Windmill Boys-in-Bushes Beacon.

Inverta-Year, Continued, Yoga-Style

As my dear readers may recall, one of the clues to this year's theme was my unprecedentedly earnest and complete LOVE for a yoga class I attended. However, when I explained my sudden openness to yoga to people in my life, they showed skepticism. Why? The yoga happened to be free. It happened to take place in a noisy, public area with 80s music on and people yelling at their children in the background. My mat was precariously wedged between a giant iron pillar and a rope "wall" to keep me from falling off this balcony on to the next floor. There were no mirrors anywhere. The teacher talked in complete sentences using grammatical structures Strunk and White would applaud. She downward dogged the shit out of us analytic learners. The class is taught by a different instructor in a different style every week so I'll never have any idea what I am getting myself into. So what if all those things might make it the ideal yoga class for someone like me regardless of the year's thematics?!

It might still be true that this is my inverta-year.

Even though I did return last week to the "same" class to be delighted by the new instructor. She was somewhat gruff and angry. She wore jeggings. She started us with our eyes closed. I woke up 65 minutes later, in time for the cool down. Clearly she was perfect for me.

Again, I know this is not convincing you, but might still be true that this is my inverta-year. Let's just try it out people.

2011: Year of Inversion (er... Inversion Year?)

Yes, the theme of the year has at last become clear. How do I know?

1. II, even inverted, still equals two in Roman numerals. So 20II makes a full circle in a backwards, twisty kinda way.

2. I, on my own volition and quite alone, willingly went to a yoga class on Sunday and
I
LOVED
it.

3. After that same yoga class, I felt a deep and unshakable
PEACE.

For the
REST
of the day.

3. Generally the theme for my year becomes apparent the previous November, by which time I have usually had it with that year and, like the precocious little sister I am, have moved on to the next one! But this year? It's MARCH, and barely still, and I just today finally came up with this year's theme. Inversely S-L-O-W.

4. I saw a sneak peek of Rubber this evening. In a nutshell, RUBBER made me TIRED. As people left the film, a fellow grabbed and interviewed us. Neighboring female to interviewer:

I loved it. I welcome how they brought surrealism back to American film making.

Well, I must have put extra liquid surrealism in my eyes recently because you could hear them shifting sideways to spy on the entire audience as they laughed without me many many times. Puzzling. It was so puzzling I had to three times squash a tipping-point urge stand up and yell,

People, there is a FUCKING WAR going on in Afghanistan. What the hell are you doing here laughing?

Oh wait, that is not an inverse of anything - that's just an example of normal for me (good luck finding my internal control group for that study, people).
Me to interviewer:

Can a person be sure they have seen their worst movie of the year and have it only be March?

With the next breath will be peace

Saturday, 9:29 a.m.

Outside: Quickly sprouting silent crowd of cart-wielding shoppers.
Inside: Two women, one holding a small ticker-counter, the other holding a walkie-talkie.
Between: Huge panels of separating, sound-proof glass.

The shoppers tilt slightly forward as one Inside woman approaches the glass panels to raise them. Behind her, the other woman crosses herself.

Costco opens.

Rules... and Their Exceptions

Well, it has been a less-than-ideal summer in terms of relying on the consistency of certain truths that hegemonically rule my universe:

* The Slow Cooker became a No Cooker
* I not even for a minute boarded any airplane
* The August skies were so relentlessly drip-cloudy I had to seek out lawns to crash on in Millbrae,
* I almost watched The Bachelorette, and
* I nearly didn't sprain my eyes from excessive rolling while actually watching "Eat, Pray, Love"

So this morning, the last before the school year truly tidal waves me, I made one last effort to re-balance my little Mercury-in-Retrograde-or-something Summer universe. Following my rule that Sunday morning pre-8 a.m. is the most peaceful and therefore best time to walk (excepting all of Thanksgiving week), I (puffy vested and flip flopped despite the fog) walked out my gate to enjoy an early light amble, deciding: shall I go Right (Right Head swivel) or Left (Left Head swivel)? Only to find immediately to my left, about eight inches left, a rapidly approaching gun followed by a power-chasséing? police officer (what is the human equivalent of the equestrian 'trotting'?!) up the street, hollering "Drop the bag! Drop the bag!" at some person presumably already mostly up the block (I presume because it didn't seem like a good idea to turn my back just then). Did I mention the gun shaking and extended (with me suddenly in the way)?

The po-po and I both probably looked the same amount of startled and I retreated, remembering the rule about there being exceptions to every rule.

Exception: When faced with a gun, a badge and a nervous, adrenalined aura, it's probably the safest and most peaceful to head back inside if you have the choice.

Brain, Meet Summer. Now Turn Off.

My brain becomes very productive the second I go on summer break. I mean real break. No unpaid meetings about next year. No summer school teaching. Meaning I have been on for exactly four hours... and it is July. Not a good sign. I have to get all my seemingly-lucid-awake-REM-sleeping-brain-stateness in within the window of one month this year. We should all be experiencing a sense of dread.

All this summer brain cramming hurts. Today, I woke up wondering why it is that in supermarkets eggs are never housed anywhere near the chickens. How is it that eggs became a dairy?

Unable to solve the logic of this (though, of course, the Michael Pollanian corporate A->B of this seems clear), I moved on to the Phenomenon of the Fixie Identity. Specifically focusing on what SF walkers would need to create a group identity. Which led me to offer (in the classy spirit of Juicy Coutoure) the emblazing of all velour clad strolling bottoms: "Get off your gas and walk." Feel free to weigh in on possible fonts.

The Slow Cooker has unfortunately been dragged into my condition, and together we have arrived at the following for our future ukulele band:

Name: Paranoid Jews
First Album: The Guilty Catholics
Sophomoric Album, SC's Pick: Pious Muslim
Sophomoric Album, My Pick: Buddhists That Kill

Feel free to send me back to work asap, someone.

I Am Being Misread!

By my on-line marketing logarithms, no less. How sad is that?! Or maybe it just wanted to watch me squirm?

Today the banner it put above my Gmail offered me:

$29 I'm Sorry Flowers - Express Your Apology with Flowers
Order Now for Extra 15% Off

How does it not realize that I abhor with equal amounts cut flowers and smarmy apolo-gifts? On the other hand, at least it is sufficiently savvy to realize I do like a discount. And what could be better than saving money on a heartfelt APOLOGY?! The gauche-loving part of me? Totally responding.

Valencia Street: The Oh My of the I-ron-y

It was mayhem on Valencia Street this afternoon well into the evening, with San Francisco showing its true colors of equal parts concern and self-absorbic irony.

Valencia Street off 19th was filming Trauma, apparently some new show that is based in San Francisco. I have no idea if it is a "reality" show, but if it is, I am gonna assume the episode's trauma involves a car running over a bicyclist, a boy getting stabbed on a MUNI without working surveillance cameras (no wait, that is seemingly weirdly prohibited north of Mission Street), or some BiRite Creamery eater cracked out on the toxic levels of sugar in their Salted Caramel ice cream starting a restaurant riot because some menu lacks sufficient vegan options...

Meanwhile, Valencia between 16th and 17th was also shut down for an actual trauma, in the form of a jumper the po-po were trying to talk down - apparently, they were still trying to around 9:20pm. True to form, at both locations were gawkers saying stupid inappropriate shit and taking cell phone pictures. And in both locations were people totally irritated that they couldn't get to their preferred happy hour drinking establishment/cafe in a timely manner. One-dress-stop-shopping Valencia Quarter, how nauseating.

Student Quote of the Week

Another reason to miss teaching elementary school:

In one corner, ladies and gentlemen, we have Kevin. Kevin has the disposition of an old man who might hang out in A Streetcar Named Desire but is trapped in a second grader who looks like a generalizable second grader would, whatever that means.

In the other corner we have Carlos. Carlos is Captain of Future Pro Wrestlers of America trapped in the body and mind of a second grader trapped in a size and shape more typical of a kindergartner, whatever that means. In keeping with his profession, Carlos interacts with other second graders by flying into them from out of nowhere and attempting to pin them to the ground. He is very kinesthetic. Some would call him spirited. Others might say he is very Lucha Libre. Carlos consistently talks in a WWF voice a la Hulk Hogan and does that creepy pulsing flex-curl-arm-pose in front of him like some retro Arnie Schwarzenegger to pop his ghost pecs while gnashing his teeth and shaking his head rapidly side to side. Raise your hand if you can visualize this. Hoganito only refers to himself in the third person. More specifically, as Thor. I refer to Thor as WWF.

Ding! Round One.

Kevin is brought to teacher, howling with the eye tears of only a second grader:

Miss, he (puffy second-grader accusatory finger point) punched me in my gut!

WWF growls back, gritted teeth:

He punched Thor in his emotions first!

Ding! Back to their corners. Let's all commend WWF on his superb use of the term emotions. Referee, wanna take it from here?

Baby, We Were Born To Ruuuuuuuuuun....

Let’s imagine we were subjected to the ice-breaker If You really Knew Me, You’d Know…. If that happened, I would have to come up with something less obvious then the following: I have a tic. The tic? At the mere suggestion of jogging my face sets into the same expression people wear while jogging (and that ain't ecstasy, folx).

Let’s be real, we could be subjected to the diluted tepid-water breaker: Even Before You Knew My Name, You’d Know… and you would still already know the following: Even when looking to try something new that is bold enough to cover the whole summer, I should avoid signing up for any kind of multi-session fitness class, particularly one that revolves around running.

And so it will come as no surprise to you who even slightly know me that, in keeping with my both disturbed and disturbing need to try new things each month (and preferably sign up for things that I already know I am going to hate), I signed up for a “Running/ Fitness Camp” for teachers. It was a moment of pure madness, a.k.a. the last week of school. Five days. End of June. 6-8pm. Feel free to blame SFUSD for even suggesting it.

The company? Windswept Fitness. An apt name, since we met at the Polo Fields (which they might want to modernize into the name Summer Tundras) at 6pm. Not that we could see each other through the windy fog. Windswept Fitness? Terrible. An utter waste of time, talent, and money. They are high on my list of companies I do not recommend. It is possible I am just not their target audience, since everyone else played thrilled with the week. I mean, I got through, but it was far from pretty.

Because the experience really represented everything I don’t like:
* Groups filled with other teachers
* Organized sheep mentality
* Working out
* Sarcasm and lack of attention to detail
* Running
* Trainers who appear to know less about health or their audience than I do
* People who are constantly trying to sell you shit and
* Wasteful “gift bags” of lots of paper fliers, soft plastic bike water bottles and silly red t-shirts.

So I went the first day and positively despised it. Why go back? If you have that question, get in line behind every single person who knows me me even slightly and asked me that. My answer:

Well, I already paid for it, damn it. So I am going. And I want to see if I truly hate running as much as I think I do.

But I finally realized on Friday night at 8:15pm, when I was free of them the last time, that my answer to y'all is somewhat incomplete.

I always think of myself as having been a weak, nonathletic kid. I was teeny-tiny and possessed very few muscles. And I was deeply shy. I was always picked last for class “teams.” I'm not kidding. I was one of those picked-with-audible-sighs-because in-the-70s-no-one-could-be-left-out picks when I was little. I remember one time being so gravely embarrassed that I alone could not successfully swim between two points (that were not very far from each other) that I hid in shame after trying and failing that test that day. I must’ve been super-wee at that point.

Showing that everything happens for a reason, this week has caused to me to remember that my self-perception has a gap.

For a spell and once upon a time, back when I was even shorter than I am today (at least by second grade - for those of you who are quantifiers), I loved loved loved running.

And, over time, I became good at it. I came to be the fastest sprinter in my class. I was faster than all the girls. I was faster than all the boys. If there were any little intersex kids in our class, I was faster than them, too. I was even faster than the boy I had a friend-crush on: John Clay. And even though I was faster than he was, he still liked me back. It is possible he just saw me as one of the guys, but I was such an innocent in that way, I wouldn’t have consciously understood any of those dynamics. We were good friends and maybe in that funny second-grade way, we liked each other, too. But one thing I know. I was the fastest sprinter in the class. I was great at something, and, more importantly, I felt free.

At some point, a guy transferred into our class. That was probably fourth grade. He was from Japan. I wish I could remember his name. I want to say it was Tomiko, though I don’t know why. He was really fast. He was legendary. And I couldn't beat him, though we went neck and neck for a while. I heard he liked me. I didn't get the feeling that anyone ever would like me. My friends were all having moments of going steady. But not me. And he was nice enough and interesting and different. So I liked him and I liked racing him. Being the fickle fourth grader I was, I transferred my John Clay friend-crush to him. We were friends and friendly. He showed a lot of respect for me. I congratulated him when he beat me. It was all in fun. I felt so free. And then, one day, in front of the whole K-6 grade, I beat squarely beat him in a sprint.

He stopped talking to me. For the rest of the year.

I continued to beat his scores, but he refused speak to me. John Clay (who, in retrospect, was a wise person and a friend) explained that Tomiko was hurt because a girl had beat him. Still totally sheltered, I had no idea what he was going on about. I continued to beat Tomiko because I still loved running. I continued to try to talk to him because I still liked him. And he continued to avoid talking to me. Until fifth grade, which was my last year at that school.

We came back from the summer. We had an obstacle course tournament. I was picked for a team pretty close to the beginning because I could win races. Tomiko was picked by the other team. We raced. He won. I was congratulated for being the fastest girl. Some adult at that school, perhaps the PE teacher or someone, told me not to be disappointed; our bodies were changing and so boys would beat me from then on. I could remain the fastest girl perhaps, but it wasn't realistic to think I could be the fastest runner in the class.

Leaving the tournament, as I passed by an "alley" between two trailers that constituted school classrooms, Tomiko's hand reached out and nabbed me by the wrist. He pulled me into the walkway. I remember how his cheeks were flushed sunset red. I congratulated him and he held out his hand and congratulated me enthusiastically. He was very friendly, his eyes were bright and beaming, he was smiling so widely. He pulled my face into his face. I couldn't see around it. He kissed my cheek. He then ran off. I stood still, stunned. He was speaking to me again, and he was again the fastest runner. And Tomiko kept winning. Although I didn't mention the whole Tomiko alleyway thing, I remember being upset about the whole tournament thing enough that my mom found out about it and, trying to make me feel better, assured me that athletics were not important and it was o.k. that I wasn’t an athletic person. She wasn't either and neither was my dad. My best friend, Honor, then beat my time, became the fastest girl-runner in class. By the end of the year, she and Tomiko were "together."

I stopped sprinting. And went back to getting picked towards the bottom on the class teams for gym.

I didn’t go out of my way to run again until high school, when I tried out for Crew. I got up at 4:30 a.m. each morning to get out to Lake Merced and completed all the morning runs and practices for try-outs for a whole month. I remember it being really hard because I didn't think of myself as athletic. I was pretty sure every morning I wouldn't be able to do it. But I didn't want to come in last. I was still small and not very strong. I didn’t make the team, even as a coxswain. I eventually found out that my mom had, without my knowledge, asked the coach if he would just let me continue to practice with them, even if I never be in a meet. He refused, apparently. And that was that. I never willingly ran just to run again, until this past Monday.

So I guess signing up for that thing was helpful in a way. It reminded me we bury demons deep and that I don't have complete onset of Alzheimer's yet.

And just in case that wasn't enough trauma for one week: Just when I thought I had looked at and thus laid to rest some core feelings of childhood shame, my 94 year old neighbor stopped me in the hall to ask if I was going to the Gaybors' (my new neighbors) BBQ the following day. Now, I live in a building with 5 apartments, containing six people total. I replied, “Well, I didn't know they were having a BBQ tomorrow. They didn’t invite me.” She looked awkward a moment and then away completely. The good news is that it cleared up why they had never replied to my invitation to come see the SF Mime Troupe in Dolores Park with me that same day.

So it appears that whether I like to run or not is kind of immaterial, since a person cannot ultimately outrun the triggers that stop us from feeling free. So in addition to this being the Month of Organized Running, this is also my month of: Relive Every Aspect of Elementary School Self-Confidence-Depleting Left-outness at the same time. And I am here to tell you that no matter how stodgy, hard, and worldly a person has become, it still always hurts my feelings.

Come here, demons. I still got space at my table.

My Neighbor Will No Longer Be Sending Butter Through The Mail

The word "normal" is not a useful term. I mean it is seriously lacking in a reliable control group. Because my neighbor's "normal" has in the past included seasonally replanting and watering a garden's worth of FAKE indoor and outdoor plants and flowers. And "normal" for the last ten years has included exercising in a velour track suit by walking laps around inside the sealed garage with headphones on that are attached to a cassette player that is NOT on. And taking out her earbuds when she sees you talking to her and saying, "What?" It has included catching her after she'd used her keys to get into one of our apartments and was digging through the bedroom drawers. It has included being married for a total of one day in her 89 years. It has included complete social snarkiness and awkwardness resulting in her being a social pariah in many ways. It has included her rarely having visitors and in even my patient neighbors of our tiny building who have lived with her for forty years only ever meeting or hearing about one relative - her brother, who died five years ago. That's all I'm saying.

So when asked, was she acting "normal" the last time I saw her? It's not an easy question to answer. She had acted even stranger than "usual" the last time I saw her. I knew that much. And she looked even more blue than usual; that much seemed true. And when no one saw her for several days but we could hear her TV on nonstop 24/7 (more unusual) for that time and so we tried to call her, she mumbled incoherently and paranoidly into the phone more bizarrely than usual before hanging up and refusing to answer. And when we tried to get her to come to the door, to get in, to break into the chained, triple locked door, and finally got the fire department and a stranger who says he is her nephew, a current minister and former guard at San Quentin, to kick down the door today to find her, not quite dead, but disintegrating into her easy chair, where she'd been planted apparently for around four days, babbling and distant and unable to understand who we were or what we wanted, surrounded by the crumbs of partially eaten cookies and chocolates which she had apparently been living off for several days, that was definitely unusual, even for her. But that she was carried out, bewildered, on a stretcher and the doctors and "family," what she has of them, tell us she will never come back to her home of forty years? Is that normal? That's all I'm saying. That, and that it is deeply painfully scary to grow old so very alone.

UPDATE (a week later): R.I.P. Ms. M.S.

On being a Pig

Well, well... Welcome, 2008.

"Daily Chinese: January 19, 2008

This could be a positive day for initiating a necessary change in your life. A domestic crisis may occur, but with your patient and obliging nature you should have no problem diffusing it. You might want to seek medical guidance on ways to improve your overall lifestyle and fitness." Brought to you by the same folks who predicted surgery, travelling mayhem, etc. Hmmmmmmm.

So... 'positive'? Does that mean standing (puffy eyed and despondent again, post-domestic crisis) on the sidewalk shaking my pro-choice fist and chanting alongside just 200 local other pro-choicers at the THOUSANDS of bussed-in Anti-Choicers marching through the Embarcadero to Pier 39 (presumably so they could do some sight seeing)?

Or does it mean catching the farewell lip syncing tour at Balazo's?

Because I found all parts of my day equally disturbing.

So I'm just checking. I guess that's the power of the word, 'could' eh?

I'm sooooooooooo over 2007, Take II

Close your eyes and imagine the waft of burning hair, a.k.a. my hard drive. Yum. Bye bye hard drive, grades, photos, emails, calendar, brain. Hello, the peace of a vacation totally unplugged and unavailable.

I’m sooooo over 2007…*

As if it weren’t enough to fall into someone who was into someone else and not so much ready for/into me until I was no longer ready for them so my heart could get stomped into apple sauce... As though it wasn’t enough to up and nearly die in the hands of inept UCSF interns... so it wasn’t enough to have to repair a month’s 'worth' of substitutes setting the tone for my classroom for the year... like it wasn’t enough that everyone I know is having a crazy hard year and it is 48 degrees daytime in San Francisco and I am freezing despite Michelin Manning myself in a North Face puffy jacket... I gotta get full-body groped, jumped, and nearly carried off into the night by a wild eyed, alcohol breathed one-legged man in a wheelchair. In view of ten bystanders looking at me like I’m the only crazy ranty one for miles on 14th and Mission when I unleash a screechy pent up rage-a-thonic diatribe on his surprisingly fast-wheeling ass.

Did you get the part where I got jumped by a guy in a wheelchair?! I mean, WTF?!!!

Well, F#$% you, 2007. I am so over you.



*And as a bet-hedger, I would also like to point out that I am also over the Year of the Pig, the school year, the fiscal year, and even the Jew Year 5768.

2008: A Spaced Oddity

Up until Aprilish, I was steeling for one of my 2008 themes to evolve into: 2008 – Year of Relationships, Gulp. But now circumstances have led to an alternate plan, one that is less novel and more wordy. 2008: Year of Speed ‘Nating’ (non-dating) for Potential Therapists. A little more awkward to say, but I don’t exactly control these things. And true to form, I am of course engaging in a preview run of the year’s theme a month early. My screening process is quite simple. I even skip the Craig’s Listings, going straight (or gayly forward, whatever) to recommendations. Me: Talk to potential therapists by phone. Say things like, “I am sure four sessions will cure whatever is wrong with me.” If they noncommittally “hmmm, that is interesting and something we can explore” me? Rejected. If they laugh, they win a face-to-face Nate with me. What with the Hollywood writers’ strike, I sense 2008: A Reality Nating Show in my near future.

Little British Wizards Got NOTHIN' on Me...

Wow, go back to work a month earlier than recommended + lack of bad classes to live through = stop blogging. Once again proving that work gets in the way of life. So, yes, I have lost some of my innards, including my mind, but I have GAINED a cool Harry Potter scar! So that is something. My scar is akin to a mood ring, with stress being my own personal Voldomor, setting off twitches and pain at the most opportune moments. The abdominal grippage and grimaces are followed by me saying such things as, “Oh, I cannot talk about that anymore; my scar says you are stressing me out, man. Bye bye.” Click. Milissa pointed out that Voldomor [ALERT: impending SPOILER] was reduced to some sort of sniveling baby-like gelatinous mass at the end. I don’t know how that connects or what that all means, but I am sure it is important and related. As an avid therapy avoider, I cannot deconstruct this, but y'all feel free.

Love Cynics on the Web

So cute. So twisted. So geeky. Check it out.

Love, "The Mandrake" Style, Exhibit 1

So cute. So twisted. So geeky. Check it out.

Let's Just Be Clear on the Plan

The plan is, having survived this crazy surgery situation, NOT to destroy my insides by getting run over by an SUV on my own corner.

Just so as we are all clear.

Apparently not everyone had received the plan outline, however. On Sunday the Bear Whisperer and I embarked on the slowest walk to Dolores Park ever recorded by my shoes. I got one half of one block before we started to cross the street. On a green light. About halfway across the street, I found the grill of a gleamy blue SUV all up on my ass. The driver was rolling his eyes, waving his arms at me as I puttered across the crosswalk. Green light. Did I mention that? Unable to contain himself for the 3 seconds more it would take me to shufflingly reach the sidewalk, he blasted his horn in my ear while he turned his wheels and spun alongside me out just beyond my hair to drive as close next to me as possible. Rather than taking off, he took the opportunity to blast the horn at me again and scream about how slow I was. Yawn - SUV road rage... wasn't that so 1990s California Highway?

Turns out that, while I am slow, I do still have a trigger reaction to SUVs almost running me over in crosswalks while I am walking on a green light. I mentioned it was still my green light, right? And, oh, I have a seemingly bottomless pit of pent up rage. So that is something.

So I smashed my hand onto the hood of the car, stuck my head in the open windowed backseat, causing a rustle to the two women perched back there, and screamed something like, "I just had f*$%ing surgery, so I am going to be a little slow. What's your excuse for being an a--hole, eh? F*$% you - get the f*$% out of my neighborhood."

Ahem. (Smooth down hair.) The Bear Whisperer looked terrified... both of the situation and of me, which made sense since he has never ever seen me hoppin' mad, since it takes buckets to get me hoppin' mad. The pedestrian who witnessed the whole thing stood at the corner and applauded my self-righteousness. Aw, community. I smiled and waved, which further scared the BW. Apparently directed rage followed by peacefulness is also confusing to some.

And I learned several things today: You can get a six-pack of abs without attending a gym. And, stitches and sores can be a chore, but words they now can hurt me. Because it turns out that punching your head into an open SUV window? Uses your abs. Slamming your hand on SUV hoods? Uses your abs. Yelling obscenities? Strains your abs into stinging pain. Greeeeaaaat. In the future, I will be taking license plates and simply calling in smog checks on these nitwits, thereby protecting my abs and my serious lack of a washboard stomach.

Oh Am I Kickin' Some Recovery Ass

So if you have been paying any attention, you know that my Inner Granny has been ruling the roost in a serious way these days. But I was inspired by my triathlete sister-in-law, who came in 3rd in her age group (30-35) and 15th overall in some ridiculous Colorado mountain race that involved boulder scrambling and a 6,000 foot elevation gain (and no, they START in the friggin mountains.... not at sea level) last weekend. And, thus inspired, I challenged my neighbor to a race. At sea level plus two stories. From one end of the hallway to the other. That is maybe 30 feet.

My neighbor? She's got emphysema, an oxygen tube in her nose and cannot hold her head up using her neck muscles alone.

My point? My chances were pretty good.

Because my neighbor is feisty, she accepted my challenge. So off we went, she holding her oxygen in one hand while using the other fist to hold her chin up so she could see ahead, my inner granny holding my abs together and my guts in. The waddling fierce, the length long...

The result? She won.

So, having had a week to recover, I challenged her to a duel. I mean a rematch.

The result? Since I cannot do the twist as a victory dance without risk of herniating myself, I am settling for grinning broadly and making a smoothie. And I didn't even need to cheat. Feel free to lightly pat me on the back when you next see me.