Confession of a One-time Smoker

I've got a really major confession to make. I mean, it's a big one. You could easily call it a doozy.

I smoked a cigarette.

Okay, that's a lie. I smoked a pack of cigarettes.

I know, I know. I deserve more than just a simple, "Shame on you."

Allow me to explain.

It went down like this. I've been dealing with a slew of stressful and emotional issues of late -- break ups, pending surgeries, insanely demanding job to name a few -- when, there I was, cleaning out my car during what became the most inane of torrential downpours -- according to Portland meteorological records, it was the most rain Portland, the city infamous for gloomy rain, had ever gotten in one time -- when I reached deep underneath my passenger's seat and felt a box like I had never felt before.

Pulling it out, I learned that it was a pack of Marlboro's that belonged to my boyfriend's -- ugh, my ex's -- best friend. I was ready to put the box into my trash bag already teeming with coffee cups and empty Jelly Bellies boxes when I noticed there was still one solitary cigarette hiding beneath the gold foil.

I threw the bag away and kept that solitary cigarette.

I dried off, soaked after half-standing in the rain for 30 minutes (What can I say? My car was messy!), and stared at the cigarette, sitting on my table, beckoning me like I was Alice. I could see the words written on its white, half-crumpled body: "Smoke me," like it was my key through the door to Wonderland.

And so, I did. I grabbed a pack of matches from my closet, ran outside to my apartment's fire escape and lit up.

Trust me, as a runner...yes, now a runner who chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes...I know how awful smoking is for the body. I cherish my lungs, my heart and my body -- they've all been with me and have held their own relatively well so, to completely destroy all three with the puff of one cigarette is seemingly nonsensical. I mean, studies show that smoking just one single cigarette increases the stiffness of the arteries in people my age, 18 to 30, by a whopping 25 percent. That's not good for the body.

Yet, despite these stats, an alarmingly large percentage -- 17.9 of adults in Oregon -- of the US population still smokes. It's really no wonder why the CDC named cigarette smoking as the leading preventable cause of death in our nation.

Most scientific research shows that the compulsion to smoke again after that first cigarette can lie dormant for three years. My compulsion lay low for a whopping 48 hours. As disgusting as it felt afterwards -- the smell of nicotine and smoke lingered in my nostrils while the taste of raw, burning chemicals and tobacco pierced my every taste bud -- I got the point of such pitiful and disgraceful agony and depression that I needed to turn to something.

And that's when my mouth started to get dry. And when my fingers started to itch. And when my new-found arrhythmia began to explode in my chest.

I knew I wanted -- needed -- a cigarette. So, with unsteady footsteps, I walked to the corner store and nonchalantly bought a pack. And then I went to town; huffing and puffing on one right after another until, much to my surprise, I had none left.

And that's when it hit me: Nicotine is, as every healthcare advocate and worker will tell you, the most addictive drug. It's smarmy, making you feel cool...like those ultra hip yet laid-back 20-somethings who read and write in the park. It's comforting, releasing you from experiencing the stress of real life. It's intoxicatingly indulgent...like allowing yourself to have a thick slice of sinfully rich cake.

Unlike that cake's moment on your lips that stays on your hips, the damage caused by a moment with a cigarette isn't possible to eradicate and it's much harder to say, "No thanks," to another cigarette than it is to another slice of cake. Why? As any smoker will probably tell you -- it's the withdrawal that makes the body scream for a kid like ice cream, "YES, PLEASE! I want ANOTHER!"

And so, it's a mind game: At first I'm dealing with the taste in my mouth and the stench in my nose that doesn't seem nearly as bad when there's a cigarette at reach. And the physical effects -- my shaky hands, awkward heart beat, the feeling that my tongue is growing larger and larger. Then there's the dizziness, unbalanced by that awful sense of vertigo like I'm swaying on a boat that has no exit.

It's enough hell to make me wonder, "Why'd I ever do this in the first place?"

The Web

No. I'm not talking about the internet.

So...if you're a tech-savvy super nerd (Ahem, Walker), feel free to stop reading now because my story of the web probably isn't going to interest you.

That said...


I'm talking about a different type of web...the spider web.

It's everywhere. Or rather, to be more realistically and grammatically correct, they're everywhere.

August and September mark one of my favorite times of the year to be a Northwest (Okay, fine...they're all over Stumptown) Portland resident because spider webs are in absolute overabundance (Yes mom, I know you're cringing and wondering how I ever came from your loins but, come on, by now you should know that I'm a psuedo-hippie -- to Spokane standards, anyway -- creature-loving nerdy  hipster. I mean, half of my hair is shorn for crying out loud). I first fell in love with them -- and noticed them, to be honest -- at the end of last summer when I was taking a lot of early morning, have-to-get-out-of-the-house-or-else-I'm-going-to-go-crazy walks. Still shining with early morning dew, the spider webs, which decorate bushes, trees, building eaves, fire escape stairwells, road signs and everything in between, simply shine in a glorified omnipresent beauty that's just radiant.

And the spiders that dabble in the middle of these five and eight and thirteen inch webs (Yes, I've measured and taken photos) just hang out, asking whoever stops in jaw-dropping awe in proud mockery, "Yeah...what have YOU done today?"

Turns out...usually when I have the chance to really admire these webs, my answer is, "Eh, not much."

That's how it was this morning, anyway. After a night of tacos and tequila with Walker and Jason, I was..admittedly...a bit slow to the start of my morning. Usually, during the work week, I'm up at 4:30, running by 5 when the spiders are rebuilding their webs after a night of human destruction.

How do I know? Because I'm the one breaking the random web strings flailing like silent assassins from the the trees. They attack my face and brush my cheek with such eerie vengeance which, regardless of how much I don't mind spiders, freaks me out. If anyone saw me karate-chopping with my arms while running up Lovejoy and Cornell at five in the morning, I'm almost certain they'd believe I was yet another neighborhood crazy.

But this morning, as mentioned before, was slower, recovering from a celebratory night with Yeyo (QO landed quite a few jobs lately...woot woot), so instead of an early morning run, I went on a regular-morning (i have to believe that 8 a.m. is 'normal' morning time) walk around the neighborhood while talking on the phone. It was nice...taking time to notice the beauty of nature that, despite living in the city, surrounds me.

Big old spiders. Big old webs, glimmering in the big old sun that danced behind big old clouds in that big old sky.

It was pretty and calming and nice to realize that, even though I'm typically a hustle-bustle, go-go-go individual, the power of nature never ceases to amaze me.

'Shups

'Shups, as the apostrophe implies, is short for push ups.

And push ups, for anyone with gangly and/or weak arms like mine know, are the world's absolute worst exercise. As a 14-year runner, push ups have always been the bane of my existence. Sure, I've always needed to have some ounce of enduring strength within my arms, propelling me forward during as race as my strong, buff legs revolved in simplistic, speedy strength. But I've never actually needed them to be Arnold Schwartzenegger buff.

I mean, in all honesty, that'd just look a bit beyond ridiculous.

Though, feel free to take a moment to pause and imagine a 5'8", buck-twenty, pixie haired girl with arms the size of the Governator. I'd definitely make sure to include the slick tanned look, too.

Anyway. Back to reality...

I bring up push ups because tomorrow during work will mark the end of my eighth week of (week)daily exercise sessions that occur between 2 and 3 pm in my office (Which, coincidentally also happens to be 'cookie happy hour' at the cafe downstairs where cookies -- I prefer the lemon coconut [I know, the fact that I eat coconut in a baked good is so hypocritical, considering I liken shredded coconut to cuticles] -- though the oatmeal raisin are also quite tasty). And, as the end of the eighth week I am responsible for doing 40 push ups.

40. F-o-r-t-y. The number of winks that make up a nap. The number of days and nights Noah had to last on that bloody ark of his.

Okay it wasn't bloody...but I like to pretend I'm from England every now and then and use a British 'fucking' on occasion.

Anyway...bloody hell I can't seem to stay on track. Perhaps it's because forty push ups is a lot, especially considering that today's 39 all about rendered me useless for the rest of the afternoon. For the past two weeks, after finishing push ups with four of my coworkers who, sure--are tired and everything, pop up and get ready for sit ups, I simply collapse on my belly and lie on the floor in total agony wondering how the hell I can push myself to a ten mile run and be ready to take on the rest of the day but can't push my body 30-something times up and down without needing to crash for a solid two hours.

I mean, it makes obvious sense -- I've got years of running under my belt...err...feet...but not years of push ups. Still, it sucks.

We've got four more weeks of 'shups -- as that's when one of my coworkers hits 100 (He's a guy...which I'll fully accept as a valid excuse for doing waaaaaaay more push ups than I'd ever care, or be able, to ever do).

Four more weeks? That'll put me at 60 'shups.

Ouch...the thought of that just made my muscles cringe.

Why couldn't I have been a body builder to start out with, eh?

Mommy Wow! I'm a big kid now?

Yep. I'm a big kid. An official adult and stuff.

Why?

Because today is the day my insurance benefits really officially kick in.

That's right...I can break a leg, break my teeth, break my spirit and have it all fixed...and paid for.

While I don't have any plans on breaking any of the aforementioned, I guess today just gives me peace-of-mind (There's AngelVision speak for you) knowing that, in case something really crappy and painful does come my way -- say the lady who almost hit me during my run this morning hadn't finished applying her lipstick and actually turned into me instead of nearly into me -- I'm covered; good to go.

It's hard at this juncture to not want to go down the highway of political ranting but, considering I have a plethora of friends and loved ones who are my age, working their asses off without a safety net of health insurance, it's inevitable that my typically non-political posting is taking the on ramp at full speed.

A couple of weeks ago the New York Times T-Magazine ran an article about kids my age. The headline pretty much sums up the subject of the eleven page issue: "What Is It About 20-Somethings?" "Why," the subhead asks, "Are so many people in their 20s taking so long to grow up?" One of the reasons...healthcare. The other reason? The economy. It's awesome, really, that our president has allowed those of us no longer in college but without a job like mine to stay on our parents' health insurance plans until we're 26 but, at the same time, allowing us to keep suckling away on that parental teat just pushes us further and further away from real, live independence. It's a way of keeping us half-grown up as psuedo-adults who are almost...but not quite...there.

What pushes most of us down even further is the still-tanked and ever-tanking economy that's ripe only with un-and-underemployment. There are too many degree-bearing 20-somethings with stocks of creativity, passion, drive and talent who are working part-time, unfulfilling jobs (By the way, unfulfilling isn't actually a word. Good thing I've got an English degree and license to make up my own). And here in Portland (Okay, and Oregon in general where the unemployment level is still over 10 percent), the economy is nearly impossible.

It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair!

Wait...this post was about me being a grown up, right?

Anyway...

While I typically don't agree with Nancy Pelosi, I found a quotation from her on Friday while looking up quotations for a client.

(Sidebar for all of those in marketing...don't EVER promise a client you'll find a quotation for them. It takes for fucking ever. And yes...the F-word was indeed necessary. End Sidebar)

Pelosi said: "Think of an economy where people could be an artist or photographer or writer without worrying about keeping their day job in order to have health insurance."

Indeed...where is that economy? And where is the universal  healthcare? Where? Where? Where?

Maybe we 20-somethings don't want to grow up just quite yet because there's not a whole lot of awesome to grow up to.

Hmm. I think I broke my spirit somewhere during that joyride.

And here I thought the start of September never looked so good.

Crossword Love

Some call it love. Some call it an obsession. I call it an absolute necessity.

The crossword puzzle is an indulgence I get -- no, have -- to partake in every morning, thanks to the year long subscription to The Oregonian that my parents so lovingly got me for Christmas. Everyday I plan out at least 30 minutes of coffee and crossword time....so yes, during the week when I'm waking up at 4 and 4:30 in the morning to run before work, I'm also figuring in a solid crossword and coffee session.

I know, I know, I already hear people gawking that I wake up THAT early JUST to do the crossword.

But I can't help it.

I've tried -- like today, when I simply woke up, laced up my Nikes with my building key tucked tightly in the tongue and headed out my building door into the early morning darkness without caffeine running through my blood and crossword clues running through my head. It was a good run -- heck, it was a great one (10 miles before 6:15? Yeah, it was real good). But here I sit, with nothing to do at work (Literally nothing. It's been like this for three days now and my writing fingers are itching with idleness), feeling slightly amiss because I have yet to complete any crossword puzzles.

In fact, my little Oregonian is still wrapped in its blue plastic sheath, begging me to read it and not succumb to the diabolic lure of Internet news. I actually think I can hear it sighing, holding back weepy tears from my desk drawer...

"Read me." "Open me." "Do me." "Finish me."

Hmmm. Somehow that turned slightly pornographic.

[Insert commercial break]

My love for the crossword puzzle grew, thanks in large part to the boring classes I had during my college years at the University of Portland.

IMPORTANT CLARIFYING NOTE: Not ONCE did I EVER EVER EVER pull out a crossword puzzle during an English class.

That being said...

Had I never been forced to take Biblical Traditions from a professor who adamantly called me Annie the entire semester (But then mysteriously called me Amie a year and a half later on a random campus pass-by), I probably never would have learned to fold the newspaper just perfectly to cleverly camouflage it amidst my notebooks. Were it not for freshmen level communication studies classes I took as a fifth year, I wouldn't have learned the codes of the crossword (For example: Abbreviations in a clue means an abbreviated answer. And, not Or, adds an "S" to a name. You get the idea).

Nor would I have learned that an "aerie" is an eagle's nest, that Ella Fitzgerald is a jazz legend, that Erma Bombeck is absolutely awesome (Okay the crossword didn't teach me that but her constant appearance in the grid piqued my interest to put my Google skills to work) or that Nikola Tesla was a rival inventor of Thomas Edison.

I don't think I would have learned any of that in my theology or communication studies classes either.

I guess I like the crossword so much for the simple reason that it gives me something to do. It's a time-wasting past time that's actually productive -- I'm learning (as aforementioned factoids clearly prove evident), working my brain and, on the glorious occasion that I fully finish a puzzle, experiencing a glorious rush of accomplishment and pride.

It's dorky, I know. An obsession, of course. But few things are as satisfying as unsheathing the newspaper, flipping through to the crossword puzzle and burying myself in the black and white boxes while I wake up over a hot cup of steaming coffee.

Hump Day

Today has been a rough day. For no real reason in particular I haven't been sleeping all that well and today was definitely a result of the four hours of sleep I've managed to wink in over the past two days. It's not a case of the Mondays but rather, as the rest of the working world calls it, a case of the Humpdays.

No. I'm not talking about anything pornographic or icky (I hate the word hump with as much passion as I do the word horny. They both just sound so gross).

Allow me to pull some definitions:

Ala Urban Dictionary:
1. The middle of the work week; used in context of climbing a proverbial hill to get through a tough week.
2. Wednesday, the middle of the week, implying you have to 'get over the hump' before you can anticipate the weekend.
3. The middle of the week or the beginning of the weekend, depending on your level of addiction to alcohol.

Ala Dictionary.com:
1. The middle of the work week, usually Wednesday.

Sadly, since I no loner have access to the Oxford English Dictionary since I graduated UP 13 months ago, I can't dive into the serious etymology of Hump Day.

So I Googled instead (Yes, I know...I am indeed a giant dork).

Apparently Wednesday is just a mediocre middle day in most worlds...real and fictional.

There's AE Bray's nursery rhyme, "Monday's Child," that decries Wednesday's child as full of woe (IF...yes, big IF, I ever have kids, I'm sure my mom will hope I have a Wednesday child since, as she and my father have told me numerous times, if I were the first child, I would have been the only.). Solomon Grundy was married on a Wednesday, fell ill on a Thursday and was buried by Sunday (I DO plan on getting married someday but definitely NOT on a Wednesday).

In Winnie the Pooh, the cruddy nature of the "Blustery Day" is attributed to it being "Windsday" (a play off of Wednesday, just in case you didn't catch that). And in Richard Brautigan's "In Watermelon Sugar," Wednesday is the only day the sun shines gray (Considering his troubled life and eventual suicide, it's probably best he was a Montana boy who didn't know that in Portland, the sun shines gray every day).

But it's not even in literature and poetry where Wednesday is a crappy day (PS as I write this the once-sunny day is vanishing under a sheet of heavy, heavy rain). In astrology, the planet Mercury represents Wednesday. Mercury, a/k/a Apollo, is simply the messenger (Maybe there's a reason for that adage, "Don't shoot the messenger" because it sucks to be the proverbial bearer of bad news.), noted for his swiftness and speed...a flat out lie considering the length of the modern day Wednesday. I think that the first century poet Manilius probably had it right when he called Mercury inconstant and vivacious.

If we shoot over to the Bible, we get Ash Wednesday (Caveat: This is all coming from a non-religious individual who attended a private Catholic university so take the commentary with a grain of salt). Yes, of course, it's a wonderfully spiritual day on the whole but it comes with the confessing, fasting and the promise to not eat meat for FORTY WHOLE DAYS. Plus as it was at my college, most people are hungover from going nuts the night before on Fat Tuesday.

So, as one can see, Wednesdays are blah all around. For me, Wednesday's few saving graces are all modern-day guilty pleasures like the Willamette Week (Of which I only read the Dish section. I pick up the free weekly paper solely because it means I get a THIRD crossword puzzle to work on), America's Next Top Model (WGN is rerunning the Petite Model season, fyi) and no boyfriend until later at night to make fun of me for indulging in either (Quarter Orange duty calls). On my cross country team in college Wednesdays were always an easy training day; no practice and either a light run, cross training or a total day off.

Considering my lack of sleep and the fact that my body feels more zombie-like and less humanoid, I'm going to pay homage to my cross country team training schedule and take the day off from running (I've gone a solid 12 days in a row!), kick back with an IPA and watch ANTM while doing the crossword puzzle.

Of course, that's after I finish this ginormous internal project that's due...oh...today.

Hump Day indeed.

41 Days Later...

As if my infrequent blog posts haven't been evidential proof of my lack of free time and extra energy, the facts that I worked every day for the past six weeks, logging in an average of 53 hours between Pottery Barn and Whole Family Wellness Center while producing three articles for Neighborhood Notes (which involves interviewing, taking pictures, writing and eating a LOT of food) and four food articles/reviews for The Examiner should add up to a sum of me having barely enough time to sleep let alone write blogs for fun.

But that changed on Saturday when I had my
very
first
day
off.

And it was amazing. Simply amazing. Here's a lovely breakdown of how I spent my (I like to think) hard earned day off:

8:35 am -- Wake up, without an alarm, slightly confused like I fell asleep at some place other than where I usually sleep and forgot that I fell asleep there and expected to wake up in my regular bed in my regular studio (I always experience that slightly confusing and panicky feeling whenever I go home to Spokane and forget, upon waking up, that I'm going to be in my old bright yellow bedroom in my parent's house and not in my cushy queen sized bed in my freezing studio). I didn't recognize my own room upon opening my eyes because it just seemed eerily different. After uncurling myself from my burrito-wrap of blankets I realized the difference: My room was light...from the sun...which rose...before I did.

8:45 am -- Happy that I have a day off while the sun still had to rouse itself bright and early, I remain in bed, watching The Office and texting with Rachel and Walker.

9:20 am -- Think about getting out of bed but decide that the warmth of my electric blanket is just too good to leave and I know that, despite the sun's presence shining through my curtainless window, my 60-year-old hardwood floor is going to be cold on my sockless feet.

9:45 am -- Still in bed, I begin to hear unnerving stirring from up above where The Nympho in my building lives. Seriously, she's a nympho...and a very loud and crazy one at that fact.

Sidebar: My very first weekend in my apartment my friend Matt was in town for the marathon so he stayed with me. Matt and I hadn't seen each other for a solid 10 months and of course, while talking and playing catch up in my studio, we heard the nympho going at it. He asked me if I moved into a brothel. I couldn't give him an answer. End Sidebar.

I can't help but pray that perhaps she is just waking up and getting ready to make one of her crazed mad dashes out of the building. While she is just waking up, she's, unfortunately for me, waking up with one of her many Johns. Her bloodcurdling screams of ecstasy are enough to get me out of my and into pajama pants and blue and yellow polka dot galloshes and over to Fat Straw for a Stumptown-made soy mocha. Taking the mocha back home, I snag my Saturday Oregonian and crawl back into bed, happy to know that The Nymph's John is the short-winded one, if you catch my drift.

11:00 am -- Crossword puzzle complete and newspaper read (There was this super crazy article about a PSU professor who accused a student of being an FBI informant and murderer. I still don't understand it), I finally get out of bed and throw on half spandex pants, the generic watch my sister gave me, sports bra and my Nikes and proceed to push my body through seven miles.

Noon -- Shower and head to New Seasons for lunch. I finally talk with my mom for the first time since last Sunday which is nice because, let's face it, I'm a huge Mama's girl and feel as though I'm without my right arm when I don't speak daily with her. I love New Seasons on the weekends; sure, they're always busy but there is always a mountain of samples. This Saturday's sample platter was all in preparation for today's Super Bowl (Which I did not watch, thanks to a solid PB shift). While waiting for my sandwich I feast on Pirate's Booty, kettle corn, gluten-free pretzels and stone ground corn tortilla chips and guacamole.

1:45 pm -- Arrive back home and, upon being unable to see much of my hardwood floor, decide to clean up a little bit.

1:55 pm -- Bored and sick of cleaning (productivity just wasn't suiting me), I opt to finish a blog post that I began on Wednesday (I told you I've been busy) and, feeling a little rebellious, crack open a beer, just because I can.

3:15 pm -- Itching to get out again and armed with a $50 gift card, I head to Powell's. Hopping in my car I know that the crowds will be out in masses but find a parking spot on the corner of 10th and Everett anyway. An afternoon at Powell's, teeming with people or not, is definitely my ideal activity. I have a route that I typically follow: Enter into the Orange Room, peruse (And I actually mean the real, original definition of the word which means to search intently and deeply, not to scan or skim) through the cooking section before making the rounds in the middle of the room, looking at the islands of sale books. I next enter the Pink Room, rummaging my way through the running books in hopes that something will ignite the kindling of my once ravenous passion. Up the stairs, I head to the Blue Room where novels live. My favorite aisle? The M/S aisle where David Sedaris lives across and down the aisle from Christopher Moore. Checking the $5 sale shelf, I grab Atonement before heading to "B" for the chance that there's a new T.C. Boyle. Finding there is, I grab it and add it to the four other books I've already selected. Next stop is the Green Room where I search through the best seller shelves before heading past the greeting cards and wrapping paper and into the Purple Room where Journalism lives.

4:45 Walker meets me in the Purple Room as I'm drooling over Ralph Steadman's biography/autobiography about Hunter S. Thompson and his experience with working with the founder of Gonzo Journalism. We walk around, checking out the history and Astrology sections (There's nothing like bonding with your boyfriend over an astrology book that explains, by the signs, how much and what type of a bastard your boyfriend is) before heading out the store.

5:32 pm -- Walk swiftly to my car -- it's beginning to rain -- only to find that I got a ticket three minutes ago for having expired tabs. I didn't even know my tabs expired and now I'm slapped with a $60 ticket for not having something that costs $30. As Walker said, the least that the parking police could do is give me tabs, considering I now have to pay $90 for something that I wasn't even aware I had to take care of. I mean really, how's a girl supposed to know about expired tabs?

6:00 pm -- Bundling up for a night out in the neighborhood, Walker and I decide to try Pope House Bourbon Lounge on NW Glisan, just east of NW 21st. I wish the little house-turned-lounge was more happening but, as the music suggested (We walked into the dark lounge to hear Johnny Cash be followed up by Jack Johnson's Bubbly Toes. I like both singers but to who is the restaurant trying to appeal?), the lounge seemed a little of whack. Nevertheless, the pub had Terminal Gravity ESG on tap and one of the stiffest Manhattan's in the neighborhood.

7 ish -- Being a person who loves being around more people, Walker suggests we blow the Pope Bourbon Lounge popsicle stand and trek to New Old Lompoc before it closes (Which is rumored to happen).

And here's where I lose track of time a bit. Two IPAs and a couple sips of harsh well whisky later, I know  we eventually leave Lompoc so I can try Walker's and the Jesses' favorite NW 23rd hangout, Nob Hill Grille. I finally get to savor two sliders and a whiskey neat over simultaneously coyish and sarcastic conversation. I can't help but feel totally spoiled and giddy over one of the most relaxing and happy dates I've had in a long time.

After an attempt to watch 28 Days Later, the combination of happy inebriation and sleep took me to dream land for the night.

A solid day off, even if I did wake up with a headache this morning.

But then again, what's a day off if you aren't going to pay for it a little bit the next day?

A Glutton for Punishment

This is a word for word, cough for cough, doubled over debilitating hack for doubled over debilitating hack recount of the thoughts in my head during my four mile run this morning. I was too lazy, tired and nauseated to be able to focus on writing so instead, I am (cough cough) holding my recorder at the base of my chin as I lay on my back on my purple shag rug, where I have collapsed in out-of-shape misery.

Fuck me (Rolls over with hand on side).

Enjoy.

I forgot that I am a runner. The dual forces of Nature and Nurture (or if you prefer a Christianity-based telling of the story of creation, then please refer to the force of God) crafted me into the mold of Runner -- I'm lanky, have bountiful lungs (Cough, cough, cough) and possess the inate inability to do any other sport besides one that requires one foot in front of the other (Add the direction of  'turning left' and you've morphed cross country running into track) well. And although my running log of the past year might show differently, I actually used to be a fairly good runner, regardless of what Google searches of my name may or may not tell you.

My talent as a junior high, high school and eventually Division I collegiate runner most definitely stems from my passion for the sport. Something about running is just so refreshing and personal; it's always served as a sanctuary for me. I could always lace up my shoes and head out the door for a four or eight or 15 mile run and feel much, much better than before, both mentally and physically speaking. And even though I run more recreationally these days (I refuse to call myself a jogger...which I believe I have the right to do considering I've logged in a sub-5 minute mile, a thank you), that passion and love for the burning muscles and aches and pains of high mileage weeks still live in me.

That hidden passion is probably why last week my friend asked (via Facebook, of course) if I wanted to be on his firm's team for the upcoming Shamrock Run. Regardless of the fact that I'm still recovering from having Shingles and further disregarding that I haven't logged a step in my Nikes since the day before Christmas Eve, I merrily signed up for the 15K length of the run (15 kilometers is a smidgen over nine miles).

Merrily might be the wrong word. It is much too happy and optimistic of a modifier describing my, what I can only describe as slightly insane and poorly-thought-out decision.

Hastily is a more appropriate adverb.

Six days passed once I was "officially a member of Team Cowlitz County Prosecutor's Office" before I realized that in less than two months I was going to have to run nine miles. Now, the runner in me, even without training, would be able to run nine miles. Of course, the competitor in me would take the first two miles of the fun run at a sub-7 minute pace, peter out around mile three, sludge through mile four before doing what my high school teammates and I dubbed the Truffle Shuffle (It's the run we imagined that Chunk from The Goonies would be capable of doing) for the remaining five miles. So I decided to lace up my shoes and train like a good runner ---

--- Or what used to be a good runner. I am so, so beyond being a physically fit, let alone a good runner. Fourteen months of spotty running have left me terribly, terribly out of shape.

Sidebar: Now, I hear my coworkers and friends guffawing my statement that I am, indeed out of shape but you've got to understand that I actually am: I might still wear size 2 jeans and be able to go out in public braless without really anybody noticing but I am more Beyonce-ish today than I was when I graduated college (And, if you're comparing the 2010 version of Amie to the post-high school graduation Amie, I'd look like Kirstie Alley ala Fat Actress standing next to Calista Flockhart ala Ally McBeal) and less likely to take the stairs than the elevator simply because stairs take the wind out of me and make my once-strong quadriceps burn. End sidebar.

Getting back into shape is always the worst pain anyone could go through (This coming from a Shingles survivor). My four mile run today nearly killed me. Each street I turned on (I'm too much of a pansy to run the hills of Forest Park quite yet) came with an increasing wave of agony. My stomach cramped up in mile one with such intensity that I wanted to blame the freshly purchased soymilk I splashed my morning coffee with for going bad (It isn't bad; the expiration date doesn't come to pass for another six weeks) or perhaps the banana that I didn't eat before heading out the door.

Burning lungs set in during mile two; each inhale and exhale felt like my lungs were  being seared on an old cast iron fry pan that wasn't stick-proof. Rounding myself west up Burnside for the start of mile three, my legs began to feel the tension too.

Burnside became my Everest. Each block I passed -- 17th, 18th, 19th -- was like a major basecamp on my trek up to 23rd. As I watched the cars gliding down eastbound Burnside, carrying people sitting comfortably while drinking coffee or bluetooth talking, I couldn't help but think how wonderful it would be to jump in front of one of the cars and let it run me over. As I passed NW 20th Place (That bastard of a street that adds another block to my run; I mean really, what's the point of having a NW 20th Avenue AND a NW 20th Place?), I let the thought of being hit by a car pass over me; the screaming fury of the end of mile three would cease and I would be totally pain free -- albeit after intensive and overly expensive surgery --  recovering in a hospital bed, doped up on more pain meds than I could ever imagine.

But of course, after I learned to walk again I know that somewhere, at some point, over some new social media, a friend would pop up and ask me if I wanted to join his team for a fun run and the runner, that damn glutton for punishment, in me would say yes and I'd be here, nearly passed out on my studio floor from exhaustion and pain, training for a fun run all over again.