Race to the Race I: Chubby with a blister

Kinzy and I completed 6 miles yesterday. (Poor Mary is still a bit under the weather. Get well soon!) We're not quite up to running 100% of the distance yet, but as I mentioned before, I'm not going for any land speed records here. Simply crossing the finish line at all is plenty of accomplishment for me.

Shockingly, I haven't yet completely decompensated into a puddle of agony in the middle of the Jordan River Parkway. I'll admit it; I sort of thought I'd be way suckier at this. (Note: I am not implying that I yet qualify as good at this. Even if my horrid form could be ignored, I'm sure the hurricane-force gasps as I desparately suck in gulps of air may clue people into the fact that running has not generally been part of my lifestyle.) Luckily, the biggest problem to date has been a pesky little blister on my right heel that seems to be inherently resistant to any bandaid adhesive.

I'm a little frustrated that my body hasn't immediately morphed into swimsuit-perfection. Or really changed at all. I guess that means I'm on for another 6 miles today.

Countdown: 81 days until the race.

Mistake's?

My freshman year of college, I wandered into my Sociology class to find the following phrase written on the whiteboard:

To error is human.

Looking around at the complacent looks on my fellow classmates, I soon realized I was apparently the only student who found the irony positively hilarious.

(Feel free to mentally insert snide remarks about the quality of professors at Utah State here, as he didn't find anything wrong with it, either. Add to the list another professor--PhD from Stanford, mind you-- who regularly used the "word" [Sean-quotes intended] irregardlessly. Sigh.)

I've never claimed to be perfect in my use of grammar or punctuation. I make plenty of mistakes, but that doesn't stop me from being persnickety. For those people who don't roll their eyes at signs like one seen near my home that read "Pet's Welcome", ignore the following. For Wendy, Scott, Melinda, and the other apostrophe nerds, read on. This is why we get along so well.

Today at work we began using a new program that automatically lays out the format of our clinical notes with prompts to fill in specific information. Ideally, the program should standardize our documentation and save us time. Now, documentation isn't always pretty; we usually write in third person, and occasionally a sentence fragment is appropriate. I get that. The problem I'm having is that the templates are full of grammatical errors, and because I'm a bit of a brat, it makes me crazy. For example, a sentence may read "Social worker met with ____", and then there is a drop down box with options. My options in this case are:

Patient

Family

patient and family

Everyone else in the department will likely leave the sentence to read: "Social worker met with Patient". Unless I have a patient named Patient, I'll be scrolling up at the end to fix that stupid capital P. Other sentences switch nouns in the middle of things so that it doesn't make any sense at all. For example, "notification letter was given and chose Sunset Manor Assisted Living". I don't care if the average person can figure it out. As far as I'm concerned, the day my notification letter chooses a living facility is the day I'm outsourced to China. Or in this case, china.

#1 on the list of things I never thought I'd do.

It's not so much that blogging is my favorite way to spend leisure time. Leisure time is easy to fill with lots of grand, entertaining adventures and/or trips to the bathtub with a book. Rather, blogging is my favorite way to spend time I should be spending on other, more productive activities. Like working.

Nevertheless, onward.

It was only a matter of time before Mary or Kinzy ratted me out. After all, blogging about a thing means it's real. Now I'm truly bound to the idea of lumbering my way through a half marathon. (Reminds me of that quote from the Grandpa on Chitty Chitty Bang Bang: "And the big brown bear came lolloping over the mountain"- partially because 'lollop' is a brilliant descriptive word for me in a hurry, and partially because I haven't shaved my legs in a long time-- bearlike.) Anyway, bad ankles, horrid form, and documented history of failure at all things athletic aside, I intend to conquer 13 miles with two stylish ladies on either side.

July 19, 2008's the big day.

For a good laugh, come stand at the finish line. I'll be there...eventually.

THOSE pants.

Today I'm wearing that pair of pants. You know, the one that mostly fits but is a little too short? Typically, I wear them as capris, and then there isn't a problem. Every now and again, though, I stare at my closet (or, more realistically, the pile of clothes on the floor) and get to thinking.

"Hmm. I bet I could wear those as pants." I put them on. "A little too short. Maybe if I just tug here and wear them with flats..."

It's my own fault. I bought them at Old Navy. I have never, ever found a pair of pants at Old Navy that was truly long enough. They're sneaky, though.

"Maybe if I just buy one size bigger..."

Tricky little buggers. Now I've spent 80% of my day pulling my pants down and 100% of my day feeling stupid for wearing short person pants.

My date with bacterial conjunctivits

Now, I don't want to brag, but it turns out I'm a real go-getter. Some might call me driven-- a perfectionist, even. When I set my mind to something, by golly, I'll go for it 150%. With the notable execption atheletics, (or really anything requiring a high level of coordination) I mostly strive to be a high achiever.

That said, I'm not about to let a silly little thing like being an adult stop me from contracting pink eye. Just watch- I'll even do it without known contact with any infected persons or any children at all. And while I'm at it, I'll really go for the gold.

(Disclaimer: Due to the graphic nature of this post, viewer discretion is advised.)

(Oh, and also, our camera is at Inkley's being repaired. Please forgive the terrible quality of the following photos as they were taken with my cheap cell phone by myself with only the bathroom mirror to guide my framing.)

4:30 a.m.- Kristie: Honey, my eye is crusted shut.
7:00 a.m.- Kristie: Honey, my eye is crusted shut again.
9:05 a.m.- InstaCare MD: (with hint of disgust) I'll put on my gloves. You'll be spreading that.

This is my eye. Interested persons may note the thick goo stringing from top lashes to bottom. Keep in mind this is 12 hours after the trip to InstaCare and post 3 rounds of antibacterial drops.

This is my eye 12 hours and a blessing later. Less goo, more swelling. My ever sympathetic husband suggested I hunch my back and drag my foot behind me a la Quasimoto. I would laugh, but the pressure it puts on my eye hurts.

Also, viewers with special attention to detail may discern that the second photo is of the left eye, while the first was of the right. When I do pink eye, I do it double-time.



Back to the right eye approximately 8 hours later. The swelling is beginning to resolve, but the bloodshot nature of the eyeball itself is several shades more vibrant. At this point, intense burning has mostly resolved, but itching has ensued.

That just about brings us up to speed. Suddenly, I have loads of sympathy for the poor toddlers that get this regularly. I'm hoping for a wicked diaper rash next. I'll be sure to include pictures.