I need a new activity

I have too much pent-up energy, and I miss competition and camaraderie...I need a new sport/activity to participate in. I've been researching rugby and roller derby, but as aggressive as I can be, these sports seem a little too violent, even for me. Now I'm thinking maybe I'll look into rock climbing or crew. All I know is that I need something new and challenging and athletic, and then I think I'll feel better.

My next frivolous purchase

I just found out that the animated Wizard of Oz Saturday morning cartoon series from 1990 is available on DVD. When I was a kid I used to love this show-- in fact, I used to love Saturday morning cartoons in general. I remember purposely waking up early on Saturdays just to watch TV. Now that's devotion.

I DID IT!!!

Last Sunday I ran the Kirkland Half-Marathon. The night before the race, I went to bed at 9:30 to ensure that I'd get my full eight hours of sleep (I really can't function with anything less than eight hours, especially if I'm running 13.1 miles the next day). I woke up the next morning well-rested but nervous. Anyway, I'll cut to the good stuff. My first goal was just to finish the rest without dying. My second goal was to finish the rest and run the whole time. My third goal was to finish the race in 2 hr 11 min, which averages out to 10-minute splits. I am happy and proud to say that I accomplished all three of my goals. I won't say what my time was, not because I'm not proud of it, but because for me, this race wasn't about speed-- it was about distance and stamina, and seeing what my body was capable of (now that I know what it's capable of, I should probably start holding myself to higher athletic standards...maybe a marathon is in my future after all).

Here's a play-by-play of how the whole thing went down, including the good (the downhill leg), the bad (the hills of horror), and the ugly (the salt deposits plastered to my face after the race from dried sweat):

The first couple miles were a piece of cake. They went by really fast, and I took a nice, slow pace. Around mile 3, there was gigantic, terrifying hill that seemed to go on forever. I tried to take my dad's advice to not lean forward as I ran up the hill (apparently most runners have an inclination to do that, at the sacrifice of good form and speed). After successfully conquering the hill, the course flattened out and I was able to speed up. As I approached mile 6, I heard the sound of music wafting through the air in the distance. Just as I recognized "Chariots of Fire," I caught sight of a guy with an electric guitar, an amp, and a giant speaker standing on the corner of the street, rocking out for all of us runners. It was awesome. The next two or three miles were all downhill, so I got a little excited and sped up. I was still feeling pretty good around mile 9, until I realized that I still was over a 5K away from finishing. By this point the ground leveled out again and the surface was flat. Soon, however, I encountered more hills (whoever planned this course was positively diabolical), and I had to use every last ounce of willpower and endurance I had to plod my way up the hills of hell. After successfully conquering one hill around mile 11, I was positive there couldn't possibly be any more-- but I was wrong. Around mile 12 there was another hill, and by the time I reached the top, there was some guy cheering for me who called out my bib number and told me to keep going. Naturally, not wanting to disappoint the one anonymous fan that I had, I kept running (if not also because that was what I'd been doing the past nearly two hours). The rest of the course was flat, and I briefly considered stopping at mile 13 when there was only one-tenth of a mile to go and calling it good. But of course I didn't. So I finished the race. I still don't have any plans of running a marathon in the near future, but I could definitely see myself doing a half again. It was fun. And even though I was completely starving by the time the race was over and my legs felt like Jell-O and I was soaked in sweat and there were blisters on my toes, it was worth it.

Race photos. (Keep in mind these were taken with about .2 miles left to go in the race...)

Doom's day

Tomorrow is the Half-Marathon (cue dramatic/scary/celebratory music). I can't believe it's almost here. The race starts at 7:30am, so I'm going to have to wake up around 6, which kind of sucks (correction: which really sucks). I could barely sleep last night I was so nervous, and I've felt on the verge of puking the whole morning. Why, you may wonder, am I so anxious for a race that I chose to participate in and that holds no repercussions whatsoever whether I win, lose, fail, or succeed? The answer to that, my friends, is simple: it's what I do best-- not running, mind you, but being nervous/anxious/nauseous (what can I say, it runs in the family). So there. I am an anticipatory ball of nerves and anxiety. On the bright side, though, if I can channel this anticipation into adrenaline, then I may still have a chance at success.

On a completely unrelated note, why are the Mariners so awful?

Here's an equation for you: cost of living in Seattle + my income= :(

Now don't get me wrong: I love Seattle. I love it so much that in fact I am often times blind to its flaws. For example, the fact that Seattle is apparently so cool, it's virtually not affordable to live here. Unless you work for Microsoft. Or Google. Which I don't.

Anyway, I'm planning on moving out of my current abode this summer, and will be looking for a new apartamento for just me. But living alone is not an easy thing to do in this city. I've been obsessively hunting for apartments for months, primarily just to see what's out there and to give myself some assurance that I won't be homeless. But I have to be perfectly honest-- it might be time for me to start getting acquainted with cardboard boxes and the amiable hobo who waves to me off of the 65th Steet exit. Hector used to be a stray cat, so maybe he can show me the ropes of life on the street. At any rate, here's case-in-point for why I may soon be homeless: back in the day when I was still in baccalaureate bliss, I lived alone. Some of you may remember my apartment as that quaint yet surprisingly pleasant little abode nestled in the drug and prostitution district of Seattle (in all fairness, I only got solicited once for sex, and that was by a female hooker). That former home, my friends, is now renting for $925 a month-- a staggering increase of nearly $200 in less than three years! And I don't have the feeling that that complex has undergone any significant renovations since I've lived there to adequately account for the steep increase...

On the flip side, my life of leisure may soon be drawing to a close (or an almost-close), which means more moolah. And I definitely need more moolah, because I am waist-deep in student loans. Funny how I have an advanced degree now but chose the least lucrative career path possible with a Master's. Essentially if I worked for one year straight, and spent absolutely zero dollars, I could re-pay all my loans. But alas...

Compliment, insult, or moderately offensive pick-up line? You decide.

One of the things I hate most on this earth is grocery shopping. Which is completely counterintuitive because I love to eat. I absolutely can't stand, however, the process of picking out food (how am I supposed to know what I'm going to want for dinner five days from now?), carrying my groceries up to my apartment (the circulation on my wrists has been cut off countless times as a result of the plastic bags cutting into my flesh), and putting everything away (there's never enough space in our freezer). What does this all mean? That I only make it to the grocery store on average every two weeks, and when I do go, I look like I'm buying enough food to feed a small army.

Case in point: I was making my bi-weekly grocery shopping trip to Safeway two days ago, and when I got to the checkout, the cashier who was ringing me up had this smirk on his face. My first thought was, crap, did I buy Care Bears fruit snacks again and get laughed at? (Believe me, I've done it. And believe me, I've been laughed at-- albeit in a good-natured manner, but still...) Finally the cashier looked at me and said, "Someone has a healthy appetite." And he didn't mean "healthy" in the traditional sense. To his credit, though, he didn't say it in a mean or judgmental tone, but how was I supposed to respond? I just said, "Yup, I like to eat and I hate grocery shopping." The good thing is, I'm not offended by people commenting on my appetite. The other good thing is that that guy will probably forget who I am by the time I'm back at Safeway again (in about another two weeks or so...)