Skip It
/Ever have one of those days where you have nothing to say? Yeah, me too.
Ever have one of those days where you have nothing to say? Yeah, me too.
I love living in the South. I'm always running across new and inventive turns of phrase. Right now, I'm sitting in a local coffeehouse where the owner is discussing plans with her staff for their New Years Eve party.
"We'll have a buffet, a band, dancing, and white tablecloths. We're going to dog it out!"
Dog it out? That may just be my favorite phrase, ever. The next time I go to a fine restaurant or travel to Europe, I'll make sure I "dog it out!"
Spike & Snowball, neighbors cats, waiting for their treats.
Lucy checks out the packing materials. "What? No tuna? Sucks."
Last week I was evaluated for Lasik surgery. This is where you pay an eye doctor unbelievably large sums of money to take a laser beam to your eyes to correct your vision. Although it’s been a dream of mine to be able to wake up and tell if the lump beside me is my husband, a cat, or a pile of laundry that needs folding, I’ve been hesitant about Lasik. I think it’s because of that laser beam thing. I’m not squeamish about surgery in general. You want to hack into me and take out a lung or kidney? Fine. But I do not like the idea of people messing with my eyes. They’re bad now, but at least they still work. One slip with that laser beam and ZZZT! Who knows?
But the mess and hassle of contacts has edged me toward the surgery. No more taking contacts in and out on a plane when I travel? No gunked up lenses due to seasonal allergies? No nipping at my eyeball with my fingers because I’ve forgotten I’ve already taken the lens out of that eye? (It’s happened.) Sign me up.
And sign up I did. Turns out I am an “excellent” candidate for Lasik which is eye doctor code for “We’re thrilled to take your money.” I was evaluated last Thursday and my surgery is January 8th. Bim, bam, boom—done.
They sent me home with a pile of paperwork. I have to stop wearing contacts 10 days before the surgery. Ten days of glasses. Not fun, but okay, I’ll make it. Then there are eye drops and wipes to apply the three days leading up to the surgery. Easy. No makeup, perfume, deodorant the day of the surgery. A little gross, but still okay. Then I ran across the whopper: No mascara, eyeliner, or makeup around the eyes for two weeks after the surgery.
Uh, can we say, “deal breaker?”
People, I do NOT leave the house without under eye concealer. I’m afraid the dark circles under my eyes will lead people to believe I’m either:
a) On drugs
b) Sleep deprived
c) Beaten by my husband
Two weeks of no eye makeup? Why not just stab me with an ice pick and be done with it? I also have to throw out all old eye make-up out as it may be “contaminated.” Blair, who’s perfectly willing to pay thousands for this eye surgery, threw his hands up at the mention of new make-up.
“And what’s THAT going to cost us?” he asked.
“No more than thirty dollars,” I said. “Sheesh. Calm down.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Plus, we’ll save more than that by never leaving the house the month of January until you can wear eye makeup again.”
I love a man who understands me.
So I’m going to do it. Swallow the “optional” (right) Valium and lie on a table for 15 minutes while Star Wars technology is applied to my eyes. I’m scared but mostly excited. Being able to see the minute I open my eyes… I can’t even remember what that’s like. Plus, I’ll finally stop hugging the laundry and saying, “Morning, honey.”
Updates to follow.
Author. Humorist. Fitness fanatic. Control freak. Mentor. Klutz. All-around decent human being.
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I want a cat.
There, I’ve said it. Proclaimed my intent to the Universe. Although I’m only willing to accept moderate blame when events transpire to actually bring a cat into my life.
I have no business getting a cat. A few strong reasons off the top of my head include:
And yet.
When I began sharing the news that I had taken a new job near Atlanta and was moving . . . spreading my wings. . . opening myself to new horizons. . . without fail the first comment from almost everyone was, “OMG. You know about the traffic there, right?”
Yes, I am aware of the traffic. Thank you for your loving concern and support.
So how bad is it really? Having lived here now for three months, I can tell you that the 12-mile drive to my office from home can take anywhere between. . .
One of the hardest decisions in moving to Atlanta was knowing I would be leaving behind my 25-year network of friends. These are friends that saw me through job changes (insurance adjuster, librarian, author, marketing maven), life changes (divorce, moves, dating), as well as were there for everything from my first published book to my first marathon to holding my hand when my cat died. A lot of years, a lot tears, much more laughter, and oodles and oodles of love.
In other words—not something easily replaced.
Of course, I’m not “leaving behind” friends but since the five-hour drive between Atlanta and Greensboro isn’t convenient for a quick movie or fro-yo meet-up, the burden is on me to make new friends.
The obvious place to make friends, for me, is the gym. I joined a big-ass Lifetime Fitness...
As most of you know, after 20+ years in NC, I’ve recently relocated to Georgia, about an hour outside of Atlanta. More updates on that later. Right now, I want to share with you the saga of the license plate. It’s a story that more or less sums up my life. What takes other people twenty minutes, takes me 9 weeks, 8 phone calls, 4 DMV visits and a two-week plan to evade the law.
It all started the week I moved to Georgia. I was checking things off my list right and left (pictures hung in new home - check. Food in fridge – check. Wall art for half-bath – check, check, check) and in an effort to be pro-active, toddled off to the DMV to get my GA driver’s license. I showed up prepared for anything – NC driver’s license, passport, pay stub, and invoices from gas, electric and trash removal verifying my new address. I approached the teller window.
Teller: “Social security card.”
Me: “I don’t have that, but here’s my passport.”
Teller: “I can’t issue you a license without a social security card.”
I get a lot of questions about the best ways to train. Which, considering I spent the earlier part of this year on crutches, unable to run for four months due to an overuse injury that could have been avoided, I find somewhat amusing. Then there’s the immediate back-pedalling that takes place, usually in the form of, “But I don’t want to run, or get up at 4 am, or do anything that’s hard.”
Gotcha. I can work with that.
Below are five training tips I try to follow. I say try because let’s be honest—we’re all human and some days will be better than others. But these are the big picture items that have kept me pushing for the last ten years, and they are things anyone can adopt into their lifestyle.
1. Pick Something You Love
I can’t count the number of times people say to me, “Ugh, I know I need to run but I hate it.” Um… why exactly do you need to run? I hate Pure Barre and even though my butt never looked better during the month I took classes, I’m not going back.
When I first signed up for this half Ironman, I knew my swim would be slow and my ride would be average, so the plan was to make-up some time on the run. The Universe had other plans though, and handed me the stress fracture in my hip. It was literally only days before the race when my chiropractor agreed that I could try a walk/run of the course, but only if I swore a blood oath that if it hurt, I would stop. And, in a cruel twist of fate, advised that my best strategy would be to run the uphills and walk the down. That goes against everything I hold dear in life, but okay. I figured I would run a mile/walk a mile throughout the race for as long as I could.
My strategy worked perfectly… for the first quarter mile.
(ICYMI: Part I: THE SWIM)
Let’s call it like it is. I crushed the ride on this race. 18.71 average speed. My normal pace with a group where I’m drafting is closer to 17.5, so I had aspirations of maybe holding a 17 mph average. Crushed. It.
What helped me is my Garmin died before the ride even started, so I had no idea for the entire 56 miles what my pace was. I just rode according to how I felt. The first 3-5 miles were shaky (I kept repeating, “You’re out of the water. You’re alive.”), but then we turned right onto the highway, I settled into my arrow bars and literally said out loud, “Let’s make some time.”
Fun fact: They mark your age in sharpie on your left calf in an Ironman race. Not sure why, but...
On Sunday, June 4, I completed my first (because there will be more) Half Ironman. 1.2 mile swim. 56 mile bike ride. 13.1 mile run.
Being my first IM, there’s a lot to process, especially as I didn’t think I’d be able to complete the race due to my hip injury. I am thrilled beyond all words that I finished and probably most proud of the fact that I have (as of yet) to get the IM tattoo splattered across, you know, my face.
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