are floaties allowed?

Sunday, June 30, 2013

It is now 4:30pm.  I went for a run at 9am.   Seven and a half hours ago.  I am still trying to recover.

My run was awful for a number of reasons.

Number one:  I was running.

     Yes, yes, I know.  I love running.  I write about how much I love running, my wonderful runs through Stratton Brook, my great long runs.....  blah blah blah.  Today was torture from the second I started to the last painful, god-awful step.

Number two:  I was running using my legs.  You know, the legs that fell.

Number three:  It was a bajillion degrees out.

 Seriously.  A bajillion.  At least.  (Sidebar:  it has been a bajillion degrees out for the past week.  We are in the middle of a heat wave.    A bajillion degrees every day for a week.  Normally, that would be bad enough.  But not this time.  This time it's been even worse.  Why you ask?  Well,  Let me tell you.  It was Robbie's graduation (congratulations, Robbie!!  Don't leave me!!!!!).  We had a house full of guests for Robbie's graduation.  A house full of guests.  What fun!!
Our air conditioning  broke.  Our air conditioning broke and we had a house full of guests.
Graduation was moved indoors due to the threat of thunderstorms because that's what happens when it's a bajillion degrees out.  We were given three tickets for an indoor graduation.   Three tickets.  Three.  Mike, me and........Now I know how William Styron came up with his idea for Sophie's Choice.  Graduation in the gym.   Hot.  A bajillion degrees hot.  So, so hot.  At least I was too dehydrated to cry.  We head home for the party.  Streamers, balloons, presents, good food, good times.  Turn on to our street.  Fire trucks on the street.   Fire trucks, police cars, firemen, policemen, tape.  Tape up everywhere.  Can't get down the street.   Wires down. Live wires down.   Because of the bajillion degree heat.   Walk home.  To a house with no air conditioning.  And now a house with no air conditioning and no electricity.  A house filled with guests, half-cooked cheeseburger pies, melting ice cream and warm wine.  Turns out, warm wine isn't half bad and melting guests with good attitudes are even better).

 But it wasn't really the heat that did me in on my run.  It was my old nemesis, the humidity.  As I have mentioned before, I don't do well in the humidity.  And no, three other runners who  passed me, it doesn't really help when you give me a thumbs-up with a "you can do it" or "almost there" as you breeze by me looking cool as a cucumber with your 22 year old non-fallen down legs in your size two running outfits with your long blond pony tails flying through the air while I pant up the path with my face so red it's purple,  my hair  plastered to my head and my bat wings dripping sweat.

Number four:  a bug flew into my mouth as I was gasping for air / breathing.

Number five:  The bug that flew into my mouth as I was gasping for air / breathing made me stop, scream, spit, hop up and down, spit some more, choke and cause the size two, pony-tailed 22 year old cool as cucumber runners who had just breezed by me to turn around, see the purple-faced, plaster headed woman waving her bat wings around doing some sort of tribal war dance,  look at each other, shake their heads pityingly and run off.

Number five:  I was running.  In the heat.  The bajillion degree heat.

I am still recovering,  I think an ice cream cone from Tulmeadow will help.

Saturday, June 15, 2013

My legs fell.

No, no, no...don't worry.  I'm okay. Really.  It didn't hurt.  In fact, I didn't even know that it had happened.  I have no idea exactly when it happened. But it did.   Happen.   My legs.  They fell.

And they aren't the only things.

I now have angel wings.  Only they are not on my back.   They are under my arms.  And they are not angel wings.   They are bat wings.  Bat wings like, if you are standing behind me and I suddenly decide to wave at someone across the room, you are going to get slapped in the face.  By my wings.  By my not angel wings.

A few weeks ago I found myself googling "how to get rid of ginormous bags under your eyes."  A lovely, very pretty young British man popped up.   He had an elaborate, multi-step tutorial on youtube with surprisingly dramatic results.   Quite a convincing before and after.

 One trip to Sephora and $95 later I was ready to go.

I spread the four different concealers and five brushes out in front of me.  I opened my laptop so the pretty British man could talk to me.   I  diligently and meticulously followed him through all fifteen minutes of "take concealer number one and apply it here," and " use number three brush and lightly feather two shades lighter concealer here," to "dusting of finishing powder here."  There.  Done.  Whew,  I was exhausted.  And sweating.  Which was probably not good for concealer number two.   But it's ok.  It'll be worth it.   Anything to get rid of these suitcases bags under my eyes.  Just have to remember to get up half an hour earlier every day.  Which won't be a problem because I now know how to conceal how tired I will be.

I  step back to survey my results.  Huh.  Must be the light in here.  Something is a bit off.  I turn on the second light and take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror.

And scream.

There is a ghost in the bathroom mirror.

You see, dear 20 followers and 2 lurkers, something happened since the last time I saw you.  Something big.

I turned 50.

And so, I did the only thing I could think to do.  The only thing that made sense.

I got a tattoo.