my right leg may or may not be falling off. i’m afraid to look.  somebody check and let me know.
it’s been a while since i investigated, but i always took it for granted that i had kneecaps.  right now, i’m not so sure.  if my leg doesn’t fall off, and if neither of them catches fire, since that also seems imminently possible, then i will conduct an inquiry into the existence or nonexistence of my kneecaps. it seems like something i should know.
i have just completed day 2 of marathon training, which was also my second day ever of running with purpose.  i’ve tried this before, but in a less structured sort of way.  i ran as slowly, and for as short a time as i thought would be sufficient, which is to say, almost not at all.
this is not like that.  this is continuing to run, even when it seems like my lungs are filling with glue, when parts of me are flopping in embarrassing ways beyond my control, when i have to bargain with my legs to continue moving.  i really hope it gets easier than this.
march 13, 2010 is staring at me.  it is my 30th birthday, and i always said it didn’t mean anything more significant than any other birthday, but i guess i didn’t mean it.
30 is a scary number.
too many people have been telling me that a woman’s body goes downhill after 30, but if i’m really honest with myself, my body hasn’t exactly been going uphill in the past few years.  it has barely plateaued somewhere pleasant.  when i was in my early 20′s, i could take a few months off of sugar and refined carbohydrates and drop 30 pounds in a summer, but those days are long past.
i’m not happy with the way i look or feel, and i know the only way to change it is to commit to making an intense effort.  i think marathon training is an intense effort.  my kneecaps, or the possible lack thereof, say that it is an intense effort.
i know i will always be pretty much kally-shaped.  nothing will make my shoulders narrower, and i will always have big hips and big boobs, but i’m ok with that.  i can be very hourglassy, and i appreciate that about my body.  i think that is an attractive shape for me.  there just isn’t enough definition between curves, at the moment.  some of my curves are indistinguishable from my lumps.
i would prefer fewer lumps, in general.
so, i run.  i was expecting a stitch in my side because i have gotten one every time i have run for more than a quarter mile since i was 7.  i was unprepared for how many other places i can develop a stitch.
i’m learning the nuances of the treadmill.  it’s a strange and delicate courtship, and at the moment, i’m not sure who has the upper hand.  when the days get longer, i’m thinking about giving up the tiny television attached to the treadmill that has been distracting me from the burning in my chest, and taking on the open road.  i’m not sure yet if that’s a viable option.  i’m not sure that my feet won’t be worn down to bloody stumps by then.
i will accept any advice anyone is willing to give me.

*disclaimer: i wrote this in a weepy, drunken, post-new-years-eve moment of melancholy.  please forgive my sentimentality.

the day that ivan was born, november 2, 1997,  i was seeing RENT at the nederlander theater on broadway. i didn’t know at the time that my beloved pup was whelped while i was ogling adam pascal from the second row.  it is only fitting that such momentous events occured simultaneously.

we brought our weimaraner puppy home on december 22, 1997.  he was 7 weeks old.  his skin was far too big for his body, and his eyes were glacial blue, when he dared to open them. he spent most of his time burying his wrinkly nose into my mother’s coat, because he found other puppies his size terrifying.
we met him when he was only a week old.  he was the second largest pup in his litter, the largest having already been spoken for. since all weimaraners look very much the same, with grey velvet fur, we colored his tiny front nails with a magic marker to tell him apart. mom and i visited every week when he was tiny, and i picked him up by gripping him with a hand around his tiny chest.  his painted paws would cling to my hand as if to say, “for god’s sake, don’t drop me!”
his big debut was at a wrestling tournament, the very same day we picked him up. those burly, manly athletes melted into puddles at the sight of ivan’s clear blue eyes.
ivan the terrible was a hit.

his mere existence caused turmoil in my home: mom wanted him. papa didn’t. so at age  7 weeks, 1 day, we conceded and brought him back to the breeder. my parents, having only been officially married for 1 short year, found that their relationship was in jeopardy over this lack of communication. of course, once my mother gave in, so did my father, and we were back to fetch him again within a day.
he chose to never make a peep until he was 4 months old, when my father frustrated him enough to coax a yelp out of him.  he was utterly silent, except for his massive  lung capacity for snoring.  he has been impossible to shut up since then.
i’m sure people say this about every unwell pet, but he has been more than a dog. he spoiled us rotten. from now on, we will look at any dog who can’t open doors as lazy. stupid, even.  ivan is that great.

i will have a hard time thinking of him in the past tense.

he is beautiful, 130 pounds of  muscle, broad chest, and long legs, and rivals some of his great dane friends.  people stopped us in the street when we took him off the compound, just to tell us how stunning he is.  he hates bicycles, and would pull kids off of them and not let them back on for fear they would get hurt.  he was afraid of the dark, thanks to my habit of waking him in the night to accompany me outside.  he has a toy box and can identify all of his toys by name, but he is afraid to hurt anything that squeaks.  he has a peculiar way of nibbling on the people he loves, like he is grooming a member of his pack, but he always nips a bit of skin in the last moment, to keep us on our toes. he likes to shell his own pistachios.  he is a notorious bum-pincher, so much so that we called him a dirty old man in a past life.  reincarnation usually works in the opposite direction, with humanity as the apex.  we said he was paying his karmic dues:  he was a bad man, but he’s a good dog.   in 12 years, i have never heard him growl.

considering his size, it’s  miraculous that he has lived to age 12. it’s not that his ultimate infirmity is unexpected, you’re just  never really ok with a member of your family weakening.
mom called this morning to tell me his hips just won’t cooperate. he can’t drag himself out of the bed, which means he can’t be make it outdoors, and he depends on my parents for his most personal of acts.
i can’t blame them for putting him down.  it’s the humane option.

i will say goodbye to him on saturday.

Posted by ShoZu

i spend a lot of time talking about my imaginary light switch.  you know, that emotional cutoff that i supposedly use to reel myself back in when things get too intense.  as you may have guessed, i’m a bit of a control freak in that way.
as it turns out, that silly little switch seems to have had consequences.  all of those times that i thought i was dispelling my response to some toxic situation, i was really cramming my feelings into a corner and just not dealing with them.  they were never actually gone.  i was simply ignoring them.
unwisely, it seems.
so, nearly a year ago, when i claimed to have been totally ok 20 minutes after being dumped on christmas morning, that was probably less than truthful.  on new years eve, when i joyously exclaimed that i could drink myself to oblivion because i no longer had an alcoholic boyfriend, i may have been exaggerating a bit on how happy i actually felt about it.
every beer i’ve drunk, every beverage i’ve watched friends consume, every single social occasion at which alcohol was present, i was silently assessing the likelihood that someone, especially me, was going to lose control, and when and if they did, how i could best respond.
i can’t adequately define why i feel as shitty as i feel about my exboyfriend’s current circumstances.  i guess the best explanation is that alcohol abuse *actually* does affect more than just the abuser.  i should have realized that a year ago when this whole debacle began, when he tried to warn me and advised me to seek counseling.
but i had my trusty light switch. i was invincible.
and now i am a tangled mess of emotion.  i feel guilty for never having noticed that he needed help in the beginning, but indignant because he never told me so. i feel guilty for never having called the police every time he drunk dialed me on his drive home from the bar, and i’ll always feel guilty for thinking i should turn him in.
i’ve never said i didn’t care about him. in fact, that may be the only constant emotion i’ve had about him in the past year.
although that won’t change, i now realize that being there is just too hard. knowing that he is struggling and having no means to help or even really support him goes against my most fundamental personality traits.  i need to fix him, and i can’t. it’s not my right, responsibility, or burden.
so i’m walking away.  i think it’s the only way to preserve what’s left of my precarious emotional well-being.  it won’t make me feel any better, but i hope that it will stop making me feel worse.

perhaps you remember me from such episodes of your life as “discussion of intense things several hours after the party ended and everyone else went to bed”, “why we love the classic books we love and the authors who wrote them”“being chastised by art museum guards on a power trip”, and my personal favorite, “how to translate the names of breakfast foods into french when you are totally hungover.”

i have been surreptitiously watching for your gaze to follow me. i do my hair and make up in ways that i hope will gain your attention and i casually store away potential conversation starters for your benefit.  all for about 5 years, and to no avail.  it has taken that long for us to finally be on hugging terms. i had hoped to be well past that stage by now.
i fall in lust every 8 minutes or so, which is to say, almost constantly. my vivid imagination sometimes takes over when i see a hot guy stuck in traffic in the car next to mine, but he is generally forgotten by the time i’m in line at the market behind some new stud.
but you sir, are memorable.  i like you for your analytical brain and silly sense of humor. also, your cheekbones, jawline, unflagging eye contact, and the parts of you that i’ve never seen, but desperately want to.
i love, but am continuously frustrated with your potential flirtation.  decoding possible meanings and intentions behind our conversations has become a full-time obsession, even years after these interactions take place. i am still haunted by the words “exceptionally beautiful,” because i can’t fathom the notion that they were used to describe me, least of all by you.
you, sir, are a conundrum.

i think you’re lovely, and if i had any guts at all, i’d tell you so.

but i don’t, so this will have to do.

a couple years ago, someone whose friendship i valued convinced me to censor myself and my blog for the sake of her modesty.  her anger at the expression of my own opinions on *my own life*, as i was reminded of it by her circumstances, caused me to change how i express myself.  supposedly, she and her group of friends sat around a table and discussed how insulting i was.
for letting her stories remind me of my own memories.
there is nothing that i hate more than being discussed without the opportunity to defend myself.  i don’t generally care about what people know or say about me, but *i* want to be the gatekeeper of my own information.  i want to have the right to give details or keep secrets, as i see fit.
the incident may have been the downfall of our friendship. things were certainly never the same with her friends.  i got even more bitter when she told me that it was an accepted fact that i am stubborn and pigheaded, and asked me not to tell her friend that i preferred my car to hers.
i was totally insulted.  i consider a difference of opinions to be cause for healthy debate, not a reason to look down on someone.  i also thought that she would know me better than to think i would either consciously insult her friend with my judgment of her car, or even expect *anyone* to prefer my possessions to their own.
believe it or not, i’ve reined my opinions in quite a bit. i deleted my offending blogpost. i publicly apologized to her friends.  when she exclaimed that she found a field full of yaks in the middle of connecticut, i didn’t bother to let her know that they were actually just scottish highland cattle. it would certainly have resulted in rolled eyes, probably an argument and my friend telling me i don’t know everything.
i have tried to let sleeping dogs lie, in an attempt to at least appear more moderate in my views, and for the sake of avoiding offense.
but god, it’s dull.
i have opinions on everything. EVERYTHING.  i don’t think that’s a bad thing, and i don’t mind a little debate.  i don’t judge people for their views (with the possible exception of the topic of same sex marriage. i go off the deep end on that one a little…).  if i am given enough convincing evidence, i am willing to adapt to a more reasonable take on the subject. but for christsake, challenge me!
don’t be offended if i never come around to your way of thinking. just give me a better debate, and maybe i will.

i’ll have things to blog about soon.  i am a melancholy baby, and i think that’s worth a few words.

see you soon.

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