Follow Up on Killing Links...

Jason: You are a brave man. I'm a little surprised that you commented on the Link Kill before the Car and Driver...
Before the follow up, there are some things...caveats to be more precise. Know that I am PAINFULLY shy in certain settings. At least I thought I was. So, a few of my friends went to a follow up class at the actual studio. I, of course, found a bunch of reasons to be late and only went to half of the class. Guess what? My lats are STILL sore, and my core got a total work out. And for someone who has been hobbled from her fave sport? That's appealing. That's what the very athletic dude part of me wants to comment on...but...hmmmmm. As I write this? I wonder if I should start a totally new (and private...or anonymous) blog just for this. Ha! Ok. Let's see who's paying attention.
1. Looking for blog titles. Sassy suggestions?
2. Any subscription interest?

The Effect of Blogging on Metrosexual Individuals (...but not really)

There is a little too much Morgan Spurlock in me for my own good:  I like social...observation, experimentation, and certainly annotation. I ask a lot of questions, inappropriately personal and otherwise. For example: I ran into someone I've spoken to at the gym a few times last night at Target. We chatted, and somehow the topic of airplane phobias came up. Without missing a beat, I went into DSM-IV mode and proceeded to ask a relative stranger about control issues, trust, and childhood trauma. Honest to goodness curious. Sigh.
I also love to observe unique social groups in relative context. The culture surrounding youth football in Texas starring in my most recent series. This year has been a bit of a bust as more than half the season has been rained out. If only I'd thought to keep some of the league director's cautionary conduct letters to the parents. Hmmm. I may have to look for some of those.
I'd even considered working at Walmart for 30 days so I could a) be a regular contributor to People of Walmart and b) watch people.
ANYWAY...in the most round-about way possible, I'm getting to the point of this post: Eric L. So, Eric knows I like to write...about...stuff...as indexed above...and mentioned that he'd love to be in a post. Well, poor Eric. I don't think he wanted to be in a post like this. He also happened to mention this when I was talking to his general manager and the sales manager where he works. So, I sputter the first thing that pops into my head (praise ADD + poor impulse control): "would that be a metro commentary on men that wear more expensive jeans than I do?" His skin flushed pink. So, again, I mouth off the first thing that pops into my head (isn't there medication I can take for this?): "oh my gosh! Are you blushing?! You're blushing!"
I have NO idea if he will talk to me after today.

Under 5 Seconds From the Other Room

Recently, I've been thinking about things in terms of "Top 10s". Very Letterman of me, I know. Movies, among other things...see car post ...come to mind. You know what I left out of my mental movie list? The Mad Max series. It didn't even occur to me until I was washing up this evening, and I heard the tv go on in the other room. In under 5 seconds, from the other room, WITH NO DIALOGUE, I KNEW it was Road Warrior. Simply by the score and the engine sounds. Thhhaaaaaaaaaaat's impressive.
Ok. After watching a little more, it's kind of creepy. What's with those chaps? But still. Iconic.

I Don't Speak Car & Driver

...but if I did, I'd actually care about performance and what's under the hood. Which I...don't.
My dad is either contagious or we have more in common than my mom has previously accused...I mean...noticed. My dad loves cars. Beaters. Luxury. Trucks. Sports. Racing... Of course, he satisfied his love of beater cars by making sure that's all I ever drove growing up. (Spoiled brat, right?)
His house...or that part of it that my mom allows him to trash...is littered with car magazines and Craigslist print outs. Naturally, I can't ignore that flood of imagery as I, too, love cars. Here's what would be in my garage if I were an ostentacious...professional football player. Wait. Baseball player. I don't think they have salary caps...

Jeep Wrangler Rubicon with 4 doors.

Audi Q7...there's just something...about them.

Audi TT Roadster

Toyota Land Cruiser...old. New. Doesn't matter.
BMW Z4 Roadster
1960s era convertible Mercedes Benz...1965?
1986 Saab...convertible
Mercedes G Class (love that big boxy look)
MGB...19...7...3? That was a good year.
1979 Porsche 911

And This is Where I Kill the Link to My Facebook

Because I have three friends that will find this WILDLY amusing, I have to share it. On general principle. And if I don't hear from the three of you (via e/voicemail), I'm totally gonna call you out.
Someone, please ask me what I am doing Monday night. As much as I seem the total extrovert, I'm NOT a performer. I don't relish the idea of people looking at me (unless, of course, it's to comment on my shoes...). So, the idea of attending a POLE-DANCING fitness class is alternatively horrifying and...intriguing.
Horrifying because I keep flashing on that one scene from True Lies (which I was going to link but...) when Jamie Lee Curtis (who is awesome) takes a total digger mid-er...uh...performance. Horrifying because people actually do this for a living.
Intriguing...for some really weird reasons. I think I'm one to have grown into my athleticism and, dare I say?, grace: I'm curious to know if I could do it. Everyone I know who has taken these classes has commented on how physically demanding (I know, I know...I couldn't think of a better double entendre) they are. Followed by an aside: "those strippers are in great shape!"
Under 'normal' circumstances...and given my obvious trepidation, I'd probably opt for a core class at the gym. However, the owner of the run store I work at has different ideas. She is hosting this fitness...er...class? demonstration? and asked me to work...it.
I'm blushing already.

Lying About My Weight but Not My Age

There's an interesting cross-section of time and space when it is totally appropriate to over-estimate your weight and tell the truth about your age. As far as I am concerned, whenever I'm going to have anesthesia on board, it is a good idea to make sure I have enough as I have woken up in the middle of surgery before. Yuck. So, I routinely state my weight at least 10 lbs higher than it is. Even if the nurse rolls her eyes. This same eye-rolling nurse cocks her head to the side, surely at my plucky charm and well-applied lipstick so early in the morning, and comments that I'm awfully YOUNG (everything after that word was just white noise...) to be screened.
Me: "Why, yes, I am. It's nice to be the youngest in the waiting room. (Smile). But seriously, there's a family history..."
Then she brings me two of the warmest blankets I've ever met.
I roll (literally) into the next room where I notice that the additional benadryl has not taken effect. I comment to the doctor that I should have lied higher about my weight. We laugh.
Next thing I know, I'm being shaken awake from a dreamy dream. I think I groggied a "no, thank you" to no avail. They keep shaking.
Barring any unusual results from a biopsy, I am ok. And I am still on track for those new jeans.

I Left My Heart in San Francisco...Along With Some Other Body Parts

Ahhhhhhhhhh...San Francisco. One of the most divine cities on earth besides, maybe, Rome. Having grown up in the Bay Area, I never quite appreciated San Francisco until I left. What a friendly, eclectic, beautiful city.

My good friend, Dawn, came out from Virginia to SF with me to run Nike's Run Like a Girl Marathon. We stayed in Union Square (the heart of SF shopping) a block off the starting line. While shopping is always a...er...um...delightful pasttime for me, we really enjoyed the FOOD...or, perhaps, better said, the culture surrounding said food. We ate in North Beach, the Italian part of town, every night that we could. The weather was nice enough that all the restaurants had their doors open and the hosts calling to the pedestrians. This is how we met Angelo and...the other guy. He's the one that had told us about the Philly Eagles...the house special dessert...and the best things to do after a race. Total highlight.

That and seeing friends from high school that I haven't seen in...over 18 years. Um...yeah. I'm old enough to say that. The funniest thing from that night was my friend Stacey saying over and over: "Rachael! I wish you remembered more from high school!" They kept telling me all about stuff we'd done together, and all I could do was stare blankly back and say, "are you sure I was there?!" I think the nicest thing about that evening, though, whether I remembered it or not, was how two of those girls remembered me being the first person to befriend them in a new school and how one of them reminded me that I introduced her to her husband. Sigh.

And...in spite of my best efforts at avoidance, I got to see my sister, Lisa...and had a really great time with her and her family. They came out, and we enjoyed Fisherman's Wharf and some good ole sour dough bread. And I got a witness to attest that...in my family? I'm the shrinking violet...

Sigh...then there was the race. Please note that I'd run a marathon 2 weeks prior to this, injured my left knee, and didn't take recovery very seriously. The night before the race, I had spent an inordinate amount of time trying to download a playlist that this Nike DJ sent out. (As an aside, it's pretty good, and I will try to link it to the blog.) Stupid, stupid, stupid. 4 hours of sleep. Tops. But that's ok. That's how I do most of my long runs anyway. We're at the start line where I'd put myself in a slower time category so that I'd have something to do mentally during the race...pick people off. Ugh. The arrogance. So, we're cruising the streets of the financial district. Great. Mile 2...my knee starts to feel stiff. But who cares? I feel great and am on track to PR. Mile 6...it starts to hurt. But that's ok because people who run expect to feel some pain and discomfort. It's a natural consequence. Then there was the massive downhill leading to the beach. Mile 12...it's debilitating, and I actually have to stop off at an aid station to wrap up. Well...there's 14.2 miles left to the race. And I had to mentally figure out how in the world I was going to finish. At such a diminished pace...and/or walking. Let me tell you...14 miles is a LONG time to spend with yourself. Especially if you're ticked off...at yourself...

Then you suck it up, buttercup.

At the end of the day...how bad could it be? I was in San Fran-freakin-cisco. AND I got lots of compliments on my new shorts. I finally finished with a time that was a full hour + over the time I'd gotten in Odessa...which is demoralizing...but I could still appreciate the necklace and the tuxedo-ed fireman handing it to me.

Sigh. So...San Francisco got more than my heart...it got bits and pieces of my knee as well.