Next weekend is Santa Rosa 70.3 (also known as Not Vineman). I’ve stopped feeling like I can not function as a human person. But then I also had a small crisis about what it’d be like to be an actual human person instead. Who knows. That’s not on the agenda anytime soon.
Instead, here’s what my week was like.
I did six hours of work yesterday and finished two stories, so I could spend all morning today getting my hard workout done. Plus my calf feels OK. Everything is great.
Everything is terrible. It is so hot. This track is so hot. How does optimistic half-Ironman pace feel so terrible already? And my calf hurts again.
Maybe having to stop and drink water after every interval is why I want to throw up. And why my calf hurts.
Emergency bathroom break!
The community college students might think I’m weird.
OK, we can do this. Just get through one more 2,000m, then you’re basically done, almost finished, you can do it.
You are such a liar. You’re not almost done. You’re not even close. You have another 2 1/4 miles to run. You’re going to die, you lying liar.
Totally going to die.
OK, well if I die at least Hillary will believe me it was terrible. It is terrible.
Screw it, I’m going to quit. I have other skills in life. I can be good at something else.
Sigh, I guess maybe I won’t quit. So thirsty, so much pain, so swallowing vomit.
Well, now the community college kids definitely think I’m a weirdo. But I’m done, all done, it is finished.
Oh, crap, I still have to bike home and now I’m limping again. Stupid calf.
I think my calf might be feeling a tiny bit better? Like I’m only mostly limping and can’t run at all.
Commence full-on freaking out about injuries.
People always want to know what I do all day. Freaking out about injuries and Googling “deep vein thrombosis” took up most of the day and also multiple phone interviews. Now, I’m reading a critique of the criticisms of an academic philosophy paper on trans-racialism. Sometimes, I think my internet might be weird.
I really need to finish writing a story. But I’m pretty sure taking a break and going to the gym will help me focus.
Apparently, since it is 90 degrees out, everyone else had the same idea and the pool is packed. I’m waiting on the deck, because I really don’t want to circle in a lane with someone floating on their back. NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT. But, no, we are not even close enough to the same speed to effectively circle swim.
Then this middle-age guy tells me not to be scared about circling, if someone catches me, they’ll just go around me. And I’m seriously staring at him, trying to understand what he is talking about, until I realize he thinks I’m worried about being too slow for the lane where the other person in it is floating.
Um, that is not exactly my concern.
I now have an official reputation for being a full-on bitch at the pool.
I’m going to get my workouts in and then I’ll have all this free time later to finish work.
That did not go as planned. And it is 97 degrees out and I am dying and it was impossible to get anything done besides lay on the floor with my smoothie.
Now, I’m definitely not eating sushi while sitting in a makeshift ice bath in my tub.
I am sad. And angry. And it’s partially about the healthcare vote on a bill that doesn’t solve any of the problems it was supposed to solve and makes a lot of other problems much worse. But it’s mostly because all the research suggests it doesn’t matter what I or anyone else says about the healthcare vote or, maybe, about anything. You probably already have whatever opinion you’re going to have. Most evidence suggests you’ve even already had some strong reaction based on the words I have already typed, no matter how rational you are.
Which makes me sad.
Because it means it doesn’t matter. It means I don’t know how we ever share any information or change anything. And it definitely means I can’t make anything better by going faster on a bike.
Also I’m sick of the internet.
And my calf is really swollen and bruised from all the body work yesterday to try to fix it.
We went out for a couple of margaritas. And I thought I was ordering a “fishbowl” margarita for two. Except, apparently, it was a giant “fishbowl” of some other kind of drink that includes a lot of rum and gummy worms. And we ended up with two of them.
Things are going downhill fast.
I walked up to the bar, ordered two Coors Lights, and then said, “Oh, actually, do you have Great White on tap? Can I have one Great White and one Coors Light?” A totally normal bartender-customer interaction.
Then, someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around to see an older man sitting on the stool next to me. He says, “You’re pushy, aren’t you?” And, at first, I think I must have knocked into him on accident, so I say I’m sorry. But that’s not it. Because there’s a solid foot or two of space between us, and he’s not upset, he’s just doing that thing that men of a certain age do to me frequently where they’re all ‘ho, ho, you’re feisty aren’t ya.’ He’s still leering at me, half-smiling and saying more things, “There’s a woman who knows what she wants” and “hah, you like beer, don’t you?” And I don’t know what to say to any of this, because it’s like I’m some kind of Modern Day Amazon Woman Who Orders Her Own Beer And Is This What Feminism Has Brought Us Too.
Of course, when I’m telling Steve about it, the music dies out and the whole bar goes quiet just as I say (direct quote): “Point is, motherfucker needs to shut up.”
So if there was any question before about if I’m pushy or not.
Oh, god, this ride is terrible. I do not feel good. It’s a mystery why.
Actually, it was OK. If there was some kind of omnium prize for who could race a triathlon the best hungover, I’m pretty sure I’d be world champion.
However, that is not a prize.
Hillary says I need to stop thinking so much and just do. Also, drink less.