The Training: Week Eighteen

Dave has this philosophy that you're not allowed to speak of any running maladies the week of the big race. That's this week. The psychology of this is interesting because not having uttered the fact that my _________ hurts and my _________ are still sore, I've almost forgotten that they are. The training this week requires mostly rest and very short runs. The psychology of this works too as I am itching to run long. Preferably on a sunny Sunday morning with thousands of people cheering me on. It's also required that I eat a lot this week. Carbo-load, they call it. I've sort of been doing it for seventeen and a half weeks already, but I can eat mac n' cheese every day this week if I have to. Best of all, Becky, my running mate, arrives today. She's as prone to freaking out about things likes marathons as I am, so D's philosophy will come in handy. At this point, all of the physical work is done and the goal is to simply remain calm. The greatest challenge for me by far.

New Philosophy

Unless I adapt a new philosophy, my graduate school years could be rather glum. My old philosophy consists of doing every piece of reading assigned, spending hours on even short writing assignments, and generally doing homework every hour of the day that I'm not running or sleeping. I've also developed four to five knots in my right shoulder that will require at least an hour massage to maybe loosen them up the tiniest bit.

That was last week. So far, this week is shaping up to be about the same. I'm open to suggestions on the new philosophy, but I think it should be along the lines of taking things less seriously, drinking more wine, laughing more often. . . you know, good shit like that. The first step in this philosophical search was to take a break from the 350 pages assigned FOR JUST ONE OF MY CLASSES to write this entry. I feel better already. Step two? This new philosophy doesn't require that I plan ahead. That's the beauty of it.

The Training: Week Seventeen

The Training: Week Sixteen

Today is the last long(ish) run before the marathon. I meant to be finishing up my twelve miles right about now, but instead I'm drinking a cup of coffee and watching Tim Russert ask some tough questions on Meet the Press. I'm less thrilled about the politicians' answers, but that's to be expected. One of them did apologize for recent racist remarks and promised to stop flying his confederate flag now that he understands what it means to some people. Of course, he'll probably get elected.

I can use this information for motivation. Twelve miles may be just enough reflection time to restore a minimal amount of optimism for this world.

The Meet Market

I got asked out at the grocery store the other day.

I could see it coming from the moment he followed me into the organic food section where he collected zero items for his cart, but fixed his hair a few times and readjusted the sunglasses on his head. He wore a suit coat with a white button-down buttoned down to show off his hairy chest and gold chain. My Birkenstocks should have been a magic shield, but no luck. Later, I cut in front of him at the deli counter because he was talking on his cell and the kind lady working there had better things to do than wait for him. And so did I. I couldn't shake him though. He bumped into my cart in the coffee aisle, approached the lotions just as I left them, and moved into checkout aisle number 12 right after I did.

"Hey. How's it going?"

Classic.

"Fine."

"How much do you think you saved today?"

"Um. I don't know. Ten bucks?"

"No way. I bet I can get closer to my number than you can."

"Great. Go for it."

"I think I'll save $9."

"Oh."

"What does the winner get?"

And there it was. An opening for an invitation to coffee, dinner, a movie, or other such tortures.

"I guess, the winner gets . . . well. . . nothing. Sometimes that happens." Even if he wasn't reading the hint, my checker was. She gave me a knowing look and speeded up the scanning process. My hero.

"You cut in front of me in the deli line, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

"Well. That's not very courteous."

"Yep. I'm an awful person." I moved down to begin bagging at what I hoped would be lightening speed.

"So. You saved almost exactly what you guessed you would and I was way off. How could I not save any money at Cub Foods? Impossible. What do you say I buy you some coffee or tea to celebrate your winning?"

I was torn. Should I tell him that I can't go out with him because I have a boyfriend which would lead him to think that that was the only thing keeping me from saying yes? Or do I tell him that I just don't go out with men who follow me around grocery stores, demonstrate their rudeness, and reveal more chest hair than I'd want to see under any circumstances?

"No thanks," I replied. "Consider not buying me coffee as your savings for today." And with that, I left.

Worlds Collide

During our discussion of cultural models and genre ecologies last night (note: scholarly terms I don't quite understand), the professor (picture your father or grandfather here) decided to read to us from the genre of the romance novel to exemplify his point about the patterns that go along with particular identities and spaces. A good choice. But I couldn't help noticing how reading the particularly steamy scene -- one that involved kissing and undressing while waves crashed upon the shore in a color that matched the blue in the hero's eyes -- disrupted this otherwise academic space. No matter how dry his tone -- enough to soak up that ocean, mind you-- we were all quite aware that those words did not belong in this room or in that mouth.

Later, he showed us the proposal scene from High Fidelity as the modern alternative to the proposal scene in Emma. Another good choice, except when he decided to give us our instructions and handouts for next week -- something about identity and improvisation -- while Jack Black sang "Let's Get It On" in the background. You can probably guess which one had my full attention.

Can't Get the Spell Check to Work, but It's Still So Pretty

I'm writing this on my new Dell Inspiron 640m. It let's me do

block quotes,

italics, bold text, and make font changes with a simple touch of the mouse pad. It's very shiny and pretty too.

Jodi saw it and said,

"I've never wanted anything of yours like I want that laptop."

• Functional
• Attractive
• Enviable.
  

My sad, sad Mac is collecting dust already.

Phantom Housemate

She moved in one week ago.

Signs of her existence: Bedding on the bed. Clothes in the closet. Pictures on the dresser top.

Signs that she's paying rent for me to store these things: No underwear in the drawers. No toiletries in the medicine cabinet. No towels in the linen closet. No mail in the mailbox. And most telling, no housemate. Hide nor hair. Not a single sighting all week.

Initial findings from my detective work: This is a kick-ass living situation.