Those Damn 5K's

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Hey look, I'm running!This morning I ran the PTI 5K on the Runway with the goal of running under a 22-minute 5K. I remained haunted by my last 5K in which I came in just a few seconds over 22 minutes, a scenario that could have been avoided if I hadn't walked for 10 seconds with less than a half-mile to go. 

Physically, I was pretty sure I could nail under a 22-minute race. Mentally, I don't do well in these short races. I get to a point where I'm uncomfortable and I just... quit.. It infuriates me even as I'm doing it. "Keep running!" I tell myself. "Slow down if you need to, just don't quit."

So once again, there's good news/bad news. The good news is I exceeded my goal. Best case, I was hoping I could run a 21:45. I ran a 21:37, which is just under a seven-minute/mile pace. I came in second in my age group and was the seventh female finisher overall. 

All of which would make me quite proud, IF I HADN'T WALKED 3 TIMES DURING THE RACE. 

That's right, you heard me. Not once, not twice, but three times! Loser. I stopped for water then two times in the last mile I stopped for about 5 seconds each time and caught my breath. 

Did I need to? Not really.  I just knew it would feel better to stop, so I did. Somehow, some way, I need to figure out how to push past the pain and keep going. I'm not sure how to do that other than to (gulp) keep running 5K's.

On the bright side, with every race I run, I break down a new mental barrier. A year ago or less I would have scoffed at the thought of running under a 22-minute 5K. Now I think I'm capable of running close to a 21-minute race.

If I can get the mind-thing under control. 

You know what this means. More 5K's.  ACK!!

Cheers,

Dena

The Dark Side of Blair

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All my longtime readers know I pretty much married a saint. Blair is calm, kind, patient and just a very stable presence in an otherwise topsy-turvy world. Nothing gets to him. Except...

ANTS. Ants are Blair's Achilles heel. I never would have known this except I wandered into the kitchen one early morning last week to find my ever patient, non-cursing husband standing by the coffee pot killing ants between his fingers as he unleashed a barrage of expletives at them. 

In all fairness, we have been battling ants for almost two months now. I don't know what the deal is this season, but they've shown up in our kitchen and master bath. We have scrubbed, sprayed, tried natural remedies (set out cornmeal for them to eat as it expands in their stomachs and kills the little bastards), and I don't know what all. Things will be fine for a week or two and then wham! More ants. 

This may just be what causes Blair to finally lose it. He HATES ants. I can't emphasize this point enough. He hates them. He'd probably be happier if we had an infestation of spiders. (Note: I WOULD NOT BE HAPPIER WITH THE SPIDERS). 

So I'm going to spend some time today trying to kill some ants. It's the least I can do for Blair, after everything he does for me. 

Cheers,

Dena

 

Mom Diaries: Press "3" for Dead Mom

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Yesterday morning, Mothers Day Brunch. Blair, Mom, and me are sitting around the dining room table, nibbling on the last of the rum-soaked tropical french toast Blair had prepared. We were talking about Blair and my upcoming trip to Russia. Mom asked if we were going to see Lennin's body. We are not. I don't want to take a 14-hour flight just to look at a corpse. 

The conversation then somehow turned to what we all want done with our bodies upon our deaths. Blair and I both want to be creamated, and Mom reminded us that she wants her body donated to science. She'd registered herself as a donor earlier this year. 

"It's simple," she said yesterday. "You just make a phone call and they handle everything. They'll come pick up the body, transport it, and send you the cremated remains of what they don't use. You don't have to do a thing and it's free." 

"Well where is this magic phone number?" I asked. "You need to have it ready because I don't picture me taking the time to dig through your paperwork looking for it with a dead body in the house."

"I don't think this is appropriate Mother's Day conversation," said Blair. 

"No, no, it's fine," said Mom, waving away his concern. "Dena, I'll find the number and set it out." 

I snorted laughter. "What?" asked Mom even as Blair shook his head.

"Sorry," I said. "I was just thinking I could, you know, put the number in speed dial. So I'll be ready..."

Blair groaned and Mom and I burst out laughing. "Mom's dead," she said, wiping her eyes. "Press '3.'"

"Or you could do voice recognition," said Blair, who apparently decided if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. He mimicked holding up a cell phone and speaking slowly and distinctly into it. "MOM'S DEAD." 

"Did you say, 'bed head?'" I asked, imitating the monotone of the phone recognition software.

"No. MOM'S. DEAD." said Blair. 

"Did you say, 'Mark's Head?'"

"No. DEAD. MOM'S DEAD." 

"Calling, Mom's Dead." 

We were all in tears, we were laughing so hard. 

Anyway, that's what passes for Mother's Day around our house. Hope yours was love and fun filled as well!

Cheers,

Dena