I Totally Love It and F*cking Depise It: My Relationship With Running

I’ve been running pretty consistently since 1997. Sophomore year in high school, I got cut from the soccer team, so like all soccer rejects, I joined the cross country team. Thankfully my BFF also joined, and mostly we ran at the back of the pack, giggling about how bad we sucked. I continued to run during college, throughout my 20s, and now into my 30s. I’ve since logged countless pairs of shoes, 4 marathons, 4 half marathons, 3 Tough Mudders, and a handful of smaller road races. All of these experiences have led me to one conclusion:

Running f*cking sucks. And it’s the most amazing thing on earth. A beautiful oxymoron.

On Good Days:

  • I have cotton under my feet as I prance from cloud to cloud with a blissful invincibility coursing through my body.
  • A 3 miler turns into a 5 miler.
  • Time flies by in a blur of awesome music as the miles gloat effortlessly into space.
  • I smile at everyone I pass by, wanting some of my happy to be absorbed into them.
  • I’m pretty sure Nike is going to call and ask me to model their new shoes in a print campaign.
  • I wonder how quickly I can train for an ultra marathon.
  • I want to work at Runners World and loudly declare that running will solve all the problems in this world.
  • I’m fairly certain I could keep pace with the Kenyans in the marathon.

On Bad Days:

  • I wonder how my shoes suddenly weigh 10 pounds more today.
  • There’s an invisible forcefield that pushes me backwards while tightly grasping my thighs.
  • A 5 miler turns into a 3 miler.
  • Curse words escape my lips in rapid succession.
  • I growl at everyone I pass by, wanting them to suffer as much I am.
  • There’s a demon in my head telling me that I should just quit.
  • That demon also tells me that my ass will always be fat.
  • I wonder if I fake an ankle injury how quickly I can bum a ride back to my apartment.
  • I’m pretty sure the sidewalks keeps regenerating because I’ve been running along this same awful stretch for at least 4 hours now.

I’ve also been thinking about WHY I run. I’ll certainly never win any races or look like Jessica Biel. So what am I running toward (or away from)? Some of my friends run so they can eat whatever they want. Some do it for the endorphin rush, or because it helps clear their mind. Me, I’m not really sure why I run. But if I have to venture a guess, I would say for the free beer.

What I Thought Versus What I Am

I know that you’re not supposed to compare yourself to others. You shouldn’t be jealous of what others have, or as the Bible puts it, “Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Hut” or something.  But as I’m around the corner from turning 33, and all my friends in North Andover have mortgages and a lot of babies, I can’t help but take stock of my personal inventory. So, I thought about all the things I imagined I would have by the age of 30, and I’m comparing those with what I actually have at 32:

The house I thought I would live in:

The apartment I actually live in:

The family I thought I would have:

The family I actually have:

The car I thought I would drive:

The car I actually drive:

What I thought I’d do for fun:

What I actually do for fun:

What I thought I’d be drinking:

What I’m actually drinking:

What I thought I’d be writing about:

What I’m actually writing about:

This.

Why Ray Donovan Should Marry Me

I would make him incredibly happy. True, I can’t cook, I don’t really like children, and I would probably crash our new Audi while taking it for a test drive…but I would win him over with my biting sense of humor and give him a foot massage while he plans his next murder and cleans his guns. Here’s why I would make a wicked awesome wife:

I wouldn’t question why he disappears for days, as long as he wouldn’t question why I only eat banana peppers and hot sauce.

I love boxing, and he owns a boxing gym. I would jab my way into his heart.

I’m from Boston, and so is he. Wicked cute. We could gaze longingly into each other’s eyes over a hazelnut Dunkies while talking about the Red Sox, and how Sully is a bad-ass.

I find his arrogance and deep voice intoxicating.

I would totes become BFFs with his cute little lesbian assistant. Chick’s got crazy good style and a deliciously sassy attitude.

I’d become a solid drinking buddy for his emotionally-stunted brother. We’d enjoy cheap whiskey and I would hug him and try to help him stay on a path to fulfillment and stability.

I would try to pretend that his cheating didn’t bother me, as long as he is cool with me cuddling with his emotionally-stunted brother after too much Seagrams 7.

If I ever found a dead body in the backyard, I would stick it in the wood chipper, toss the evidence into the neighbor’s yard, then call the cops. I’m just a good wife like that.

I Just Want To Make The Dude At Coffee Bean Smile

I’ve been visiting the same Coffee Bean every day for the last year. Each morning I saunter to the counter and get a large iced coffee with one sugar, one Splenda. By now, they don’t even ask what I want, they just start ringing up my order when they see me walking in. 2 of the employees are always chipper and sweet and greet me with a smile. 1 of them however…he clearly hates his job.

His name is Tom. He’s about 6’5″. He has long black hair that he stuffs under a cap, but little flyways always manage to sneak out by his ears. He has beautiful green eyes. He acknowledges my presence by muttering “g’morning” at a barely audible level.

I’ve tried winning him over with numerous tactics:

1) Being overly enthusiastic. “Yeah I’d LOVE an iced coffee!” I think he could sense my desperation.

2) Being mellow yet very polite. “Thank you, I really appreciate it,” I purred in a tone as smooth as their dark roast. He looked perplexed.

3) Acting like I just don’t care, which means grabbing my coffee as I casually shrug, trying to look super nonchalant.  I don’t think he even noticed.

4) Trying to start a conversation. “How’s your morning thus far?” “Aight,” he quietly replied as he walked away.

I want to know what he does on the weekends. I want to know what kind of music he listens to. What kind of car he drives. How much pizza he eats. How much pot he likes to smoke.

My next tactic is to start cracking jokes. If that doesn’t work, I’m planning to buy him a present.

C’mon, Tom, let’s leave this apathetic, caffeine-based, awkward-morning-interaction-dance behind us and start anew with a fresh cup of java tomorrow and top it off with a smile. I’ll even settle for a grimace at this point.

Top 8 Reasons Why Sriracha Should Hire Me As Their Brand Ambassador

Some like it hot. Some like it hotter. And then some are completely hell-bent on searing their taste buds under a tsunami of deliciousness!

I’m not sure how I lived so much of my adult life without Sriracha. Clearly my life didn’t have meaning until that first savory river of spicy lava graced my mouth with its divine tastiness.

Here’s why Sriracha should ask me to be their professional hot sauce enthusiast:

1) I will happily eat Sriracha Popcorn at every meal.

2) I will happily eat Sriracha Chocolate for dessert after every meal.

3) I don’t cook, but I will learn to just so I can try every heavenly concoction in the Sriracha Cookbook.

4) I scored junkie-status on the Sriracha Quiz!

5) Even though no one will see, I will rock Sriracha undies all the time. And if I ever get a boyfriend, he will have to rock them too.

6) I don’t wear girly shoes, but I will start to just so I can rock  some Sriracha Heels.

7) I’ll totally wear this to work every day.

8) I will hunt down those who speak ill of Sriracha, and peacefully (yet firmly) show them that they’re wrong. By gently throwing bottles of Sriracha at them.

And now if you’ll pardon me, I’m off to make a Srirach-a-rita. Cheers!

Love Me Tinderly Part 2: Why I’m Swiping Left & Leaving This Party

So after giving  in and actually testing the Tinder waters, I am officially swiping left and leaving this party.

Just to clarify and reiterate, I was never actually interested in participating in this judgmental dating app; my coworker Ershley installed Tinder on my phone one evening after work during cocktail hour. But ok, fine, I got curious and dipped my toe in the “shallow” end to see how things would pan out.

And what I found wasn’t pretty.

OBSERVATION #1:

Listen, I completely understand that since Tinder only allows you to post about 5 photos of yourself,  you want to put your best (aka most attractive/ badass) foot forward. But really, I’m dumbfounded that girls actually like:

*shirtless selfies: I get it.  You have a 6 pack. You still look like a douche. Stop pursing your lips. It’s not cute.

*photos of you surfing: I get it. You like the ocean. You like to ride waves. So do a lot of people in SoCal. What else makes you special?

*photos of you with a tiger: A SURPRISINGLY high amount of guys have apparently met a live tiger. I don’t understand this phenomenon.

*photos of you holding a baby: Is that your kid? Or a nephew? Or your kid sitting next to your nephew?  Or do you just pose with stunt babies at the mall to attract chicks?

*5 photos of you with your man-posse: Seriously, WHICH ONE ARE YOU, bro?!

*3 photos that don’t even remotely show anything about you: Shout-out to the guy who had one image of a cat, one of a tree, and one of a sky…put the bong down and upload at least one pic of yourself, stoner.

OBSERVATION #2:

Fact: there is an overwhelming amount of self-absorbed douche-nozzles on Tinder. To make things simple, I’ll break it down by the TYPE of douche:

*the unnecessarily rude dude: One of my profile pics was of my darling cats…some jackass took the time to write me a message that “the cat pic really killed it for me”…then why take the time to send me a message, @$$hole?

*the scumbag: A very smooth Casanova messaged me to ask “What are you doing on Tinder? Looking for Mr. right or Mr. Right now?” Come on, guy…

*the ego-manic: One dude’s tagline was “unless you’re a model, swipe left. Look at me.” Oh, I’m looking at you. And all I see is a hairless lonely meat-man-wich who’s insecure deep down.

OBSERVATION #3:

Having said all of this, I do give props to the guys who are actually funny. Self-deprecating humor is kind of endearing and shows that you don’t take yourself too seriously. Random silly thoughts that make no sense are good for a giggle, but these funny guys are few and far-between. For me, if you can make me laugh, you’re totally in. Some of my fave taglines:

“I love organic Tic Tacs.”

“Hi, I’m fun. I ride motorcycles. They are fun. Yay!!”

“My life is like Scrubs, except not as funny.”

“I think I belong in Canada.”

“I used to eat a lot of sandwiches, but I’ve really cut down lately. Honestly.”

“I’m not on this app.”

“I’m an aspiring oyster snob.”

“Yeah I’m Asian and I have blonde hair…I’m still good at math.”

“What’s in your lunch pail?”

“I was hiding under the house because I love you.”

“I’m like a real-life cartoon. Don’t drop an anvil on me though. I’ll die.”

And as a total side note: Plenty of Fish is not better. A certain girlfriend of mine (who shall remain nameless but her name rhymes with Smershley) knew I was writing this post, and shared with me a message that a dude sent her on POF:

“Hi, I’m Alex. Can we become friends with benefits and travel together to lots of exciting places? I will help you with your bills on a monthly basis as well.”

Apparently it’s rough waters for all those fish. Time to swipe left and swim away.