Retraining the Gluteus Max

Rickie the Running Specialist is working hard to cure me of my running woes. She has me on an eight-exercise-and-stretch routine, and I have been a very good patient so far (meaning I've actually done the exercises every day since the beginning of our relationship). I can tell that the program is going well for two reasons: 1) the exercises that at first promised to kill me are now getting easier and 2) the karma gods placed me next to Rondell White during my session today. He doesn't seem so big on the baseball field, but in person he's quite impressive. We exchanged a pleasant "Hey. How's it going?" and then I stared at him and eavesdropped stealthily for the next twenty minutes. I wanted to dazzle him with some Twins trivia, but I figured that recognizing him was pushing my luck with sports knowledge already.

The Wrong Way Rubber

Today it was my group's turn to give instructions for the class session we are leading next week. Like the professor does every week, we wrote our instructions on the bored and offered further explanation for the upcoming reading. One class member -- who has sort of been rubbing me the wrong way for a while -- followed up my explanation with, "My brain is really full right now with all you've said. Could you send the instructions in an e-mail?"

As I looked around at the rest of the class writing down our instructions LIKE THEY DO EVERY WEEK, I pointed to the bored and said, "No. They are right there."

"Yes. But I'll probably lose them."

WTF? You are getting your PhD and you can't hang on to the instructions that we are asking you to write down right now?

Luckily, Adam, a groupmate jumped in. "Yeah. Well. Don't lose them," he offered.

Very logical to me.

Unfortunately another, kinder groupmate offered to send the same instructions (that everyone else had already finished writing down) through e-mail.

Sometimes I think the problem with the wrong-way-rubber lies with me. That I'm just not kind enough or that I'm too self-centered to realize that she just sees things differently.

But seriously. "I'll probably lose them." Call me cruel and narcissistic, but that's bullshit if ever I heard it.

Herons, Beavers, and Turtles . . .

With only a couple of weeks left in the semester and four large projects to complete, naturally I took Dave up on his offer to spend the weekend at the cabin. There's a state park and visitor center not too far from the lake, so we spent part of our Saturday afternoon with Rod the Park Ranger. He quizzed me on the skull display, offered up bear hunting regulation pamphlets, and directed us to the Circle Trail Hike where we'd be able to see a heron rookery. We impressed Rod with our 2 and a 1/2 hour Circle Trail return rate and assured him that we had spent at least ten minutes observing the herons. Dave wanted to tell Rod that there were a couple of spots on the trail that needed a bit of trimming or restoration, but Rod had turned his attention to a handful of young boys who needed to know how to identify a poisonous snake. I dropped a dollar in the donation box, but the afternoon was certainly worth a lot more.

. . .

Been thinking hard about what to write in the blog so that I can avoid the paper I'm working on for a little while. But, I'm drawing a large blank. Just been reading and writing and reading and writing and then sleeping sometimes. Not very exciting at all.

Irony

Last night Dave and I were both pretty tired. We fell into bed practically asleep already, but my doze was interrupted by sniffling from the other side.

Me: "What's wrong?"

D: "I'm really stuffed up. I think I might snore a lot tonight."

Me: "That's okay. My stomach is grumbling and I think I might fart a lot tonight."

D: Bolting upright and staring at me (it was dark, but I could tell) -- "Those things are not compatible."

Me: Hearty laughter.

D: "At all."

Me: Continued laughter.

D: "Seriously. Not. The. Same."

Me: Faded laughter.

D: "Completely different."

Me: Halted laughter.

I didn't have the heart to tell him this morning that only one of us snored last night. And only one of us had gas. And they happened to be the same person. I won't say who, but I think we can all guess.

Parental Discretion Advised

I've been swearing a lot lately. Yesterday at the six green lights that I sat through waiting for the traffic to pass near one of the lakes. Today about (but not at) the group member who decided after an hour of work on our project that he was "really beat" and "could we send him the document when we finished?" That one merited a "is he fucking shitting me?" as I recapped the incident for others. Just take a second, though, and think about that one. Seriously. Is he fucking shitting me? There is simply no other possible response.

Running for Dummies

I don't mean to poo-poo this gorgeous weather we're having, but it does remind me that I can't run at the same level I was running at a year ago. Recovery from a marathon just shouldn't take so long, so there has got to be more going on with my form, strength, alignment, and other life-long running-related issues. I decided last week to finally see Rickie, Running Specialist Extraordinaire, but it turns out she's not in my network of providers and even with a referral, I can't afford her. So instead, Dave has decided to print copies of his exercise program and to train me back to running health. We both figure that doing something is better than doing nothing even if it turns out to not exactly be the right something. I have to prepare myself for the daily inquiries from him about whether or not I've completed my exercises, and I have to prepare to actually do the exercises instead of lying to my coach, which, if the weather weren't so nice and I didn't want to run so badly, I might be inclined to do.

I've been awake for about an hour and it's really pushing my limits

This has turned out to be the dreaded week that I thought it would. All of my professors decided to assign papers this week, and with the conference talk preparation in the weeks before, it was questionable whether or not I'd be able to write all 21 pages in time. Things were moving along fairly nicely through Monday with 13 pages down and an extension on one paper.

Then, last night, while drafting paper two, I felt a little wave of nausea wash over me. It was sudden and unmistakable, but I thought it would be over quickly. Twelve hours later and 3 to 4 bouts of vomiting per hour (among other things that I'm sure you can imagine, but don't want to), Cassie drove me to the ER. It turns out that I had contracted a strain of the noroviris, which pretty much sucks all life and liquid out of you while leaving you to writhe in severe unrelenting abdominal pain.

I'm a polite person, but when the ER nurse told me it'd be just a minute before they were able to get me to a room (next to the bathroom), I responded, "You have to hurry. And you have to make the pain go away." They got right on it, and 45 minutes later, an IV of fluid, nausea medication, and morphine pumped into my veins, I felt like a new person.

I've pretty much slept the day away, and the thought of food still makes me jilt. The profs have been great about missed classes and paper extensions, but my spring break next week doesn't look so exciting anymore. Cassie follows me around with antibacterial spray and has made quite a project out of disinfecting the house. I can see the streaks of rubbing alcohol across my laptop screen as I write this. We're pretty sure she gave me the virus, so I don't mind watching her clean. I figure it's penance.