wine night started with an air of sophistication. i was wearing womanly shoes that click-clacked across my kitchen floor. i was holding a wine glass. i was sampling cheese.
my adult friends were talking about pregnancy and i was nodding, tucking my hair behind my ear, sipping, nodding some more. i alternated wine and water, in a vain attempt to keep my inner peace. but if someone said the word "placenta" right now i'm probably giggle. i am 12.
around midnight, one of my friends was struggling to sit upright on the couch. she slouched on the futon, sipping water out of a wine glass. she'd nod off for a minute, then wake up and say "i hate you bitches." this went on for awhile. sip. snooze. "bitches!" sip. snooze. "bitches!"
things ramped up around 2 a.m. i had begun excluding the water portion of my diet and i was officially a drooling mess of blue teeth and vulgarity, screaming they lyrics to journey classics.
then the super trooper called. it was 10 a.m. he wanted to know how the party went. every 5 minutes, my battery would die. i'd call him back and talk loudly and repeat myself. finally we decided to meet up for coffee.
bear in mind i don't know the super trooper well. he is a friend of a friend and a fairly fun guy. we drank coffee and went back to his house so that he could stain his house and i could play with his dog. he gave me a tour. i sat down on a stool. i still felt out of sorts. i hadn't slept well. dogs barking downstairs. i hit the wall.
"dude," i told him. "i'm so tired."
he pointed me down the hall to his guest room, where i flopped facedown on the comforter. have i mentioned that i don't really know this guy?
he went outside and stained his house, came in and woke me at an agreed upon time. i learned that i had drooled all over his guest pillows. i walked down the steps and said
"hey. next time you can nap at my place."
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Thursday, June 16, 2005
have i ever mentioned that i once ran a marathon ...
it is marathon week here in duluth, meaning i have the perfect excuse to mention that i once ran a marathon. in those days, i didn't have a blog, so i only got to tell the people within a three table radius at the pioneer and strangers at the miller hill mall who would listen through my lengthy prologue.
because i have run a marathon, i find it very difficult to see these people training on london road. it takes a hell of a lot of concentration to stop myself from pulling over my car, setting my coke on the hood and squishing out my cigaratte on the asphalt so that i can trot up to them and say, breathlessly, "i. can. do. that. too. i. was. F2782. at twin cities. marathon. in. october."
it took me a few tries: in 2002 i made it nine miles before fannie picked me up at a super america, bought me doritos, a slim jim and some gatorade and then drove me to the finish line in a warm car with comfortable seats. there i encountered people much fatter and older, and sometimes prosthetically abled, wearing fresh-smelling "finisher" t'shirts, still marked with creases. in 2003 i woke up 170 miles from the starting line, cringed that i had just made a 75 dollar donation to the marathon, and went back to sleep.
but in 2004, i did it. the whole thing. all 26.2 miles from minneapolis to st. paul. i should note here that of the last 6.2 miles, 6 is uphill.
i probably ran the first nine miles consecutively. wisely, i'd worn a shirt that says "krista rocks" so that every spectator would know my name and cheer for me. that is what marathon watchers do. they yell whatever you have written on your shirt because they feel sorry for you and want you to know that -- even though they are wearing a cute sweater, have showered in recent history and are holding something in a big glass from starbucks -- they still care about you.
i jogged from miles 9-12ish and then stopped to pee. four trickles left my body, the rest was seeping through my pores. i made friends with a girl and it wasn't long before we felt comfortable enough with each other to giggle and say "i just farted four times in a row. everytime my foot hit the ground. hee hee." (do you known how long it took my college roommate and i to become that close?)
i had a kick that lasted miles 12-15. at that point i threw my parents my jacket and extra shirt and cell phone and committed myself to finishing. by now i was hanging with a bald guy from new york, who would take a dixie cup of beer from the devilish fans with beer stands.
then i started walking. slowly. with six miles remaining, i was walking next to an older guy who had run every single twin cities marathon. he was walking and he told me that this year, he didn't know if he'd finish. he was really sad about it, so naturally i got all trembly chinned and teary.
it wasn't until later that i questioned why a 76 year old man was beating me in this race.
eventually marathon security tapped me on the shoulder and said "do you think you're going to finish?" i said "yes. i didn't run 23 miles to quit with three left." he pointed to a slow-moving truck a block behind us. the paddywagon. he said "your pace is fine right now, but if you go any slower, and that truck catches you, you have to get on it and you won't be allowed to finish."
he repeated this information to the other runners around me.
it began to look like a horror flick: a mass of people running in pain, looking over their shoulders at this truck and hoping it doesn't catch them. if i hadn't been getting all weepy and if i hadn't been hullucinating, it would have been pretty funny.
finally i got over a hill and could see the end. a really sexy guy my age (wearing a knee brace) said "let's race to the finish" and we took off like crazy people, limping and swearing and grunting and drooling. he beat me, by a little. all that was left was xxl t'shirts, no free fruit. they had to dig in the backseat of someone's car for a "finisher" medal.
i was sixth to last at twin cities marathon. my time was six hours and ten minutes. i couldn't walk for two days.
i got into my car and got back to duluth, where my life was defined by stairs. it was a bad night. my body was screwed up for a week. i ate everything in my apartment and found myself feeling amorous toward almost everything. but within three days i was able to walk at a somewhat rapid pace. i thought to myself "the body has an amazing ability to rehabilitate" and then thought "did i just really think that? i sound like a freakshow."
one of my friends, a marathoning sort, gave me one of his old twin cities t'shirts because he said that everyone who finishes a marathon should have a shirt.
i accidentally put a cigarette burn in it the second time i wore it.
because i have run a marathon, i find it very difficult to see these people training on london road. it takes a hell of a lot of concentration to stop myself from pulling over my car, setting my coke on the hood and squishing out my cigaratte on the asphalt so that i can trot up to them and say, breathlessly, "i. can. do. that. too. i. was. F2782. at twin cities. marathon. in. october."
it took me a few tries: in 2002 i made it nine miles before fannie picked me up at a super america, bought me doritos, a slim jim and some gatorade and then drove me to the finish line in a warm car with comfortable seats. there i encountered people much fatter and older, and sometimes prosthetically abled, wearing fresh-smelling "finisher" t'shirts, still marked with creases. in 2003 i woke up 170 miles from the starting line, cringed that i had just made a 75 dollar donation to the marathon, and went back to sleep.
but in 2004, i did it. the whole thing. all 26.2 miles from minneapolis to st. paul. i should note here that of the last 6.2 miles, 6 is uphill.
i probably ran the first nine miles consecutively. wisely, i'd worn a shirt that says "krista rocks" so that every spectator would know my name and cheer for me. that is what marathon watchers do. they yell whatever you have written on your shirt because they feel sorry for you and want you to know that -- even though they are wearing a cute sweater, have showered in recent history and are holding something in a big glass from starbucks -- they still care about you.
i jogged from miles 9-12ish and then stopped to pee. four trickles left my body, the rest was seeping through my pores. i made friends with a girl and it wasn't long before we felt comfortable enough with each other to giggle and say "i just farted four times in a row. everytime my foot hit the ground. hee hee." (do you known how long it took my college roommate and i to become that close?)
i had a kick that lasted miles 12-15. at that point i threw my parents my jacket and extra shirt and cell phone and committed myself to finishing. by now i was hanging with a bald guy from new york, who would take a dixie cup of beer from the devilish fans with beer stands.
then i started walking. slowly. with six miles remaining, i was walking next to an older guy who had run every single twin cities marathon. he was walking and he told me that this year, he didn't know if he'd finish. he was really sad about it, so naturally i got all trembly chinned and teary.
it wasn't until later that i questioned why a 76 year old man was beating me in this race.
eventually marathon security tapped me on the shoulder and said "do you think you're going to finish?" i said "yes. i didn't run 23 miles to quit with three left." he pointed to a slow-moving truck a block behind us. the paddywagon. he said "your pace is fine right now, but if you go any slower, and that truck catches you, you have to get on it and you won't be allowed to finish."
he repeated this information to the other runners around me.
it began to look like a horror flick: a mass of people running in pain, looking over their shoulders at this truck and hoping it doesn't catch them. if i hadn't been getting all weepy and if i hadn't been hullucinating, it would have been pretty funny.
finally i got over a hill and could see the end. a really sexy guy my age (wearing a knee brace) said "let's race to the finish" and we took off like crazy people, limping and swearing and grunting and drooling. he beat me, by a little. all that was left was xxl t'shirts, no free fruit. they had to dig in the backseat of someone's car for a "finisher" medal.
i was sixth to last at twin cities marathon. my time was six hours and ten minutes. i couldn't walk for two days.
i got into my car and got back to duluth, where my life was defined by stairs. it was a bad night. my body was screwed up for a week. i ate everything in my apartment and found myself feeling amorous toward almost everything. but within three days i was able to walk at a somewhat rapid pace. i thought to myself "the body has an amazing ability to rehabilitate" and then thought "did i just really think that? i sound like a freakshow."
one of my friends, a marathoning sort, gave me one of his old twin cities t'shirts because he said that everyone who finishes a marathon should have a shirt.
i accidentally put a cigarette burn in it the second time i wore it.
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