I’ve been absent.
I know. SHAME.
Life has been busy. And when I haven’t been busy this week, I’ve been boring.
Hard to believe, I’m sure.
Thank goodness for Mon. Being as how we both share the same twisted humor and love of sarcasm, I figured she could fill in and pick up where I left off and maybe no one will notice.
So when she asked what I’m
forcing kindly asking her to write about, I suggested something people might relate to.
I like to refer to the event as the Great Cock Debacle of 2010. Before you go jumping into the gutter and trudging through the grime to come to your conclusions as to what I am referring to, I’ll just say this: Hancock Stair Climb for Respiratory Health. I was asked by a friend of mine to join his team for the 2010 event to benefit those affected by emphysema and COPD. After much deliberation (I had never done any sort of race before), I decided that it was for a fantastic cause and it seemed like a fun thing to do with friends. So, for three months, I trained on the stair-master and psyched myself up, for I was training a lot harder than any of my other team members. They even suggested I lead our team when it was time to climb. My head exploded with over-confidence. I had the moves. I had the outfit. I had the glow. I had the butt and thighs toned and taught. I thought I was super-awesome and the world would soon know it. Or at least Chicago and the 3,000 people attending the event.The day came to conquer the ‘cock. I was up and at em’ early to meet my team and we headed to the Hancock Building located on the gorgeous Magnificent Mile in downtown Chicago. I stood outside the building and my ego suddenly went into shock. I looked up and the building seemed as though it went straight to God’s desk (where he does all of his paperwork of course), however, I pretended it didn’t bother me and kept going.
After walking through the revolving doors and feeling like I could lose my coffee from the quick spin, I quickly realized how large a group of 3,000 people actually was. I also didn’t realize what a mass of this many people smells like when gathered like cattle in the lowest level of a building. My head was spinning rapidly, I was growing more and more nauseous and the walls seemed to fall in on me. Was I claustrophobic? How could this be? I’m a self-proclaimed extrovert. I love concerts packed with crowds of people – what the heck was wrong with me? And what going on with my stomach? I told myself to shake it off; after-all, I was the LEADER of our pack.
When we finally reached the start line, I took a heavy breath and a quick gulp of my Fiji water. When it was my turn, I darted through the doorway and ran up the stairs. The stairwell was constructed of cinder block and cement. It stunk of BO from the climbers before me. Drips of sweat were still on the ledges of the steep steps that I was trying to run up as fast as I could. At each sharp turn in the stair-well, I grabbed the railing and pulled myself forward to catapult to the next level. When I got to the 4th floor (yes, 4th floor out of 97), my head started spinning again. At floor 5, nausea consumed me. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth and slowed down to a walk. Teammates began passing me. At floor 9, I knew exactly what was going to happen, but WHERE do I GO?
I was trapped!! I made it to floor 10 where I saw light and a man that, I swore in that moment, was Jesus, blocking a doorway that would get me out of there. I yelled “WHERE ARE THE BATHROOMS!!??” He casually responded, “There are no doorways, hun.” I looked at him, pushed him out of my way, made my way out the door and projectile vomited in front of a BMW that was trying to park. Apparently I was in a parking garage. I leaned forward, put my hands on my knees and puked again. This time in front of a less expensive model.
‘Jesus’ came outside with two paramedics (yes, to add to the humiliation, they called the paramedics) who took my temperature, blood pressure and asked if I was pregnant. Fortunately, my vitals were normal and I was happy to say that I was not pregnant. They took me to the elevator to ride up to the top of the Hancock building and find my family. They were waiting with cameras and flowers in hand. I wish I had a picture of their faces when I came up from behind and tapped them on the shoulder. They were startled and confused. “Why didn’t you come out the other door? And why is your makeup so perfect?” At least I had that going for me.
After the humiliation of my epic fail, I vowed to never, ever, ever enter any sort of race again.
I didn’t go fast, instead concentrating on breathing. I also took anti-nausea medicine before hand as well as stuck Vicks Vapor Rub up my nose. After I accomplished it though, I vowed to never enter any sort of race again. Ever.
The other day was spent perusing a copy of Runners World about planning for your first Half Marathon. I like to run (for instance, this week I ran 4.5 miles Monday, 6 on Wednesday and 6 on Friday) and have always wanted to run the distance of a half. But the thought of running in an actual race terrifies me because of my intense fear of the following:
OCD will bust my knee. I’m not so self-absorbed to admit that when it comes to certain aspects of my life, OCD rules. When there’s a task at hand, I throw myself into it full force, no matter how much effort (or pain) it takes. If running an actual race, I would practice run until I didn’t have kneecaps because I don’t know when to quit.
Throwing up. Because of my ‘Cock Debacle’ I’m mortified I’ll end up throwing up again from stressing myself out.
Pooping my pants. I’ll be the first to tell you about my digestive issues. When stressed, my digestive track goes into overdrive. I would rather throw up in public than poop my pants.
I’m a baby. I run in my own home, on my own treadmill, with an overhead fan and the air conditioning on full blast. Oh, and while watching my favorite programs on tv. Because I get hot and I don’t like it one bit.
However, I LOVE to watch and support my friends in any race I can attend. But me being part of the big show? No thanks. I’ll run my half marathon but it will be my own. All for me with no weird smells, people hovering over me and no fear of having to call the paramedics. And hey, if I poop my pants, I will be the only one that knows.