penalty box

Drat. Absolutely unequivocally confirmed that yes, do indeed have carpel tunnel. So yeah, lots of modifying of poses, and challenges all around.

Turns out, it very well could be an old never-fully-healed nerve *thang* at C7/T1 rearing it’s ugly head again. Me being stubborn and living life in spite of it, has been a great boon and gotten me way farther than expected. The irony is that now that same determination is what’s gotten me back into the penalty box for a while, having to watch a lot of the game from the sidelines.

MRI scheduled for later in the week. Heck, if being in the penalty box means finally getting some answers about the 15+ year old C7 craptastic nerve stuff, then HELL YEAH! Sign me up!

Cross your fingers, er carpals, that the penalty box turns out to be the best seat in the house.

100 mile “practice”

You’ve heard of marathons. Of course you have, those 26.2 oval stickers are breeding like wildfire on the backs of SUV’s everywhere these days, but have you noticed the stickers with numbers bigger than 26.2? Those are “Ultra” marathons, the new badge of honor. They’re typically 50K’s, or even 50 miles, or the grand poobah: 100 milers. (Although I bet there’s someone somewhere who’s hosted a race longer than 100 mi.) 

Mr Geauxgirl and I have worked an aid station for a 100 miler in the past. We used to “run” (term used loosely– much beer involved— and Delightful was there too) with a fella who actually set the course record for one of these jobbies seven or eight years running. He also had legs that were up to about my armpits, and kinda just loped along– his one step was about 3 or 4 of mine, and I’m about 5′ 6″. The majority of folks coming through at mile 85 were just brok-ted. As in likely causing irreparable harm.

Enter into the fray another friend of ours – we’ll call him “This Guy”. This Guy started “running” with us (the beer variety), then somehow he caught the Running bug that we managed to successfully avoid. (Well, “we” meaning me. I still don’t run unless I’m chased. Hubby has done 2 marathons, but his training regimine to get to 26.2 miles consists of about a month’s worth, where training for a month means I can go twice around the block without stopping instead of once around.) He also worked this overnighter aid station, and we together tsk-tsk’d (and awed) at the extremity of how much people voluntarily will put themselves through.

So my point?

Our friend, This Guy, a fellow scant 5′ 6″-er with legs to match, just completed a 100 miler over superbowl weekend.

He posted about it here, including a short video.

While I did read Born to Run recently (fascinating), plus I confess to owning 3 pair of Vibram Five Finger shoes (new jayas!), at the same time we’ve already established that I’m no runner. But I am a yogini. And part of what we yammer about (sometimes endlessly!) is that ours is a “practice”. As in, you get to “practice” managing your body and mind’s reactions to putting your body and mind through a self-induced stressful situtation in a safe place, so that your “practice” in dealing with stresses comes in handy when you step off your mat too.

Well lo and behold, watching his video during the run itself, he’s doing the same damn thing. Hmph. Looks to me like runners are closeted yogi’s, only with tighter hamstrings.

Rock on, friend. Now sit down and eat a bag o’ chips already, will ya? (Beer highly recommended too.) And next time you come for a visit, I’ll lend you my mat so you can work on those hamstrings.

yup! this guy....

it’s not about YOU, it’s about THEM

When someone’s horribly injured, or terminally ill, it seems I hear an astonishing number of people say that they didn’t go see someone because they don’t want to remember someone “that way”.

Horse-shit.

I’m all for honoring yourself and your limits, but come on. Get over yourself. Yes, I clearly remember her discomfort, her puffy face, her scant scraggly bits of remaining hair, the flaky grey skin that wasn’t quite hers, and even at the end: her struggles, sweats, and gasps.

Yes, that memory is very clear. Crystal clear. But so what?

I loved her. Any discomfort I might have of what images might linger wasn’t diddly squat compared to what she was up against. There are loads of other memories. It wouldn’t have even crossed my mind to NOT be there. How could it?

She needed comfort. Most especially right at those very moments. And what a privilege for me to be able to be there and hold her hand, stroke what was left of her hair, breathe with and maybe even FOR her at times, and speak soothing memories and comforts to her as she endured the pain and fear until she was freed into the big peaceful unknown. Most of us aren’t so lucky– squashed on the highway, heart-attack alone, and if you’re one of the lucky ones you’re in a home for years and years only to end up choking on the mashed peas– I just hope I’m as lucky to have that kind of love surrounding me when it’s my time.

As awful as those long minutes were, and as much as I wanted them to pass, both for her to be out of discomfort and for myself to be out of it too, at the same time I wanted to hold onto every last precious second we had together.

So yeah, I remember. Some may call those images ugly. And I suppose they are in some ways.

But I see it differently.

Sure, I still cry when those images come. Because they were beautiful.

i get on my own nerves too, don’tchu worry

I’m an only child.

Well, sorta.

I do have a baby half-brother. He’s a full 15 years behind me, so in essence, we’re BOTH only children. I was out of the house before he was out of diapers, plus mother was a completely different person by then, with different circumstances, etc, as you might guess.

So now that she’s gone, I’ve become the matriarch, and therefore also the mother figure. Which is fine. Really. He’s really one of the sweetest souls I know. He’s got his own problems and gets in his own way, but then again don’t we all?

Point being, I confess: sometimes it’s hard to not be annoyed. And DAMN, I know it shows, no matter how hard I try for it not to.

It’s my problem, not his. I didn’t have the prep time of having the baby/toddler/kid/tween/teen progression beforehand, I just skipped straight from baby to Young Adult. And my official “I’m Practicing Kindness” mindset this year mandates that I not only of course show kindness and patience to him as his inner-self grows to match his size 13 shoes, but also that I show kindness and patience to myself as I adjust too.

Just the same, it makes me realize that what I found mildly irritating, is likely because on some level I cringe that I probably used to do whatever that is too (and please GAWD, hopefully I have grown out of it otherwise I wouldn’t be recognizing it in him when it goes awry.). All minor things, none of which are a crime of course, but still, *sigh*.

And yeah, even still: every now and then, just like watching him, I also watch myself. I see my own lips flapping, and I am powerless to stop my own annoying self. I’m choosing to find it “mildly, charmingly, annoying”. (I’m trying really hard here, work with me…)

Pesky “witness”.

Phone conversations rather than face-to-face might have something to do with it, but fortunately so far, I think I’ve been pretty good with him not noticing the occasional eyeroll.

The Witness agrees.

(whew)

And that is all for tonight.

don’t tell me, I don’t wanna know

Site stats. How many viewers, from where, how long, blah blah. They can make a desperate little crack whore out of a reasonably rational mind.

I ADORE the comment interaction. But I really don’t want to know about clicks. I vow not to look at any site stats for a month. I mean really, you don’t want to know either. All it does is make you twitchy.

So stop. Else you end up doing the twitchy junkie shuffle.

eat that frog

No, I don’t mean frog-legs, although I have to admit they’re mighty tasty if done properly.

You know when you NEED to do Something, and you know that the Something really isn’t all THAT bad, but yet still you find yourself defrosting the deepfreeze rather than tackling the Something instead?

Yeah. I’ve had a few of those lately.

“Eat a live frog every morning, and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day.” -Mark Twain

Do the icky thing first. Get it over with. NOW. The pain of not doing is greater than the pain of doing.

You heard me. So go. Do.

And if you absolutely can’t bear to eat that frog, put ketchup on it and hold your nose.

you SAY you wanna….

… but do you really wanna?

You want to lose 10 pounds. You want to learn a new language. You want to be an early riser.  You want to eat only locally. You want to save the puppies. You want.

again … but do you REALLY wanna?

Maybe it’s that you want to want to.  But you really don’t wanna.

Don’t get it? It’s just like that I want to like peanut butter. But I don’t. (Emphatically, irrevocably, undeniably, DO NOT LIKE.) But it sure would be convenient if I did.

Interesting food for thought from my master yogini goddess sistah gurl.

Something to chew on. And happy Friday, folks. Get out there and do something you REALLY want! (Just keep your peanut butter to yourself.)

It looks lovely, and danged convenient, sure wish I liked it.

don’t take yourself that seriously, I’m BEGGIN’ ya. sheesh.

Thought for the day:

Please know that just because I’m having fun while doing something doesn’t mean that I’m not serious about it. Seriousness does not have to look frowny, mean or worse yet: boring. Sadly, sometimes people think they go hand in hand.

Now get out there and help me change that.

So there.

Carry on.

what makes a favorite a favorite?

There’s a local watering hole bar, perched on the lake. It’s really NOT our favorite spot, but somehow we always end up drawn there, and always have a great time. Usually we’re there pre or post boating, but this particular day was a crisp fall day. Too gorgeous not to get out and enjoy the view of the water. We sure seem to be at this spot often enough that it could easily be moniker’d as one of our favorites. But yet we still don’t label it that way ourselves.

Hmm. Why IS that? The places/things that are NOT your favorites, somehow you’re still drawn to. Heh?

Like that ratty-ass sweatshirt you really (REALLY) should let go of, that you’re not so fond of either for that matter, that still gets way more wear than your absolute mostest favoritest that sits unused and lonely in the closet. By the time you do get around to wearing the favorite one, somewhere along the way it changed on you (gasp!) and now doesn’t fit quite the way you remember, and were the sleeves always like that? In the meantime, you missed out on it when it WAS your favorite, and for what? A crowded closet, and a neglected pristine shirt that is no longer your favorite afterall and is well past its expiration date.

Doesn’t have a dang thing to do with olives, but there ya have it. We enjoyed the day and the maybe-it-is-your-favorite-afterall-but-you-don’t-realize-it bar so much we created a little friend to enjoy it with us. It appears he eventually had a little too much to drink though. Must’ve been tipsy from marinating in the bloody mary for too long, I guess.

Get out there with your favorite (whatever), and wear/use/love the hell out of it. While it still IS your favorite!

PS—Olives are my favoritest garnish on a bloody mary. Who wants one?

mmm, tasty

THANK you, Delightful, for documenting our little friend.

And to EastOfTheWest for getting us out of the house to begin with.

(Both of whom I’m honored to call favorites, and to wear/use/love the hell out of!)

i a poo poo head

I suck. I suck at receiving compliments. Maybe I’ll fill you in on that soon— maybe not. And I have been Taking Care of Stuff. Lots of Stuff. And peoples. Including myself. Licking wounds and such– Speaking of which….

Dunno if you watch Grey’s Anatomy or not, and frankly it doesn’t really matter, you’ll still get the point. Setup: Dr. Bailey, the hard as nails kick ass broad, was nursing some psychological wounds after a traumatic experience. She was describing it to someone as “being busy”. Holding herself Together with tape & glue. She was Very Busy. With the Tape. And the Glue.

Not only have I been Busy myself, but more than one person near & dear to me have been Busy too. Sorry to have gone MIA. Lots tape. Glue everywhere.

For now though, a random smattering as an offering:

• Getting your eyelid caught in the zipper of your fleece is not advised. OW. Big, panicky, OW. Unzip BEFORE pulling over your head, not during.
• There’s good money to be had in Plastic Surgery for Canines. A coochie tuck for your licking-obsessed furbaby will run you some major ching. We shoulda done it 2 months ago, and saved the equivalent expense in vet bills in the meantime. Stay tuned, she’s booked for 2 weeks from now.
• I still don’t *get* Glee, American Idol, or Dancing with the Stars. Then again I don’t really *get* musicals either. Rather than a closet fan, I feel like I have to be a closet poo-poo-er. Blech. Just the thought makes my eyes roll involuntarily into my head, until the little eye muscles hurt & jerk ’em back downward.
• Trader Joe’s Roasted Seaweed Snack looks like nasty green paper squares, but DAMN it’s addictive. Go figure. And this, from a kid that grew up land-locked where the idea of Seafood consisted of Red Lobster 60 miles away (if you were lucky 1x/yr), or the local catfish fry. OOH, better yet: the crappie you caught down at the reservoir! (Bonus points if you pronounce crappie correctly.)
• I finally flinched and signed up for a Yoga Teacher Training next spring. WTF am I getting myself into? Oye, I don’t know squat.
• Desperately want to find a gymnastics gym in town for GROWNUPS. Just a tumbling run would suffice, but if there was a place that has a foam pit I think I might pass out from giddiness.
• As much as I would NEVER want to live in the middle ages (= dirty people in search of a shower, no thanks), I enjoy the hell out of the Renaissance Festival every year. (?) Yeah, I can’t explain it either.

That’s a pretty disjointed list. My vata must still be outta wack. (Say THAT 3x fast….)

Meh. Enough for now. MUCH MUCH more in the hopper. But thinking it’s time for a beer. Got to wash the seaweed out of my teeth anyway.

Then time to fetch more tape & glue.