She Has a Doggie

I just returned from 7/11, where health nuts regularly buy their dinners. There, I came face to face with some kid and lost! I should have kicked that little brat.

Just kidding, I don’t kick kids, but I do want to, sometimes.

Here is the deal: I had a late lunch and didn’t want a real dinner, so I thought butter toffee almonds and a diet coke were the most logical choice. I live like two blocks away from a convenience store that has these things, so off I went.

I grabbed what I needed, but didn’t beat a mother with two loud children to the cash register, so I waited. I was silently judging the woman because she came to the convenience store with her kids specifically to buy them some ding dongs or twinkies or something, fully ignoring my own reason for being there. I’m a jerk.

Anyway, the woman’s daughter kept staring at me in that unnerving way children tend to do. I made extended eye contact with her a few times to make her stop, but it didn’t work. The little blonde was just staring, and even looked a little judgey standing there in her pink Bratz pajamas holding her pre-packaged pastry.

I couldn’t figure out why she kept looking at me, so I just stared back with a scowl for good measure. Finally the kid said, in the loudest voice possible, “Mommy, look, she has a doggie.”  Her mother just ignored her.

I panicked for like a second. How does this little monster know I just got a dog? Is she a creepy psychic? Of course not, I’m educated, I don’t believe in those things– but wait, what if she is…

I look down, confused, and realize I was entirely covered in dog fur. Like, my black lulu’s look grey. It was gross, but I hadn’t realized I needed a date with a lint roller before I left the house.

I started laughing too loudly in the store after what the kid said, and her mother and brother turned to look at me as if I was crazy.

I realized, I had gone face to face with some kid, and lost. It wasn’t just because she totally burned me, but because to her I wasn’t even there. My clothes and their condition were just a mystery to be solved, which she managed to do very well. She never even talked to me, she just stared and wondered what was wrong with this woman’s clothes, and she made the right call.

Lesson learned, kid. I need to buy and use more lint rollers.


About Fear

I’m afraid of a lot of things. I don’t like to think of all the things I fear because then I start counting them, and fear I fear too many things.

Mainly, though, I’m afraid of all athletic challenges. So let’s talk about that.

You want me to knock on the door of a man facing murder charges and ask for an interview? I’ve done it, and I wasn’t afraid. Tell me to jump onto something or do a handstand? I panic.

You know, it took me almost four years of crossfiting to feel semi-comfortable jumping on a 24-inch box. It’s like a mountain to me.




I fell once, and have a scar on my leg to remind me. It hurt a lot. It still hurts if I touch it.

Now I have to jump once or twice near the box to remind myself I can reach it. It’s almost like a tic.

A coach who believes in me kept pushing me to try a few months ago; I almost cried, and I’m not a crier. I came to terms with the fact that I would always just jump on a 20-inch box for a workout, and that really was alright. Then, out of nowhere, I decided maybe a 24-inch box jump was a possibility for me.

Crossfit has taught me something intresting about myself— I’m a pessimist. I’d say I’m a realist, but isn’t that what pessimists say?

I see only everything that could wrong: I could fall. It could hurt. If I try, I could break something. I have before.

I think it’s ok to be a pessimist in that way. Let’s call me careful.

Despite my reservations, I’ve also learned I can still achieve many things that seem so impossible. I just take more measured steps.

Let Me Lift That For You

“I only go to the gym to watch myself fail at doing easy stuff later.”

I read that on Instagram once. It’s funny and applies to me after this weekend. I competed in my first Crossfit competition on Saturday and two days later I’m still beat.

Me competing is ridiculous all by itself because I vaguley remember swearing up and down I would never compete. It’s not that I don’t have a competative streak, I very much do, but I also know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. Did I use that metaphor right? Anyway, the point is I’m not very good at Crossfit and I hate to lose.

So, why the change of heart? Well, just a few months ago I finally figured out pull-ups, and that was a game changer for me. I’ve also had more time to work on Olympic lifting and it’s made me more comfortable around weights.

A friend was going to be unable to make it to a competition she had signed-up for months before, so I said I would cover for her. That’s how I found myself at Girls Gone RX in Denver.

I was wildly nervous. Some of the workuts didn’t go how I’d hoped, but others went really well or even much better than I thought.

I learned a lot of things. Like, even though I can do it, clean and jerking 95lbs still feels really heavy. It seems to feel even heavier when there are 30 of them and the amazing women next to you are moving so quickly while you set, re-set, think, hold your breath, pull, push, breath again…slowly and deliberately every time.

My favorite event was a GHD ball toss. I felt strong and happy for those 6 minutes, and that was unusal because I normally feel terribly tired in the middle of a workout. I think I’m turning a corner and I like it.

My team finished in 82nd place out of 91 places. It feels like a win.



Looked for Peace, Didn’t Find It

I went on a hike, alone. I convinced myself it was an excellent way to find some inner peace, but I also didn’t want to be a part of a 127 Hours scenario, so I sent this text to some friends:




They didn’t seem too concerned with my decision. I took that to mean they thought I could competently hike Red Rocks Open Space on my own — or they secretly wanted me to be crushed by a boulder— so off I went.

The first 10 minutes were nice. The sun was out, the breeze was welcoming, and there weren’t that many people. Then everything I liked became a worry. Did I put on enough sunscreen? Why is the wind throwing dirt in my face? There aren’t that many people!?!

Then this happened:




Two roads diverged, if you will, and I wanted the one MOST traveled. I panicked for like 20 seconds and then went left. I didn’t die or anything so I guess that’s good, but I could have done without the anxiety.

In my attempt to get away from all the noise in my life and find peace within the silence, I found the silence makes me most uncomfortable. That’s probably because wildcats were plotting my demise, I’m sure. If I had a therapist she’d probably say that means something. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to keep busy….until the end of time.

How Did That Get In There?

I’m messy. I don’t mean emotionally, I mean there is a lot of crap all over my house, in my car, and on my desk at work. It’s not that I don’t mind living in some state of filth, because I really do, mostly I’m messy because I’m lazy.

There does come a point, however, when I can’t stand the mess anymore, and I clean EVERYTHING. That happens like every three weeks in my home, every couple of months on my desk at work, and every year in my car. What I’m getting at is that today was the day I got sick of having a messy car.

The Rio is pretty clean now, and I found a few interesting things in there. There was a lot of paper— stuff I thought was too important to throw away for some reason. It was now sun bleached and useless, so out it went. There were also pens, like 20 of them. If you’ve lost your pen, it was probably in my car.

Then, it got weirder.

There were like 10 water bottles under the seats, and most of them were half full (or half empty— for my pessimistic friends). That’s pretty gross considering I resolved to buy less bottled water, and have been using a glass water bottle for months.

Best of all, I found rocks in my car. Not pebbles— they were rocks. There were a lot of pebbles in there, I guess I drag them in with my shoes, but there were like three or four hand-sized rocks in there. I don’t know where they came from or how long they’d been there, but I can only imagine I’ll be getting better gas mileage now.

The trunk is still a disaster, and full of clothes I meant to take to the Goodwill last year, or the year before that, I can’t remember. The point is, I never look in the trunk, so I probably won’t do anything about it.




English: A Eulogy

Did I just witness the death of the English language? Yes, the answer is yes, and it was a sloppy mess.

Now, I make no claims of being a master of the English language. In fact, people that are really well spoken are wildly annoying when I’m hanging out with them at a bar. I’m looking at you Nick— so I used who instead of whom, stop apologizing to the strangers sitting next to us.

Anyway, my ability to string together coherent sentences can be hit or miss, but some young-ens are doing far worse. I’m taking a cross-listed class with a whole mess of undergraduates, and their words would make English teachers everywhere question their career choice.

I’m sure these students are well meaning. Actually, I’m not sure, but I don’t want to sound like an ass. Anyway, let me list for you some of the things that have really boggled my mind so far.

1. I have no problem with curse words (sorry mom), but I do think there is a time and a place for colorful language. One young woman was explaining some of the consequences of not fitting into gender norms in a discriminatory society. One could have said that if a man does something outside of his cultural gender norms others might question his sexuality. Instead, she said, “People will call him a pussy.” Even if I ignore the fact I consider that term wildly sexist, I’m still left surprised and confused.

2. When discussing the importance of breaking the stereotype of the submissive woman, and being appropriately aggressive in a business environment, a young man decided to say, “Yeah that is what I always say about my mom. She is a feisty Latina and she is always barking like a little Chihuahua, and it gets things done, so just keep barking.” I think I don’t have to explain why this is ridiculous, right?

3. Another woman insisted on using the word pecker to describe a man’s genitals. Yeah.

Anyway, this class is an all day thing for the next couple of weekends.

I want to think that many of these students are at the beginning of their college careers, and that it is classes like these that will help shape their minds for the better. And I figure that once they take an advanced public speaking course, English might make a comeback.

So, English might not be dead, but I’m pretty sure it suffered some sort of cardiac arrest last Saturday.

Football: An Anti-Fan Converted (Not Really)

I like a lot of things: stuff, shenanigans, crossfit, karaoke, but most of all I like spending time with people I like—heck, I like spending time with people I think are just alright.

What I decidedly don’t like is football. I just don’t get it. I mean, I get it, but I don’t “get it.” That’s about as clear as I can make it. Here is a visual example of my thoughts on football.




I, however, have found myself in a pickle because almost all of my friends like watching football. Nick likes it too—even though he swears he doesn’t mind if we skip Monday Night Football in favor of sitcom reruns.

I fought the good fight, but finally went with a group of friends to watch a game at a bar and actually —mostly— paid attention. I actually had a fun time, but I’m convinced it had more to do with the company and sweet potato fries than it did with Bronco nation.

Here are some things I learned:

1.  You can tell it’s a replay if there are no scores at the bottom of the screen.

2.  The yellow line isn’t really there.

3.  I totally called something a false start and was right.

4.  Peyton Manning has a stunningly large forehead and likes wearing his helmet really tightly.

5.  Fans get really violent/ happy depending on how the game is going.

So, now I will probably go to your football game watching party/ hangout sesh, and I will likely have a good time—but I will always look at you like you are insane if you start screaming at the television.