Happy Fourth of July, Baby

My cats were starving. They acted like they wanted serious attention, only it was a ruse. Their bowl was empty and what was worse, there was no cat food in the bag, either. I know this because had there been food in the bag, the one cat not chubby enough would've jumped on top of the washing machine (the location of said bag), spilled the contents and then, just to show me that they do not mess around with an empty bowl, shredded the bag to bits.

In order to prevent this, I decided to go to the store. The store not 1/4 of a mile away. Five minutes away.

Well, it being the Fourth of July, my subdivision has a parade. The "floats" consist of people sitting on benches on top of a U Haul trailer pulled by one of any number of giant Ford 150s in the neighborhood. The float-bound celebrities (I think they just took volunteers from the crowd) golf-waved to the spectators.

And here's my point.

I've never seen so many babies in my life.

Single strollers, double strollers, strollers hooked to other strollers creating a train-like parade of infants not yet able to golf-wave.

They all look to be the same age and they all look to be the same baby. They may have been dropped from a helicopter hovering over my subdivision, dropping babies like rice on a poor nation.

All I can think of is there was a Neighborhood Fertility Day. I was most likely on my bike. (Although I would rather pull my toenails out one-by-one than celebrate THAT holiday.)

To make this cat food journey all the more interesting, I was nearly side-swiped by any number of mini-vans and giant Suburbans containing more babies. Here's an idea: walk the two blocks from your house!

Mommies overweight and dressed in blue capri pants and red short sleeved blouses with white stars all over them. (Rework the color scheme however you wish, just make sure to keep the stars on the blouse.) Daddies in khaki Bermuda shorts and tennis shoes and red or white or blue polo shirts. Babies dressed like other babies in little sailor suits or whatever is going to be most embarrassing when they're teenagers and having babies of their own.

Me on red scooter with short black shorts, loose red t-shirt, tattoos of phoenixes going up my calf meeting an unfinished dragon tail crawling down my hamstring. Oh, and let's not forget my pink and white Converse that have "peace and love" painted on the heels and flipping the bird to every gas sucking minivan trying to smoosh me like windshield garnish.

Anyway, the white baby population is taken care of in the south Austin suburbs.

Hobbies, people. Try one.

Fulltime triathlete

How do I love being a full time triathlete? Let me count the ways:

1. I don't have to deal with jackasses anymore. There are many sub-headings under this heading but if you want the whole scoop, look back at my blog at the beginning of this month. (God, has it only been a month?) What a difference June makes. Anyhow, the main point is no more verbal abuse/making me doubt myself. I am strong now and getting stronger.

2. I am not being drowned in the sea of corporate "culture." I don't have to wear a hat with a name tag. The only thing close to that is when the number gets painted on my arm, pasted on my bike and my helmet and put around my waist. I don't have to fill out forms to request time off for my life. Now I am with my peers. There's a song called Galvanize by the Chemical Brothers. That is my theme song. "There's a party over here - so you might as well be here - where the people care." That's the swim start. "Push that button." There's my fingers on my bar end shifters on my bike about to turbo it into the big ring.

3. I chose with whom I surround myself. It's not that I'm being careful. It's a really easy decision, actually. If you make me cry, you're outta here because Ironmen don't cry. We exhaust ourselves and hurt to the point we're wincing and sometimes wonder why we do this to ourselves. But when I'm on the podium next year at IM Louisville in front of my entire family, there is nothing, nobody who can convince me that it's not worth it.

4. I am physically/mentally stronger everyday. Epilepsy who? Coma what? There was a time in my life when I was strong enough to remove myself from unconsciousness. Call it what you will but I had a choice as to where I went. When it was dark, I had a decision to make. No bright light in a tunnel. It was simple. I could live or I could die. Dying would be comfortable and cozy in its simplicity. Living, on the other hand, would mean seizures to fight, walking/eating/reading/speaking to learn again. Previous years that are no longer in my memory. These are things I fight to this very day and I'm not going to say I don't feel sorry for myself sometimes. But with every stroke of my arms in the water, every hill I pedal up and every mile I run, I'm confident in my decision to remain here to hear, "YOU are an Ironman!"

So, how do I like being a full time triathlete? I couldn't ask for anything better.

Born to be wild-ly guilty

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Ok, it's like this. When Catholics are baptized, the so-called holy water they pour on their heads? Is actually Guilt Water that is Guaranteed for life. There is no money back because they have yet to find a Catholic on whom it didn't work.

When they pour it on the baby's head, it soaks into the brain where it resides until they die (maybe afterwards but, really, there's no way of knowing) just like the polio shot scar that we old folks have.

There's no proof of this part but I believe we come out of the womb guilty. That's why we cry. That's a newborn's way of saying "I'm sorry." The louder they scream, the more guilty they are.

Like most people who have looked death in the eye, I like to think of myself as a strong person. I do Ironman. I have two black belts, one of which is a second degree black belt. I was a kickboxer who never lost.

BUT

I feel guilty when I can't get a workout in. Or when I feel like I'm letting someone else down. Or when I can't get a workout in and I feel like I'm letting someone else down (Hi, Coach Bob). Which, when you think about it, is really selfish - not a strong factor in someone who feels like they shoulder the weight of the world on behalf of others. (The world should be significantly lighter with all the Catholics holding it up but that's just not true.)

My long bike ride has a reputation of being my Achille's Heel. Prior to today, it eluded me because of my stupid job. Now, I'm doing a favor for my mom. I know, I know, I know this will get better after I get home (refer to stupid job that I no longer must endure). But right now, right this second - AGGGHHHHHH. Guilt. More guilt. Headache guilt. Guilt on a bun. Dirty socks guilt (which reminds me, I left clothes in the dryer.) Stick my head in the toilet guilt.

Currently, there are people walking on the roof dropping branches on my head. It's probably just God or whomever is the current Chancellor of Guilt. I shouldn't feel guilty about this, right?

I've decided on my next tattoo. I'm going to get it on my chest (possibly even more painful than my back - dunno if this is possible but if it is, then I deserve it, right? And it's going to say "Guilty" written in that Olde English lettering usually reserved for family names.

My thug lifestyle, yo

I'm not much in the way of "girlie" things. I don't like chick movies. I'm ambivalent about makeup and I think most magazines should be named A How-to Guide for Blossoming Bulimics.

But I have my weakness. Actually two of them: Shoes and bags. (Not purses but bags. If you need an explanation, ask someone.)

Therefore, DSW is my mecca. My oasis. And my mom always has coupons. How could I not go there?

For those of you who reside under rocks, DSW is an enormous, Costco-sized warehouse full of shoes. Mostly women's, but there is a weeny little section for men. It's the home of "I really don't need another pair of black stilettos (mostly because I'm really gonna hurt myself because I've spent the last two years wearing chef clogs) but I'm going to buy them anyway."

Anyhoo, there we were in DSW. I'm relaxed. I'm looking at black (also red) shoes with heels higher that they're almost guaranteed to sit in my closet.

That's why I selected a pair of Converse with "peace and love" written on the back. What can I say? Too long in chef clogs and comfort wins over fashion. Plus, it's my mom's money and I feel too guilty for her to buy something I'm not going to wear immediately.

Suddenly, I noticed I had a stalker. A fan. Otherwise known as, Mr. Manager Polo Shirt Guy. How did I know this? Because the polo shirt (burgundy, no less) in combination with khaki pants, oh, and the nametag screamed "RETAIL MANAGER."

The way he was following me around he had a mad crush or. . . .he thought I was going to stick the box of Converse down my shorts.

Seeing as he had the Suspicious Wanna Be FBI look, I assumed it was the latter.

My mom was walking around by herself as was I. Therefore, I had no obvious adult supervision. I've got a rather large tattoo on my leg. I look vastly different from the normal clientele. Read I'm not wearing white capris two sizes too small, enormous fake jewelry on my sandals and speaking loud enough for people in Nevada to hear.

He was like my managerial shadow. I'd go into the sock area, he'd go into the sock area. I'd pick up the red pumps (they were cute), he'd arrange the thongs (shoes, not underwear.) I'd walk to the back and guess who was there?

I almost started to try on all the stripper shoes and parade around in them but my coach would knock my teeth out if I cracked my ankle.

When my mom showed up again, he breathed a sigh of relief. I heard it because he was so close.

In the end, I walked out with my Converse. Not on my feet with my sandals in my pockets. They were still in the box and I had a reciept.

The land of self-absorption

I've been in L.A. for four days and there's a little something I forgot about in the almost year and a half since I've been here - that Los Angeles residents contain a huge personal space bubble.

Let's start with the obvious one - driving. Now, it's my observation that there is a common thread amongst drivers of Lexus(es), Lexus(i)(?) at any location in the United States. They are the most likely to cut in front of my lower class form of transportation sans signal and they do it at close range. Also at close range is the view of their grill. Note that I only say "grill" because the headlights are nonexistent as they are too close for me to see them.

This rule doubles in Los Angeles. Not only are they flippant, rude and shamelessly smug they are also clearly above any mode of transportation I happened to be sitting in at the time.

For example, today I was on my way to the beach to do my run in my little red rental car (high class all the way - I have to manually roll the windows up/down and push the lock down one door at a time). I've been looking forward to the beach probably since the last time I was here. As I was about to turn right onto Pacific Coast Highway (PCH for those "in the know") when a Lexus driver zooms up behind me and as the light turns green HONKS at me.

This is the part of driving during which my mother swears I'm going to get shot. With a cheerful wave and a smile, I make my right turn at about 1/2 mile per hour. ZOOOOOOMMMMM after the red light. Well, that will teach me.

Backing out of a parking space is worthy of a PlayStation game. Cars whiz around the corners (everybody, not just Lexi) and nearly pile on top of one another rather than let me out of a parking space that, hey, maybe they'd want to use. But that would require MANNERS and THINKING OUTSIDE THE BOX and letting me out.

People walk behind me as I'm trying to back out as if they are wearing neon pink and flashing lights. They just wander across, oblivious to the fact that those white reverse lights? They mean I'm moving backwards.

Oh, wait. They're on the phone.

I just don't have that many people to call. When I go to masters swimming in the mornings, which is located on a junior college campus, the entire student body (minus two people - me and a six-year-old being dropped off at the day care) are on the phone: the guy in the parking booth, the sheriff, the teachers, the guy (whoever he is) tooling around in the golf cart. "He's like, yeah, and she's like, yeah, okay and it was, like, so awesome." These people are obviously taking seats in the AP classes and are going to be our President and or heart surgeons ten years down the line.

That's enough extrapolation. More workout news tomorrow.

What's the catch?

You catch a ball, catch a cold or catch a cab. (Hopefully, the Cash Cab. Yes, I am quite the dork.)

Those are easy.

What I'm having trouble with is catching the water. Specifically, (not sure if that's spelled right) my swim stroke has my head spinning.

When I was about five years old, my mom thought tap dancing would be an excellent idea. I don't remember much except the most exciting part was buying the tap shoes. I thought I would dance like Fred Astaire. Well, a female Fred Astaire, anyway.

In reality, I was the youngest in the entire class by about 25 years. I don't remember what the teacher looked like nor could I even fake that I knew what I was doing. I would just move my feet to make the tappity-tap sound, stare out the window and just hope my pathetic tap dancing would be filtered out by all the other people who actually knew what they were doing.

In short, I was lost.

Fast forward to now, me in the pool. "Tamirra, you're not catching. Think of putting your arms in like you're going over a barrel." I wish that was the first time I'd ever heard the barrel euphamism and, even better, it solves my problematic stroke in a flash of realization like a bolt of lightening. (In this case, lightening is a good thing.)

Not true. My arm enters the water as if going over flat origami, I think. Anyway, I've got so many things to think about during one little innocent stroke that my thoughts go something like this: "Arm over a barrel. Crap. Well, that's not right. Hand push - hmm, Jamba Juice is niceI'msunburnednapsarenice. Oh, my hand's out of the water. OK, I'll pay attention with the other arm."

There's an attention span war going on in my brain but I'm so confused that, like a surge of electricity, my thoughts focus on swimming then the mental train derails. Overload.

I have to think one day in the next year or so I'll get the hang of this.

By the way, my mom ended up taking notes during tap dance class, buying a big wooden board and forcing me to learn the dance routine that she was paying good money for in the kitchen. I can still do a mean Shuffle to Buffalo.

Wheat Thins as workout fuel

Today, with a subtle hint from Coach Bob, I hopped on the Ironman horse.

Really, the masters swim is what I'm going to elaborate on here. The Coach seems nice (first warning sign = Friendly Coach: Causes relaxation in opinion of content of workout and ease of anticipation of degree of difficulty said workout harbors).

The pool is outdoors and swimming in warm sunshine and dry heat wakes up my California-raised self. Actually, I see anything resembling water and I just want to get in.

Here come these two guys - swimming muscles rippling ("rippling muscles" is truly a phrase I avoid but there's no other way to say this), tan and looking like they are no strangers to this workout. They hop into my lane - rumored to be the "slow lane."

Now, I was warming up happily on my own (600 yards with a kick set every 4th length) when I feel a touch on my foot - swimming language for "get the hell out of my way."
No prob.

VROOMMMMM!! Speedmaster 1 goes by. VROOMMMM!!! There goes Speedmaster 2. Slow lane? Not so much.

BUT here's the lesson I always forget - Outlast, baby. Guess who's not coughing up a watery lung by the end of the workout? Tattooed little me. Endurance, says Coach Bob. We got endurance.

Speedmaster 1: "You're going to be smoking me after a week."