“Knock Knock” “Who’s there?” “Banana.” “Banana who?” “Knock Knock” “Who’s there?” “Banana.” “Banana who?” …. “Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?…”
Monday I did manage to get nearly 10 miles done with my fellow nutcase runner friend, Bill H. Fortunately both of us showed up at the appointed time to run because none of the others did, laying in bed on Memorial Day, sleeping in, the lazy bums; as we dragged each other along Bill and I were unanimous in our opinion that neither of us would have gotten the run done alone.
In the world of Large Sucking Sound that run was one of the Top 10 Hits. Nothing felt good when I started and nothing felt good in the middle and really nothing felt good at the end except maybe my hair, teeth and eyeballs, and I’m just assuming they felt OK because those were the only three parts that were not screaming at me throughout the run. Some jerk snuck into the bedroom the night before and filled my quads with cement studded with a thousand tiny electrodes programmed to make a thousand little pinpricks of pain during the run and then stuffed a cotton bale in my lungs. Maybe it was that drunk from the roof, back to try again?
It didn’t help, I suppose, I’d enjoyed 5 days in cool dry air while spring here has been so mild; I haven’t adjusted to the steam bath of the mid-south that I returned to. We both sat in the shade for a minute after the run and decided we were bagging the bike and went home. I told hubs how the run sucked like a lemon and he helpfully pointed out that today it was:
Orange and Asthma are not friends and apparently do not play well together. I was certainly glad that run was over. By the way, I’m really sad that my beloved oranges are now being denigrated by this negative connection with pain and suffering. I think they should call it Code Ugly Salmon Colored Carpet or Code You Really Painted Your House That Color Are You Blind or maybe Code Slimy Okra Green.
OK, now I’m back, sorry for the interruption, all that talk about Orange made me want one so I went to the kitchen. I think maybe Florida is feeling bad about the Zombie issue and is trying to make up for it by growing particularly good oranges this year. Each one seems better than the last. Now Murph is by my desk waiting for his 1/2 of the last section since I’m eating and typing. Yesterday I forgot and ate the whole thing. Man did I feel guilty. Nothing feels as bad as a dog looking lovingly forgivingly sad at you. “My heart is irretrievably broken but it’s OK, I love and adore you.” I almost went and got a second one to share with him but decided a doggie cookie would have to do, which may explain the whole trust issue in our relationship.
Anyway, since I bagged the bike on Monday, Tuesday I decided to run 3 on the treadmill and then do spin class. In view of the torture my quads were subjected to by the cement wielding psychopath I had few hopes for the run but it went well.
And then, off to spin. Click here for some nice background music while you continue to read.
I tell you what: If you are a person who can pass a psychological exam, you are not a person who can be a Spin Class Instructor.
If, on the other hand, you like very loud music, inflicting pain, and screaming at people, please report immediately to the nearest Spin Class Instructor Station where I’m sure they have a special spot just for you.
She had us jumping and spinning and sitting and mountain climbing and position one two and three while screaming loudly through her head phone telling us ‘It’s your workout, you’ll get out of it what you put into it” trying to make me feel personally responsible for my own behavior, which is not something I enjoy nor espouse, and telling us to CRANK UP THAT KNOB until I thought, Baby, I’m going crank that knob up your … um… knee.
At one point I looked up beneath the brim of my hat and thought it odd that it was raining inside the building, until I realized it was just the sweat dripping off the brim like a little thunderstorm. Also I think I broke my HR monitor. It finally gave up and just told me in a monotone that my HR was 198 which I’m pretty sure it wasn’t since my max is 170 and probably I’d actually be lying in an ambulance if the HR monitor were correct. I looked around to be sure. I think the inside of an ambulance would have more medical looking thingies beeping and tubes and stuff everywhere. All I saw were about 20 people the color of boiled lobsters gasping for air and I don’t think that many would fit in an ambulance. So, apparently I killed the HR monitor or it died of fright.
Since I know both of you read real slow you’re probably getting a bit tired of reading this incredibly gripping story about my awesome run and spinning, so I added another picture for you to look at. It’s a picture I made of the spin class. Don’t pass it around tho, I’m getting tired of being famous for my Butt Falling Off Syndrome (BFOS) and the associated responsibilities as National BFOS Spokesperson and Poster Child and do not want to have to get involved as National Spokesperson for the Proper Medicating of Spin Instructors or the Right to a Larger Ambulance Spin Group.
And, in view of my responsibilities as National Spokesperson and Posterchild, if you feel concerned you may have BFOS, or for more information, check here and here. Remember: we’re here to help you and all inquiries are held in strictest confidence. We realize you face many stigmas in society and the workforce butt we want you to know that you are not alone.