The Return of Luna The Fashion Kitty & Who Moved My Mouse
/Will Luna ever finish the book? It's not looking good...

Will Luna ever finish the book? It's not looking good...

Blair was going through the mail last night and I noticed him reading some official looking form.
"What is that?" I asked.
He grinned and waved the paper in my general direction. "Spousal insurance. Seeing what I need to do to make sure I get tons of money if something happens to you."
"I wish you nothing but the best," I said, returning to my book.
"Actually," said Blair. "I'd pretty much be coming out way ahead money-wise if you just died. We don't really need the insurance."
"Dude!" I said. "There are limits to what you're allowed to say to me."
We were both actually laughing pretty hard. "I told you I was sorry for that little shopping spree last week," I said.
I don't know, you guys tell me. Should I be worried?? ;)
Maybe I'm safe after all. This morning as we were getting our coffee Blair said, "About that last blog post..."
"Where I outed you and your evil ways?" I asked. "Yes, what about it?"
"You forgot one thing." He came over and gave me a big hug. "I may have a little more money, but I would be emotionally bankrupt without you."
All together now: "Awwwww......"
Cheers,
Dena
These may very well be my favorite pics ever of a cat with my book. I may need to hire Luna The Fashion Kitty as official spokesperson for the book. (Don't tell Lucy).
Ouch. Is my writing really that boring? Or is this just a cat's natural reaction to being told what to do?
I don't want to run today. Not "I don't want to run now," or "I'm tired," or even, "I'm too busy to run." I just quite simply don't want to run. The very thought of even putting on my shoes is crushing. I've told myself that the rain has stopped and the cool temperatures and overcast sky make for ideal running conditions. I've also considered that today's tempo run--while a long one at 8 miles--is only at race pace, so it's not like I have to head out the door and kill myself, trying to hold some God awful 7 minute something pace.
I'm not having it. I have made up my mind. I. Don't. Want. To. Run.
Of course, I'll run anyway. It's too late in the week to give myself the day off. I've got 20 miles this Saturday (the LAST 20-miler of the training--WHOO HOO!!) and so I need to take Friday as a rest day. That means that, like it or not, the tempo run is happening today.
I think of it as a mental toughening. There are some race days where, regardless of the countless hours spent on the road, you line up at the start line and think, "I am not feeling it today." Guess what? Too bad. Run anyway. You may not have a great run, but you will run.
That's what I'm facing today. I'm not feeling it. It's probably not going to be a good run. I may not make it the entire 8 miles or hold pace but guess what? Today I am running.
The hardest step is always the first one. Time to go lace up those shoes.
Well now, don't I feel foolish. I ran on the treadmill and had a great run. Only ran 7, but I ran faster than pace and added a 2% incline, so I'll forgive myself the last mile. Once I started, I knew after the first half mile I was going to have a good run. So see, another reason to get out there and run... you never know which days are going to be your good ones.
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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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