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I Can't...



I spent a good chunk of time yesterday restraining myself with all my might from letting loose and blogging like a mofo.

It was reaaallllly time for me to blog.  More than any other time, I needed it.  I needed to vent, and write and write and write, and I needed someone to listen, and I needed support, and ears, and criticism, and advice, and I needed all of YOU.  I have become accustomed to receiving a trail of feedback whenever I put something out there, whether it is a thought, a question.

So I had/have a dilemma.  I really think I could use your help.  But BUT BUT, this blog is not private.  And I simply have no way of knowing who is reading.  I really am not trying to be a tease here.

This post now has a picture.  Face. 

Oddly enough, I feel much safer on Facebook, where I have control over who is my friend and who I share information with via privacy settings.  So if you are my fb friend, you may already have a taste of my issue.  I posted about it, and got feedback.  But knowing it was still risky to share even there, I wasn't able to tell more than a mere snippet of what's going on.

So cryptic! The best I can do is to say that I feel trampled on and disrespected. By asshats.

*****

With this load brewing inside of me all day (not THAT kind of load), I came home with all sorts of energy to burn.

I occasionally, but rarely, will go for a short run in the evening.  Always less than 8 miles, and almost always as a "second" or shake-out run -- i.e., usually a run that doesn't really "count" as anything but easy empty miles.

Even more rare is running on the treadmill in the evening.  I have virtually never done it.  Ever.

But with my blood hot, I wanted to run hard and zone OUT, and I knew the best solution was to plug in the pace into the treadmill, and just go.  So I did a first; I ran on the treadmill in the evening.

(There were 12 easy miles earlier that morning, which weren't intended to be easy, but LET'S JUST SAY my co-worker's shared grocery store Chinese food from the day prior did not sit well.)

Ok no seriously, there's a story here, and it's a good one.  Keep going.

I go to my gym for a treadmill run yesterday evening, first time EVER.  I call dibs on my favorite treadmill, which is obviously the one on the end because it means I am suffocated by only one other sweaty body to my side, while the other side is free and open for passerbys to stop and stare.

I get on.  Now think about this: what is one thing you can think of that would be terrible to have in front of you during a one hour treadmill run?  What is the WORST thing you can think of?  Anything.  Fang-toothed spiders?  Mitt Romney?  Justin Bieber?  Old people doing naked yoga?

No.  Here's the worst thing.

The worst thing.  Is.

A BIG FUCKING HUGE TABLE ENTIRELY FILLED WITH OYSTERS.

My gym had an open-house party to celebrate it's name change.  It is a SMALL gym.  They decided to celebrate by slapping a few balloons up, setting up 3 tables at the walking path right in front of the treadmills and ellipticals, and some moron decided that nothing said "Welcome to our Gym!" like a vat of oysters.

Not only did I run my butt off while staring at and smelling oysters, but I also had the pleasure of watching the evening rush hour gym members brush off their scheduled workout to gorge on oysters.  And hey, wait a sec....there's no way that hipster belongs to this gym....they're letting anyone in here to eat these oysters!  Ew.

The whole time this was happening, believe it or not, I was actually so tickled with how absurd and hilarious and gross it was that I really wasn't all that disgusted.  Very, very amused.

I started at a comfortable pace, worked my way up, and spent the last half hour between an 8.8 and 9.2 mph pace (6:48-6:31 pace).  8.5 miles in one hour.

Hey, one more thing.  Thanks to Netflix, we watched an old favorite last night, Hot Shots Part Deux.  Who knew Charlie Sheen used to look like....this?



"I loved you in Wall Street!"....anyone?  anyone?  Go rent Hot Shots.  You'll laugh more than you would be willing to admit.