CSquaredPlus3

Sick

Before I share my little story, it's important for you to know that I am not seeking sympathy, expressions of, "Poor Chrisy," or any other obvious comments that might follow.  We all have people in our lives who are much worthier of our sympathies, prayers and good thoughts.  I'm fine.

All three boys are recovering from the virus dujour of the prior week.  I assumed it was my turn when I felt feverish on Monday.  Advil, Mucinex, Vicks Vapor Rub on my feet, and naps in between shuttling boys to and from school all began to fail me by Wednesday evening.

Chris arrived home late Wednesday night from a business trip and didn't realize how sick I was as he quickly kissed my head goodbye the next morning, took the older boys to school and headed to work.

I knew I had more than a head cold, but tested my abilities several times to prove to myself that I was in trouble.  Sit up.  Faint.  Sit up.  Faint.  Sit up s l o w l y.  Faintfast.

I called Supermodel about 9:00 a.m.  "I'm sick."

"Do you need me to come over there?"

"Yeah.  I don't even know where the five-year-old is."

And I didn't.  I couldn't get out of bed.

Within moments I heard our garage door go up and her footsteps on the stairs.  My bedroom door opened.

"How are you?"

"Sick," I said without looking at her.

"What do you want to do?" she asked me.

"I don't know."

"Do you need me to take you to the bathroom?"

"I don't know."

We remained silent for a moment.  I saw my five-year-old boy standing next to Supermodel.

"Will you feed him?"

She knew me well enough to let the controlling and -- at times -- bizarrely indecisive parts of my personality fizzle.

She went downstairs, took care of things, then returned to check on me.  I told her I was afraid I might have pneumonia again, but it seemed strange it would hit so fast.  Her cell phone rang.  It was her physician sister-in-law, calling for a different reason, but Supermodel was able to ask her about my symptoms.  Physician-Sister-In-Law advised we go to the doctor.

Supermodel called my doctor, made an appointment for a couple of hours later and took the five-year-old to her house so I could rest.

When she returned later with my son, I felt slightly better and thought it was silly to go to the doctor for what was likely a virus.

"I think I'm better," I said.

"Your face looks red."

"My fever just broke.  I'm sweating."

"I still think we should get you to the doctor," she said calmly, but without condescension.

"Look at my hair.  I'm a mess."

"You're sick.  I'll help you put it in a ponytail."

"What are they gonna do?  I have a virus, I look terrible, I should be in bed," I whined as I tried to regain control.

"C'mon.  Let's go."

Supermodel tied my snow boots, helped me cover my wrinkly, damp-from-perspiration pajamas with a large army green winter coat, and grabbed a 1-gallon ziploc bag [my choice throw up receptacle] and loaded the five-year-old boy and me into the car.

I tested positive for the flu and a chest X-ray confirmed pneumonia.  While I sat on a chair in the hall outside the X-ray room, hunched over, my head in the light salmon pink vomit box they give sick people, the nurse pulled my pajama pants down and gave me a shot of antibiotics.

Chris arrived at the doctor's office in time to spell Supermodel.  She needed to resume her own Mom duties; it was time to retrieve Supermodel Jr. from school.

Two days later, the antibiotics are working and so are fresh pajamas.

I told Chris I was writing a blog post about Sick Thursday and he said, "From what angle?"

"I don't know," I replied.

Maybe it's this.  In an ideal setting, when a full-time caregiver/homemaker/child-rearer feels ill, they call in sick for work or arrange for a sub for a day or two.  We all know that's not how it works.  We're supposed to reach out to friends for help.

But it can be difficult.

There are people who take advantage of the help and support of others.  They're in need all the time, not just a difficult season or two, but for life.  Always asking, never giving.  I like to think those folks are in the minority.

So, friends, let's all agree... when we're in need, when we're hungry, when we're sick, and can't get out of bed?  We'll call Supermodel.  I'll get you her number.

Confidential To Supermodel

Dear Supermodel,

I miss you. 

Training isn't the same without you.  I've muddled through most of the workouts, but the solo 16- and 18-mile trail runs were tough.  You weren't there for me when I saw the snakes.  Two of them.  I miss how you let me scream, jump behind you and push you sacrificially towards danger.

I miss how you hold my hydration belt so I can go to the bathroom... and I miss holding yours.

I miss our conversations that go from light to intense and everywhere in between.  And when we end a long run with scribble marks over our heads and curt goodbyes, one of us always calls the other later that day to share a new recipe, borrow an ingredient, or to see how the other guy is feeling.

I try to meet new girls on the trail.  They're either too gritty or too pretty.  I know you know what I mean.  The gritty girls don't smile at me; it's all business.  They run solo, but I can tell they prefer it that way. 

The pretty girls run in elite packs.  I can smell them coming, all flowery and clean.  They have silky hair, spaghetti-strap cami tops, their boobs don't move, and I bet they shave their legs every day.  They smile and hop off the trail, yielding to me with gorgeous white grins.  I feel their pity.  They know I'm not a gritty girl, but they also know I can't hang with their pretty set.  It's obvious I don't shower before a run, and... the boobs.

I've seen a few trail runners like us -- in between gritty and pretty -- but they're already paired off.  They look at me sympathetically as if to say, Don't worry.  You'll find someone.  Like you.  Like us.

I get that you're tired of running.  I understand the desire to broaden your workout routines and connect with other friends, although it stings a little when I see your new training partner drive by my house with you in the car.  She's friendly, fit, pretty, speaks Portuguese and is good with hair.  I'm sure the Boot Camp you attend with her is very exciting!  I was sorry to hear about her misfortune on the hike the two of you enjoyed... with several other people.  I'm glad she's feeling better, but for the record, you've never had to call Search And Rescue for me.  Eleven rescuers?  Just sayin'.

My first race is this weekend.  It should be our race.  I'll drive to Park City, Saturday morning... alone.  I miss trying to convince you that we need to be there early, and stressing about your inability to get to bed at a reasonable hour.

I'll think of you, Supermodel.  I might have to "love the one I'm with" once in a while, but I'll never stop loving you.

Yours,

Chris

Hoops

All the advice about bloggers sticking with one blog is true.  I've nearly abandoned See Chrisy Run [my other blog].  It's still there, but I haven't updated since Supermodel and I finished our final race last September.  I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

More importantly, I don't know what my next event/goal will be, if any.  Supermodel kind of broke up with me after the trauma of the Triple Trail Challenge.  I might have pushed her too far when I enthusiastically made reference to how great the events would be next year because we would be experienced trail racers.  I had this discussion with her less than an hour after she crossed the finish line of our last event -- a grueling trail marathon.  She was clearly irritated by my attempt to muscle her into being my training partner again while she was still trying to hydrate, catch her breath and wipe the blood from her body as she repeatedly mumbled, "That sucked."

I reminded Supermodel that it was just like having a baby.  We forget the pain moments after delivery.  She told me she's had six children and vividly remembers the pain of each birth.  She also informed me she didn't want to run with me during the winter months. 

I workout before the kids get up for school, so I'm typically out the door by 5:00 AM.  Supermodel had a little more flexibility with her schedule so she didn't need to run in the middle of the night in the winter.  I don't run alone in the dark, so Chris said he'd run with me at the offensive hour.

Winter has come and gone.  Chris ran with me on several cold, dark, snowy mornings.

One morning I was waiting for him to come downstairs.  Steam was swirling above his lovingly poured cup of coffee and our cold weather gear was thoughtfully displayed on the counter.  I was in the office checking my email... and the windchill.  Chris entered the office dressed in his warmest running tights and turtleneck, looked out the french doors at the snowfall [which would have been pretty had the wind not been driving it horizontally -- it was harsh], and calmly said, "I'm not running in this shit."  He turned around and walked back upstairs.

Supermodel asked how it was going running with Chris.  I told her it was great -- he'd only called one run.  She said she wouldn't have wanted to run in that weather either.  "He just has the balls to stand up to you," I believe were her exact words.  Whatever.

Now what?  I'm reviewing training plans, plotting event dates against our summer plans, and working on Supermodel and/or Chris for a commitment to... something.  So far, no dice.

I do have one goal...

We have an arcade-style basketball game in the basement.  On occasion, I play by myself.  A couple of weeks ago I hit what I thought was a family high-score for a one-minute solo game.  I called Chris and left him a message.

"Know your busy, but I was in the basement tidying... anyway... I played a few games of basketball.  What's your high-score?  I think I beat it.  Sixty-four.  Uh-huh.  Six. Tee. Four.  Call me."

Chris returned my call and said he didn't remember his exact score, but knows he broke 80 once and hit the 70s a few times.  I didn't believe him.  He said he was in the zone and one of the boys was his witness. Further probing revealed that Middle Boy [10] witnessed the high score, however he's been known to stretch the truth, and succumb to the power of suggestion.  Doesn't matter.  The score to beat is 80.

Chris has taunted me with email subject lines that say "made it to 80 yet?"  And salutations like "Hey Hoops."

Sixty-eight.  That was my highest score until a few moments ago.  I went downstairs to take a picture for this post.  I played one game before returning upstairs.  One game.  My score?  SEVENTY-EIGHT.

I feel a sore trapezius muscle coming on...

The Jacket

[I wrote this post for my other blog "See Chrisy Run", but thought I'd post it here too.]

Supermodel and I each became proud owners of the Triple Trail Challenge "trophy" jacket on Saturday. The jacket was awarded to participants who successfully completed the three required events.  We ran our third race, Mid Mountain Marathon, Saturday morning.  It was much more difficult than we expected.

I won't give a blow-by-blow, but 25 miles of the 26.2 were on singletrack.  Rocky, root-ey, hilly, singletrack.  When I crossed the finish line I searched for and found the few friends who had run the race prior... the friends who had said, "Your legs will feel GREAT after running a marathon on trails!  Yes it's at 8,000' elevation, but the trail's relatively level, just a few climbs, and it's all downhill after mile 20!  The scenery's beautiful!"

When I found those friends, I said, "You lied.  About everything."  And they did.

But, Supermodel and I each conquered the course.  I suppose the views were pretty if you wanted to prolong the time on the mountain to stop running and... look.  My eyes had to remain on the trail or I tripped, plus the views gave me vertigo.  I was running with a guy for several miles; he stopped around mile 12 and said, "Let's just take a moment to enjoy this beautiful view!"  I said, "Pretty.  Now let's GO."

I fell.  Three times.  It hurt.

I've never fallen while running on the road.  I fell three times during the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase in August, and was determined not to fall during Mid Mountain Marathon.  I can't tell you how painful it is, physically and emotionally, to hit the ground in one of these races.  The physical pain is obvious.  But it's the emotional pain and mojo loss that drains me.  It's a huge withdrawal from an energy account that has limited funds.

I finished though.  I finished with sore knees and a dirty body, but I finished strong.

[Looking for Chris and the boys.]

[I see the boys.]

 

Supermodel fell once and also finished strong.

 

We hugged and cried and were happy that the event, the whole Triple Trail Challenge, was over.

I called Supermodel today...

ME:  How ya feelin'?

SUPERMODEL:  Better than I thought I would.  My shoulder and hip hurt.  I think it's from my fall.  How about you?

ME:  My quads and calves are sore, and my knees are hammered, but I'm functioning.

We talked about what we'd eaten, how we craved salty foods, how our plumbing had taken 24 hours to return to normal.  Then I asked her if she'd pop over so Chris could take some pictures of us in our jackets.  The jackets I convinced her would be SO cool to have.  We'd be like the Navy SEALS [sort-of] of trail running!

Here we are in the jackets we ran for, fell for, argued about, and spent $140 in entry fees for!

[Click on all photos to enlarge.]

 

 

I wanted to do some fun poses, maybe build a pyramid or do the splits, but Supermodel wanted no part of it.  Chris photographed one of our famous disagreements.

I begged and pleaded, but I couldn't get Supermodel to do a Cirque du Soleil trick with me in our jackets.  She finally just walked away.

 

Maybe after we complete the Triple Trail Challenge next year she'll do it.  C'mon, Supermodel.  It'll be fun!

The Third Child

Our third [and final] child turned four on September 9th.  I think he had a nice day and felt celebrated, but I felt badly because his birthdays are so different than his two older brothers were at the same ages.

With the first two boys we had parties with friends, games, decorations, treats, pinatas, crafts and adult beverages.  We planned and prepared weeks in advance, allowing each boy to select a theme or a special party location.  At the ages of three and four, the two older boys had preschool friends and had been to age appropriate places, like Build-A-Bear Workshop.

In most ways, Toddler Child is much more exposed than the first two boys were.  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy were not allowed to watch shows like SpongeBob SquarePants or Rugrats.  My friend T was visiting one time [he doesn't have children] and even he commented on the garish and off colors of animated shows for kids.

Oldest Boy [11] and Middle Boy [10] eventually watched SpongeBob SquarePants [Thankfully, Rugrats is off the air.], but it wasn't until they were seven or eight.  We're stricter than most parents we know when it comes to movies and media that we allow our kids to view or play.  Childhood is fleeting.  There's time.  I'm not worried about them missing anything. 

Oldest Boy and Middle Boy are beginning to enjoy shows that many of our friends allowed their kids to watch at a much younger age.  The problem?  Toddler Child sees some of these movies and is now one of THOSE children that I used to shake my head in judgment and say, "WHAT are they thinking letting their child watch THAT?"  

I called Chris one day in a huff because Middle Boy came home from kindergarten asking me if he could watch Mr. & Mrs. Smith like one of his classmates.  Uh, no.

NOTE:  Brad Pitt didn't stand a chance when he agreed to do that movie.  Angelina Jolie was in her prime and looked stunning.  I might have considered leaving Chris to go adopt babies all over the world with her too.  Poor Jen.  I can't believe she didn't see that one coming.

Sadly, as exposed as Toddler Child is to certain media, slang, and social ideas [via listening to his brothers], he's not exposed to many social experiences outside of our home.  We don't have him in preschool, by choice, so he and I spend a lot of time together.  He's not quite the parasitic head he once was. [Read here.]  But we remain very attached to one another.

For his birthday I planned for the two of us to spend a few hours at a dinosaur museum near our home while Chris was at work and the older boys were at school.  Toddler Child was happy with the idea.  I felt guilty because I wasn't throwing a little party, but in reality, he doesn't know what he's missing.  A day out with me when we don't have to hit Costco sounded great to him.

I called Supermodel and asked if Supermodel Jr. could go with us.  Supermodel Jr. was available.  She's the youngest of six children so she's more exposed than her older siblings were at her age also.  She carried a purse, wore sunglasses and applied her lipstick with more skill than I currently do.  Toddler Child was very interested in her.  I was very impressed by her.

[Click all photos to enlarge.]

She had Toddler Child hold her purse while she colored.  He looked a little uncomfortable, but politely obliged.

 

After the museum, we had lunch, visited a children's farm then stopped at the bakery on the way home to get Toddler Child's cake.  I watched those two little kids interact, observed their differences and similarities, and was pleased to see how kind and polite they were to one another.  It was a fun and memorable day for all three of us.

Even though it wasn't a party with lots of kids and a pinata, I like to think our third child felt celebrated, and I know that he will always appreciate the gift of enjoying your own company.

 

Almost Badass

[I wrote this post for my other blog "See Chrisy Run", but thought I'd post it here too.]

Supermodel and I completed the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase on Saturday.  Our concern about the weather was for naught.  We couldn't have asked for more perfect conditions weather-wise.  The temps were in the 40s and 50s, no wind, no rain, and blue skies.  My gear bag was packed with so many clothing options, it looked like I was going on vacation for a week.  I wore a sleeveless shirt and no gloves.  I was very comfortable.

Race Synopsis:

Mile 1:  Up

Mile 2:  Up

Mile 3:  Up

Mile 4:  Up

Mile 5:  Up

Mile 6:  Up

Mile 7:  Areyoukiddingme? Up  [Without exaggeration we climbed, using our hands, to the top of Jupiter Peak.  The peak was comprised of loose rock with weeds growing sporadically.  We could grab the weeds for balance, but there was no trail and the rocks slipped underfoot.  The view gave me vertigo and nausea, so I looked quickly... once.  Maybe another time.]

Mile 8:  Slightly Down [after scaling the Peak], but then... UP

Mile 9:  Slightly Down - Fall Number ONE for me.

Mile 10:  Down

Mile 11:  Down

Mile 12:  Down

Mile 13:  Down, Up, Down - Fall Number TWO for me.

Mile 14:  Down

Mile 15:  Down - Fall Number THREE for me.

Mile 16:  Down - FINISH!

There were varying degrees of intensity and grade with the climbs and descents, but you get the picture.

For those who haven't run a hill climb that includes a descent, running down is more difficult than one would think.  There were a few sections that were too steep to run, and the runnable sections required restraint on my part because my knees can't take the pounding.

Supermodel and I separated early in the race.  It happens.  We positioned ourselves at the very back of the pack before the start.  Once we began running, I realized we'd made a mistake.  There were people ahead of us who probably should not have been.  We were running on a forest service road for roughly the first half mile, then we all poured onto a single-track trail that was 18" wide.  The race began up a hill, so everyone was dealing with immediate oxygen debt.  I did the best I could to reposition myself before the single-track.  Supermodel was doing the same thing, but we lost each other.  We both knew the other would be okay.

This was a very difficult event, which made reaching the finish line that much sweeter.  Chris and the boys were there to support me, and Chris took several pictures.  Here I am before I noticed Chris or the boys.

With yards to go, I saw this...

Which made me so happy, I almost cried...

 

...before I finally ran across the finish line.

 

After the race, Supermodel and I hugged and congratulated one another.  It's always a bonding experience to train with someone and complete a goal together. [We still have two more events ahead of us.]  Supermodel told me all about her run, and I told her about mine.  We shared and cared about each other's aches, pains, joys, and victorious moments.  Supermodel and a few other runners were charged by a mother moose and her baby around mile four on the course! 

Supermodel also fell, only once, but she was scraped pretty badly.  We decided it's not your first trail race if you don't leave skin on the trail.  Just like, it's not a party until somebody pukes.  We're both officially initiated.

Toddler Child did not like seeing my skinned knees...

 

Supermodel and I after wiping ourselves with Wet Wipes.

Before we loaded up the car to head home, we paid a visit to the results table.  We were each handed a card with our UNOFFICIAL Overall Finish as well as our Age Group Finish.  My card said 32nd overall.  Supermodel's overall finish was very near that.  We asked the woman who handed us our cards how many people actually ran the race and she said close to 250.  Supermodel and I raised our eyebrows at each other and said, Not too shabby!

The following day, OFFICIAL Results were posted on a website.  I discovered that our "Overall Finish" results were for WOMEN only.  The race was timed as a Men's Steeplechase and a Women's Steeplechase, which is typically a subset of Official Results in other races I've completed.

I called Supermodel.

Me:  Guess what?

Supermodel:  What?

Me:  Official Results are posted and we didn't do quite as well as we thought.  We still did a great job, but it's a little deflating.  Our overall finish number was only for WOMEN.

Supermodel:  I liked thinking it was for the whole field.

Me:  Me too. 

We may not have finished quite as well as we originally thought, but we each did better than we expected we would.  And?  It's possible I finished the race with a broken wrist.  It's definitely sprained, the swelling's gone down, and my mobility's returning.  If it's not better tomorrow, I'll get an X-ray.

 

Tell me that's not badass.

Girl Hair

Supermodel called me last night.

"I can't run with you tomorrow," she said.  "[Mr. Supermodel] is taking me away tonight for our anniversary.  It's our 20th!"

I naturally told her not to worry and to have a fabulous time.  I'd be fine running by myself.  We chatted a little longer, then I realized she wasn't just calling me to tell me I'd be running alone.  She had a little favor to ask.

"Supermodel Jr. [Supermodel's 3-year-old daughter] has pictures tomorrow morning in her dance class.  I don't think my mother-in-law can do her hair.  You said you've always wanted a little girl..."

I have three sons and can hardly do my own hair.  My personal hair requirements are 1) simple - no layers, and 2) long enough to pull back in a ponytail so I can wear a baseball hat.  Supermodel assured me it would be easy to put Supermodel Jr.'s hair in two, low ponytails, BUT they had to be curly.  She gave me instructions on how to do this with water and simple finger twisting.

I arrived at Supermodel's house this morning.  Her lovely mother-in-law had already ponytailed Supermodel Jr.'s hair.  The ponytails weren't curled though.  They NEEDED to be curled because the little dancers are all SUPPOSED to have curled hair.  The ponytails were... frizzy.  My heart was pounding.

Did I mention Supermodel's mother-in-law is Portuguese and speaks NO English?  Did I mention I speak ONLY English?

Portuguese mother-in-law proudly gestured to the ponytails.  I smiled stupidly, nodded in an over-exaggerated manner and said, "Pretty!" very loudly.  I called Supermodel.

"Sorry to bother you, but your mother-in-law did the hair.  The part's crooked and the ponytails are frizzy.  It's not a tight job."  I was smiling and nodding at the mother-in-law while speaking.  She smiled back.

Supermodel said, "Go in the bathroom, there's a spray bottle.  Re-do her ponytails and wet her hair so you can fix the curls."

"Not comfortable with that... not at all. [Still smiling and nodding at mother-in-law.]  I'll hurt her feelings.  She's so proud.  I'll do it at my house.  I've gotta go.  I'm gonna be late."

I raced home, grabbed a brush and a comb and was humbled by my inability to get Supermodel Jr.'s hair styled in two, low, tight ponytails.  It took several tries and I felt like a fat-fingered-man.  It was as good as it was going to get.  I sat her on the counter by the kitchen sink.

"Honey, can you please lean waaay over the sink so I can get your ponytails wet?  Then I can curl them!"

She didn't trust what I was doing, and was worried about getting her "pretty costume" wet.  I followed Supermodel's instructions.  One ponytail curled in a ringlet, the other one was wavy, no matter what I did.  I tried my best.

And another thing?  Supermodel Jr. was supposed to be in the tutu OR the shiny pants.  Not both of them.

I'm exhausted.

Supermodel

I met her four years ago.  We were both pregnant.  She with her sixth and final child, me with my third and "What was I thinking?' child.  I'm four years older than her.  She'll be 39 in late May this year.  One week later, I'll be 43.

In many ways we are different.  She is the member of a church that I am not.  She and I have contrasting opinions on politics and a variety of social issues, although we've found more common ground than people might think.

I drink wine, she does not.  She cooks with it and will send one of her children to our home to retrieve a brown paper lunch sack concealing a plastic container of Chardonnay or Cabernet Sauvignon for one of her recipes.  I say to the helpful and obedient child, "Be careful.  Don't open the sack or spill.  Your mama needs this for her recipe."

In this woman, who is so different from me, I have found a kindred spirit.  There are portions of our days, weeks and lives that are not compatible, yet she pulls me.  The few common threads we share are strong ones.

I have friends who I've known and loved much longer than Supermodel.  Friendships that require less struggle and no suppression of thoughts.  Supermodel and I have had teeth clenched, tongue biting, nose snorting, heart pounding conversations and stare downs.  Yet, she pulls me.

Three years ago, I recall standing in the doorway from our kitchen to our garage.  Chris was away on business.  Toddler Child was nine-months-old and I was exhausted.  Supermodel had tried to phone me a few times within a couple of days and I hadn't answered her calls.  Our garage door was open because the older boys were playing outside.  I opened the kitchen door to the garage and saw Supermodel several feet away in our driveway.  Our eyes met and she said, "What's wrong?"

I said, "It's my _____."

She took what seemed like two steps, reached her long and loving arms towards me, and I sobbed as she held me.  She just held me.  She didn't try to explain it or fix it, she simply soothed.  I'll never forget it.

Among other reasons, this is why I call her Supermodel.

The Flower

Supermodel and I signed up for a weight loss competition.  It's more of an accountability program at our local gym.  Your name goes on a board and remains there as long as you lose one pound a week.  If you don't lose a pound, your name is removed.  Obviously people with more weight to lose will have their name on the board longer and win the prize. [I don't know what the prize is.]  We each have five holiday pounds to lose, so we thought it might motivate us to be more disciplined for the next month or two.  We were weighed last Friday and our weights recorded - privately.

I was shocked.  I think I'm turning into a man because I'm in denial.  Instead of acknowledging that I'd put on a few pounds, I was certain that the gym scale was inaccurate.  Supermodel and I both double-checked our weight at home and have determined that the gym scale adds two pounds.  Whatever.  It's just a point of reference.

This morning marked week one.  We decided we'd do a treadmill workout and sweat off a few ounces before being weighed.  We started walking at a slow speed to warm-up.

I said, "I'm worried.  I ate well yesterday, but I might have overdone the fiber - lentils and brown rice.  Sometimes it can bind me up.  My bathroom routine wasn't normal this morning.  I might not make my pound.  BUT, I weighed myself yesterday [at the gym] and I was one pound lighter.  The rules say you can weigh-in Thursday or Friday.  I'll use yesterday's weight if I fail today.  Do you think that's cheating?"

"No.  I'm worried too.  I ate chili yesterday - a small portion - but something's not right."

We walked and looked straight ahead at the televisions.  I felt my lower abdomen.

Rubbing my stomach, I said, "Look.  I'm bloated.  Even when I carry extra weight, my stomach's relatively flat.  That's totally a bowel movement.  I can't go here though.  The bathroom's in the middle of the gym.  I feel like I have an audience."

Supermodel bent forward and tried to look at my bloated stomach.  I turned towards her, slightly lifted my t-shirt and pulled the top of my shorts down to reveal my belly button and lower abdomen.  I was careful... for a reason.

"Did you get another tattoo?  Is that a tattoo on your stomach?  When did you do that?"

"What?" [I was playing deaf.]

"When did you do that?"

"Huh?"

"When. Did. You. Do. That?" [She made eye contact, enunciated, spoke loudly and mouthed precisely in case I needed to read her lips.]

I lifted my shirt and let her get a good, but quick look.  "I'm not telling."

She grinned and laughed a bit.  She didn't compliment the flower, but didn't condemn me for having it either.  [Reminder:  I live in a VERY conservative area of Utah.  Tattoos aren't a big deal, but here in Mayberry where the worst graffiti I've seen said "DILDO", very few mother's my age have ink.]

"You know what Toddler Child calls this one?  The Special Mommy Flower.  If I'm sitting down, he requests OPEN YOUR FLOWER, which means he wants me to sit-up so he can see the entire thing.  For a while he thought all mom's had a flower on their stomach, so I told him only the special ones do.  He says he wants a Special Mommy Flower when he grows up."  [Nervous laughter.]

Supermodel listened to me babble, and just grinned.  "So, when did you do that?"

"Not telling."

We finished our workout, I never had a BM at the gym, and we both lost a pound.  I'm glad it's Friday.

[Taken myself in my dusty mirror.]

Fake smiles can cut like a knife.

I wish I had an exciting, clever story to tell how Supermodel and I conquered the Competitive Couple. 

Something like...

Tuesday 5:00 a.m.  I pick up Supermodel at her house.  She gets in the car, pulls down the mirror and applies red lipstick.  We drive in silence.  Knowing what must be done, words aren't necessary.

5:02 a.m.  Our hair slicked back in tight ponytails, wearing push-up bras under our clingy, black with cutouts in all the right places, intimidating workout clothes - my ink actually revealed for the community to SEE - we enter the gym.

We quickly scan the cardio machines.  No sign of the Competitive Couple and there are two ellipticals available.  Seconds later, the door opens behind us and they enter.  As our eyes meet, panic consumes them.  His nostrils flare, he's ready for the race.  She looks nervous, and wishes this would all go away.

They give us their best fake smiles.  Supermodel and I look at each other and nod.  The Competitive Couple fast-walk to the "cubbies" where keys and jackets are housed.  They both have short legs so their fast-walk made them look very silly, and not cool at all.  Supermodel and I strategically left our jackets in the car.  But it didn't matter.   The ellipticals were ours.

Supermodel has legs for miles.  In two, long, gorgeous strides, she was on an elliptical with her equally, long, gorgeous arm reaching for the one beside hers - staking claim for me.  I have short legs too - but it doesn't matter - I have Supermodel.  Strut, strut, hop, hop - I was on the elliptical.  I looked cool and calm though, not silly.

The Competitive Couple walked by and again, gave us their best fake smiles as they climbed on the exercise bikes with the BIG, uncomfortable seats that make your hips roll awkwardly from side to side as you peddle.  Not cool.

5:03 a.m.  Supermodel and I nod at each other, satisfied... and begin our workout.  Mission.  Accomplished.  WE ARE the Competitive Couple now.

Reality...

Tuesday 5:00 a.m.  I pull in Supermodel's driveway.  Hmm.  No lights in the kitchen window.  I call her cell phone.  She answers groggily, "I'm out.  Rough night."

5:02 a.m.  I arrive at the gym, no sign of the Competitive Couple.  Three elliptical are free.  I hop on one and start my workout.

5:10 a.m.  Competitive Couple arrives.  We all fake smile - real hard.  They put their things away and leisurely walk to the remaining two ellipticals.

That's it.  Fake smiles were as nasty as it got.  Sorry.

 NOTE:  My favorite fake smiler of all time is French Stewart as Harry Solomon on "3rd Rock from The Sun".  Kristen Johnston as Sally Solomon is a close second.  I squinted and looked pained in my fake smile - just like Harry.

The Competitive Couple

Supermodel and I belong to a small fitness center in our town.  It's close and meets our needs.  We usually get there around 5:30 a.m., but have recently decided to arrive earlier because more people are appearing.  There are only a few cardio machines - four ellipticals, three treadmills and two exercise bikes.

A month ago, a new couple joined the gym and have been dedicated to early morning workouts with a trainer.  They look to be in their 40s, relatively trim and are pleasant enough. 

Each gym has its own social rules and culture.  It's important to learn those rules and adapt accordingly.  Some people don't care about the rules and culture.

The man (of the new couple) used to turn the volume up too loud on the news program he was watching to compete with the gym music.  I gave him "the look" a few times so he doesn't do that anymore.  He reads the sub-titles like the rest of us.  He also is more demanding than our regular morning group when it comes to what channels are on the televisions - "the look" isn't helping that situation.  He seems to be adapting to the etiquette of our gym... slowly.  His wife stays close to him but has not behaved in a way which warrants "the look".

Today, I picked up Supermodel at 5:15 a.m. and we drove to the gym.  As I was waiting to turn into the parking lot, a Suburban turned into the lot [no problem - they had the right of way], hit the gas, fishtailed for several yards, then skidded into a parking spot.  I'm pretty sure we were the only two vehicles on the road... for miles.

Supermodel:  Did you see that?

Me:  Did he just fishtail?

Supermodel:  Yeah. [chuckling]

Me:  Who is that?  Is that that little couple?  That guy looks like Steve Carell.  OHMYGOSH, they're racing us!

Supermodel:  They want the ellipticals.

The Suburban had barely stopped and the couple jumped out and ran up the stairs into the gym.  There's only about 10 people there in the morning, so it's not like we don't recognize one another.

Supermodel and I walked into the gym and sure enough, the couple were on two of the ellipticals.  I don't know how they managed to get their jackets and keys put away in the 10 seconds it took for us to  run walk through the doors.

Instead of pretending like they were invisible and we hadn't noticed their immature race, I chose to say something.

Me:  Boy.  You were really in a hurry this morning.  Fishtailing through the parking lot...

The Wife:  [looking at her husband]  See.  I told you you were going fast.

Me:  Seemed like you were racing us.

[...]

Me:  Supermodel here, figured you two wanted the ellipticals.

Supermodel gave me "the look" because I'd just thrown her under the bus.  I figured she wouldn't mind being the sacrificial lamb today.  I might have figured wrong...

The man smiled, nostrils flaring, he seemed slightly uncomfortable, but more victorious.  He said, "Everything's a competition."  His wife looked a little embarrassed, but again, more like, "I'm with my hot, Steve Carell man!"

We all gave our best fake smiles, got on with our various routines, and I think Supermodel's irritation with me for involving her without her permission, dissolved.

I'm picking her up at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow... game on.

Emergency Procedures Checklist

I was running with Supermodel this morning.  It's getting darker and colder.  We run on the rural outskirts of our small town at the base of spectacularly beautiful mountains.  When we mountain bike we obviously venture into the foothills, although the darkness is bringing an end to our early, weekday morning rides.

There are bears and cougars in our area - which is neat - they were here first.  I don't want to encounter one while riding or running though.  When Supermodel and I were riding this summer I wanted to discuss our plan in case one of us (me) was attacked by a bear or cougar.  Unlikely, but it could happen.  She didn't take me seriously, so I discussed at her on every ride, reminding her what she should do if there was an animal on me, and where to find my cell phone in the bike pack so she could call the medics.  She never seemed concerned about how I would handle her attack, probably because I was clearly on top of the situation by initiating these conversations.

When Dad was here a few weeks ago, we saw bear scat (we think) exactly where Supermodel and I ride.  My next ride with Supermodel, I said we really must review again what to do in the event of a bear or cougar attack.  I reviewed at her.

I carried a flashlight this morning when we ran, and wore flashing lights on my chest and back.  The flashlight helps us see potholes, and dead animals in the road (I almost fell into a deer carcass last year without my flashlight - true), but most importantly, the tiny, high beam light allows me to investigate any rustle in the bushes - so we can prepare for an attack.  I attempted to review the attack procedures this morning.  I'm not convinced Supermodel's listening.

I was a tech editor at an airline for many years.  Pilots live by procedures and checklists.  I told Supermodel that I would make us a pocket-sized checklist so we wouldn't have to think about what we're supposed to do in the event of an attack.  Experienced and accomplished pilots routinely use FAA approved checklists.  I would create a CAR (Christina Ann Ross) approved checklist.

For you Supermodel:

And for me:

Chris reminded me this morning that I don't need to be faster than the bear or cougar, just faster than the other guy.

Dad always told ME to hydrate.

Supermodel and I exercised today.  [Note:  Here in Utah, or maybe it's just my neighborhood, regardless of whether you run, bike, swim, lift weights, or walk, women generally refer to it as exercise.  "Did you just exercise?"  "What'd you do for exercise?"  Feel free to explain any Utah people.  Or not.  Simply an observation.]

This morning we lifted weights.  We rode our mountain bikes yesterday, although we stayed on roads for much of the ride.  We pepper in runs too.

The best part of exercise time with my friends is our conversation.  "What goes on the run, stays on the run" is our rule.  I REALLY wish I could blog about it.  But I can't.  I can share that topics range from the mundane to the very saucy.  I can also share the basic beginnings of my love of exercise...

The Birth of Running
I started running with my Dad when I was around 12 years old.  He and his running partners didn't talk about anything that interesting.  They were late 30's, early 40's, all men trying to squeeze in runs before work with a long run on the weekend.  Maybe they tempered their conversation because I was there.  But the men really didn't talk about anything that juicy.  They farted a lot, blamed it on me and laughed.  "Chri-see!  That's disgusting!  Say, excuse me.'"  I liked the attention so I laughed too.

The Birth of Cycling
When I married Chris, he was a cyclist.  I eventually started mountain biking, loved it, then convinced Dad to give it a try.  Dad had been a triathlete so he'd ridden road bikes prior, but at the time he was more of an ultra-endurance runner.  He wasn't cycling. 

[For the record, Dad's a stud on a bike now.  He doesn't run anymore - bad knees.  He's a roadie and can kick the butts of guys half his age.]

C'mon Dad!  It'll be fun!
I was excited when Dad got his mountain bike.  He wasn't riding it much, so for Father's Day that year, I thought our father/daughter activity could be a nice ride in the desert.  It was the middle of June in Phoenix, Arizona.  We went to McDowell Mountain Park and chose a trail that Chris and I frequently rode.  It was a 15 mile loop that wasn't too technical and had just the right amount of ups and downs.

The problem? 
We didn't beat the heat.  Chris and I were used to riding in high temps (stupid really), plus we were a little younger.  It was well over 100 degrees. The sun was intense, there was no breeze, and no shade.  We almost killed Dad.

What goes on the ride...stays on the ride (maybe).
We'd been riding for an hour with another one to go.  I was behind Dad.  Without saying anything, he pulled his bike off the trail, threw it in the dirt, and LAID down under a dead mesquite tree that provided about 6 inches of shade. 

With his eyes closed, sweat oozing from his body, his head almost visibly throbbing from the heat, he said, "The next time you want to do a father/daughter activity... just take me to lunch."

Supermodel Lost the Baby!

My very dear friend and neighbor, uh... Supermodel (not her real name), is truly a gem.  She's the mother to six kids and is unbelievably patient and laid back (remember, I live in Utah - so those of you who THINK you know who I'm talking about - it really doesn't narrow it down - kay?).  I want to rub up against her just to get her "patient-cooties" on me, 'cause I need 'em.  OH, and she has legs for miles, with pretty, pretty ankles - you know, like a supermodel.

Anyway, Supermodel helped me the other day by watching Toddler Child for a couple of hours while I ran Oldest Boy to an appointment.  She had everything under control - her toddler was napping, her older kids away or occupied, and she was watching Toddler Child and her 5-year old play on her deck.  Just sitting in a chair, lovely afternoon, perusing a book...  Apparently, 5-year old decides to make a hot-lap around the house on his bike, and Toddler Child ran after him.  They completed the circuit successfully several times.  But then... it happened.  The 5-year old returned and Toddler Child wasn't there.  (Don't worry, it's not scary - it's a happy ending!)  Toddler Child was just a few feet away - toddling up the street toward our house, on the sidewalk, so he was "missing" for less than 30 seconds. 

The funny (at least to me) part is the phone call I received from Supermodel - her laid back style of speech, confessing how Toddler Child had walked towards our house for a few seconds without her knowledge.  I could hear her heart beating over the phone.  She clearly thought I might come uncorked.  Supermodel and I talk all the time about how I'm wound a little tight (about some things) and she's so "go with the flow".  She was "wound a little tight" on the phone.  It was palpable - so I, the shaking poodle who pees and pukes when you greet me - was able to calmly say to my relaxed Saint Bernard friend, "Oh, Supermodel, please don't worry.  No harm, no foul.  Coulda' happened to anyone.  Take a deep breath.  I'm not going to kill you."  Inside, I was doing the happy dance, singing, "Supermodel lost the baby, Supermodel lost the baby - neener, neener."  I love you Supermodel.