I love giving people presents.
It becomes like an obsession for me - coming up with the perfect idea for a gift, searching for it, acquiring the gift and then (the ultimate event!!) watching the recipient open it. Over the years, I've grown to love giving gifts even more than I love receiving them.
But I definitely wasn't always that way.
When I was little, there was nothing that tortured me more than watching other people open and receive presents. I blame the fact that I was an only child (and an only grandchild on one side) for eight years. You just can't be expected to be a selfless person of virtue when every adult around you has spent eight years doting on you.
When my cousin got a bike for her first communion, I can remember watching her ride around the front yard, feeling like I couldn't breathe. It didn't matter that my own first communion was going to be the following week and I already knew I was getting a bike as well (and it was going to be a hot pink ten speed! Holy 1990 DJ Tanner!) and it didn't matter that the bike my cousin received wasn't anything like any bike I'd ever wanted, it still killed me to see someone else get a present.
I got a little better after my sisters were born, mostly because it's hard to be a totally horribly selfish 10 year-old brat when your parents also have a newborn and a baby going through the terrible twos. But I still wasn't cured. I can remember watching my four-year-old sister opening presents at her birthday party, and panicking when I felt that familiar tightening in my throat and drop in my stomach that signaled abject jealousy. Why didn't I get anything cool like that when I was a baby? I want a new Fisher Price kitchen and bakery!
Tomorrow I am about to experience the adult fitness version of my aversion to watching people open presents.
About a week ago I started feeling sick. A frequent visitor to the Sinus Infection Club of America (I'm not only the president, I'm a member!), I took it in stride and continued to train for my August 30 sprint triathlon. Like an idiot, I went running, did a few long bikes and even took a triathlon swimming clinic in the lake.
Then a few days later I woke up unable to breathe. Two sets of x-rays, a nebulizer treatment, steroid, antibiotic and inhaler prescriptions later, I found myself faced with a diagnosis of bronchitis and stern instructions to not do any athletic activity for two weeks. I got a second opinion. Phrases like "borderline pneumonia," "irreparable lung damage," and "compete over my dead body" were thrown around.
The long and short of it was that I was forbidden from competing in the triathlon. Logically I understand that I can't walk around my apartment without getting out of breath. I can't breathe deeply, and I can't laugh, talk or eat without coughing so hard it sounds like my organs are making a getaway through my trachea. I get it that I could be a danger to myself and others, and that there's a good chance I wouldn't physically be able to finish the race.
But that doesn't change the fact that tomorrow morning, as I go to watch thousands of people compete in one of the largest triathlons in the world, I'll be watching every one of them open a gift that I can't have.
Today, I had to go to the triathlon expo, hand in my time chip, and watch everyone else get body marked and learn about the course. I got to listen to the excited chatter of my wouldabeen fellow athletes, and even saw which swim heat I would have gone out in (8! My lucky number even!). The whole time I had that lump in my throat and stomach-tumbling feeling of watching someone get to do something I couldn't.
I'll be there tomorrow to cheer on one of my best friends who flew across the country to do this triathlon with me and now has to do it alone. I'll watch with the knowledge that I am now officially an over-training-after-school-special-PSA-against-burning-the-candle-at-both-ends-and in-the-middle. I'm so proud of my friend and how amazing she'll do, and I'll be really excited to watch her cross the finish line.
But I can't help feeling a little disappointed. Like I'm being forced to watch thousands of younger siblings open up the biggest present under the tree on Christmas morning. Well aware I'm whining here - please humor me.
The only good thing? I'm now officially in for the 2010 Chicago Triathlon. I hope everyone realizes what this means: you all have another year of watching me fall down, sweat genitalia shapes onto my shirts and wear my gear backwards.
Hope you're all ready for the ride.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Look Mom, I Dressed Myself!
I meant to post this a few weeks ago, but alas, was derailed by the bike debacle.
As many of you know, I purchased a wetsuit. After calculating how much it would cost me to rent my wetsuit each time I wanted to train, and the how long it would take me to wait in line to rent one for the actual triathlon (the woman at the store informed me that the Monday before the triathlon, the line stretches around the block before the store even opens with people waiting to get their wetsuits, and they run out. Uh yeah. That Monday also happens to be my birthday, and I need to spend the morning of my birthday waiting in line for a wetsuit that might not even materialize like I need a hole in the head).
My wetsuit arrived. I excitedly tried it on, ran around my apartment and posed in my most ferocious triathlete pose in front of the mirror. I hate to say it, but I looked badass. I had trained with a wetsuit before, but something about this one being my own made me love it. Yeah, that’s right, I own a wetsuit. Want to go swimming tonight after work? Oh hey, just let me stop by home and get my wetsuit. Awesome.
Normally I train after work, but the past few weeks I’ve been trying to get my training in before I start my day. There’s something so peaceful about running or biking along the Chicago lakefront when there’s not a million tourists on those bike car things or segways or athletes trying to run me down. So this morning I decided to brave the cold and join the other crazies at the beach and get my swim in before work.
Let's just take this opportunity to explain for those of you who have never been to or in Lake Michigan. Lake Michigan is cold. Very cold. In the dead of summer in the middle of the day, Lake Michigan is never a comfortable ocean-like temperature. Even with the wetsuit, you’re in a constant state of chill, and it usually takes me a few hours to be able to feel my hands, feet or face again.
I swam a little more than half a mile before I needed to go home to get ready for work. I made my way back to the beach and removed my swim cap and goggles. Like the other badass athletes, I stood on the water’s edge reveling in the moment. The sun had finally fully risen, and was just over the horizon, a blinding fiery red-orange. It was beautiful. My feet were so frozen that I almost couldn’t feel the water gently lapping against my legs. I sighed and reached behind to unzip my wetsuit.
The zipper wouldn't budge. I tugged harder. It still wouldn't move. I began to look around frantically to see if anyone else was noticing my plight. I started imagining myself having to bike back to my apartment and proudly walk through the lobby of my apartment, head held high, wearing a wetsuit. I pulled on the zipper harder, trying to unstick it. No luck.
That’s when I realized something. My wetsuit, this piece of modern engineering, was on. Inside out.
You know at the end of The Usual Suspects or The Sixth Sense when the big story twist is revealed, and suddenly there’s a montage of all of the scenes/clues that you, the stupid viewer, missed and yet should have caught? I suddenly had one of those moments:
Scene 1: Our heroine notices that the logo on the chest of her wetsuit is upside down. Hmm, she thinks. That’s strange – they put it on the wetsuit so if I look down at it while I’m swimming, I see it right-side up.
Scene 2: Our slightly befuddled heroine notices that there’s no Velcro patch on the back of the wetsuit to secure the zipper pull (most wetsuits have these) so it doesn’t get in the way while swimming. Interesting, she muses: I must have bought the one triathlon wetsuit in the entire world that doesn’t have one.
If you’ve never worn a wetsuit before, then you have some idea of how hard it was for me to shimmy the zipper down from the inside. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, then I commend you.
As many of you know, I purchased a wetsuit. After calculating how much it would cost me to rent my wetsuit each time I wanted to train, and the how long it would take me to wait in line to rent one for the actual triathlon (the woman at the store informed me that the Monday before the triathlon, the line stretches around the block before the store even opens with people waiting to get their wetsuits, and they run out. Uh yeah. That Monday also happens to be my birthday, and I need to spend the morning of my birthday waiting in line for a wetsuit that might not even materialize like I need a hole in the head).
My wetsuit arrived. I excitedly tried it on, ran around my apartment and posed in my most ferocious triathlete pose in front of the mirror. I hate to say it, but I looked badass. I had trained with a wetsuit before, but something about this one being my own made me love it. Yeah, that’s right, I own a wetsuit. Want to go swimming tonight after work? Oh hey, just let me stop by home and get my wetsuit. Awesome.
Normally I train after work, but the past few weeks I’ve been trying to get my training in before I start my day. There’s something so peaceful about running or biking along the Chicago lakefront when there’s not a million tourists on those bike car things or segways or athletes trying to run me down. So this morning I decided to brave the cold and join the other crazies at the beach and get my swim in before work.
Let's just take this opportunity to explain for those of you who have never been to or in Lake Michigan. Lake Michigan is cold. Very cold. In the dead of summer in the middle of the day, Lake Michigan is never a comfortable ocean-like temperature. Even with the wetsuit, you’re in a constant state of chill, and it usually takes me a few hours to be able to feel my hands, feet or face again.
I swam a little more than half a mile before I needed to go home to get ready for work. I made my way back to the beach and removed my swim cap and goggles. Like the other badass athletes, I stood on the water’s edge reveling in the moment. The sun had finally fully risen, and was just over the horizon, a blinding fiery red-orange. It was beautiful. My feet were so frozen that I almost couldn’t feel the water gently lapping against my legs. I sighed and reached behind to unzip my wetsuit.
The zipper wouldn't budge. I tugged harder. It still wouldn't move. I began to look around frantically to see if anyone else was noticing my plight. I started imagining myself having to bike back to my apartment and proudly walk through the lobby of my apartment, head held high, wearing a wetsuit. I pulled on the zipper harder, trying to unstick it. No luck.
That’s when I realized something. My wetsuit, this piece of modern engineering, was on. Inside out.
You know at the end of The Usual Suspects or The Sixth Sense when the big story twist is revealed, and suddenly there’s a montage of all of the scenes/clues that you, the stupid viewer, missed and yet should have caught? I suddenly had one of those moments:
Scene 1: Our heroine notices that the logo on the chest of her wetsuit is upside down. Hmm, she thinks. That’s strange – they put it on the wetsuit so if I look down at it while I’m swimming, I see it right-side up.
Scene 2: Our slightly befuddled heroine notices that there’s no Velcro patch on the back of the wetsuit to secure the zipper pull (most wetsuits have these) so it doesn’t get in the way while swimming. Interesting, she muses: I must have bought the one triathlon wetsuit in the entire world that doesn’t have one.
If you’ve never worn a wetsuit before, then you have some idea of how hard it was for me to shimmy the zipper down from the inside. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, then I commend you.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Sad Day
*Note: This post might contain profanity. But after you read it, you'd hardly be able to blame me.
I had a few things I wanted to post about - funny stories I wanted to share, observations I wanted to make, big words I wanted to use. But today's events required an entry.
Today was a very typical Chicago late summer day. 95 degrees, 100% humidity, 100% miserable. I ran errands all over the city, buying wedding gifts, shower gifts, groceries and other non-interesting stuff. As I returned home an hour later and drove into my building's garage (which requires a key pass to enter and exit), I pulled into my parking spot and noticed something was wrong.
My bike, which had been locked up (as many bikes in the garage are) on a cable that runs along the garage wall, was gone.
My beautiful, 8-month old, $700 bike that I have been using to get all around the city was gone. My mother's first question was "are you sure you didn't leave it somewhere?" like I was talking about a pair of earrings, not a mode of transportation. Every person I talked to today about the theft asked me if it had been locked up. Yes, it was. Whoever stole it was a professional - they broke the lock and took it with them.
I'm waiting to see the official building security camera tape to see if the people who stole it were on camera. Obviously, I know nothing can really come of it, but it might at least be interesting to see if I can actually view the theft.
What really gets me about this is that my bike and I were finally getting used to each other. Like any relationship, we had our ups and downs. For the last two months, my legs have been covered with what I affectionately call "bike bites" - bruises, cuts and scrapes from where I've had run-ins with the pedals, chain, wheels - you name it, I've injured myself on it. I figured my bike had heard me repeatedly say I can't stand Lance Armstrong (I'm sorry, I know you're supposed to like him, but I don't, and that's a post for another time) or knew that I had no idea how to fill its tires and took it out on me.
But over the past few weeks, we were settling into a routine of long rides down the lakefront, and limited injuries. I braved street riding, and my bike held its own with the early morning cyclers going 100 mph. I began to look forward to spending time with my bike. It was like we had gone to couples counseling, and were now reaping the rewards. As I dealt with the reality that the bike was gone (nothing like reporting a bike stolen to your insurance company, condo building and police - awesome), I started to get surprisingly emotional. This could have something to do with the fact that I've gotten six hours of sleep in two days and feel run ragged by my responsibilities as of late, but it was more that I was really upset someone had done this to me. I began to feel like Pee Wee Herman in Pee Wee's Big Adventure - I started seeing people happily riding their bikes all around me, and wanted to go on a cross-country trip to find my little pal.
Later as I was putting away laundry, I went to fold a pair of capri pants and noticed that the bottom of them were shredded. Like a sappy romantic movie, I suddenly saw a montage in my head to the Sarah Mclachlan song "I Will Remember You" of the day I rode through a major intersection and made it halfway through said intersection before noticing that my capris had gotten caught in the bike chain. In a split second survival decision, I ripped my capris from the chain Incredible Hulk style, and went the rest of the ride and a personal training session with one leg of my pants looking like I'd been shipwrecked with the Black Pearl. I'm not going to lie to you, I got a little teary eyed remembering my time with my bike.
So, to my little friend, wherever you are: I enjoyed the little time we had together. I was looking forward to the triathlon with you, and I thought we had potentially many more years to come together. Tonight I had this mental image of you in a pawn shop somewhere, your little night light flashing and your lock broken off, wondering if I had left you there. If this were a Disney movie, you'd undoubtedly go on an Incredible Journey-esque trip to find me. But, alas, I doubt we'll get to meet again. I hope you do get sold to someone who appreciates you and takes care of your squeaky rear brake.
And to the person who took my new friend: thanks. You, sir, are an asshat of the first degree. I curse the day you were born and I hope someone steals your bike someday. And maybe your pants. And then runs you over with the bike while wearing your pants. Yeah, I don't think that makes much sense either, but it makes me feel better.
I had a few things I wanted to post about - funny stories I wanted to share, observations I wanted to make, big words I wanted to use. But today's events required an entry.
Today was a very typical Chicago late summer day. 95 degrees, 100% humidity, 100% miserable. I ran errands all over the city, buying wedding gifts, shower gifts, groceries and other non-interesting stuff. As I returned home an hour later and drove into my building's garage (which requires a key pass to enter and exit), I pulled into my parking spot and noticed something was wrong.
My bike, which had been locked up (as many bikes in the garage are) on a cable that runs along the garage wall, was gone.
My beautiful, 8-month old, $700 bike that I have been using to get all around the city was gone. My mother's first question was "are you sure you didn't leave it somewhere?" like I was talking about a pair of earrings, not a mode of transportation. Every person I talked to today about the theft asked me if it had been locked up. Yes, it was. Whoever stole it was a professional - they broke the lock and took it with them.
I'm waiting to see the official building security camera tape to see if the people who stole it were on camera. Obviously, I know nothing can really come of it, but it might at least be interesting to see if I can actually view the theft.
What really gets me about this is that my bike and I were finally getting used to each other. Like any relationship, we had our ups and downs. For the last two months, my legs have been covered with what I affectionately call "bike bites" - bruises, cuts and scrapes from where I've had run-ins with the pedals, chain, wheels - you name it, I've injured myself on it. I figured my bike had heard me repeatedly say I can't stand Lance Armstrong (I'm sorry, I know you're supposed to like him, but I don't, and that's a post for another time) or knew that I had no idea how to fill its tires and took it out on me.
But over the past few weeks, we were settling into a routine of long rides down the lakefront, and limited injuries. I braved street riding, and my bike held its own with the early morning cyclers going 100 mph. I began to look forward to spending time with my bike. It was like we had gone to couples counseling, and were now reaping the rewards. As I dealt with the reality that the bike was gone (nothing like reporting a bike stolen to your insurance company, condo building and police - awesome), I started to get surprisingly emotional. This could have something to do with the fact that I've gotten six hours of sleep in two days and feel run ragged by my responsibilities as of late, but it was more that I was really upset someone had done this to me. I began to feel like Pee Wee Herman in Pee Wee's Big Adventure - I started seeing people happily riding their bikes all around me, and wanted to go on a cross-country trip to find my little pal.
Later as I was putting away laundry, I went to fold a pair of capri pants and noticed that the bottom of them were shredded. Like a sappy romantic movie, I suddenly saw a montage in my head to the Sarah Mclachlan song "I Will Remember You" of the day I rode through a major intersection and made it halfway through said intersection before noticing that my capris had gotten caught in the bike chain. In a split second survival decision, I ripped my capris from the chain Incredible Hulk style, and went the rest of the ride and a personal training session with one leg of my pants looking like I'd been shipwrecked with the Black Pearl. I'm not going to lie to you, I got a little teary eyed remembering my time with my bike.
So, to my little friend, wherever you are: I enjoyed the little time we had together. I was looking forward to the triathlon with you, and I thought we had potentially many more years to come together. Tonight I had this mental image of you in a pawn shop somewhere, your little night light flashing and your lock broken off, wondering if I had left you there. If this were a Disney movie, you'd undoubtedly go on an Incredible Journey-esque trip to find me. But, alas, I doubt we'll get to meet again. I hope you do get sold to someone who appreciates you and takes care of your squeaky rear brake.
And to the person who took my new friend: thanks. You, sir, are an asshat of the first degree. I curse the day you were born and I hope someone steals your bike someday. And maybe your pants. And then runs you over with the bike while wearing your pants. Yeah, I don't think that makes much sense either, but it makes me feel better.
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