The most pathetic 5k ever run in the history of mankind was run last night. Me, my fat knees and my cankles plodded their way through the Financial District last night and ran the 3.1 miles in a glorious 47 minutes. That's right. A 15 minute mile. It is the freaking saddest thing too that I admit that I didn't just walk it. No, a walked 5k would have taken a good two hours. I jogged at least a quarter of it. A slow, painful jog that halted every block and a half as I wheezed and moaned and clutched my cramps and prayed that the Lord would let me live to see another day. But I got the tee shirt!
(These pictures might be ginormous. My cute little Microsoft Paint system of cropping photos is no longer available to me and though I am sure there is a good way to do it on this here Mac machine, I haven't figured that out yet.)
This morning I woke up feeling ready to cry. Every muscle in my body was bruised and my sinuses, which yesterday were a mere nuisance, had blown up over night and I swear my head weighed at least 15 pounds. And the headache! Heaven bless me, that headache threatened to kill me! Long story short, I didn't go to work that day, and as a result, I have to start my month of not-buying-anything-for-myself all over again. SO. May 17-June 17! I can do it!
Tonight the husband and I are running in the 2006 Annual Running With The Bulls 5k in Lower Manhattan despite the fact that my throat is on fire and his sinuses have been screaming at him all day. It will be, uh, fun. Yeah.
Today while I was on the subway riding home from another craptastic day of work - they just don't make them any other way these days - I sat across from these two adorable girls. They were obviously sisters; they looked a lot alike and shared the same sense of style, but one was obviously older. It reminded me of me and my sisters. Growing up, I was the smart one, Amanda was the pretty one, and Alex was the Alex one. Alex sort of defies categorization, really.
These two girls on the subway WERE me and my sisters, exactly. The older girl was maybe in her early 20s. Her style was a little edgier, a little more fashion-conscious and her face was more angular and she was pretty in an unconventional way. The younger sister was just cute as a button, dressed head-to-toe in American Eagle. She had a much softer face and was probably 15.
The two of them shared an ipod and sort of giggled with each other, and there was an obvious big sister/little sister bond. It was so cute to just sit and watch them. And then I started to get really homesick for my own sisters.
Here we are last summer at my parents's house. It was right before I moved to NYC and lost about 5 pounds and right before Alex started her Junior year in High School and Amanda went back for her Sophomore year of college.
In other news, I couldn't let this go by without telling those of you who are super interested in my Proactiv reviews. I've decided to scrap it all together. The Renewing Lotion made my skin dry and peel like crazy, and today for no discernable reason I've broken out in random places. I thought Proactiv was supposed to stop pimples before they appeared? This stuff is CRAP. So I've switched to Loreal Paris' line of skincarel, since it's cheap and it's worked for me before. I'll keep you updated, you know, if you care.
It's school-acceptance season at the Holbrook house and sadly, there have yet to be any actual acceptances. 4 wait lists, which does perk us up a bit, but only until we remember that a wait list just means they can take us at the very last minute (even up to a few days before classes begin) or they can just ignore us. I was raised not to let a man treat me that way and I can't imagine allowing a law school to do it would be any better. But, that's life, I guess.
Today as I was napping on the sofa at about 3:00 I had a sudden feeling that there was an acceptance in the mail downstairs. I was so convinced that it was really there (and I knew EXACTLY what school it was from, too) that I dragged my butt off the couch, pulled my hair back, found some decent shoes (such a hassle!) and went downstairs to check the mailbox.
When I got there the mail dude was JUST STARTING TO SORT THE MAIL FOR OUR BUILDING. AT THREE. I seem to remember the lady who did it before always had it finished by noon, and so this poor balding man, who is probably a very nice and kind human being, had to endure the wrath of my evil eye for 10 minutes while I drilled holes in the back of his head with my impatience.
He was about finished and asked what apartment I was in. I told him, and he handed me a stack of mail. I scanned the pack and immediatly knew there were no acceptances there. Then, a glimmer of hope emerged as I saw he had given me the someone else's mail. I gleefully handed it back, sure that in just a few moments our immediate future would be laid out in front of me. Then he gave me my real mail. A coupon clipper. Nothing else. Not even a freaking bill.
I slapped myself on the forehead and muttered "Aw man!" and went back upstairs to my grumpy puppy with a cone on his head and the lingering uncertainty about where we would be living as soon as two months from now. A person can't live like this, no sir, especially not a person as anal as me.
Okay, picture in your head a subway car. You are in it and it is packed. You're somewhere under the East River. Now, imagine what could be the worst possible thing you could smell while stuck in an overcrowded train under a stinky, dead-body filled river. Go on. Got it? Did you think of baked salmon? Now imagine watching someone eat it. On a crowded subway. Ick, right?
The other day when Brandon's family was in town and we were on one of our marathon walks through Brooklyn Heights with Peter Pan, we happened to pass our resident loony, the guy with the afro who wears building insulation on his legs and a small stereo strapped to his head. This is the guy who's always out panhandling, only the coffee cup he uses to collect coins is actually filled with coffee. He mumbles the most inane things as we walk past, this time he was saying, "Happy Homeless Day" over and over as he stuck his full coffee cup out at whoever was passing by. As we walked closer to him, he looked down at Peter Pan (who is, I must admit, the most adorable dog in the WORLD) and as we passed he said to Peter, "Hey, what's up, Scott!"
I started laughing so hard I could barely breathe (once we were out of earshot, of course - I may be rude but I am not THAT rude) but nobody else seemed to notice, or care. I asked Brandon if he didn�t think that was the funniest thing he'd seen all day, and he looked at me nonchalantly and shrugged his shoulders like he didn't speak English and didn't know what "funny" meant. Later, I told my dad what had happened and he gave me a vague look before changing the subject. So I need to know, guys. Not funny? Am I missing something? Or are THEY missing something? I mean, really. Just thinking about it makes my torso ache with memories of the laughter it caused. Scott? Of all names, why SCOTT? Am I going crazy? Should I tape on some insulation and grab myself some coffee?
I should remind myself here of my grandmother's bizarre sense of humor. She, for fun, stole a fork from The Cheesecake Factory and then made a big deal of it when she returned it later that weekend. And this is the genetic material I'm made up of. Sad, isn't it.
