SIMPLICITY

Right, so… In an effort to adhere to one of my New Years Resolutions (a topic for another time), I have tried to simplify my life therefore my blog. I’m going in a new design direction and colour scheme to see how it fits. Comments are always welcome and if there is an over-whelming desire to change, I shall do so.

I promise to be back in action soon with witty banter and stories of general hilarity (often involving me being a total idiot), some sweat and spandex and of course wine and it’s accompanying sumo wrestler eyelids and jack hammer brain! 

TIME... WHERE DID YOU GO???

Can’t talk now, last deadline of the year. And since I left it till the last minute, I have until midnight to draw something utterly inspiring, truly original and elegantly subtle that appeals to ‘everyone’. I’m not sure if this includes aliens, poor and/or senile people or anyone/thing outside the realm of extremely wealthy, but I will give it a go. So far I’ve draw the front door and written down twenty words which were in fact a shopping list; I’ve also cleaned my desk, done some seriously innovative filing (read numerous small piles of paperwork as opposed to one) and listened to everything that Pandora has to offer. I then spent an hour on YouTube watching running/motivational films of ultra marathoners during their 75 mile delusional state... Not because they would help me with my house but because they’re wipe my eyes and spray tea through my nose funny and somehow make my current position look easily surmountable. I’m now waiting for ‘beer o’clock’ which usually rolls around late afternoon in the office and involves drinking alcohol and being distracted for 30 mins. I’ll have wine I think, beer makes me gassy… I’ll draw after wine. Perhaps not straight lines, more organic, but if this house is supposed to appeal to everyone, I say why by square...

OMG it’s January 20^th… I’m screwed!

Happy new year everyone! I’ll be better this year I promise!

DRINKIES

Apparently running at a constant speed 3 days a week will not in fact make you run faster or tone your entire body. For a full body work out you have to do what is known in the fitness world as The Devils Game “Cross Training”. I believe everybody is aware of my stance on this subject and I will therefore no go into any greater detail than is necessary to explain my most recent “CS” experience.

For a number of months now I have been going to a morning bootcamp class which consists of stabbing yourself hundreds of times and then pouring hot lava over your entire body. Okay not exactly, but short of actually doing those things, you do feel like you’ve been to hell and back once you’re done. Energized and sore… apparently something people like feeling. Personally I go because I get to skinner for an hour before work and get the scoop on the newest bars around town.

It has become apparent in the last few months that the Drill Sergeant (whom I love, don’t get me wrong) that teaches the class wishes to light a fire under my proverbial ass and make me run faster. This would not be such a bad thing if she literally gave me a rocket and strapped it to me. The problem lies in the fact that she wants me to train. Like really train. Urgh.

And because I can no longer ignore her annoying encouraging words when it’s comes to speed (and my apparent lack thereof), I therefore decided it was time to get back into speed training, properly this time. The Drill Sergeant got overexcited and booked my calendar for three time trials this week.

I managed to get out of Monday by drinking (shocker) but yesterday there was no avoiding it and I arrived at The Evil Place with the promise of drinkies after the run.

Me: How long is this little run of death?

DS: 3km’s Crazii, I think you’ll cope.

Me: That’s what you said about last Saturdays race.

DS: It wasn’t my fault that Granny beat you.

Me: She was not a Granny, she was about 30. Again, proof of what constant running in the sun does to your skin.

DS: Right, so you’ll start at the top of the hill…’

Me: Hill… who found a hill in Florida! Is that where the new bar is?!?!?

DS: Please stop asking me that Crazii. And then you will run four km’s around the area…’

Me: WHAT?! YOU SAID THREE! THREE YOU SAID!’

DS: And then the last two km’s will be running up the hill back to the start’

Me: UP THE WHAT?!

DS: Feel free to do the run twice.

Me: I’d rather set myself on fire.

Me: You promised me this was a 3Km run.

DS: Once you’ve done 3km’s you may as well do another three.

Me: How’s your logic?!

Six hellish km’s later and a lot of swearing, I finished. As promised I was allowed a few celebratory drinkies.

Me: There’s something very right about sitting in running clothes having glasses of wine.

DS: There’s something very wrong about you having four glasses of wine.

Me: Yes, but once you’ve had three, you may as well have another three.

DS: That’s not what I meant.

Me: Works both ways sista.

THREE IS...

If you have been wondering where I have been for these past few months I shall tell you. Jail. Okay, not literally Jail Jail, but a place very similar where the people are also crazy, life runs on a very strict routine and if you find a cockroach in your meal you eat it for extra protein. Yes, the rumours are true, I have been training for a triathlon.

Now let me preface this story with a very important lesson I learned during this process. Whoever tells you that 3 is a lucky number is talking total bollocks. There is nothing lucky about 3. Think about it… when something bad happens, it happens in threes. The all seeing, all knowing third eye; evil. Third time round the buffet table, baaad idea. Trilogies… you get where I’m going with this. 

So when you combine three sporting events into one race and call it a TRIathlon, let this be a warning that things are not going to be pretty. Add to that mixture a group of people who had their frosted flakes covered in crack for breakfast, a large bag of skittles and a protein shake for lunch and something resembling cardboard with a side of speed for dinner. I’m not kidding, these people are crazy. And if they’re not taking drugs then they definitely should be!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are some lovely normal people who do triathlons as well and I’m obviously grossly exaggerating the sphere of the crazies, I am however using my artistic license to make a very clear point. 3 is bad for you and triathlons are not for me. I have my very own brand of crazii which I am very comfortable with and fits perfectly into a size 6 running shoe. Period. No goggles, jellyfish, cleats, helmets, gears etc. Just me, my speed racers and the tar.

That being said, I obviously veered off my perfectly crazii path and landed in a place where actually competing in a TRIathlon didn’t seem like such a bad idea. So I did. I swam with jelly fish, biked until I couldn’t feel my butt cheeks and ran with legs as heavy as stone. If any of these things sound like fun to anyone… seek help. It was not fun.

It is however over and I am very thankful for that. It took me 1 week and all 5 phases of grief to get over it.

Denial: I feel fine, this is not really happening to me (while swimming in a swarm of jelly fish singing “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming” ala Dory style.)

Anger: WTF, this seat is so uncomfortable I’ll be lucky if I can ever walk again.

Bargaining: I promise to be a good girl if you please just make it tomorrow (while still on the bike losing all feeling from the waist down.)

Depression: I can’t believe I’m doing this instead of just running with my faithful speed racers. They’ll never speak to me again, I’m going to be all alone, why even go on…

And finally 1 whole week later …

Acceptance:   It’s over and I’m still alive and my speed racers are still talking to me, life is good.

The world has since realigned and I am back to my old Crazii self pounding the tar and leaving the jellies and oily bike chains to the professionals.

EN(RAPTURE)D

So apparently I am going to die today. Me and everybody else. Well sort of. Actually I’m only going to die sometime between now and October 21^st because I’ve been a bad little girl and Santa didn’t give me any presents for Christmas. But all the people who have been good girls and boys, said their prayers and given their pets to kind atheists to look after, will be dying today. So in the spirit of not missing out on all the fun I thought it might be a good idea to try and figuratively kill myself today too. What I didn’t realize was that figurative definition may have translated directly into a very literal event. My only consolation, because so many people will be going to join the Big Man upstairs at the same time, maybe I’ll get caught up in the  rush and he won’t notice what a heathen I really am.

So the literal event… A brain child only I could conjure up in my mind. A 4 week crash course marathon training month. Today 17 miles, next Saturday 20, the following 23 until said Sunday Marathon of 26.2. The catch, the complete lack of  endurance training coupled with a current total weekly mileage of 6 miles (10kms) at a severely fast speed. Result, 1 x dying redhead about to jump in the shower and go horse riding for 2 hours.

Watch this space…

I'M ALIVE... AND THEN SOME

Apologies, the infinite wisdom that is my cervical cortex has completely forgotten how to use a laptop and all components connected to such a device, hence the total lack of communication. The good news, contrary to popular belief due to the last 6 weeks of radio silence, I am not; unlike the worlds most infamous terrorist, in fact dead. Quite the opposite in fact, very much alive!


News of the last few weeks runs like this: I got a job, relinquished my couch potato status, have run up quota of speed runs, gone to a number of festivals, got a greencard and managed to convince Prince Charming to buy me car! I know, right!


Okay, so let’s start at the beginning. I am an official Legal Alien! Yes, the rumours are true, the USCIS allowed this redheaded African to remain in their country indefinitely! But by George, it was no mean feat… I have filled in paperwork the length of the Amazon, had my eyes, fingerprints and pretty much every aspect of my body inspected, poked and prodded and swore to not do a number of things I wasn’t aware any human was allowed to do, let alone legal aliens. So now after swearing that I have never been and have no intention of becoming a prostitute, drug trafficker, terrorist, or late night TV show host; I was bestowed the privilege of becoming a Greedcard Holder, Woohoo! Thank you America!


So with my new found plastic card in hand (it is actually green too) I set about doing what any newly sensible legal alien would do, drink! No seriously, whilst I may have slicked down a few celebratory glasses of champers, what I really did was get a job. I know, after 6 months of official couch potato duties, they were rudely taken away from me in favour of 50 hour weeks and my own company! Again, in this redhead’s infinite wisdom, the solution to my unemployment status was to start my own company thereby alleviating some guilt in the form of set-up work, website creation etc etc. What I didn’t factor into the equation was that I would actually get a client. I know, a real life, living, breathing, 100% American client! So now, my little one-man architectural consultancy company is already flourishing and if, by some stretch of the imagination, I get another client I’m going to have to hire employees… yikes! But I’ll cross that bridge if it ever needs to be crossed, at high speed, in my new black beauty!


Yip, ladies and gents, say hello to Graca Michelle! She’s as regal as both the first ladies she’s named after, as fast as lightning and as her name sakes suggests, beautifully black and gorgeous! This new little edition to our family comes in the form of a Golf GTI and is courtesy of my wonderful Prince Charming! His reasoning: new job = new wheels! Love him! (Let’s hope new house doesn’t mean new babies ;-)

With speed seemingly the new mantra at the moment, I have tried to incorporate that into my running. Much to my utter horror GI Jane has me doing speedwork which is about as much fun as having hot coffee poured into your eyes balls! 8 x 400m sprints at 6 minute mile intervals with a 1:30 break between, yip, think hot coffee and eyeballs. However, (and I say this with great resistant to the continuation of such early morning hell) it does seem to be paying off. My average pace has dropped from a 9 minute mile to a 7:45 minute mile for half marathons and a 6:55 minute mile for 5km races. Which amazingly puts me a position to actually place. I know, right… really?!?! Yes, could just be America or (and I know this is a stretch for the imagination), I could actually be getting faster ;-)

So with my legs doing their own thing, my fingers drawing away on the computer, my feet putting pedal to the metal and my shelves filling up with awards, this love-up’d redhead is seriously happy and content. I promise, not so long between news feeds from now on!

TRAINERS

I had to buy new trainers the other day (and no, not the sexy kind that come with huge biceps and a six pack, but rather the kind that comes with a new loan from the bank and weeks worth of comfort manipulation training). Apparently it was time for me to lay my beloved speed racers to rest. As a matter of course every runner should replace their trainers somewhere between 500kms and the complete lack of sole. My dead give away was my pinky toes sticking out of each side of the shoes showing of my glorious rainbow sock collection, apparently they were not going to start flapping and fly me over the finish line. So it was with great sadness I lay to rest my 2nd official pair of speed racers and thanked them for getting me through some of the best times of my life. With 1500 grueling kms under their belt, they are not old and haggard, they are a beacon of inspiration; and will be honoured in the plushest part of my walk-in and greeted each morning with a smile and nod to the greatness they achieved.

I hesitantly welcome my new racers into my world as it would appear they have been spending a lot of time with my 12 inch heels and have been getting some ideas about how to cause excruciating blisters and needle point accurate pain just in time for summer and sandal worthy toes! Whilst I appreciate that the new kid in school needs to be treated with tenderness and care, I have adopted the tough love policy theory and have relegate my new smart ass shoes to the corner when they will stay until I have decided whether or not to run them over in an effort to speed the running education process!

In other news, it would appear that my G.I. Jane boot camp instructors constant torture chamber of love is beginning to pay off. Whilst pumping some serious iron one Friday morning (read 8 pounds and a look on my face that could melt steel), my scapula decided it had had enough of this sissy weight lifting and forcefully jammed itself against one clearly easily enchanted nerve. Bring on the pain that one seriously pinched nerve can cause and the realisation that Sunday brought the prelude to St Patrick's Day in the form of The Shamrock Run. A 10 mile race around a park dressed as the silliest green/irish character you can think of! Cue a strapped and bandage leprechaun with high socks, a goggly alice-band and sling running around the park repeating every irish swear word she knows! And to make the situation even more Irish, they gave me an award. No, not for looking the silliest (which by george I'm pretty sure I did), but for actually coming 2nd! Seriously! This was not exactly how I imagined my "Chariots of Fire" moment in the sun... hobbling to receive my award, tears streaming down my red and blotchy face cursing under my breath that the plaque was actually Vicadin in disguise!

But this story ends well. I have since recovered, my scapula has released it's bear-claw hold on my nerve and they are now communicating in small but manageably painful playful jabs. I am back at boot camp for the fun that is interval and sprint training and have managed to survive my first Paddy's day behind the bar! Now that is another story... Happy Hump Day Peeps!