Word Perv

At home, tacked to the bulletin board in my kitchen is this:

It is, to some extent, my mantra. You see, running is such an integral part of my soul, of my being, of my very identity. If I’m in a bad mood, tired, sick, frustrated, angry, depressed, worried, hung over, or scared running is my escape from it all. I lace up my shoes and head out, pounding the pavement for a few miles or hours, until I’ve run far enough to clear my head. If I’m in a good mood, happy, elated, in love/lust/like or satisfied, running adds to those good feelings.

Running is about getting up out of bed on a cold morning, when it’s still dark and everyone else is curled up sleeping. It’s about running in the rain, the snow, the ice, the heat and the humidity. It’s about feeling your muscles scream and cramp and beg for mercy, only to push them one more mile.

And running is about sacrifice. After a recent hash run I bore the mark of such sacrifice. During the run I slide down a steep ravine and then later slipped on the catwalk we were running across (it was raining and very slick); I was caught from behind by a fellow hasher, but I couldn’t get my footing on the wet metal grate. The next morning I discovered this lovely shiner:

And yet I wear this bruise as a badge of honor. As a sign that I am a runner. Of course it doesn’t stop there.

I’m currently looking for a race to run on my upcoming vacation (Hawaii in January to celebrate my 30th birthday). I don’t care the length of the race, though I’d like to do something between a 10k to half marathon preferrably, just so long as I complete a race while I’m there. And I want to run a race at every vacation destination I hit in the future.

But this is just the beginning of the obsession.

This weekend I mailed my deposit for what may be the most amazing race I’ll ever participate in. In 2011 I’ll run The Last Marathon in Antarctica. Yes, dear friends, you read that correctly: Antarctica.

It’s hard to imagine planning something so far in advance - I often don’t know what I’ll be doing next week, much less 2.5 years from now. And yet, already I’m excited about the prospect of doing this. The number of people who complete marathons is less than 1% of the population. The number who complete a marathon on Antarctica? Even smaller. There are few of us who are willing to subject our bodies (and our wallets!) to such an event. And yet, I have no doubt this will be one of the most amazing things I do.

Is this sacrifice worth it? Absolutely. Because ultimately, I am a runner.

I know what you’re thinking - she’s going to brave another soccer game with a date?! Never fear dear readers, I won’t let tonight’s date become a repeat of the soccer game I attended with Bachelor #6. Oh no friends, I won’t do that again. There will be no throwing up, no drunken confessions, no hung-over moments the next morning, no awkward feelings. I’ll avoid all that as there will be NO DRINKING at tonight’s game (I have a race tomorrow, the Army 10-Mile, so I have to behave myself as we all know running is too important to me to fuck it up with alcohol), and since things didn’t progress so well with Bachelor #6 I’d rather not repeat that whole experience. You know, the wow-you-don’t-like-me-enough-to-call-me-but-you-sure-as-hell-wanna-keep-sleeping-with-me experience. Let’s face it, that’s just not fun and it’s not what I want. Because while I might not (most certainly do not!) want to jump head first into a full-blown, serious, exclusive relationship, I would like to be dating someone. And by dating I mean he calls me and I call him and we mutually make plans to hang out and spend time together and see how it progresses. Yeah, that’s what I want.

So I’ve got a date with Bachelor #7 tonight and we’ll be attending a DC United game, sitting in the Barra Brava section, the best group of obnoxious, rowdy, completely uncontained soccer fans there ever could be. And I’m really looking forward to the game and to seeing him. While emailing this week we got on the subject of races and training (he’s a triathlete) and he sent me the Excel spreadsheet he uses to track his races. He may as well have been whispering dirty things in my ear because suddenly I was all hot and bothered. Could a man out there take his training and racing as seriously as me? Oh my, I think I’m swooning…

Oh, and I totally owe Jen for this date, because she introduced us. And he’s super cute.

I know, I know, Muppets and Seasame Street are meant for children, but I love it when adult humor makes it into something that’s intended for kids. You can’t help but laugh and appreciate it. Examples:

And if you really want to laugh, watch this video. (Thanks Millie for sharing it with me!)

This one’s been in my head for a while. I’ve written it and saved it, not yet ready to publish it. To admit to it. But I need to. It’s time. You see dear readers, I wasn’t exactly honest about something. That something? #6

Oh where do I begin? Was it because we slept together anyway, even after (and before) I knew he didn’t want/couldn’t have/wasn’t ready for a relationship? But after we slept together that first time it could have stopped there. I could have said, “I want more #6. I want a relationship.” But I didn’t. Instead we found ourselves naked and breathless on a growing number of occasions, with no talk of making it anything more.

I knew he wasn’t ready. Truth be told, he really need not confess his ex had fucked him up, I’d have figured it out quickly. One morning when he was driving me home after our overnight tryst I said, “You’ve got good taste in music,” referring to the CD playing on his stereo. “Not me,” he replied, “my ex-girlfriend.” I looked out the window, wishing I could see the stars in the early morning sky.

“I know I should stop,” I confessed to my best friend, “I’m too old to play this game. This, ‘if we keep sleeping together maybe it’ll become a relationship’ game. It’s exhausting. I want more.”

“I know you know,” she said. “Remember Andrew?”

I sighed. Andrew. Turned out he was engaged to a woman living halfway around the world while he was sleeping with me, settling into a comfortable Sunday afternoon routine of football at his place.  He was my rebound after my marriage ended, so I wasn’t exactly in what I would call a good place emotionally or mentally, and I didn’t necessarily want a relationship with him. I also knew he was seeing someone, I just didn’t know the extent of his relationship with her… Perhaps I didn’t want to know. We women are great at hearing what we want to hear, believing what we want to believe. And we did have a blast on New Year’s:

“I remember. I just…” I trailed off. I just what exactly? The problem is #6 has never been a prick or an asshole or anything like that. He’s a nice guy. We get along. He’s ridiculously good looking. He’s a runner (I can’t resist!). And when we see one another we seem to always end up in bed. It’s delicious. It’s also maddening to then not hear from him. To not pick up the phone and scream, “You’re sleeping with me, you could at least call me from time to time!” Of course I’m smart enough to know that if he’s not calling it’s becuase he’s not interested, I’m no fool…

I don’t even know what the purpose of this post is… Is this my albatross? Is this what I must do in order to rid myself of him? Must I admit it here, in order to say “I deserve better?”

I know I deserve better. I’ve been single for a while. I’m ready for more. I want more. The problem is I want more with him. But if I don’t stop this soon he’s gonna hurt me, intentionally or not. And then I’ll be the one saying, “I’m too fucked up… I’m not ready…”

And so, this is where it needs to end. Right now. I want more. I’m not gonna settle for less.

Wow. I totally rock. Occassionally, it’s not just me telling myself this, standing in front of the mirror (naked) repeating, “I rock. I am hot. People like me…” Just kidding people, I only say the “I am hot” part.

Recently I got some affirmation of my absolute coolness when I received this award from Helmet:

Oh yes people, I rock. Really, I do!

And I know I’m supposed to send it to 7 other bloggers, lest I want a million-zillion years of bad luck to fall upon me, but I recently listed some of my favorite blogs and I’d just be repeating them. So really, I love you and I read you every day. But I’m gonna stop the madness here. It’s almost as bad as a meme.