Madness
It's Thursday. The marathon is Saturday. The madness has started.
When I think of the term "madness," I always think of the term "reefer madness," not because I'm a marijuana smoker, but because of an incident in the ninth grade. I can remember my ninth grade English teacher mentioning something about "reefer" (must have been part of a story we were reading). The teacher asked if we knew what "reefer" was. Enjoying the surreal quality of knowing the right answer beyond a shadow of doubt, I quickly raised my hand and responded "marijuana." Mrs. U. looked slightly startled. She then asked me if I had older siblings. I responded affirmatively. Perhaps she was concerned that I was a burgeoning young pothead. In truth, I knew the answer not because of my siblings and their narcotic tendencies, but rather from a Teen magazine that had a blurb about the movie "Reefer Madness." Funny how things can be misunderstood.
My current madness (non-reefer) revolves around this wonderful time of the taper. One would think embarking on this third marathon that a runner would finally be "mellowed out" to the process and all would be fine. However, when the runner is an obsessive worrier like me, the craziness associated with this crucial race preparation step is only magnified.
The typical hypochondriac rears its ugly head in full force. On Monday, after a painful breath and a "soreness" in my lungs, I was sure I had lung cancer or some sort of serious ailment which would knock me out of the race. In the past two weeks I've managed to step on anything in the road which would slightly or not so slightly turn my right ankle. Everything is sore and uncomfortable. Even my arms were sore yesterday. My arms! What do they do. They don't work nearly as hard as my legs or my poor paddle feet. I'm worried about everything. I'm worried about bowel movements, hydration, carbs, the riots in Paris and the melting of the world's ice caps. Maybe I shouldn't have taken a couple of days off from work given that it only allows for more worry. But if I were at work, I probably wouldn't be worth much.
One distraction from the marathon madness has been househunting. Since husband passed the bar, we're thinking we'll settle down. We looked at a partially occupied house on Sunday. I wasn't so interested in the house as much as who this lone individual occupying this residence was. That's my problem. I always want to know people's stories. How they got to where they are and what events shaped their lives. The occupant seemed to be a man with a penchant for Asian food, string instruments, golf and antique furniture. I wondered if his wife left him or if he was just living there until the house sold. Today I went and looked at another place; this time the house was completely vacated. The house had many of the facets I desired: a level drive for a basketball hoop, a sink in the washroom, a garage, and even a laundry chute! We'll see how the hunting pans out.
When I think of the term "madness," I always think of the term "reefer madness," not because I'm a marijuana smoker, but because of an incident in the ninth grade. I can remember my ninth grade English teacher mentioning something about "reefer" (must have been part of a story we were reading). The teacher asked if we knew what "reefer" was. Enjoying the surreal quality of knowing the right answer beyond a shadow of doubt, I quickly raised my hand and responded "marijuana." Mrs. U. looked slightly startled. She then asked me if I had older siblings. I responded affirmatively. Perhaps she was concerned that I was a burgeoning young pothead. In truth, I knew the answer not because of my siblings and their narcotic tendencies, but rather from a Teen magazine that had a blurb about the movie "Reefer Madness." Funny how things can be misunderstood.
My current madness (non-reefer) revolves around this wonderful time of the taper. One would think embarking on this third marathon that a runner would finally be "mellowed out" to the process and all would be fine. However, when the runner is an obsessive worrier like me, the craziness associated with this crucial race preparation step is only magnified.
The typical hypochondriac rears its ugly head in full force. On Monday, after a painful breath and a "soreness" in my lungs, I was sure I had lung cancer or some sort of serious ailment which would knock me out of the race. In the past two weeks I've managed to step on anything in the road which would slightly or not so slightly turn my right ankle. Everything is sore and uncomfortable. Even my arms were sore yesterday. My arms! What do they do. They don't work nearly as hard as my legs or my poor paddle feet. I'm worried about everything. I'm worried about bowel movements, hydration, carbs, the riots in Paris and the melting of the world's ice caps. Maybe I shouldn't have taken a couple of days off from work given that it only allows for more worry. But if I were at work, I probably wouldn't be worth much.
One distraction from the marathon madness has been househunting. Since husband passed the bar, we're thinking we'll settle down. We looked at a partially occupied house on Sunday. I wasn't so interested in the house as much as who this lone individual occupying this residence was. That's my problem. I always want to know people's stories. How they got to where they are and what events shaped their lives. The occupant seemed to be a man with a penchant for Asian food, string instruments, golf and antique furniture. I wondered if his wife left him or if he was just living there until the house sold. Today I went and looked at another place; this time the house was completely vacated. The house had many of the facets I desired: a level drive for a basketball hoop, a sink in the washroom, a garage, and even a laundry chute! We'll see how the hunting pans out.
posted by runninchick at 1:23 PM
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