Goals

We all need them.

In fact I have some for my triathlon this weekend (more on that later).

I also have (at least) one to be accomplished within the next 365 days (hopefully less).

Specifically, I need a date to my brother's wedding which is in ... 367 days (you see why I'm hoping for less then the allotted 365 days - their caterer will thank me).

I'm taking suggestions/solicitations/introductions whatever. There might be a prize (which might be limited to good karma and my charming smile) to anyone who helps me to this goal.

Maybe he'll be at the triathlon this weekend - in which case I hope we don't meet because he tries to drown me. I'll keep you posted, but in the meantime, if you see I have a slow transition - assume I'm brushing my hair or putting on lipstick;)

Some Things Never Change

As I've mentioned before, my first foray into swimming was before the era (but certainly not error) of jammers (although, naming them 'jammers' certainly does seem like an error or funny depending on whether or not you're wearing them).  The only option for the guys was the good old fashioned speedo. And whether you're wearing a speedo or swimming next to someone wearing a speedo, when you're in high school, its awkward.

So the "real" swimmers, wore gym shorts out of the locker room and mastered the art of going from on deck in gym shorts to in the pool in a speedo in one fluid motion.  Impressive really.

Fast forward to the present and jammers exist so the guys don't have to do magic tricks to spare themselves the indignity of strutting (or me the horror of observing them strut, because face it, I'm not in high school anymore but some things are still awkward) around the pool in speedos (this is a particular blessing to me when the old dudes who shouldn't be strutting in anything less than a snuggie decide to go for a swim).

Anyway, recently there have been two "real" swimmers at my pool.  To be clear, I'm not a "real" swimmer, but I've spent enough time with them to know one when I see one: they do all four strokes, they flip turn and have amazingly streamlined push offs, they pay attention to the pace clock and for some odd reason the girls like to pull their bathing suit straps off their shoulders whenever they can (I respect and admire the real swimmers and all, but honey, you're shoulders aren't so big that they can't be contained by your swimsuit's lycra straps).  On Monday, the girl real swimmer was there but initially her usual male counterpart was not.  She was finishing her workout as a youngish non-descript guy came into the pool - he was wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt so whether he was her real swimmer friend was unclear.  

He put on a cap and jumped in the pool in his gym shorts.

It appeared, from the gym shorts, that he was not a real swimmer and I wanted to tell him that the cap could not possibly cut down on enough drag to make up for the baggie gym shorts.  And then, he took them off to reveal ... a speedo.  Which definitely, without a doubt, made him a real swimmer who was rusty on the old out of the shorts into the pool maneuver and who somehow hadn't learned of jammers (or maybe he had, and realized that even with a few extra inches of leg, jammers don't leave enough to the imagination).  

The Girl Who Liked Pop Tarts

Once upon a time, in a far away land known as New Jersey, there was a girl who liked to do triathlons. She wasn't very good at them but she persevered because they were fun, and they attracted cute boys and they made her arms look pretty.

But sometimes, the triathlons made her hungry. Very hungry. And one day in a state of extreme hungriness, she ate a brown sugar pop tart. It was good.

And the next day, when she was hungry, she wanted another one. So she had another one. And before long she came to crave a pop tart late every afternoon. So she would take $1 and her building id down to the convenience store and indulge. Sometimes they had no brown sugar so she would have strawberry, which wasn't as good, but she needed something to satisfy the craving. She couldn't resist, she was addicted.

But she tried to control her addiction - sometimes she thought about buying a box (or two) at the local food store but she always resisted for fear that she'd come to eat more than one package of pop tarts a day. She thought she was in control of her addiction, but the first time she craved a pop tart on the weekend she worried that her life was spiraling out of control.

So that Monday, she decided to go cold turkey. Instead of her late afternoon pop tart she had gold fish from the vending machine (a dubious choice, but at least not a pop tart).

When, on her first pop tartless day the girl left the office to head to the pool, her tummy was rumbling. And as she swam her laps the rumbling got worse and her head got fuzzy. Withdrawal is rough, so she hopped out a few hundred yards early to head home for some dinner.

In a light-headed daze, the girl showered quickly and threw her work suit back on. She was heading out of the locker room when she got a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Something wasn't right. Upon further review, it seemed that the girl had put on her bra and blazer but NO SHIRT. Horrified, and in the nick of time, she retreated back to her locker and found the missing shirt.

A close call for sure.

The girl had learned her lesson and the very next morning she went to the local food store and stocked up on brown sugar pop tarts. Addiction is a powerful thing not to be messed with 3 weeks before the big race unless you want to risk citations for indecent exposure.

The end.

Picky ...?

The other day my grandmother told me that she was afraid that I would never get married because I'm too picky. By way of example, she claims that I would never marry a street cleaner or a post man.

Which got me thinking.

I think I'm comfortable admitting that I'd never marry a street cleaner. A Zamboni driver maybe, but a street cleaning machine? And even if you tell me that I'm a snob and that I'm assuming that all street cleaners are not overly educated and not particularly well compensated ... I don't know any street cleaners nor do I know where they hang out. I guess I could stalk them by repeatedly parking on the wrong side of the street and moving my car at the last minute with a flirtatious flip of my hair ... but, really? I have a hard enough time meeting guys the regular way (whatever that is) without concocting schemes to meet a street cleaner.

And then there is the post man. I can't say for certain that I wouldn't marry one. They probably get good benefits, they have to pass a test, they probably don't work late (although they do work Saturdays) and they've got to be in decent shape. They do go crazy on occasion and shoot people but ... what are the odds that my post man would go postal?? Again it comes down to lack of opportunity ... the lines at the post office are sooo long, I usually buy my stamps from the machine and when I see the post men walking down the street they seem preoccupied with you know, delivering the mail ...

At any rate, I explained to grandma that I'd maybe go for the postman so if she knew one she could give him my number ... but she refused. Siting my pickiness.

Which got my thinking about the guys I have dated. And then I decided that I really need to become more picky and make my standards MUCH MORE STRINGENT even if it means missing a wonderful romance with a street cleaner.

Dear Boobs,

I can't say I blame you for leaving.  Its not like you got that much attention when you were here (at least not in the recent past).  But, I do miss you guys (err, girls) so you're welcome to come back at any time.  If you do come back, I'd try harder to get you attention, but I can't make any promises (my standards remain high).  And if there was something I could do to not have ALL OF THE WEIGHT I'VE LOST since January come from y'all, I'd do it (within reason of course).

So think about it and let me know.  I'll be here.

Miss you - 

K.M.

Pre Workout Meal (aka, I hope my coach doesn't read this)

Monday was St. Patrick's Day and my mom was marching in the parade with some of her college roommates.  After the parade they were meeting at a bar and we were all invited.  Originally I said no, I had to work and they were meeting at 3 and probably wouldn't be out too late.  Not to mention that I had a swim workout on tap for that evening.  But then it was a nice day, and work wasn't too busy and, well, its not like I'm planning on winning the triathlon ...

So, at 6:30 I was home having had two beers and half a corned beef sandwich.  I was at a loss.  What do people who get home at 6:30 do with themselves (I usually don't get home till 8 and if I workout after work its much later)??  Taking advantage of situation I rested (didn't nap per se, just rested) did some laundry and then figured I may as well head to the pool for the 9pm lap swim.  I have to admit that I was dreading it.  Obviously there was the beer, and the fact that it was scheduled to take an hour and fifteen minutes and I couldn't start till 9 (and my coach has this uncanny ability to know EXACTLY how long something is going to take) but the real issue was that the main set was 7 300s broken by 100 (so you swim 100 yards, rest 10 second, swim 100 yards, rest 10 second, swim 100 yards, rest one minute.  repeat.  seven times).  In my mind that is 21 100s (NOT the way to think of it, btw) and that is mind numbing torture.

But I went, and did it.  And it wasn't that bad.  In fact, it was rather good.  The 100s were all within 10 second of each other (not fast per se, but consistent) and looking forward to the minute rest made the set less tedious.  And the best part?  It only took an hour.  And my coach KNOWS how long it should take.  So the ONLY option here is that I was going super fast.

I think this means that its my obligation as a triathlete to consume two pints of Guinness and half a corned beef sandwich before every event and long training session.  So Sara, I hope you don't mind taking over the driving duties for the races we're doing together;)

There's gonna be a show at the pool tonight.

Don't be late.

In a rush this morning (as every morning, more on my morning issues later. if you're lucky), I couldn't find a 'new' bathing suit and grabbed the see through one. And I didn't shave my legs. And I have to swim tonight.

And you thought Friday night's at the engineering college's pool were lame. Well, that's about to change!

Support

I swim at an engineering college.  I'm not sure that this is related to the fact that there are hardly every any boys I'd want to talk to at the pool.  But it might be. 

Tonight was different.

I shared my lane with a cutie.  Additional swimming pool perks were that he was wearing a bike shortish type bathing suit (no banana hammock) and had normal amounts of body hair (unlike the gorilla in the lane next to us).  He was super considerate ... he would go under the lane line to the next lane to get out of my way if he was resting when I was coming in for a flip ... and, since he appeared to be doing 50s on a 4 minute interval he was hanging out often when I came into flip.  I wondered why he was resting so much because he had decent (swimming) technique.  

After awhile, the gorilla got out and cutie moved over to that lane.  I took this opportunity to sneak some glances at cutie and I think I know why he was going so slow ... either he was excited to see me or those bike shortish type bathing suits have no support.  Because it was sticking straight out.  Not aerodynamic at all.  After seeing that, there was no way I could have talked to him (not that I could have said much in my ten, tiny, short second of rest).  I was afraid to stare or worse yet brush against his drag.