Races Like a Girl

Warning: Only Vaguely Tangentially Running-Related Post

When more conventional people learn that Jonathan and I work together all day, their unimaginative response is usually something along the lines of, “Ugh. How can you stand spending all that time together? I’d kill my <wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend> if I had to see <her/him/it> all day long.”

I find this kind of attitude unfathomable. The fact of the matter is, I love the fact that we are together for the vast majority of the time. For one thing, we don’t need cell phones. That saves at least $60 a month. Plus we really like each other.

Years ago, before I convinced Jonathan to torpedo whatever meager professional prospects he had in favor of going the self-employment route with me, I hated the way we lived. We got up at an unholy hour, fought over the bathroom, ironed things, went on some miserable commute to jobs we didn’t like, worked into the evening, commuted home, wolfed down either a substandard dinner (remember the horrible vomit-in-a-jar product Chicken Tonight, the one with about 8,000 milligrams of sodium per serving? We ate a lot of that) or something that took so long to cook that we were eating at 9:30 PM, spent a few waking hours with each other zoned out in front of the television, then collapsed and did it all over again.

It was terrible. It was, alas, how many, many people live. I couldn’t accept it. Now things are different and better.

Although we’re in the same room for hours a day, we can go for many of those hours not interacting except to request that the other person make tea or see if the cat wants to come in or find out what UPS just dropped on the doorstep.

We go together to the gym for cross-training, although we don’t train together much, except for the pool. I always enjoy the drive there and back together; sometimes we talk a lot and sometimes we don’t talk at all. Today we went on a half hour run. Although once we’re both running normally again, we won’t run together much anymore. Our paces are usually different plus I worry that I’m too distracted a running partner, and I like the alone time. But while it’s a struggle I like having a running compadre.

Are we freaks to enjoy one another’s company to such a great extent? I don’t think so. I think we’re incredibly lucky. One reason is because we get to engage in dialogue like this on a daily basis. I’d be forced to have amusing conversations with myself if we didn’t. Jonathan would probably forget how to speak altogether.

———-

“Your quads are getting really muscular.”

“What? How can you tell? You’re in back of me.”

“I can see them flaring out when you walk.”

“I have bell-bottomed quads.”

———-

“Can you take out chicken thighs to defrost while you’re downstairs?”

“One or two?”

“One or two what?”

“Is a package of chicken for one of us?”

“No. One package is one meal.”

“One person’s meal?”

“No. One meal for both of us! Jesus.”

———-

“That’s a cute sweater. You should wear it more often.”

“Does it make you want to have sex with me?”

———-

Concluding a work-related mater in the evening…

“Okay, that’s all I needed. You can go downstairs and start drinking or whatever you were planning on doing now.”

[Other person takes a sip of original commenter’s beer.]

“Not my beer! I said ‘go’ and drink. Not ‘stay and drink my drink.'”

———-

“I have on my to do list ‘clean out gutters.'”

“Darling, I have just one criterion for when to clean out the gutters. And that is when the leaves have stopped falling.”

“I notice that you often call me ‘darling’ when you’re about to say something stroppy.”

———-

If you’ve met either of us for more than 15 minutes, it’s pretty easy to guess who’s who in these bits of dialogue. Which is why I didn’t bother labeling them.

Obligatory tangential running comment: we ran 3 miles today at a glacial (10:30-11:00) pace. On pavement.  I had some adductor and hamstring pain toward the end, but it went away within a half an hour post-run. Jonathan’s foot is in better shape than my pelvis is, so he can run for an hour.  I am hoping to be up to an hour, on pavement, about a week from now. But he can feel scar tissue in his foot and thinks he needs to go back to Ortho 1 to get it broken up. Big drag. Y dinero grande.

I felt like crap on the run, but I think that’s owing to eating pizza, PMS and having done weightwork and a significant bike workout yesterday afternoon. I also just feel huge these days — not fat, but muscular. That’s because I am. I still have my stubborn layer of fat, but underneath it is concrete. The concrete is expanding. Nothing fits anymore, not even my sports bras, such is my aggressively spreading girth of musculature. It’s annoying to haul around. I think I should seek work as a bouncer or mob enforcer.

Filed under: everyday life | 5 Comments »

Warning: Non-Running Post

Well, I am fried. It’s Thanksgiving and I’m glad I’m not going anywhere this year, or making anything. This week has featured multiple bouts of insomnia, computer problems, lots of boring exercise and stressful attempts to get some major work done on our crumbling domicile.

I embark on a major home improvement project an average of once every 7 years. That’s the level of frequency I can stand. Jonathan generally handles “repairs” (meaning hiring people to fix the minor things in our house that break or otherwise cease to function); we’ll team up for “maintenance” (tree trimming and branch-crashed-on-roof removal is a good example); I generally handle “improvements.” The repair and maintenance jobs are more frequent, but typically small. The improvement jobs are big and expensive.

In the past I have gone about pursuing a home improvement project like the overachieving responsibility whore that I was until quite recently: I would research at least three outfits, have them all come over, ask for bids from each that featured a “range of options,” get multiple references from each and actually check them. Then make the agonizing decision about whom to hire. It took forever.

I don’t do that anymore. Now I go on Service Magic and Angie’s List and look for people who aren’t obviously total screwups. I make a list of three. I invite one over and talk to them. I tell them what I want and make clear that I’m not made of money. I don’t involve Jonathan if at all possible. This is because, inevitably, the moment he turns up I cease to exist. I think the sexism is probably unconscious, but it’s there and it’s annoying as hell. Then he ends up dealing with the improver from that moment on. Resentment is fomented, through no fault of my own. So he generally stays upstairs while I handle the negotiation, contracts and scheduling. If I don’t like the improvement outfit after talking with them, I move on to the second one.

Our house has 16 aluminum windows that are approximately 20 years old. Half of them have broken mechanisms, meaning they behave like guillotines if you try to open them. Some don’t even close properly at the top, so we have cold air flowing in and warm air flowing out. Our energy bills are no joke.

I knew that buying replacement windows would be challenging. I don’t know how I knew this — it just seemed logical. Windows are a commodity, like cars or appliances, so a zillion companies are competing to get the most they can from me, the buyer of their commodity. My goal in this purchase was basically not to get ass raped, figuratively speaking. I just want windows that aren’t crap installed by people who won’t damage my house. I know — really high expectations. They should be easy to meet!

Salesguy shows up yesterday with his samples, special deals, binders with cross-section illustrations of window products, positive surveys from recent customers, blah blah blah. Was he any worse than any of the other window salesguys? I doubt it. Another one who was scheduled to show up two hours after his appointment (and they were in danger of meeting each other, so long did this sales transaction threaten to take…) has declared bankruptcy. Another company gave me a ridiculously low quote over the phone, no details. Fuck it. I hired this guy’s company. The official measurer comes by tomorrow to remeasure and place the window order. Then the windows take two days to install. I just want this done before we’re in the deep freeze of January and February.

The other project is a redoing of our front walk, front step, metal railings and porch roof supports, and resurface our back patio. This was a project I didn’t expect to be as awful as the window experience. That’s because my experience with the more “craftsmeny” projects has generally been good. I find that guys (and they are always guys: come on, girls of today, go into the trades! I should have.) who actually do the work themselves (electricians, plumbers and now, in this case, masons) are into it and want to do a good job. They are also careful about pricing things since the ramifications of getting things wrong are not good — pissed off customer, possibly canceled contract, and (I think this is most significant) direct conflict with the customer. A self-employed craftsman does not have the Teflon assholishness of your average salesperson or customer service person, who will generally not give two shits if you are unhappy.

So I think I found a good guy on the masonry front. I’m awaiting details and numbers concerning the the railing situation. He needs to contract that out — another thing I liked about him: he sticks to his set of core competencies, which is very narrow, and has other specialists (in this case an ironworks company) handle the things he doesn’t do.

Now I’m lying on the couch, watching Tivo’d episodes of “What Not To Wear,” a show I watch with no small measure of hateful fascination. They choose the same outfits for everyone: polyester slacks, print shirt, chunky jewelry, thin leather jacket, pointy toed heels and an over-sized leather satchel the color of baby diarrhea. When the women with low self-esteem meet with Ted the hair guy, treacly piano music plays. At the big Look At Me Party, the screaming freak friends talk about how the subject is “exuding and celebrating a new feminine energy that is powerful and beautiful.” Plus I think Carmindy is actually a tranny.

Today may hold a trip to the gym, but I’m reserving judgment on that until a little later in the morning. I have to go out to buy booze, though, so I may as well hit the gym. Such is my lifestyle. Conflicted much? I have lots of interesting things to read. Our pizzerias are open for business this evening. I think it’s going to be a good holiday!

I am thankful that I am not going to be climbing in the car to go sit in traffic. I am thankful that I am not cooking a 20 lb. anything today. I am thankful that I am not being felt up at the airport; I can stay at home for that.

Anyway.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I hope you’re doing what you want to be doing today, because I sure am.

Filed under: everyday life | 5 Comments »