Straight (paint)ballin’

When I started thinking about what I wanted to do for my 30th birthday this month, I had so many different ideas. I tossed around doing something for others – doing 30 things for others or something nice for 30 people or maybe just a chill dinner with family.

It never once crossed my mind to use this big-deal birthday to cross something off my list.

That’s where the BFF comes in – it crossed her mind, so she and my sister and my cousins made it happen.

The list item of choice? Paintball.

Now when it was mentioned at the paintball place that this was a bucket list item, the toddler who worked there (I picked that saying up from my traffic school teacher this past weekend. My name’s Laura and I drive fast.) acted like having that on a bucket list was stupid. And to that I say “Worry ’bout yoself, Paintball Boy.”

Lemme back up.

So I get all ready on my birthday thinking I’m gonna go get a bit of a pre-dinner buzz from some mini-margaritas at Jennifer’s house.

Then I get blindfolded and after many death threats from Jennifer, to my surprise I end up at the paintball place – this is what we’re crossing off my list and it’s gonna be awesome!!

Once I’m changed out of my dress and into my paintballin’ clothes, the nerves start to hit a little.

There are SERIOUS paintballers there. As in – significant amounts of camouflage and oh look over there, there’s a whole TEAM of guys who have had shirts made and have their shooter code names on the back. COOL.

Meanwhile, the only ones in our group who have played before are Sami and a couple of the boys. And they tell us newbies that, SPOILER ALERT: Paintballs hurt like a motherfucker.

SWEET. Happy birthday, I still might die today.

So anyway, after signing a waiver that probably says “If you die out there it’s not our fault, you just suck at paintball” and me getting a free shirt – because birthday – it’s time to suit up.

This is where I should have known it was gonna be..interesting. You don’t get a helmet – just a mask that covers your forehead, eyes, nose and mouth and a vest that probably is helpful for most people but I have some serious boobage and, well, it was kind of a joke.

Oh and then you go load your gun with marbles, basically. For newbies to paintball, it’s when you see how hard those damn things are, and that’s before they’re being shot at you from a gun that puts a shit-ton of air behind it.

Then a couple of us got a little bit scared. And that was before we even walked over to the scary-looking zombie town kind of place where we’d be “playing.”

I put that word in quotations on account of when we got over there the people that play every other day and think they’re hot stuff were like, “OH, FRESH MEAT.” And I almost peed.

Tavon, our “supervisor” or whatever they’re called gave us a quick rundown of what we’d be doing and what we weren’t allowed to do (take our masks off, basically, everything else was a free-for-all). And then we were set free to attack at each other.

He said “go” and all we could hear was “pop pop pop pop pop pop pop.” And I almost peed again.

It took approximately 20 seconds for me to get shot. First one went right into the side boob. AND OH MY GOD PAINTBALLS HURT. ESPECIALLY IN THE BOOB.

So – once you get over the initial pain/shock of being hit the first time, then you’re ready. The adrenaline’s going, you’re ready to play again and you know that that stupid little hut thing is not good shelter. Oh, and the paintball “regulars” are crazy AF.

We ended up having to pick teams at one point and in addition to the eight in our group, we needed two more. So we ended up with two more toddlers (Trevor and Jase) on our team to keep things even. We had no idea of their shooting ability (or lack of it), but they were standing closest to us, so it made sense.

Other notable moments from the rest of the three or so hours we were there?
– I had two of the professionals cornered at one point and they were pissed that they couldn’t get out or shoot me, so, GO ME.
– Two seconds after I moved out of the position of having them cornered I got shot in the ear.

LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT GETTING SHOT IN THE EAR WITH A PAINTBALL.

Rang my bell pretty good. Couldn’t hear for a second. Also thought I was bleeding. And that it took a piece of my ear off. I don’t overreact at all.

Keep in mind that when you get hit, the paint ball explodes. But there are pieces left behind sometimes.

This is NOT what’s going through my head after getting shot in the ear. Instead I am thinking part of it’s missing, a la Evander Holyfield when Tyson bit it off, because when I reach back to feel it, I feel ragged edges of something so obviously it’s my ear. Oh and that wetness? Definitely can’t be paint, must be blood.

WRONG ON ALL ACCOUNTS.

Did win me some cool points with some of the pros. And it made for a good conversation piece the rest of the night, especially when I couldn’t get it all out/off before changing into my dress for dinner.

photo 3

photo 1

How hot is that?? (And gosh dang if my eye makeup doesn’t still look great…)

Others got it worse – Jenn, Hope and Ethan, from what I remember, all had paint on their faces – especially around the chin and mouth, where it had hit their mask.

photo 5

And I didn’t have nearly the amount or intensity of bruises as some of the rest of them did. Also, Hope almost had to smack a girl wearing an Elmo shirt and Sami shot a guy in the nipple and it ripped a hole in his shirt because she’s a badass.

Let’s see, what else…

OH. We basically adopted Trevor and Jase for the rest of the time there except for a few minutes when we were mad at Trevor for siding against us in one of the games and I called him Judas. Then they told us we didn’t seem as old as we were and we were fun and like their friends so we let them back in.

And Jennifer may or may not have been on her way to starting a small army of children that she was captain of but at that point we were all out of bullets and had to go.

Like I said before, it was the most fun birthday of my adult life and I cannot wait to go again. Especially now that all the green paint is pretty much gone from my ear.

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Best laid plans and whatnot

I had these plans, you see. I wanted to take some time and have a regular stream of stuff written for this blog (for this month, especially), because in a little over a week, it turns five. Yes. An inanimate object, a bunch of words and photos and files I put together turns five years old March 30. 

May not mean a lot to you, but for someone who doesn’t know who she is if she can’t write, that’s a big deal. That’s a commitment. That it has kept going – kept me going – and people have read and laughed and cried and loved along with me, well, that’s really important.

So to celebrate I wanted to have post after post ready to go, to tell you all sorts of things and show you some great pictures and keep up some of these features I do that have become a habit on here.

All of this may sound trivial, but it’s not, to me. I need to write. I need it like I need water or air. I need that creative outlet and that place to put down all of the thoughts and feelings and stories I have when I can’t – or don’t want to – say them out loud.

That said, these past two weeks have dealt two major blows in my life – last week, actually. This week, I’m still reeling. Letting things sink in.

There are things I want to write about – I need to write about. They’re serious things. Important things. But I’m not ready, yet. I can’t, yet. I want to keep distracting myself with other things, share my pictures from my recent trip to Boston and NYC, where my sisters and I collectively celebrated our birthdays and were able to be together after our hearts had been hurt so badly last week.

I can’t wait to tell you about those trips. I can’t wait to tell you about two very important parts of my life that I’ve had to deal with losing  in the past week and am still just starting to process. I can’t wait to celebrate having kept this sort-of time capsule-y thing, this look into my mind and heart and life for the past five years.

Soon. Very soon. 

Yogi Bear

You guys, I went to yoga. Yes, you read that correctly.

I’m as bewildered and confused as you are right now. Also, my wrists hurt.

And my abs. But I think that one’s from all the coughing, which could only mean one thing, IT’S SPRING!

I digress.

I did yoga. It was weird. But the Groupon I bought was for 10 so I will go back because I don’t like to waste money (you’re laughing to yourself right now because you’ve seen my DVD collection. I totally need all of those movies/shows. Especially that SNL: Best of Amy Poehler).

I was forced into getting the Groupon – that offered 10 yoga sessions worth $100 for only $29. BARGAIN – by my friend/co-worker Stephanie. And when I say forced, I mean, she said “You should get it” and I did.

Round 1 was Tuesday.

I will share my story with you in words and drawings – drawn by crayon because I had a new box of ’em lying around and I am five years old. And I suck at drawing.

OK. So we show up at the place and get to take off our shoes. Plus 1 point for yoga. Barefoot fo’ lyfe! (Living up to the Kentucky stereotype, what?)

We enter the room and find out we are the youngest participants…by at least 32 years. Minus 1 point for yoga.

There are mats and blocks and blankets and peaceful music and it smells nice, so hopefully it’ll be alright. The instructor lady tells us to get into corpse pose.

Yeah, it’s just lying on your back with your eyes closed. If this is yoga, count me in forever.

Unfortunately, I did not pay $29 to lie on the floor in a peaceful room for an hour and a half. I can do that at home. It’s called Sunday afternoon. And it’s free.

So it got tougher.

We had to make ourselves into tables and then try to balance on one knee and one hand. Like Twister, only you’re not drunk.

And then the painful stuff begins. Like when she tells you to flip your hands backwards and put all your weight on them. Because that’s relaxing and helpful.

Oh and then there’s the animal poses..

In case you can’t tell by my DaVinci-esque drawing skills, cat means you arch your back up and cow means you stick your butt up.

And all this time she’s saying words I don’t know about what we’re cleansing and opening and looking for and all I know is there was a lot of mention of pelvic stretches and at one point she told us what we were doing was good for our uterus (uteri? uteruses? uterus?).

I’m pretty sure she also told us we were focusing on our Scherbotzky, which I know is nothing yoga-related, it’s Robin’s last name on How I Met Your Mother. Or maybe she said something else. I may have blacked out in fear that my wrists were going to break.

After a few more complicated things I do not remember the name of and that were supposed to strengthen our core, we did the child’s pose for a little while (sit on your knees with your legs bent back and lean forward so your forehead’s on the ground) and tried to see if we could turn our entire top half of our body around without moving the bottom half. No? That’s not what it was? Felt like it..

We did some standing up stuff too, like that thing you do where you make a number 4 with your legs which I can totally do upside down in the pool, but here it was hit-or-miss.

Then it was back to the floor, where we grabbed a block and found the least comfortable place on our body to put it under and laid there for a while. What that does for you, I don’t know. But I think I now have scoliosis.

After that, we were pretty much done, all that was left was more of the corpse pose, which I am so good at.

All was well and good and relaxing and my chakras were aligned and my mind was blank and the 71-year-old dude next to me fell asleep. Know how I know? Because he was snoring. That or he was a Walker.

You cannot focus on relaxation when someone is making noises that sound like that. So I didn’t. But the first few minutes were nice.

And I’m going back next week, because, well, I paid for it already, and maybe it’ll get better/easier. I hope.

Also, I didn’t fart. So that was good. ‘Cause I was worried.

Until next time….

Running is a pain in the butt

You guys, I started running again. Of course, I say this on a night when my trainer and I decided to skip for various reasons, one of which being it was supposed to sleet.

But we’ve been doing great up until now. And unless there’s a foot of snow or one of us has a medical or other type of emergency, we’re going again this weekend, and making up for our slacking.

To be fair: It wasn’t running, but I walked my ass off last Saturday and Sunday in Disney World, which is almost the same thing. Don’t believe me? I’ve got the blisters on my heels to prove it. Or maybe that just proves that my shoes suck…

Regardless, I’m proud of my progress. The first day we did it – and it was the first time since I quit last summer – it was painful. And I doubted myself. And complained. Until Jennifer yelled at me and told me not to say that I couldn’t. (And I’m not even paying her for this motivation!)

I complained a couple more times after that, but it’s also gradually gotten a little easier. And I’m not in as much pain as I thought I’d be.

Those first couple runs were tough. My legs seemed to have no problem with this increased activity, however, my butt really hurt.

That’s never happened when I ran before, but hurting is a good thing after exercise, right? It means you’re doing it right? And if that’s the case, then hopefully keeping this up means the butt-leg I have will soon be no more.

Yeah, I said butt-leg. It’s that thing where it’s really hard to determine where your butt stops and your leg begins. The world was perhaps made aware of it when SNL did that “Mom Jeans” skit. Look it up. It’s about like that. Butt butt butt then.. “I guess that’s leg.” That’s what’s going on here.

But if the weird pain I feel after running in said butt-leg is any indication, the two will soon be individually defined.

I’m the weirdest.

Another Organ Revolts or How I Had A Ham Sandwich And Some Spinach Dip And Ended Up In The Hospital

I’ve never been to the emergency room for myself. And there aren’t any times I can recall, recently anyway, where I’ve been for someone else.

Until last night.

Let’s start at the very beginning. Ish.

Like 4 or 5 years ago, when I lived in O-town, I got this horrible pain. It felt like I couldn’t breathe and that someone was pushing their fist through my body from the middle of my chest. The ONLY thing that felt even remotely good was when I took my shirt off and laid on the cold bathroom floor. Then I concentrated on breathing. Then it got less painful and then I went to sleep.

It scared me enough to go to the hospital in Frankfort for some tests, wherein I was made to wear an IV not attached to anything for 20 minutes that almost made me pass out and then put under a machine and told not to move while they looked at my internal organs turning different colors from some dye stuff they injected me with. Like how I’m using all these medical terms so it’s real easy to understand?

Tests didn’t show anything to be scared of so I got some acid reflux pills and headed on my way. And I still got/get that and heartburn and stuff from time to time, but nothing as bad as that one night.

Well. Then there was Tuesday night.

I had high hopes for that night. I was gonna watch the U of L bowl game with my parents and Rachel and Charles and Mom told me to come over early and eat dinner with them. After the game I’d probably work on finishing up the book I’ve been reading and maybe post that blog I’d written earlier that day.

HA.

When I got over there, Rach and Sam were making homemade spinach dip, and, since I’ve never had a problem with it before, I ate some. No problems, no problems, so then I ate dinner like the rest of my family.

Side note, today I found this:

Look at what that arrow’s pointing at. One would think that the good (artichoke) would cancel out the evil (cheese), amirite?

Approximately 20 minutes-ish after I’d finished eating, well, it felt like it hadn’t moved anywhere near my stomach. No bueno.

Naturally, to fix the problem, I made myself throw it up, which in my mind should have solved things. Except it didn’t. And I got sweaty, and shaky and there was that fist again pushing all the way through to my back.

I thought my bra was too tight, so I took that off. The pain got worse. So I drove home. Dumb, I know, but nothing sounds much better than your own bed when you feel like absolute shit and I wasn’t gonna just lay down there in the bathroom topless at my parents’ house because that’s rude. Other people might have to pee or get a Kleenex or something.

I didn’t make it home. I pulled over twice to puke and the second time tried every possible position of sitting and laying down in my parked car to get comfortable. It was probably the worst pain I’ve ever felt, which really isn’t saying much because my threshold for pain is pathetically low. God help me when I give birth someday.

Luckily, my psychic mother, who probably could have diagnosed me at her house and who would totally be my doctor if she could just LEGALLY WRITE PRESCRIPTIONS, happened to call. In the midst of my having trouble breathing from the pain and the possible panic attack because I must have been dying, I told her to get there quick.

And then there was a little less pain. Probably ’cause I immediately felt better knowing my mommy would be there soon. I’M SUCH A GROWN UP.

By the time she got there, I could drive…not far, but I could.

We got to the Immediate Care place where, when I told them it was chest pains, had me convinced for about 30 seconds that it could be a heart attack.

Guess what the worst thing in the world to tell a hypochondriac is?
THAT THEY COULD BE HAVING A HEART ATTACK.

Luckily, I wasn’t, which was rapidly told to me by the doctor that was ready to go home because it was 10 ’till 9 and they closed at 9 and unless you’re having a heart attack, they have no reason to care. Oh and he looked like this:

P.s. If you know who that is in the picture, I love you.

He told me it was probably my gallbladder, and then pushed on the place where I said it hurt. He said gallbladder problems are most often caused by cheese and birth control pills. WHO KNEW?

And wouldn’t you know it, I take those pills and I’d had a hell of a lot of cheese an hour earlier. Shit.

Side note: Both times I have been in a sort-of scary medical situation for myself I have been in a hospital that is about as busy as that hotel in the The Shining.

My mom stayed in the waiting room and waited for my dad – for the record I told them both to go home because I felt bad they were missing the U of L game and also I feel bad having to be taken care of by them.

Related song break: “I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T do you know about me?”

Anyways, to make this long story a tiny bit shorter (and because the rest of it’s super-boring), I spent 3.5 hours in the emergency room, watching the Cards lose the Belk Bowl, trying to stay warm (hospitals are cold, y’all), getting IV-ed and being forced to drink stuff that would make me feel better but really just made my mouth numb and made me burp stale grape flavoring until yesterday around lunchtime.

I’m still achy but I’ve got meds (thank you, Baby Jesus) and I have an appointment set up next week for my doctor to check things out, followed by an appointment two days later for an entirely different matter that’s equally as annoying, frustrating and painful.

Here’s hoping both doctors can come to a consensus and just go in there and remove anything unnecessary, whether it’s started causing problems or may in a year or so.

Not really, but seriously, if it means this shit stops, I can live without the gallbladder.

Have I mentioned that my body hates me?

‘Cause it totally does.

Diary of a hypochondriac, day 10066

7:30 a.m. I can’t get out of bed. My body physically rejects parting from the flannel sheets. Too. warm. and. cozy. to. move.

8 a.m. Step out of bed, left foot first. Still hurts. Something’s gotta be broken or bent or something in there. On account of it was stepped on. By a stiletto. Almost two weeks ago. Something’s not right.

8:15 a.m. Arm hurts. May or may not have something to do with the fact that I slept on it the whole night, but could also be cause for alarm. Bone islands are back?

8:45 a.m. In the car on the way to work with heartburn. Side effect of anti-anxiety medication. Which is worse, anxiety or heartburn? I’ll get back to you on that.

9:15 a.m. I heat up my breakfast and lift the heavy-ass water bottle onto the dispenser thing. Back hurts now.

9:22 a.m. I get overexcited about breakfast and take a bite, burning the roof of my mouth. I have lost all sense of taste.

9:39 a.m. Throat hurts. Probably because I’m getting sick. It is Bronchitis November, after all. Not to be confused with Sinus Infection December.

10 a.m. Is that a cramp or do I need to get my kidneys checked?

10:12 a.m. I just yawned a little too hard and might have hurt my back even more.

10:25 a.m. Arm WON’T STOP ITCHING. Welcome back, eczema, you asshole.

10: 37 a.m. Still have heartburn. Anxiety sucks, but it doesn’t hurt.

10:41 a.m. Notice a paper cut on my knuckle. When the hell did that happen? I should get a band-aid.

10: 43 a.m. Notice I’ve been bouncing my legs for the last 10 minutes. Cause they feel tingly. Another side effect from the anxiety pills.

10:52 a.m. Ribs kind of hurt. Could be because, again, I sleep like a weirdo, or also because my bra is too tight. Damn you, Victoria’s Secret.

11:15 a.m. My left ear is always stopped up. Q-tips have done nothing, so it has to be partial hearing loss from the iPod.

11:25 a.m. In addition to the eczema, it’s also that time of year when my eyes start feeling like cotton swabs. Meaning they are dried out and my contacts are suffering. I’d wear my glasses but they are a prescription behind. #firstworldproblems

11:38 a.m. Some skin has scraped off on the side of my foot from shoes I wore earlier this week. It’s ’cause I walk on the insides of my feet. That can’t be good.

11:49 a.m. Headache’s setting in. I need one of four things – caffeine, a nap, Ibuprofen or neurosurgery. Speaking of neurosurgery, I haven’t watched a single episode of Grey’s this season. Not upset about it.

12:02 p.m. Is that a spider bite?

12:03 p.m. False alarm. A zit. How old am I?

12:13 p.m. Today I’m wearing the shoes Sami got me in Spain. They rub the bottoms of my feet when I walk long distances and it kind of hurts. But they’re cute, and otherwise comfortable and also the only shoes that match what I’m wearing today.

12:19 p.m. I would never wear shoes if I could help it. But then I’d probably get some weird foot disease and they’d have to be amputated or something crazy.

12:46 p.m. Was working on other stuff for a while so my mind was on other things. Now, it’s back to tummy troubles. It’s rumbling and I am STARVING.

1:30 p.m. Post lunch sleepiness. Or the sleepiness is because I have insomnia sometimes lately.

1:45 p.m. Verdict is still out on whether or not permanent damage was done to the roof of my mouth from this morning’s breakfast hot pocket.

2:03 p.m. Wrist hurts. I think I have carpal tunnel. Just on the one side though.

2:06 p.m. Actually now the other wrist is hurting some.

2:24 p.m. Bone islands must be back. I can feel them. I think.

2:35 p.m. Tummy feels a little funny. Lunch may not have agreed with me.

2:50 p.m. Shoes made my feet hurt.

3:03 p.m. Foot slipped and I accidentally kicked my cubicle wall with my bare foot. Big toe on the right foot is probably broken.

3:24 p.m. Leg cramp. Probably from bouncing my leg all day. Nothing to see here.

3:37 p.m. I think I’m missing eyelashes on one eye. On account of the fake eyelashes I wore the other night. Those babies hurt when you have to pull them off. And I think the left one took some of the real ones with them.

3:46 p.m. We are now up to 5 possible broken toes, but they aren’t all on the same foot. I may need a wheelchair.

3:51 p.m. It’s cold in the office. Starting to be unable to feel my fingers. How long does it take to become hypothermia?

4:07 p.m. Pinched my finger in the drawer. It’s like that part in Elf where Buddy is in the doctor’s office after his shot. “My finger has a heartbeat.”

4:21 p.m. Starting to get sleepy. Need a nap after work. That should help, right? Oh wait, no, that’s why I have insomnia sometimes.

4:35 p.m. Yeah my wrist still hurts. I’m done.

Can’t stop won’t stop

…..listening to and, against my better judgment sometimes, liking Bruno Mars’ stuff. I mean there are the obvious good songs of his – Just The Way You Are and Marry You, for one two. But Grenade’s a little crazy. And so is this one.

But dammit if it doesn’t have a good melody.

Tangent: When I used to work as a server, the restaurant I worked for offered a vegetable medley as a side item. However, most people asked for it by calling it a “vegetable melody.” ‘Cause, you know, that’s the same thing, right? So whenever someone at one of his tables said it, my friend Mike would sing the ingredients to them. On account of the melody.

Anyways, another thing this song has against it is that it will be used in the next Twilight movie, which makes me about as excited as I am before I have to go to the dentist.

Can’t argue that the sucker’s catchy though. And totally speaks to the whole demographic of Twilight fans in that if you’re broken up with, life will suck. FOREVER. Quite melodramatic.

Poor Bruno, he can’t seem to catch a break. And apparently, when the dude falls in love, he falls hard. Or drags a piano.

Life story

Wanna know what my last relationship quasi-relationship was like? And the one before that?

Listen to the lyrics of this song. And thanks to The Roommate for introducing me to it and telling me it could have been written by me. ‘Tis true, well, I mean, when you take out the “hers” and make them “hims,” of course.

The difference a week makes

Last week, I decided I needed to start running. Also last week? The first – and only – time so far this year it’s been 85+ degrees all week long. Good planning on my part, right?

It makes sense on paper – a nine-week program that will make up for 70-something weeks of none of what the program includes. But putting it into practice was a hell of a lot harder.

Was.

Now, I’m not gonna get all cocky and act like I can run now, because I still can’t. But I can tell a difference in a week.

Don’t believe me? Day one: After barely making it through the 30 minutes without several curse words and then pleas with God to MAKE IT STOP ALREADY, I just about crawled back to my apartment where I proceeded to feel like my heartbeat was coming through the back of my skull.

The program’s set up in three-day-a-week runs that gradually increase. By the third day of the first week, I was all like “Run for a minute straight?” NO PROBLEM.

Maybe you don’t think that’s a big deal. But maybe you also don’t run like a 97-year-old.

Today was week two, day one. And like it says in the title of this post (kind of) – what a difference a week makes.

They upped my running time this week, which meant adding 30 more seconds that felt like nothing. Until the last couple spurts. Because it was then I got a cramp and thought my ankle might break. (They’re serious about you needing to do ALL those stretches, kids.)

But the first two? Pretty darn good. Almost, dare I say it, pleasant?

WHO THE HELL AM I??

And though the weather was a lot better to run in than the hell on Earth it was last week, today I had to contend with holding my workout pants up as I ran.

Not that I can tell any difference yet, physically, but those pants weren’t sliding anywhere last week and I just got them out of the dryer last night so, naturally, they shouldn’t be moving all that much.

So yeah, here I am running with one hand holding up a side of my pants. After a while I just kind of gave up and pulled them up as high as I could (within reason) and figured if they slid any, they wouldn’t get too far to do any damage by the time my 1.5 minutes of running was up.

And I may or may not have had a bit of the CT at one point because of that plan, however, I was afraid to look. If you know what that stands for, then, well, that’s why we’re friends. Because you “get” me. If you don’t? I’ll tell you when you’re older.

Jennifer has suggested better running shoes, which I believe will be my weekend project this one or next.

I also need a better contraption to hold my phone – right now it’s in my pocket contributing to the Pants Avalanche 2K11 – and earbuds that don’t fall out of my ears.

This shiz is gettin’ expensive.

Well, that kind of sucked

I’ve said it before. And I will continue to say it until it’s no longer true – if we ever get to that point. I suck at running.

Seriously. Put me next to an 80-year-old man with a walker and he could probably beat me to the finish line. If not, our running styles will look remarkably similar.

Last week I sprinted for all of 30 seconds in a Derby event called “Run for the Rose,” where you have to run while carrying a tray full of wine glasses and try not to spill.

Any race where you’re rewarded afterwards, especially with an adult beverage, well, you can count me in. Plus we got free T-shirts.

I’ve documented a little of my previous attempts at running…like a few years ago when my then-editor talked me into a 5K the night before and I almost died like 9 times during the race. Not to mention looked like I was only running when I saw a cop (they were strategically placed along the route so Jackie would set goals for me like “run to the third tree” or “run until the cop can’t see us anymore.”) and was lapped by Hot Scott – my crush/a local police officer.

I did two more that summer, improving my time each go-round and managing to come in just about dead last all three times. But Swarles (Rachie’s boyfriend and no that’s not his real name, don’t you know by now we use nicknames here on the blog?) ran it with me and because he is my Best Band Friend and an awesome person, he ran ahead of me, finished, and when he saw me approaching the finish line ran to me so we could cross it together.

My close friend Jennifer – you may have heard me mention her before as I know she is one of the people who reads every single post and for that I love her – used to not be able to run either. At least she says that, which is hard to believe coming from someone who just completed the mini-marathon and wants to run a full one by her birthday in October..

She told me about Couch to 5K. Which I think I’ve mentioned on here that I wanted to start but didn’t ever get around to it. Imagine that.

A few months ago I started thinking I wanted to try running again when the weather got nice and I could do it outside, because I detest running on a treadmill, especially the 58-year-old one in the clubhouse of my apartment complex. Then, ya know, it went all Book of Genesis and rained for 40 days and 40 nights and well, there was yet another reason I gave myself that I couldn’t do it.

But lo and behold the sun has come out and it’s actually pretty pleasant outside – knock on wood – so after seeing Jenn’s Facebook status today announcing her intentions to run a marathon and hearing that my sister was starting this whole running thing as well, I thought “well, shit.”

Oh, by the way – whenever we talk about running, there will be some four-letter words like that. Mainly the one I just used. ‘Cause right now, it’s rough.

So armed with my one pair of workout pants, which I put on backwards when I first changed clothes (if that doesn’t sum it all up I don’t know what does) and the Couch to 5K app on the ol’ iPhizzle, I began my first day of this nine-week training that will allegedly prepare me to run a full 5K by the time I get back from London.

The app’s pretty cool, you can set it up with your playlists and it does this cool checkmark thing when you’ve completed a day of it and you all know how I feel about marking things off a list. It tells you when to start running, when to start walking again (you alternate), when you’re halfway done, and when the workout is complete.

Mine is set on a woman’s voice, who I’ve named Christine. Like the car who kills people in that Stephen King book. Because she almost killed me. Every time she’d say “Run, now.” I’d grumble, make a face and usually say a bad word. Near the middle of the workout, when my ankles started hurting something awful and she told me to start running I actually said out loud “Bitch, can’t you at least say please?”

I wanted to quit several times. And I kept telling myself that next time Christine told me to run I’d walk for that minute because I couldn’t breathe and is it natural to feel your heartbeat in your skull? But I didn’t give up. For several reasons – none of which I’ll tell you all. Yet. But they’re good reasons, I promise you that.

And regardless of the fact that I probably looked like a weirdo to all my neighbors – I ran around my apartment complex parking lot – and need to bring my headphones home next time, I’m gonna keep up with it.

Not too sore at the moment, unless you count my shoulder, which I think is because the sports brasseire was at maximum capacity (that’s how long it’s been since I’ve done a serious workout).

I’m saving day 2 for Thursday because tomorrow it’ll be 90 and Wednesday I work late and don’t run in the dark because that’s how girls get murdered. And I’m gonna make it a regular thing.

Part of the reason I’m writing this is so people know and will hold me to it.

And so that maybe this time next year when I’m trying on bathing suits I won’t want to jump off a cliff – or go to the dentist.

‘Cause when I want to go to the dentist rather than do something, you know it’s bad.