Massage Therapist: “OH! Did you want me to carry that for you?”

Me: “No, that’s OK…I just…uh…well…the liquor store next door was closing at 9PM, and my husband made a special request for hefeweizen beer (and really…he doesn’t ask for much, so I kind of have to oblige when he does), and my massage was at 8PM, and I’m running too late to put it in my car, so I I just said ‘WHAT THE HECK’, and brought it into the massage room with me!”

Massage Therapist: [she clearly didn't know what just hit her. I don't think she was ready for all of the words that I had just catapulted at her] “Ohhhh…what a great wife you are!”

Me: “I’m sorry…too much info? I have this really bad habit of telling far too many details in something that should have been a really simple explanation. I’m a little bit of an over-sharer.”

Most of the time, I feel like this…

[although I can't dance even 1/2 as well as her, if that tells you anything].

Welcome to the world of a nervous, nerdy, neurotic over-sharer! Between telling far too many people the story about how you peed your pants as an adult [***cough***a month ago***cough***] (despite the fact that your far more private and sensible husband told you that this is something you should keep to yourself), and telling your massage therapist (a stranger whom you’ve never met) the full story of why you’re walking into Massage Envy carrying a 6-pack of Dutch beer, it’s  like a T.M.I. party all the time over here!

If we ever meet in real life, be prepared. Be very prepared. I talk a lot, and at the end of our 5 minute conversation, you’ll know far more about me than you ever wished to know. I promise.

I’m actually getting nervous just re-telling this story. OH THE ANXIETY!

My oversharingness is at least 34 times more pronounced when I’m nervous. Getting massages make me nervous. I understand that they’re supposed to relax me and make me feel all great and wonderful, and they really do. WHEN THEY’RE OVER. I feel great when it’s all over and I can go home, feeling kind of like a wet noodle.

However, I get very very anxious when I’m on my way to get a massage, and I’m even nervous for the first 5-10 minutes of the actual massage.

What do I do with my hair?

Is my hair stuck in my armpit?

Why does my right boob hurt!

Did my STOMACH just make a noise?

Did HER STOMACH just make a noise?

Am I SWEATING?! OMG…I’m sweating.

Am I too tense? I know she’s feeling my muscles are tense…OMG…she knows that I’m tense. I’m so AWKWARD!

I should have got a PEDICURE! My feet look like Hammertime!

Don’t rub my feet. OH! Better yet, don’t even LOOK at my feet!

So, I ask you…how can something that is supposed to be SO relaxing be SO anxiety-inducing for me?! First dates were easier for me than getting a massage ever has been. The entire time I’m laying there getting my massage, half of me is enjoying it, and the other half of me is obsessing over it.

Last night, when the massage was all over, things got even more awkward.

Massage Therapist: “OK, so this concludes your massage…I’ll leave the room so you can get changed, and when you’re finished just come outside and I’ll be waiting for you outside the door.”

Me: “Thank you! Great! Me and my Dutch beer will be right out!”

Massage Therapist: **crickets**

Awkward.

Next time, I’ll buy the husband some more Dutch beer before I go in. Next time, I’ll drink one of the husband’s Dutch beers before I go in.

Since my brain has now (hopefully) recovered from 3 straight days of debauchery, I am prepared to recap you on the story of the first 2 days of my New Kids on the Block weekend. Well. Most of the story. The fact that I was washing down questionable doses of Sudafed with red and white wine, Lemondrop shots, and Greygoose and cranberry, leads me to believe that this will be an abridged version.

I arrived at The Borgata Hotel on Thursday evening around 6pm. The Borgata Hotel. Have you seen this joint?

The place is to die for. I booked a standard room with two king beds (one for me and one for my girlfriend who was partying it up with me for the weekend), and it was nothing to laugh at. It was nicely equipped with a refrigerator, coffee maker, hairdryer, and all of the other standard hotel accoutrements. As well as this view to the left:

And this view to the right:

It even looks delicious on the camera phone, and that says a lot.

As well, I may have sent My Gazelle a text message of this picture:

with this message:

“Let’s pray that our honeymoon shower is like this!”

Yes, folks. He’s marrying me because I’m classy.

As soon as I took in all of the amenities that the room had to offer, as well as the wonderful view, I immediately knew that it was going to be a fantastic weekend.

After Kari arrived to the hotel (she was driving in from New York), we decided to get something to eat and then explore the hotel a little. After eating an especially onion-y Fatburger from The Cafeteria at The Borgata, we walked around and window shopped in a rather deserted section in the hotel. Apparently it was deserted because all of the schmetzy stores were closed for the day.

As we were wandering back down that deserted marble corridor chit-chatting away about how amazing it would be to randomly run into Donnie, Jordan, Jon, Joe, or Danny (and as I unsuccessfully searched for a stick of gum to cure my onion breath), we ran into this guy:

Seriously? Excuse me, Jesus? Could you have made this a more inconvenient time to run into Jon Knight? Onion breath, bad hair, ratty t-shirt and yoga pants. For REAL? That is the explanation for the shock and awe on my face. Not only because I randomly ran into Jon Knight, but also because I was wearing YOGA PANTS. Yes. Yoga pants.

Kari took out her camera to take this picture initially, but she was shaking too much to actually take the picture. Jon said to her “Oh, you’re a teacher?!” Kari said “YEAH, HOW DID YOU KNOW?”, to which he replied “It says so on your shirt.”

Um. Right. Shirt. Check.

Jon thought the whole situation was cute at that point, and since she was still shaking too much to take the picture, he told her to let me take the pic first while she calmed down. She handed me the camera, and I took the greatest picture of Jon giving her a huge hug while he said “Awwww, it’s OK. I’m a person just like you!”

Let me just say that Jon almost stepped into “I love you way more than Donnie” territory at that moment for me. I was very charmed by his willingness to stop and talk to two fanny schmoes (one dressed in yoga pants), at a time when he clearly was intending to do something much more important.

After we stood in that deserted corridor and called everyone we knew to inform them of this latest development in our ‘Fanatic Blockhead’ status, we made it our mission to look beautiful at all times for the rest of the weekend. God forbid we should run into Donnie or Joe (our two favorites) while wearing yoga pants again…the horror! After sufficiently beautifying ourselves and having a glass of wine (or five), we ventured out again.

As we walked through the hotel lobby/registration area, we had another unexpected run-in with destiny. Destiny in the form of Joe McIntyre, of course.

Kari was much more composed this time, since she expelled the initial shock factor during our encounter with Jon (and maybe the wine relaxed her). I’m also happy to report that I wasn’t wearing yoga pants for that photo op, and my breath did not reek of onions.

After that encounter with Joe, we decided to aimlessly wait for Donnie to arrive at the hotel (straight groupie-style). However, he never arrived, and we finally went to bed around 3AM. In the process of waiting, we met some very nice fans and lost about $30 in the slot machines at the casino.

We slept for approximately 15 hours, and then woke up in time to eat, drive to some strange ghetto mall to shop for new clothes and shoes, and then got back to the hotel to beautify ourselves for Friday night’s show. We chose general admission tickets for both nights, and we were banking on the fact that even if we didn’t have front row for either one of the shows, we would still be better off than if we had an actual seat.

It turned out that there was no opening act at the show (The JabbaWockeeZ opened for them when I went to the show last summer), and I don’t think that most people anticipated that there would be no opening act, so planned to come after the 8PM start time. Because of that, when we got there at 7:30, we were able to secure a nice spot to the left of the stage, about 3 rows back.

I didn’t get a ton of great pictures, but I was close enough that I didn’t miss this:

And this:

The show was very good, and it was nice to hear the guys sing a lot of their new music. Last year, I noticed that they did a lot of the old hits, and they included a whole montage of songs from their very first album (released in 1986). This show included only a few old songs (Hangin’ Tough, Step By Step, Please Don’t Go Girl). My impression is that last years’ tour was done in an effort to bring the old fans out of the woodwork and remind us of why we loved them (as if any of us forgot). This years’ tour is all about the present, and they are singing the hell out of the new music. I’m cool with that because I love it.

They’ll definitely lose the “kinda” fans on this tour though…which is OK by me. Less competition.

I’m kidding.

Kind of.

The highlight of Friday was definitely by far the barely-announced after-party at The Borgata’s Club Mixx. Although Saturday night’s after-party at Club Mixx was highly promoted on the NKOTB Facebook page and such, the only mention that I saw of Friday night’s after-party was in one of Donnie’s Tweets on Friday afternoon. Since it wasn’t hugely promoted, there were not a lot of people. It was perfect.

DJ Cheapshot was amazing. Although I’m not normally huge on ‘clubby’ music, I danced my ass off for 3 hours straight. I didn’t realize it on Friday night at the show (because we were so far to the left of the stage that the speakers blocked our view), but he actually DJ’d during the entire show. After the show, he came down to Mixx to do his thing again. You should definitely check out his stuff–it’ll make you shake your bootie, and I can’t wait to work out to it.

Anyway.

The party at Mixx was amazing. Although I don’t recall all of the details (Sudafed, Greygoose, Lemondrops…remember?), I KNOW that it was amazing. I mean…I went to sleep around 4am…it had to be fun, right? I woke up late Friday morning with the most amazing hangover and no voice whatsoever.

Stay tuned for Saturday night’s adventure. It includes bruised forearms, crying over fried rice (it’s amazing what we’ll cry about when we’re drunk), groupies, and an Amish Band. Not necessarily in that order.

In the days since we last spoke, not much has happened.

1) I stopped counting calories.  In the height of my long hours at work, I decided to start using Livestrong.com (DailyPlate) to keep track.  I did that for about 2.5 weeks, and then one day I woke up and decided I didn’t feel like it.  That doesn’t mean that I haven’t been worried about food.  I have been.  It just means that my brain could not process one additional responsibility, so the one with the least seniority was cut.

2) In the midst of working and small-scale food worries, I was surprised that when I was faced with the choice to either a) starve, or b) eat a roasted chicken sandwich from Arby’s, I chose “b”.  After that, I was even more surprised when I was more concerned with the striking difference between a “small” and a “large”, than I was about the chicken sandwich.  I might have ADHD.

Size Envy.

2) I picked a (randomly selected) Luna & Larry’s winner!  It’s Jess, whose blog I just recently started reading and LOVE!

Hey Jess: click my “contact” tab, and email me your address and I’ll get your loot out right away!

3) Newsflash!  SURPRISE!  I fell off my bike again!  Are you SURPRISED?!  Yeah, didn’t think so.

Worst picture ever, but properly captures the moment.

This was the best (worst) fall yet.  I rolled into my parking lot at the end of my 11 mile ride, unclipped my right foot first as always.  Then SURPRISE!  I FORGOT that my left foot was still clipped in.  Then I actually wondered for a split second why my foot wasn’t planted when I leaned to the left to stop.  Instead, I knee planted.  And again, although that’s one way to do it, it’s not the way I’d PREFER to do it.

More Blood.

Especially when my neighbor is standing mere yards away from me.

In order to stop him from potentially calling 911 in a state of panic, I raised my arm in victory (left foot still attached to bike) and yelled, “I’M OK!  I’M OK!”

He replied “I know you are…you’re TOUGH!”

Yes, Ernest.  Yes I am.  And STURDY.  Thank you for taking notice.  I’m going to unclip my left foot and go dress my wound now.

Did you read my plea for prayer last night?

When I posted that plea, 10 minutes before leaving for my first Cardio Kickboxing class at The Bam’s, I did so in the hopes that it would give me strength.

Longevity.

Oxygen ample enough to continue living through the class.

Strength to remain on both feet most of the time.

Balance to remain upright while on one foot during the other times.

Coordination so that I could kick and box at the same time.

Intestinal fortitude so that my banana and peanut butter wouldn’t cause me to cause a scene.

Courage to bravely go where this woman has never gone.

Didn’t you pray?!?!

Within 10 minutes of entering class…my first class…

I suffered.

Saw stars.

Heard an eerie ringing in my ears.

Sweated like an addict.

Nearly puked.

(Died a thousand mental deaths).

Sat down.

Drank a Capri Sun.

Cooled down.

Thought “I ran a friggen MARATHON! WHAT THE HAIL?!”

Shook my head.

Shook my head some more.

Walked around.

Saw stars.

Heard an eerie ringing in my ears.

Sweated like an addict.

Nearly puked.

(Died a thousand mental deaths AGAIN).

Sat down.

Had enough sense to stay seated until the stars and nausea subsided this time.

Shook my head again…this time less in amazement, and more in testing the ability of my head to move independently without wanting to come apart from the rest of my body.

Got back on the floor and did some pushups.

I did not quit. No, no.

Despite mortification…I still didn’t quit.

Then, with the knowledge that I’d like to return to kickboxing class again on Wednesday (as well as continue with my original plan to wed next October rather than some date in the very near future, in a quick-hurry), I stopped on the way home from class and got one of these:

And PRAYED(!)…

In light of my recent decision to fill you in on all things (well, most things) conception-related, I just feel like this is important to share.

Under no circumstances should you ever come to the conclusion that a reading on your basal thermometer of 96.2 degrees (F) means that you are in the early stages of hypothermia, or that you are approaching death itself.

Or that all of the remaining eggs in your 30-something fallopian tubes have now frozen to death, because your core body temperature is ‘way too low’ to sustain human life. In the midst of lying in bed, under your comforter.

It probably just means that you don’t know how to use the damn thing.

It probably just means that you should have read the instructions.

And, it probably just means that you should have waited for the beeps.

So, just let the damn thing beep.

And, stop being so impatient.

Just sayin’.

My birthday celebration week is over.

My financials are almost finished.

My crazy life has again calmed down to a state of manageable chaos.

I feel relieved.

But, I do have this abnormal pain behind my right ear. And a bruise on the right side of my chin. And one on my right hip. And everything kind of “hurts” today. Actually, everything kind of “hurt” yesterday. When I woke up at 11:30AM. After a night of drunken debauchery.

And I didn’t remember what I did to cause these rogue bruises on my chin. And behind my ear. And on my hip.

As the day unfolded, while laying on the sofa watching repeats of House Hunters International, bits and pieces of the night started to roll through my mind. Sort of like a movie. A bad, bad movie.

It began with a surprise party at Honey Pig Korean BBQ, which was such a sweet gesture from My Gazelle. Such a sweet gesture. A sweet, sweet, sweet gesture. Just not exactly the place for a girl who hasn’t eaten meat in a month.

When we walked in, I had flashbacks of when my ED was in full swing, and I dreaded going out to public places and eating for fear that nothing on the menu would “fit” into my plan for the day. It was scary and intimidating.

I wanted to appear gracious. It’s not everyday that I receive this type of surprise treatment, and this was my first birthday party with friends since turning 13. And it was a surprise! And he planned the whole thing! I needed to make sure that I didn’t appear put off at all by the piles of meat cooking in front of me, lest I receive no future surprises due to my not-so-appreciative behavior. I made sure that Jenifita (the queen Veggie Girl) sat right next to me. She proudly announced to everyone that she is a vegetarian (since I am not quite feeling full vegetarian-ownership as of yet), and meat-free food was ordered on her behalf.

Approximately 10 minutes later, a large metal bowl of soba noodles with chunks of ice and slivered cucumbers were placed in front of us. Soon after, a pot full of extra super spicy cabbage stuff arrived.

What can I say…I have no idea what I was eating. It was ordered on our behalf. The frozen noodles were weird, but we just went with it.

Personally, after the first 2 shots of Korean “wine” (which is consumed from shot glasses, and wasn’t wine at all), I didn’t care how cold the noodles were or how spicy the pot of cabbage was. Jenifita is pregnant, so she didn’t partake. And left very hungry!

“MORE WINE, please!”

We ended the night at Temple Lounge, which just happens to be one of my favorite places in the universe. The Asian-inspired atmosphere, the friendly staff, the fusion cuisine and sushi. Unfortunately, I was far too drunk to fully enjoy any of the above. Frankly, after the 3 sake bombs caught up with me, I barely remembered my name.

And, my chin hurts.

I seem to recall something about a slippery bathroom floor and a handicapped “safety” bar. I suppose it’s not very safe when you’re bashing your head on it.

Um. Yeah. Not my most shining moment.

My run-in with the bucket of Pad Thai yesterday didn’t prove to help nor hinder last night’s run. I ran a little over 4 miles, and my average pace was 10:28. Not as good as Tuesday’s super fabulous 10:16 pace, but I’ll take it. I’d love to stay consistent now in the 10:30 area. It seems much more favorable to announce “I run at a 10:30 pace” rather than “I’m so slow that moms running with baby strollers filled with 40lb children pass me”.

It’s kind of humiliating when things like that happen.

p.s…is it even OK to put your 40lb child in a stroller? That always makes me feel uncomfortable when I see it, but maybe that’s just me.

Moving along…

I’m no stranger to humiliating jogging moments though. The first time that I ran in Centennial Park (where I now do my long Sunday runs), was for a 5K race. It was the same location (different race) where My Gazelle finished the Police Pace 5K like an hour before me.

This first experience with the 5K at Centennial Lake came as a result of Robert.

Hmmm…I think I’m noticing a pattern here.

Back then, Robert had organized a group of runners to wear gear for his studio, “Peak Performance Fitness”, during the race. He wanted us to run the race, but he also wanted us to advertise for him by having his logo emblazoned across the front AND BACK of our shirts.

I was cool with that.

I had been training.

A little.

Not much.

But certainly enough to make it through a piddly ass little 5K.

In the dead of winter.

In Maryland.

It was the Jingle Bell Run. That means that it’s ass cold outside, and a bunch of total toolbags (like me) get together and run 3.2 miles. Snot flying everywhere. Oh, and we also tie bells onto our shoelaces, so with every wretched step, there is this cute little “jingle”. Isn’t that adorable?

The reality was that I wasn’t prepared at all.

Within the first 1/4 mile, I was pulled off on the side of the road “stretching”. In other words, I wanted to turn around and run back because I was way too friggen winded and tired and defeated to go another step. Instead, I paused to collect my thoughts, wipe the snot from my upper lip, “stretch”, and then tried to forge ahead.

Again and again (and again), I would start off strong, run for about 2.8 minutes, and then pull off on the side of the road again. It was pathetic.

As if the humiliation of not being able to run even a 1/4 mile without stopping wasn’t enough, I was advertising “PEAK PERFORMANCE FITNESS” in huge letters…plastered across my chest as I gasped for air and hacked up a lung.

At one point, pulled over on the side of the road, someone ran by and yelled “C’MON PEAK PERFORMANCE FITNESS! WHAT KIND OF PEAK PERFORMANCE IS THAT??!!”

If I had any energy left at all, I would have turned my shirt inside out.

I finished that stupid race in 34:30. I took a lot of stretch breaks.

At this moment, my only fear is that Robert is going to expect me to wear one of his shirts for the Frederick 1/2. I think that I will humbly decline.

My dear boyfriend and I have been dating for almost 2 years now. Without completely boring you with all of the gory details of our relationship, lets just say that exercise and fitness is important to both of us. He is a former Division I college basketball player, and upon graduating from college, decided that he needed to move on and get a “real” job rather than trying to pursue his hoop dreams a la Michael Jordan. In any case, he still plays recreational basketball, runs (a little), lifts weights, and really enjoys participating in a grossly overpriced (I’ll save that rant for another day) martial arts class twice a week. Did I mention that he runs (a little)?

In July, I was nosing around the active.com website, as I do regularly, and came across The Police Pace 5K Race, which is an annual race that benefits a local police department. Since my dear boyfriend decided to ditch hooping in favor of policing a few years back, this was a cause that we could both feel good about running for…IF I could convince him to run. See, he doesn’t like running at all. He will occasionally run 2 miles on the treadmill at the gym, but by no means does he make a habit of it. He does everything else to compensate for not running.

I knew that the name “Police Pace” would get him. I barely even had to bribe him to do it.

The race was on a Saturday, so my long-legged honey and I decided to run the course on Wednesday night after work, the week of the race. I had previously run this course once the year before for a different race, so I was vaguely familiar. The one thing I did recall was that there was an abundance of hills. Big hills, little hills, medium hills. Hills rolling into hills. It was quite uncomfortable if my memory served me correctly. So, the week of the race, we ran the course. Backwards. Ok, well not literally backwards, but the opposite direction of how we would run it during the race. I was disoriented when we got to the park, and I just started running. Turns out that we made a wrong turn and ended up going the wrong way. The course was MUCH easier going the other way, but we had skipped an entire portion of the course, so I ended up running only about 2.5 miles in a circle back to the truck. My dedicated boyfriend just kept running until his Nike + told him that he had gone 3.1 miles. Such a trooper. When he got back to the truck AFTER me, he thought that I had ran faster than him. I didn’t have the heart to correct him.

In a truly loving gesture, he offered the next day to run the race beside me.

“Honey, ya know…as long as you’re not going to run TOO slow, I’ll just run the race with you.”

( ***Enter visions of running across the finish line holding hands in a romantic fashion…gross. You couldn’t pay me to do that.)

I said,

“That’s very nice, but I really run better by myself, and I’m just an ugly runner…I don’t want to put you through that.”

Ya see, what he doesn’t realize is that the effort it takes for me to propel my body 3.1 miles without keeling over and dying is enormous. I have asthma, so my run is filled with coughing, heavy breathing, and I’m sure the occasional snort every now and again.

He insisted, so I went with it.

Race day was lovely. I had been training a little to run this race, so I was feeling very confident. Yes, I’m still at the point where I need to train for a 5K. Stop laughing. I regress…race day was lovely. Great fall weather (9/7/08), huge turnout, I was ready to kick some butt. We took off with the pop of the gun, and after spending the first 4-5 minutes milling through the crowd to fall into my comfortable pace, I noticed that my dear boyfriend looked like he was painfully holding himself back. Sidebar: I am 5’5”, and he is 6’2”…in hindsight, the pure physics involved with him running at my pace seems nearly impossible. I nudged him to go ahead.

The first time I ran the same course in 2006, I finished in 34:30. Pathetic, but I finished. I was so psyched when I crossed the finish line at 32:25 this year. I was literally overjoyed. Stop laughing.

Drenched in sweat and barely breathing, I started searching for my boyfriend. After a few glances around, I found him. Chatting. Dry. Calm. Cool. He was literally standing there chatting with a friend that he just ran into. I was immediately irritated, but still happy that I finished. “Babe…I finished in 32:25! Can you believe it??!!”

“Yeah, that’s really good! I’m proud of you!”

“How long have you been here waiting for me??!!”

“Oh, I don’t know…about 10 minutes I think.”

Yep. The man who runs (a little) finished in 24:21. Disgusting. Makes me want to kick him in the shin. However, this little story speaks volumes about early conditioning and natural ability. My dear boyfriend, My Gazelle, has been playing organized sports since he was about 6 years old. When he misbehaved as a young child, rather than spank or yell at him, his father made him do push ups. Brilliant! It started him on a path of fitness that he never let go of, and now at the ripe age of 28, he can still run a 7:51/mile with no training.

Me…not so much.