Yesterday the running park was practically empty, either because there is a big event this weekend in Houston, or because the world ended yesterday while I was busy with something else. Surely the non-end-of-the-world is one of those "Is my face red!!??" moments for the whacky few who divested themselves of their wordly belongings in preparation for the big happening.
They really put out an effort to convince the rest of us, too, in one of those very common human foibles that makes us want to talk others into sharing our idiocy so that we can be confirmed in the truth of our beliefs. People like this can be danged pests; it's the matched pair of Seventh Day Adventists who ring your doorbell while you are trying to make lunch, or the matched pair of nuns from the church down the street who assume you are a Catholic and are pushing their way into your house to ask for a donation while you are trying to catch your cat, who has brought a dead bird into the living room. It's the matched pair of lady volunteers at your local hospital who come into your room to shower you with tiny cards showing the Virgin Mary or which contain prayers, making you wonder if your surgery went a lot worse than anyone is telling you. Some of these people are trying to do you good, but they seem to lack that part of the brain that would permit them to ask you what you want instead of imposing unbidden.
The most recent whackos stated that the Bible "guaranteed" the the world was going to end yesterday. You know how it is with guarantees: There is that fine print at the end of the page that conditions the guarantee, stating that if you misuse the product, fling it about, or stomp on it, the manufacturer will kick you out the door if you try to get your money back. Perhaps all religious-based writings should come with that warning, because if there is anything flung about, stomped on and misused, religion is it.
The most fun I've had with Seventh Day Adventists--although they may have been Mormons, now that I think about it, because the Mormons have just built a singularly uninspired, huge church not far from here--was one day as I was arriving from the store and unloading my sacks of groceries. Two matched pairs of good-news-ers wanted to give me some literature, and one of them (a gringo, no less) asked if I spoke English. They congregated around, all set to save my soul, and were about to be a major pain in the butt until in a moment of inspiration I announced that I was an atheist. It's as if the devil had popped up out of the sidewalk--they hotfooted it off down the street double time, much to my relief.
As I trotted down the running path (doing a bare minimum because of what now turns out to be a middle ear inflammation), running over in my mind the vicissitudes suffered by the people who from one band or another throughout history have claimed to be chosen by God, then I hope to remain a part of the unwashed masses who aren't chosen, by dang. And if heaven is populated by some of the characters who claim to be keepers of the Truth, who the heck needs hell?
domingo, 22 de mayo de 2011
jueves, 19 de mayo de 2011
The proverbial dog, sick...
Why do dogs have such a reputation for being sick? That's how upset my stomach is right now, and with this enforced day of time-off from the running path, philosophical matters can be attended to. It could be that the proverbial dog is what you are as sick as (how's that for tortured syntax?) because dogs can vomit at will--or as my mother pointed out one time, they can also vomit at Joe or Bubba. But dogs can't compare with a cat upchucking a hairball or something it ate which it shouldn't have--one of our cats, right after we moved from Mexico City to northern Mexico, was overly excited by the presence of cockroaches, something he had never seen before, and he downed quite a few. Now, that's sick! Nothing a dog could bring up holds a candle to a gutfull of partially digested roaches!
Another burning issue which after my 43 years in Mexico no one has been able to clarify: How could anyone in this country be constipated? It's like being constipated in, say, India. The mind can't get around it. Apparently I'm the only woman in the country who isn't, in fact. I've been tempted to ask these women if they have ever eaten the food here or drunk the water. Let me put it this way: There are desserts made with chile peppers, such as mango ice with chipotle (delish!). The range of chiles is endless, from the mildest to the nuclear chile habanero, yet with all the spices and fiber in the Mexican diet, most women seem to be constipated. One might suspect that the lining of the stomach and intestines has been evaporated by all these chiles and said organs have come to a halt. Some of the remedies are extremely tasty, in fact, and for that alone are worth the effort--nopalitos in salads and tamarind drinks, for example--healthful and vitamin-packed. But if I ate like that every day, I'd be like the tourist on a flight I took one time--he had to be strapped onto the toilet during the entire flight because there was no way he could sit anywhere else for more than 30 to 40 seconds. Now that, I can identify with.
Another burning issue which after my 43 years in Mexico no one has been able to clarify: How could anyone in this country be constipated? It's like being constipated in, say, India. The mind can't get around it. Apparently I'm the only woman in the country who isn't, in fact. I've been tempted to ask these women if they have ever eaten the food here or drunk the water. Let me put it this way: There are desserts made with chile peppers, such as mango ice with chipotle (delish!). The range of chiles is endless, from the mildest to the nuclear chile habanero, yet with all the spices and fiber in the Mexican diet, most women seem to be constipated. One might suspect that the lining of the stomach and intestines has been evaporated by all these chiles and said organs have come to a halt. Some of the remedies are extremely tasty, in fact, and for that alone are worth the effort--nopalitos in salads and tamarind drinks, for example--healthful and vitamin-packed. But if I ate like that every day, I'd be like the tourist on a flight I took one time--he had to be strapped onto the toilet during the entire flight because there was no way he could sit anywhere else for more than 30 to 40 seconds. Now that, I can identify with.
miércoles, 18 de mayo de 2011
Fortunately, I'm not blond.....
Since last Saturday, I've been under the weather with a mild stomach upset, a mild headache, and just enough dizziness to make life fairly pesky. Typical fibromyalgia sindrome. Yesterday, however, a plan was set afoot to collect a donation from those of us who volunteer some funds in order to surprise Adrián this weekend because Teacher's Day is coming up. (Mexico never misses a chance to party, by God! You'll have to read Octavio Paz in order to understand why.)
So in spite of my condition, weaving like a drunkard, I made my way to the park early in the morning. I stealthily handed off my donation to Ana, the one in charge of the surprise, said hello to my fellow trainees, and then thought, what the haitch, I'm here so let's trot a bit. You'll realize we are now brushing up against the skirts of fanaticism when the sick, the lame, and the halt drag themselves to the running path in order not to miss out on a training session.
My warm-up walk was somewhat uneven since I had a bit of trouble sticking to my lane; it crossed my mind to rejoice in my non-blond hair since I couldn't be accused of being a dizzy blond, although several people may have wondered if I was, in fact, a drunken grey-headed old gal who had partied all night and was still feeling the effects. Oh God, if only such carousing were possible! It was, however, quite true that I had been up all night feeling the effects, but these latter belonged to an anti-dizziness medication that contained enough caffeine to wire a cast of thousands.
By this time you may be asking yourself if the medication also destroyed neurons by the millions. Well, let me just tell you that it doesn't matter, because in that state I managed a 3.4K run without stopping so much as to tie a shoelace or rescue fallen glasses, and even ended with a small but significant (for me) sprint. You know how training seems to progess by a series of plateaus; I am now past the eight-minutes-of-this, two-minutes-of-that stage and am aiming for a very, very slow 5K now.
I can see now the newspapers that will appear next February: "All categories of Austin 5K taken by old lady expat living in Mexico; drug testing reveals humongous quatities of caffeine. Fight breaks out at finish line as victor's Asics are stolen by infuriated younger contenders who demand that shoes also undergo drug testing."
So in spite of my condition, weaving like a drunkard, I made my way to the park early in the morning. I stealthily handed off my donation to Ana, the one in charge of the surprise, said hello to my fellow trainees, and then thought, what the haitch, I'm here so let's trot a bit. You'll realize we are now brushing up against the skirts of fanaticism when the sick, the lame, and the halt drag themselves to the running path in order not to miss out on a training session.
My warm-up walk was somewhat uneven since I had a bit of trouble sticking to my lane; it crossed my mind to rejoice in my non-blond hair since I couldn't be accused of being a dizzy blond, although several people may have wondered if I was, in fact, a drunken grey-headed old gal who had partied all night and was still feeling the effects. Oh God, if only such carousing were possible! It was, however, quite true that I had been up all night feeling the effects, but these latter belonged to an anti-dizziness medication that contained enough caffeine to wire a cast of thousands.
By this time you may be asking yourself if the medication also destroyed neurons by the millions. Well, let me just tell you that it doesn't matter, because in that state I managed a 3.4K run without stopping so much as to tie a shoelace or rescue fallen glasses, and even ended with a small but significant (for me) sprint. You know how training seems to progess by a series of plateaus; I am now past the eight-minutes-of-this, two-minutes-of-that stage and am aiming for a very, very slow 5K now.
I can see now the newspapers that will appear next February: "All categories of Austin 5K taken by old lady expat living in Mexico; drug testing reveals humongous quatities of caffeine. Fight breaks out at finish line as victor's Asics are stolen by infuriated younger contenders who demand that shoes also undergo drug testing."
lunes, 16 de mayo de 2011
At last, rain!
On Saturday, my husband and I took three of our grand-daughters to the countryside, and to our infinite pleasure, it rained! It rained after seven months of drought. After the rain had let up a little, the girls dashed around finding all our "pet" toads, which had left their dens: a couple of them are so big that over the years we have given them names, such as Marcus Aurelius and Julius Caesar. My daughter's mother-in-law, who went with us, said she's never seen toads so big as the crew that inhabit our place in the country.
It has rained for three days so far here in town, and today will be my first day training since the weekend. The weather is downright cold. Great!
It has rained for three days so far here in town, and today will be my first day training since the weekend. The weather is downright cold. Great!
sábado, 14 de mayo de 2011
Hal, redeemed...
Hal must have gotten religion, because he replaced the two blogs he had wiped out. Either that, or he is planning something worse. On the other hand, what could be worse than a robot with religion? Sarah Palin?
viernes, 13 de mayo de 2011
The Righty-Tighty, Lefty-Loosey Condundrum, or The Single Boob Paradigm
Let's digress right away: Hal is back, just as I predicted, and he eliminated two whole blogs. There is no measuring his degree of resentment, apparently.
Also, since TrainingPeaks seems to be on the blink also, I haven't received my training program by email, so this morning (after two days of aches and fatigue) the functional part of me dragged my body out to the running path and I finished 3K without stopping--I've done it before, once, but this time it was a lot easier. Not having to keep tabs on my timer, my mind wandered. I started two hours later than my usual time, so it was like a Tokyo traffic jam. But the viewing was even funnier that usual as a result.
At the beginning of the running path, people gather to stretch, exchange running anecdotes, or drink water. Off to the left is a dumbell (I refer to the weight, not to any individual) made up of an iron bar with two big clumps of dried cement at each end--the poor man's version of gym equipment, I guess. It's always there because no one in his right mind would want to steal the thing. Today a man was standing right by the path lifting the dumbell, stopping every lift or so to look around, oh so casually, to see if anyone was watching him. It must have been frustrating, because no one paid him any attention at all. He moved closer to the path. We saw him, all right, and had to swerve away from him in case he dropped the blasted weight on someone's foot. It was fortunately at the beginning of my run because I was struck by an attack of laughter which, had it occurred later on, would have brought my run to a halt. The real burning question is, did whoever had the dumbell constructed choose cement in order to prevent thievery? It worked.
On to our subject. It has been mentioned in another writing that the running culture doesn't care what you wear. It should have been noted that it also doesn't care what you don´t wear. People run without shoes, and in Austin at least not even pants are de rigueur, which adds quite a bit to the general atmosphere of high spirits. And, you can run without a sports bra. It's painful to watch--you can almost feel the tissues tearing and you know that woman's old age will find her boobs down around her knees.
It never occurred to me that anyone might object to the Kevlar-steel-reinforced, no-boobs-at-all look my own apparel produces. I love it, because with my washboard fat bouncing along with each trot, I don't want to add anything else to the sad spectacle.
But one of my virtual running mates revealed that she just doesn't like the single-boob look. She may have more to work with than I do, however, which would explain her tastes in this vital matter. I didn't even know there was a single-boob option. This means that the classification of sports bras needs a revamping. My suggestion would be to eliminate most of the sizes now available and replace them with: No-Boobs, Single-Boob, and Double-Boob options. This latter could even take into account the one-size-fits-no-two-boobs problem and include Righty-Tighty, Lefty-Loosey fitting choices so you could pull up or let off on the reins, so to speak, for each boob.
You'd think someone would have come up with an idea this great long before this, wouldn't you?
Also, since TrainingPeaks seems to be on the blink also, I haven't received my training program by email, so this morning (after two days of aches and fatigue) the functional part of me dragged my body out to the running path and I finished 3K without stopping--I've done it before, once, but this time it was a lot easier. Not having to keep tabs on my timer, my mind wandered. I started two hours later than my usual time, so it was like a Tokyo traffic jam. But the viewing was even funnier that usual as a result.
At the beginning of the running path, people gather to stretch, exchange running anecdotes, or drink water. Off to the left is a dumbell (I refer to the weight, not to any individual) made up of an iron bar with two big clumps of dried cement at each end--the poor man's version of gym equipment, I guess. It's always there because no one in his right mind would want to steal the thing. Today a man was standing right by the path lifting the dumbell, stopping every lift or so to look around, oh so casually, to see if anyone was watching him. It must have been frustrating, because no one paid him any attention at all. He moved closer to the path. We saw him, all right, and had to swerve away from him in case he dropped the blasted weight on someone's foot. It was fortunately at the beginning of my run because I was struck by an attack of laughter which, had it occurred later on, would have brought my run to a halt. The real burning question is, did whoever had the dumbell constructed choose cement in order to prevent thievery? It worked.
On to our subject. It has been mentioned in another writing that the running culture doesn't care what you wear. It should have been noted that it also doesn't care what you don´t wear. People run without shoes, and in Austin at least not even pants are de rigueur, which adds quite a bit to the general atmosphere of high spirits. And, you can run without a sports bra. It's painful to watch--you can almost feel the tissues tearing and you know that woman's old age will find her boobs down around her knees.
It never occurred to me that anyone might object to the Kevlar-steel-reinforced, no-boobs-at-all look my own apparel produces. I love it, because with my washboard fat bouncing along with each trot, I don't want to add anything else to the sad spectacle.
But one of my virtual running mates revealed that she just doesn't like the single-boob look. She may have more to work with than I do, however, which would explain her tastes in this vital matter. I didn't even know there was a single-boob option. This means that the classification of sports bras needs a revamping. My suggestion would be to eliminate most of the sizes now available and replace them with: No-Boobs, Single-Boob, and Double-Boob options. This latter could even take into account the one-size-fits-no-two-boobs problem and include Righty-Tighty, Lefty-Loosey fitting choices so you could pull up or let off on the reins, so to speak, for each boob.
You'd think someone would have come up with an idea this great long before this, wouldn't you?
jueves, 12 de mayo de 2011
Footnote...
It has to be experienced to be believed. I am online with a ghostly presence who announces his name on the chat support network, and then disappears. My blackest suspicions have been confirmed--people are running like crazy to get away from having to help this old gal in Mexico and her wayward computer. I have actually typed in "Mexico to India, Mexico to India, is anyone there?", only to get no response. When I ended the chat, made another chat request, and got someone on the other end, it turned out to be the same person!
Rosetta Stone wants my profile so it can get me going online, but the profile must be so harrowing the program withdraws like a salted snail. Does Rosetta Stone tremble at the part about me living in Mexico, or just Monterrey? Meanwhile, my messages on the chat are getting more and more, ah, shall we say, original and non-formal in nature. God, I hope I haven't started some kind of international incident....
Rosetta Stone wants my profile so it can get me going online, but the profile must be so harrowing the program withdraws like a salted snail. Does Rosetta Stone tremble at the part about me living in Mexico, or just Monterrey? Meanwhile, my messages on the chat are getting more and more, ah, shall we say, original and non-formal in nature. God, I hope I haven't started some kind of international incident....
Suscribirse a:
Comentarios (Atom)