Month: October 2012
One Tough Mudder, Part 2
Continued from One Tough Mudder, Part 1…
Where were we? Ah yes, I was freezing my cheeks off. Moving on!
Scariest: About halfway through, we had to Walk the Plank. As a kid, I jumped off the high-dive at the pool once in a while, and I can swim just fine, but I don’t know, faced with a drop three times my height all of a sudden, my heart started throbbing in my limbs. It didn’t help that the lifeguards had to save a drowning guy while I was standing there at the edge looking down on the scene.
I couldn’t contemplate my fate for very long though because a bitch with a bullhorn was up there screaming at everybody to jump, so I did, and I plunged down, down, down—the fifteen feet seemed like a mile, and the water went all the way to the center of the earth—and I felt like I might never reach the surface again. But I did, and I swam out of there, and yeah. I did it. Go, me!
Hurtiest: They actually have two different electrocution obstacles, Electric Eel, where you belly-crawl under a bunch of dangling live wires, and then there’s the Electroshock Therapy at the end.
During the former, I got zapped three times, once on my left shoulder and twice on my right butt-cheek. (Looking at our team “before” photo, I’m kind of surprised that my ass didn’t get more of a jangling.) Running through the latter, I hit no fewer than five zappy strings.
And I don’t even know what to say about how it felt. It fucking hurt? It felt like I was getting electrocuted? I don’t know. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt. It hurt a lot.
Worst, Runner-up: By far, the worst physical part of the Mudder was the running. First and foremost, I hate running. I hate running. I hate running.
I don’t think I can say it enough times or with enough emphasis to get across my vitriolic hate for running. My body doesn’t like to move fast in a forwardly direction. (And “fast” should probably be in quotation marks. Let’s say “faster than an amble”.) The impact makes my hips, knees, and shoulders hurt. And even though I can walk a marathon and dance/hula hoop for HOURS, my cardiovascular system mistakes running for imminent death every time.
Also, it’s so BORING.
And, as I mentioned in my post about the thwarted Tough Mudder Mid-Atlantic, keeping up with my teammates was going to be a real challenge. I solved that problem by scrambling through the obstacles and taking off, so I’d get a little ahead of the group. They would inevitably catch up, pass me, and wait at the next obstacle, but I didn’t get too far behind that way.
But! In addition to my loathing for the sport of quickly covering distance by foot, I’ve been experiencing some Old Lady Problems lately. A couple months ago, my right heel started feeling bruised, particularly after double-unders, but it wasn’t actually bruised, and why pay $70 for a specialist copay when you can ask Facebook about these things? Dr. Facebook diagnosed me as having plantar fasciitis.
I’ve been doing stretches and rolling my foot on a lacrosse ball and whatnot, which has helped. However, the heel was tender at the very start of the Mudder, so I knew it would be an issue, and I worried about what problems might arise if I favored that foot for 11 miles.
Z told me to take tiny steps and lift with my quads, in essence to favor both feet, and to keep them relaxed, making sure my heel touched the ground with every step so it had a split second to rest. When I concentrated, I was able to do that, but you know, there were people to watch and call-and-response cheers (One of us: “Hercu-!” The rest: “‘Lisa!” [Repeat]) to do, so it’s possible I got distracted one or two times.
About mile 8, three Team ‘Lisa members were up ahead; Hammer was just behind me because her knee had gotten totally jacked up somewhere in there. And my right leg crumpled. Just crumpled underneath me. I stopped and looked at the back of my leg, and there in the middle of my calf was a crater about three inches in diameter and an inch deep. Hammer came up beside me.
“WHAT IS THAT?” I said, pointing at the alien that was backflipping inside my leg.
“Oh! You have a Charley horse! Quick, put your foot back and stretch the calf out,” she said. So I did, and whew!, it totally helped. Hammer to the rescue.
Thanks to her, when Charley came galloping by again at mile 10 and then again when I was reaching up for the monkey bars, I knew what to do, and later in the car, Z lent me his
to roll out my calf, and it was magically hurty and helpy. (Shiv insists on calling it The Stick, even when there’s another article or possessive pronoun in front.)
[Note to everyone: you should buy a The Stick and use your The Stick every day because it will make your life betterer.]
Now those of you who know me will say, “What could possibly be a Worse Part for Amy than running?” And it’s true, there wasn’t anything else that was so physically taxing (and BORING).
But there was one part that was, spiritually and emotionally, the Super-Worstest of All the Parts, and that was what Shiv likes to call Shitter Village, i.e., the giant bank of port-a-potties at the start line.
Of course, nobody likes a port-a-potty (except maybe Flukie), especially ones that have been enthusiastically used for pre-event lightening of loads, as it were.
And I’m not going to say, after a sausage & egg breakfast and a soy latte, that I left Shitter Village better than I found it or anything, but the first port-a-potty I tried to use, but ran out of screaming—
Actually, let me address the previous occupant directly.
Dear Sir or Madam,
I understand your impulse to squat. I really do. Nobody wants to put his ass directly on the seat of any public toilet, much less a portable one that doesn’t flush. But since you, in your crouched position, managed to miss the hole entirely and shit directly on the back of the seat, I feel like it’s your duty to wrap your hands, wrists, and forearms—whatever you need to do—in toilet paper, and sweep that pile into the space where it’s meant to go.
Sincerely,
EVERYONE ELSE THAT HAD TO GO IN THERE AND WITNESS THAT, THUS LIVE WITH THAT IMAGE FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES
I guess you could say that the Most Worstest of All the Parts, Much Worserer Than Everything Else By Far was the shit show.
And we’ve come full circle.
One Tough Mudder, Part 1
[Before we begin, a note for my mother and any other worried parties: A friend of mine suggested I solve my ragey eye infection problem by wearing goggles during the Tough Mudder, so I dug through some stuff in my shed and found a pair of ten-year-old swim goggles. They more or less did the trick. ‘Course, they were real squeezy on my head and always opaque with condensation and I looked real cute, you guys. But between them and the drops, which have been actually landing on my eyeballs, thanks to Shiv’s steady hand, it looks like we might be able to save the eye. Onward!]
There were so many Worst Parts of the Tough Mudder Carolinas, I don’t really know where to begin.
We’ll get to them in a minute, but I should start with this: it was SO RIDICULOUSLY FUN. After the Shit Show known as Tough Mudder Mid-Atlantic, TM management was clearly back on their game for this one, and Team ‘Lisa
had SUCH a good time, y’all. People kept asking, “Are you all really named Lisa?” and we would explain that we were all Herculisas! Ha!
The fifth member of our team, Z, is not pictured, as he was behind the camera. Also, this counts as the Embarrassing Photo of the Week, considering that my “booming system”, as Dan NJ calls it, makes everyone else’s systems look like subwoofers.
Anyway, there was laughter and camaraderie. There was psyching each other up, cheering each other on, and hoisting each other over walls. There were inspiring athletes: one dude carried a pumpkin the entire course (you know, for Halloween!); a guy with a prosthetic leg ran our heat.
Some Mudders dressed in costumes: a caveman, a couple bumblebees, a bunch of superheroes, folks in interview suits, some jailbirds, and two guys who wore nothing but sneakers and pink lamé thongs. With their race numbers written in Sharpie on their ass cheeks.
It was hilarious and awesome and inspiring.
But the Mudder is supposed to be hard. When it’s hard, it’s good, and the good is bad, and the bad is good, because you’re doing it; you’re really doing this ridiculous thing. And so I present to you:
The Worst Parts of the Tough Mudder Carolinas, Ranked from Least Worst to Most Worstest of All the Things Ever
Least Worst: I’m actually kind of impressed that I didn’t have a panic attack in any of the tubes and tunnels we had to crawl through. My knees and elbows got scrapey and bruised, but apparently my theoretical claustrophobia is worse than my practical claustrophobia.
Worse: The upper body obstacles. Not the walls or the haystacks—those were fun because people let me climb on them and/or they shoved me over by my legs, feet, and ass—but the Hangin’ Tough and the Funky Monkey.
To be honest, I didn’t even really try on those because I knew I would be dropping into the water at some point, so I figured I’d just go ahead and put myself there. I KNOW, NOT THE MUDDER SPIRIT. Next time.
Also maybe for next time… Everest. (Z did it!)
Worser: Remember how I was worried about falling into the series of trenches full of water? Well, I didn’t fall in, but I did fuck up some other Mudders’ rhythm because, even though they say not to stop in between, I stopped. Sorry, people!
Kinda Bad: It wasn’t the carrying of logs that was bad. It was carrying the logs a long fucking way that was bad.
Definitely Bad: At one point, you had to fireman’s-carry a partner up a hill. I called dibs on Hammer, threw her over my shoulders, and started trudging. And even though she was the smallest person in our group, I still had to stop mid-way and take a break. She piggy-backed my ass from the switch-off point to the end. Beast!
Goddamn Terrible: The very first obstacle is called the Arctic Enema, a dumpster full of ice water with a board in the middle that you have to swim under. And when I say “ice water”, I don’t mean “really cold water”, I mean, water, but with a shit-ton of ice in it. As someone who grew up swimming summers in
I liked to consider myself a person who knew something about submersing oneself in cold water, but after experiencing the Arctic Enema, I imagine it’s more akin to winter-swimming in
And even if I’d had the upper-body strength to hoist myself out, which I didn’t, being in that water for eight seconds made all my systems go beeeeeeeeeew brrrwwww booooo, and I was functionally dysfunctional. Fortunately, Z scooped me out by my arms.
Coming soon: One Tough Mudder, Part 2
Retrobruxist Friday 10/26/12
Hey, guess what! I have some kind of ragey infection in my EYEBALL! The opthalmalogist took fancy pictures of my splotchy cornea yesterday. As an aside, amongst the things you never want to hear at a doctor’s office: “I think it’s really good you came in today.” Also: “I don’t think it’ll affect your vision.”
Anyway, I get to put steroid/antiobiotic drops in my eyes four times a day for ten days. As an aside, I’m pathologically incapable of landing a drop in my eye. My flinch response is like a thunderbolt. So, essentially, I spent $25 at CVS on cheek/eyebrow/mouth drops.
I didn’t ask my eye-guy if I should forego tomorrow’s Tough Mudder, Redux, because I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have liked his answer. As an aside, almost-certain death tomorrow, you guys!
Three years ago, a guy tried his hand at negging me. Suck it, guy.
Two years ago — miracle of miracles — I found a dude on eGoddamnHarmony that I actually liked. (Never blogged about it, but I did email him. He didn’t respond. <sniff>)
And a year ago, with just a few simple guidelines, I was riling up the segment of the CrossFit community that either (a) couldn’t read; (b) didn’t get my sense of humor; or (c) both.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Tweedly Tweedly Dee
Hey, do you follow me on Twitter?
If you don’t, you’re missing so, so much. For example, this insightful analysis of the third presidential debate:
While you’re at it, Like my Facebook page too. For crying out loud, Tulip has more Facebook Likers than I do, and I’ve been hammering away at this shit for years.
(I will try to put up a real post tomorrow, friends. All my words for the week got syphoned off into a piece of thinly veiled fiction about a river tubing trip that I barfed out [the story, not the trip] for my writing workshop. But it’s not even good yet, so I can’t post it here. Plus, I’ve been staying up past my bedtime again because the subject matter of the short story is making me all agitated. I need to go to bed now.)
Protected: We’re All Sensitive People with So Much to Give
Retrobruxist Friday 10/19/12
A week ago, I submitted The Foster Chronicles (Buffy’s) to my writing workshop for critique. So it was with more than a little agita that I went to class last night. The folks in the class are nice and supportive but frank; if something doesn’t work, they say so.
I needn’t have worried so much. People liked my stuff a lot. In fact, two people said some version of “I don’t read blogs, and I’m not a dog person, so I was skeptical, but I really got into it!”
One guy did say, “As a blog this is fine. For writing to keep someone’s interest or tell a story, it doesn’t work for me.” In his other notes, he kept referring to Buffy as ‘he’, so it’s clear it really didn’t hold his interest.
And there was some confusion. One woman wrote that I shouldn’t underline things so much, not realizing that those things were hyperlinks, and just about everybody put a big question mark next to where I wrote “What is that I don’t even”.
But overall, it was validating, and I got some ideas about how to turn it into a larger piece, even one where I fictionalize it and weave it together with another, totally different, painfuller thing I’ve been going through for the past four months.
Now. All I have to do is do that. No big.
*****
Three years ago, I was figuring out that dogs are pretty much fourth graders.
After failing at Match and OKCupid, I decided eHarmony was worth a shot two years ago. That was dumb.
I did NOT celebrate ANYtober this time last year.
MOAR FUN WITH PHOTOBOOTH:
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Ruby, Are You Contemplating Going Out Somewhere?
I don’t know shit about makeup. My daily face ritual is
and…
Actually, no ‘and’. That’s it: Bonne Bell Dr. Pepper LipSmacker chapstick.
On school picture day, I’ll powder my T-zone because otherwise it looks like you could wax a car with my forehead. And about two or three times a month, on a weekend night when shit gets crazy, my tube of Great Lash gets busted out.
But some of the bitches I run with, they know makeup. I kept badgering them to teach me, and — squeaky wheel/grease — they got me a gift card to Sephora for my birthday and took me on a field trip to spend it!
It was so fun! And informative! I mean, I still don’t really get it. One of them would pick up a cask of green eye shadow and rub it on the inside of my arm. The inside of my arm. How does? — Anyway, they’d all lean in, and say in concert, “Oh, no.”
I’d squint at it and say, “No? Not good?”
They’d say, “No, not good.”
Then another of them would slather a different product on my inner forearm — one that looked to me exactly the same as the first — and they’d go, “Oooooooh. Yeah.”
And I’d go, “Yeah?”
And they’d go, “Yeah.”
And then they would teach me how to apply the stuff.
Anyhow, last week, at age 37, I bought my first-ever eye liner (a purple one by Dior that cost thirty dollars — what?!) and my first-ever rouge — wait, they don’t call it that, do they? — blush (Dabby dabby dabby on your cheek, aaaaaaand make a C around your eye… that’s what I remember from what they taught me anyway).
They told me to buy cheapo mascara — done — because I have good lashes already, and Kate M. tried to get me to throw out my powder compact and get a new one. She was like, “How old is it? More than six months?”
And I said, “Sure. It’s probably two or three years old, but I’ve only used it, like, eight times.”
She was all, “Older than six months! Throw it out! Bacteria! Breakouts! Disease and putrescence! Your face will rot off!” She didn’t really say all that, but she was quite emphatic. I wrested it from her talons and shoved it back in my purse.
(If I die of meningitis of the face, Kate, you can say I told you so.)
Anyway, I should’ve taken a Before picture. Alas, I didn’t think to. However, here’s an After shot (of me making a face like a total goober!).
Thanks, Kate, Mayg, Shiv, and Hammer! I love you guys!
Steal the Sun from the Sky for You* (and Make a Dress Out of It)
I promised you my 8th grade prom dress for the Embarrassing Photo of the Week, and I like to keep my promises. Pretty much every girl at the dance wore some version of the dress that my best friend (also pictured, because dates? — what even?) wore, but NOT ME. Because why would I wear something conservative to the prom at Cove Creek K-8 Elementary (graduating class size: 30), which sits ten miles outside of Boone, North Carolina?
No, this occasion called for another Amy Scott/McCall’s Couture design with Mama Scott at the bobbin. Notes:
- Once again, my mother did exactly what I asked of her.
- The three skirts(!) are made of a highly flammable fabric that is white with a gold lamé pattern;
- The bodice, spaghetti straps(!), edging of the three(!) skirts, and the side-pony-tail(!) holder are gold lamé(!);
- When I found those 3-inch heels(!!) also white with a gold lamé pattern(!!!!!) at Payless ShoeSource in Boone Mall, I nearly crapped myself from happiness;
- Again, the reason my legs make it look like I’m two half-people stitched together at the waist is because I spent Mondays and Wednesdays from 5:00 to 7:00 at the Dancer’s Corner — in that building that used to be Shadrack’s Barbeque, you know — doing tap and jazz, of course; and
- My bangs are curled, teased, and shellacked to a bullet-proof state.
Go ahead. Click on it. It’s pretty spectacular.
And you get a special bonus Embarrassing Photo of the Week because that’s the kind of guy I am. I used the “Bulge” effect in Photo Booth to do a better version of the horrifying photo from the Monti.
Bonus #2 because I can’t stop!:
I will look for more prom photos next time I go to Boone. There are a couple real doozies I think you’re gonna like.
*Super-special prize for the first person who can identify the prom theme without Googling it. And by super-special prize, I mean I’ll be really proud of you.
Retrobruxist Friday 10/12/12
I was suffering through a pretty extended period of terminal insomnia three years ago. I thought it was from grief, but turned out the Effexor I started taking right after Boonie died was the culprit. When I decided to go off it a little while later, the wake-ups stopped. Now the same thing is happening, but I’m not on meds so I don’t know what the hell. Sometimes it shows up when I start a new job or move to a new city or something, but there’s no major circumstantial upheaval right now. So I don’t know. But it sucks.
Two years ago, I was soliciting career suggestions. Still am! (If you guys had actually come through with my request for a bajillion dollars, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.)
Thing is, I love teaching: I love my content area; I really like my school and the people I work with; I dig the vacation schedule; my administration is supportive; and the kids, the kids are hilarious. But the parts I hate about my job, I hate so bad, namely (1) frequent, long, useless, pointless meetings, (2) 7:20am start time, and (3) stupid, stupid hoops to jump through, passed down from people who have never been in the classroom or were there so long ago they haven’t the foggiest recollection what it’s like.
And those things, minus maybe #2, would be true for any teaching job. So maybe teaching’s not it for me?
But what is?
(Send one bajillion dollars now.)
A year ago, I wrote one of my most commented-on posts. You think it’s about dating? Guess again.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.