Don't Call It a Comeback (No Seriously, Don't)

Well, well, well. Here we again. For those of you who don't  know - and considering that my following here is closer to my Christmas card list than world domination, I'm going to consider all of you do - the 2009 NYC Marathon didn't work out for me. I strained the ligaments between my ankle and my foot so severely that 10 days before the Marathon I was in an air cast, with the doctor telling me: "You could run... you just won't finish." But much like Alanis Morisette, I'm here to remind you of the mess you left when you went away... actually, that doesn't really apply, but... I'm training for a race again! Which means, more Fat blogging! Cue my mom mass e-mailing her office!

While, the devastation of not being able to run the marathon sat-in - you know "Why me! Why!!!", yada, yada yada, I'm super proud to announce that my running buddy, Heathaaa, completed the NYC Marathon in 2009 and Jilly, who also herself training in 2009, completed the NYC Marathon in 2010, keeping the Ed's Team for Fred's team tradition alive in honor of Jilly's Dad / Heathaaa's Uncle, Ed Cook. (This year, Jilly's brother--in-law, Danny is taking up the charge - show him some love). Also, if you were wondering what a picture of a "good sport" looks like here you go (Me proudly cheering on Heathaaaa at 2009 NYC Marathon):

Oh and me? Well, I spiraled, gained the 30 pounds I lost training and vowed never to run again! It was all very dramatic and sad, in a very specific way. However, let's not dwell on the memories (and the donuts) of the past. Run, Fatboy, Run is about persevering (and snacking).

At my full-time job at the American Cancer Society, there is Team DetermiNation, which allows people to join up at run endurance events in support of ACS. My office at the Nassau Region has decided to start a team and run the Rock N Roll 10K in Brooklyn on October 22nd, 2011. We're running to honor all of the volunteers, cancer survivors and caregivers, who make our job worthwhile, every day.

I could think of no better reason or way to jump back into running than with this. Hell, 10K? 6.2 miles? I ran 20 miles once! (This attitude / mentality will ultimately be my undoing). So please, jump back on board with Run, Fatboy, Run as I blog my continued misadventures, running, training and trying to not be so adorably chubby. 

And who knows, maybe Ed's Team for Fred's Team will have a new member for the NYC Marathon 2012. (But probably not...)

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Day 112: I Couldn't Make This Stuff Up

After my failed attempt at an 18 mile run, I was extremely depressed, but also determined to make the most of the following day and try it again. It was crunch time, and this was what I predicted might happen. I would treat this whole "marathon training" thing like everything else in my life - a big joke. Well, that is, until it was time to take it seriously, at which point I would work my ass off to make up for lost time. This had worked on my biology regents exam in the 10th grade, so I saw no discernible reason why it shouldn't work in this situation.

I was sure that I would wake up in the morning and my allergies would have relinquished their death grip on me and this long run would finally be done and I'd be sure of my ability to run this marathon, save the princess from the clutches of King Koopa and remain in the running to be America's Next Top Model.



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Day 111: Running on Empty

I've never gotten my ass kicked, but I'm pretty sure it would feel slightly like what that bout of Strep Throat did to me. It kept me down and more than out for over a week. I didn't go to work, I barely left the house, and my couch is now even more permanently indented with my ass imprint. It was a rough week, but by the end of the following week, and with a scant three (hyperventilation) weeks until the marathon, I knew that I had to get back out there.

It had been about a month since my last long run, and it was only 16 miles. The glow of that glory had faded, like a former prom queen after one too many drinks and one too many kids. I was starting to panic. I only realized now, in this moment (part of the problem?), how important these long runs were. Besides physically getting me ready for the marathon, they would get me mentally prepared with that kind of distance. I wasn't in the kind of shape where I could just assume that the adrenaline of marathon day would push me through all 26.2 miles - I needed to know that I could go further than 16 miles. And I preferred to do that before the marathon, not on a gurney at the marathon.


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Day 102: Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Doctor

You may not know this about me, but I'm prone to ailments. I know, in reading this blog, you might see me as some kind of hypochondriac or alarmist, but really I am not. I don't go to the doctor assuming that every pump is a legion or every blood test is going to come back positive for something negative. It's more that, I've devoted so much time and effort into this marathon training, and I want it so bad, that I'm convinced something is bound to go wrong.

Interestingly enough, considering that I'm good for at least three bouts of some kind of infection a year, I didn't really think that that something could possibly a sickness. I realized how wrong I was when I woke up with a nice 102 fever. This didn't really concern me, I have a tendency to raise high fevers, even as an adult (last year the night before our office holiday party I raised a 104 fever - just for funsies). However, my throat was hurting something fierce, and I realized that I had been ignoring it for a few days, chalking it up to lingering allergies. Yes, I found it odd that when I looked at my throat in the mirror, there were innumerable, visible white spots all over it, but I thought it would run its course. It had to... because I had a course of my own... to run. Words are so fun! You know what's not? Strep Throat.


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Day 94: Allergy Attack-ack-ack

As you may have gleaned by now, I'm a big fan of rewarding myself. I want the most possible reward for basically putting forth the least amount of effort. If there was a crowd of people congratulating me for crawling out of bed every morning, or perhaps breathing at a reasonably sturdy rate, I'd be all for it. To prove this point, I was so pleased with my performance on my 16 mile run, that I essentially rewarded myself with three days off from training - Mazel Tov to myself, I say! Yes, I realize that giving myself time off from my training schedule as a reward is like giving a man who has days to live a lottery ticket for a drawing that's three months away, but it worked on my psyche, and that's all that matters.  This, like the time I dyed my hair jet black and my decision to support Gwen Stefani as a solo artist, proved to be a terrible mistake. 



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Day 90: My Super Sweet 16

Feeling uncharacteristically buoyant after the success of the 7th Annual Summer Hope Benefit, I decided it was time to make it out for my long(est) run Sunday morning. In days passed, the afterglow of Summer Hope would have kept me feeling a sense of entitlement that would've stretched well into my marathon training. "I don't need to run, because I hosted a successful cancer benefit 48 hours ago." I realize that one has nothing to do with the other, but as a sociopath-in-training I usually ignore such obvious logic.


This was different, however. I felt positively buoyant after the benefit this year, and wanted that feeling to continue. Announcing my candidacy for the 2009 NYC Marathon to 225 people at my foundation's annual soiree like Howard Dean on a bad mushroom trip didn't hurt as far as motivation either. It was time to put everyone's money where my mouth had been. It was time to run.


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Day 89: Summer Hope Breakdown

The training routine, has gotten, admittedly less intense. I suppose that's not really accurate, it's not the routine, actually, that has gotten any less intense but rather me. I suppose this was a pretty standard course of action for me - get close enough to a goal to sniff it, and then back away. There's a reason why people refer to themselves as their own worst enemy. Darth Vader or Megan Fox are easier to vanquish than your inner-desire to fail. I found myself on fumes these last couple of weeks, finding excuse after excuse to fail. I also found myself wishing that The Biggest Loser would come back from hiatus early, so that I could see some fat people with real issues, and Jillian Michaels make them realize that they hated themselves for it.

The current course of excuses comes from a good source at least: The Summer Hope Benefit. As I've mention right here in this very blog, The Summer Hope Foundation is the non-profit organization that I founded in 2002, to support the fight against cancer. I make up for starting this non-profit and helping sick people through there difficult times, by not holding the door open for old ladies. Or, at least, not smiling when I do. The world needs balance, and I'm just doing my part to tip the scales back in favor of douchebaggery.

On Friday, September 11th, 2009, The Summer Hope Foundation hosted it's 7th Annual Summer Hope Benefit, united 225 guests together against cancer, raised $55,000 and worked off more pounds than the 40 minutes of cross-training I skipped.


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Day 85: WHY GOD!?!?! WHYYYYYY!!!!!

THIS HAS BECOME AN EPIDEMIC!!! WHY DOESN'T SOMEONE TELL YOU!?!?!?!? WHY DOESN'T SOMEONE TELL YOU ABOUT THE PAIN! DEAR GOD, THE AGONY!

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Day 79: Speed Racer

Unlike Maverick and Goose, I don't have the need. The need for speed. Nor do I have the need for homoerotic volleyball grudge matches / eye sodomy, but that's neither here no there. The truth of the matter is, in training for the marathon, the time in which I finished was never on my mind as much as the physical shape I'd be in when I finished - mainly alive vs. dead. 


However, that all started to change when I realized that my potential marathon running buddy, Heathaaaa, was clocking in at solid, if not spectacular 9-ish minute mile. Heathaaaa and I would like to start this race together - after all, she is Jilly's cousin, and we are both part of the completely-made-up-but-still-incredibly-important Ed's Team for Fred's Team. All of our friends and family (shared and otherwise) would be cheering for both of us at mile 9 and again at mile 18, wearing our commemorative t-shirts, as we had in the years passed. However, I was currently testing the limits of our we're in this together mentality by running about 2 1/2 minutes slower than Heathaaaa. That would mean our fans would have to get wait about 30 minutes after she passed to cheer for me in Brooklyn, and then make it up to the Upper East Side in time to spot Heathaaaa dash by, and still squeeze in time for a few pre-ceremony brews. Clearly, I was going to have to step up my game.


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Day 76: The Big One

14 miles. 14 miles. 14 miles. This would be, by far, the longest I've ever run. Prior to this would be the 9-mile massacre that wasn't mostly a limp. So I had only my 8 mile run as a base. I was nearly doubling that. And I had been on vacation and only run one day upon returning home. I can't quite describe it but I was... scared. I suddenly got the feeling that my entire training - my entire ability to run the marathon itself rested on this run. I had half-assed my way through the training up until this point, and now the running gods were either going to smile down upon me or smite me in a shower of Nike + iPod chips. I couldn't fight the feeling that if, at this point, I wasn't able to make this run happen - no quitting, no excuses, no cheating - that my marathon bid would be one big, embarrassing blip on the Eddie Mouradian radar.


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Day 74: Back on the Main Land

Granted, Florida might be a connected part of the good ol' U.S. of A., but it seems that Disney World is a tiny, creepy, magical country all its own. Coming back mid-week totally through me off and I have the 7th Annual Summer Hope Benefit coming up (visit www.summerhope.org for more details!). The Summer Hope Benefit is my foundation, Summer Hope's annual fundraiser (our flagship, if you will), and it completely consumes my life for the month of August and September. On the plus side it keeps on growing and growing, increasing the amount of money Summer Hope donates to cancer research facilities and uses to support cancer patients and their families (for example, we are building a children's library at a pediatric cancer unit, and providing another with a $5,000 gaming system for their Pediatric Bon Marrow center this year). However, the bigger it gets the more moving parts that are involved. Luckily, the Board of the Summer Hope Foundation which is chock full of friends and family have become pros at putting together this event - that doesn't make it any less nerve racking. Nor does it make it any easier to get my ass to the gym or on the streets.



Carving out time to run is going to get harder and harder until September 11th, 2009 (the night of the Benefit), and yet for the first time in 10 weeks or so, I feel like I need solace that a run can bring. I know I sound like one of those cheesy running people, who equate running with some kind of faux religion, but as my stress builds, two hours of focusing on something other than a) cancer and b) guest counts (get in our responses people - you are slowly killing me!). I realized that there were about a million Summer Hope related things that I needed to know in the hour it would take me to get to the gym, stretch and run for 45 minutes (not to mention write this blog), but I had to do it. If not now, then when, right?

My goal was to run without stopping. This has been a major problem for me from day one of my training, and I haven't asked, but I assume it's something that a lot of non-runner runners deal with. Something in my brain just clicks off and tells me that I've done enough and that it's time to rest. I think that might be fine if I was half way through a twenty mile run, but perhaps unnecessary when running four miles.

I set the treadmill to a steady and in my comfort zone 12 minute mile and ran for 45 minutes straight. This was one of the first times I've done this without the treadmill being set for, say, a 15 minute mile, which is essentially a slightly brisk walk. I am starting to get convinced that Disney was just the reboot I needed.

The Breakdown of the Day:

The Playlist:

Sink Into Me - Taking Back Sunday
Ego (remix) - Beyonce & Kanye West
I Gotta Feeling - Black Eyed Peas
Leave Me Alone - Michael Jackson
Countin' On A Miracle - Bruce Springsteen
I Told You So - Keith Urban
C'mon, C'mon - Sheryl Crow
Something Happened on the Way to Heaven
Run - Leona Lewis
And Then There Were None - Spring Awakening
Bones - The Killers
Cruisin' Together - Smokey Robinson
The Ice is Getting Thinner - Death Cab For Cutie

The Workout:

The Beginning...



Then I accidentally hit the stop button...



The Picture:



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Day 69: 28 and in Disney

Two years ago, one year before my best friend Carla got married, she and I went on vacation to Disney World. Fast forward to now and Carla had been happily married to John for a year, and he happily stayed home rather than dealing with Carla and I at the most magical place on earth. Smart move. Some people, obviously, will think that this is odd - Carla a newlywed, me a single guy and "technically" her ex-boyfriend (although anyone who considers our three month dalliance as anything but a funny footnote in our overall story doesn't really get us) and her hubby staying at home. But that's what makes Carla and I (and yes, you too, John) so special. And don't you worry, Mom, when I will Imaginary Girlfriend into existence, she'll be staying home on Carla and my future vacations. Nothing weird here!

We spent seven glorious days at Mickey's House, each day more filled with sun, rides and general tomfoolery than the previous. The only thing the days weren't filled with? Running.

Now I realize that the sun actually IS closer in Florida, but this was ridiculous. It was so hot, it felt like the sun was right next to my face every single morning. When I woke up it was as if the sun was trying to sneak out of my bed, slip on it's pants and climb out the window. It was by the end of the first day's journey at Hollywood Studios (no more MGM Studios!) that I realized going for a run was going to be a problem.

As days turned into nearly a week, Carla and I realized how schooled we were getting by Disney. We had made the mistake of getting too cocky. We had been there nearly three dozen times between the two of us, and together this was our 3 1/8 trip, if you count the time we dropped our friend-who-shall-remain-nameless off at one of the resorts for some happy time with her boyfriend at the time while we went to Universal Studios on a drive back from vacation in Marco Island, FL.

First, we had decided to upgrade our hotels from the usual All-Star Resort to a Moderate Resort. The only research we did was noting that the Caribbean Beach Resort had a pool-side bar. Sold. Little did we realize that it also had an outdated television set, barely any channels, no wi-fi, and was one of the largest resorts on the property, so the pool side was about a half a mile away from our room. It also, naturally, didn't have a gym. What it did boast was a 1.1 mile nature trail, in case you felt like going for a quick little job in 105 degree weather. Yum.

There are a bunch of little lessons that Disney humbled us with - enough in fact for an entirely different blog - that involve the Disney Dining plan, fast passes and transportation - but I won't go into them here. The point is that it was day four of vacation and I hadn't run a lick yet.

Carla, my biggest general advocate this side of Roxie Mouradian, decided we would wake up early take a bus to the Magic Kingdom, jump on the monorail to the Transport and ticket center, switch monorails and head to the gym at the Grand Floridian. No problem.

This was depressing in of itself, because I realized how much nicer a Disney vacation is when you feel like your actually on vacation being pampered at a fancy hotel. It was also depressing, because at nearly 30 years old, this is so well beyond my price range, I immediately started to realize I've done something wrong with my life. Me and my stupid fulfilling career in non-profit! All I wanted in the world was to get back to my computer at the Caribbean Beach resort, plug it into the Ethernet, wait 10 minutes for the internet to boot up, get charged $10 and find out that some publisher had stumbled onto Run, Fatboy, Run and decided to make me a three-book deal. Sigh.

The gym at the Grand Floridian was predictably state-of-the-art, and it took me nearly as much time to figure out how to program the treadmill as it did to go for my run. In the end, the rest didn't kill me - I was able to run out 5 miles in the hour we had allotted before we had to get ready for extended Magic Hours at the Magic Kingdom that evening. Peter Pan's Flight - on repeat.


The Workout:

5 miles / 12 minutes per mile.

The Picture:

Carla and I are deluded that people are obsessed with us, which is why after every picture we took at Disney we'd say something like: "Well, this is what the people want." So here you go! (Before you ask, yes, at some point we were wearing matching shirts and sunglasses. We never mean to, but by the last day it just... happens.)











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Day 63: Nipple Chafing

So far the re-re-re-rededication to the training process had been going well this past week. I missed the front end of my first week back, naturally, but since Wednesday I had been right on top of that, Rose. On Saturday, I was meant to do a 12 mile long run, the first high mileage day since I limped home for 4 miles after hurting my leg on the 9-mile disaster. Long Island was in the midst of a particularly bad heat wave. Well, perhaps not technically a heat wave, this being mid-August, but it felt like the entirety of the Island was being held tightly in Chunk from The Goonies sweaty palm. I was leaving for Disney in three days with my BFFL Carla, and I know that the Mouse House isn't likely to leave much time for running. I thought I would try something different: Wake up early to be the heat, head to a near-by High School track and pack some Gatorades and water to leave in the shade.

Logistics of the long-run has become my biggest concern of late. I'm not into the phase where I'm out on the streets for two, three, four hours-plus. How do you pee? Okay, got that. How do you poop? What if it storms? Who dabs your forehead with a towel? Where do you get a drink? Much like Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club (RIP John Hughes), I have a really low tolerance for dehydration (and it's gross, sir). These questions weren't going to get answered today, so the track it was. Furthermore, as seemingly boring as a 12-mile run around a track seems, there was something appealing to the internal countdown of having to do exactly 48 laps.

I knew this wasn't going to go well, when I woke up at 10 am. I'm not a late sleeper in general (one of the pitfalls of your late twenties - starting to feel like your "wasting the whole day" by sleeping into the double digits), but I guess my brain wanted to give my body an excuse to be lazy. Thanks, stupid brain.

I woke up and had half a cliff bar and a glass of orange juice, before I realized that I had no idea where the high school in my town was located. I'm a recent transplant to the strange, scary world of Suffolk County, where sidewalks and street lamps are few and far between. So apparently were high schools. The only one I knew of was Ward-Melville High School about 15 minutes away (Shout Out: Herr Boys) so I headed there. As I parked and started walking over to through the construction riddled parking lot, I saw a tiny woman walking back from the fence with her head shaking. Crap. If this track was for some reason closed, that would be all I needed to throw this training day in the garbage. I had gotten to the point where I wasn't so much looking for excuses, I was looking for ways to avoid them, because once they reared their heads I would embrace them like my buddy Anton embraces Asian chicks.

I don't know what that woman was shaking her head about, but it wasn't the track - I found the gate, dropped off my things in a shady spot, did my stretch and started my laps. I could go off onto a long, bitter tangent about my Nike + iPod chip that needed recalibration and I wanted to smash it into a million pieces then grind it up into fine bits and serve it as a garnish on top of Steve Jobs' salad. But I won't.

Instead, I'll admit to only getting half way through the run. I started at about 10:30 am, and by the sixth mile I felt that I was going to slip and fall in one of my own pools of sweat. However, this is something that I could've persevered through. I think. At about mile 3 I was inflicted by the weird and painful phenomenon nipple chafing. Now, I know what you're thinking: That is something they made up as a way to get a cheap laugh out of Andy Bernard's bloody nipples on The Office. Well, if that's not what you were thinking, it's definitely what I was thinking. Until I felt that first scratch of my man nips against my Under Armour.

"That's funny," I thought to myself, as I gently scratched my chest through my shirt. By the next mile, I was in full on chafing mode, with every thrust of my body slamming my shirt against my sensitive irritated nipples like a marble inside a burlap sack. It was the most odd and intense and uncomfortable pain I've ever felt. I literally felt as though my nipples were going to fall right off, and by this point, it was something I would've welcomed. There must have been some high school hooligans hanging out at the track the night before because there were a couple of broken beer bottles laying around the periphery of the track, and I actually was wondering if I should slice off my nips in some kind of beastly mock-Hostel self mutilation. I'd be like that person who had convinced himself that his body was crawling with ants and peeled off his own skin, but shouts: "I got them all!"

By the sixth mile, the combination of the nipple chafing and the heat was too much for me. Plus, there was a family of three generations of runners on the track now and it was making the nipple chafing seem like a fine price to pay to not see them anymore. You might call me a quitter, but I don't care. To paraphrase Monica Gellar Bing: I got chafed. Chafed bad.

The Breakdown of the Day:


The Workout:

6 miles / 12 minutes per mile / 772 calories


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Day 62: X-liptical Marks the Spot

As you might be able to tell from my-less-than-inspired title for my Day 63 workout, not all that much happened on my cross-training day. I had gotten so used to hijinks, elaborate excuses and pop culture disasters, that a day at the gym without incident leaves me a little cold. Where is the excitement of say a fake injury or the death of former Jackson 5 member? Am I supposed to just work out the elliptical for 30-plus minutes and enjoy the Suite Life of Zack & Cody? I guess so, because that's exactly what happened. Boo.

Granted, I could take this opportunity to discuss how this particular episode of Suite Life (the first I had ever seen), was both mildly amusing and a bit alarming. First, Ashley Tisdale is on this show? Who knew? I didn't know why she was famous before, and I'm still a little unsure, but in case anyone was wondering if the nose job was a good decision in hindsight - 100%. She looks like an Ugly Duckling who turned into a swan, but then got hit in the face with a tree branch. Second, this episode was all about Ashley and some of her friends (special guest stars Vanessa "Before She Was Hot" Hudgens and the chick who was on Dancing with the Stars), getting one of those take care of the electronic doll baby assignments that only exist on tween television shows. My issue here was that, wouldn't you know it, all these hot young things go to a catholic school! In Catholic School girl uniforms! Now, when I say "issue" I don't mean it explicitly, because every guy around my age goes above and beyond the normal affection for the naughty catholic school girl thank to a one Ms. Britney Spears. Yum.

The issue is that... well, poor Disney starlets. Vanessa Hudgens wasn't even on my radar until she started snapping shots of her tatas with her camera phone, and then she gets chided by Mickey Mouse. Ashely Tisdale spends years on Disney sitcoms being dressed like an extra from Christina Aguilera's Dirrty video, and then can't grow up. Miley Cyrus goes down on a priest in a rectory and the tabloids explode (at least, I assume they would if it happened). Disney creates these monsters, and then wants to control them and their sexuality. I think it's despicable. And I think the only way to remedy it is with some Mud Wrestling. On Pay-Per-View.

Oh. And I, like, worked out and stuff.

The Breakdown of the Day:

The Workout:



The Picture:

This picture has nothing to do with anything. I just think I look good in it.





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Day 61: Sprints in the City

Carrie Bradshaw is a dumb whore. There I said it. I felt compelled to do so, one to piss off my friend Kristin, who is the Carrie of North Hicksville, but also because I didn't want any allusion to me enjoying the show-that-must-not-be-named, even in bad play on words form (and Carrie would know wouldn't she?). And this isn't because I'm trying to make some faux-attempt at being a man's man or too much of a guy to enjoy that show. I say that easily because as I am typing this I am enjoying the new Demi Lovato CD - I just thought that the show's message was basically telling women to let me treat them like garbage, as long as they build you a closet and/or are very apologetic about it. I have only seen a few episodes and only really ever enjoyed one ("I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me."). But in the interest of full disclosure, I did see the Menopause and the City movie, because, to be honest, I don't like to be left on the sidelines of the cultural zeitgeist. People were going to be talking about this, and I needed to know what they were saying. Big mistake. Seeing my poor Janey Glenn quick, quick slow her way back into the arms of Captain Douchebag, after being publicly humiliated on a scale that needed new numbers was more horrifying than anything in the Saw oeuvre. The women in the audience swooning, was the straw that broke this camel's penis. I needed to get out of there play football for the first time in my life, hang out with Jesse James and bang a cambodian hooker. Oh in case you haven't pieced it together yet... I ran in the city yesterday.

I feel like the girl from Mean Girls who crashes Tina Fey's intervention: I have a lot of feelings. Unfortunately, presently, they revolved around the vitriol that I have for Samantha Does Soho. But that's not why you check out this blog, is it? It's to see the level of failure that I've managed with my latest training fiasco.

I think I'm at my best, training wise, when I feel like I have something to prove. Thursday night I was meeting my friends, Dorinki, her BF Scott, Abbie Sue and her lover Mork for dinner at Rare in the city. I live on Long Island, Abbie Sue and Mork are in Hoboken and Dorinki and Scott are in NYC, so dinner alternates but the NYC is usually a pretty good midway point. Suddenly, I was overcome with the urge, nay the need, to run. Granted, this should have been the case at this point in my training, but if this isn't your first time at Run, Fatboy, Run, you know that I've skipped training for much worse reasons - bad playlist, wrong socks, Tiffany CD signing at the Broadway Mall. However, being able to seem so dedicated to my training was the force that pushed me.

Ironically, this is not something that is lost on Dorinki or Abbie Sue. The two of them have been friends since Abbie shot forth from Clare Bear's loins. The three of us have been bonded for closing on fifteen years. They are two of my closest friends, and biggest supporters, so the "show" I was putting on was in my head alone.

I was actually excited about the prospect of running on the streets of New York. I was only used to vomiting on them after long nights drinking. The Halloween I went as Clark Kent coming home from a one night stand immediately comes to mind (Big Ups to Marisa and Adam for housing me that night!). And I was right. It was sort of fun running amidst the swirl of people, cars and falafel carts. It even inspired me to get closer to a 12 minute mile and eat healthy at Rare. In the words of Dorinki: "Who thought I'd see the day..." in response to my turkey burger and salad. I suppose yesterday was the day.


The Breakdown of the Day:

The Playlist:

Kings of Leon CD - Only by the Night AGAIN.

BE SOMEBODY is a great running song for obvious reasons.

The Workout:

3.25 miles / 12:20 per mile / 485 calories



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Day 60: Saddle Up

After getting a clean bill of health from my medical team, I was finally ready to get back to running. Of course this was supposed to happen on Monday, but as I've been learning from the cold hard bitch of marathon training, things happen. Honestly, at this point, I don't even really remember what was going on the last two days that were so important I couldn't carve out 40 minutes to run. I'm assuming it something to do with Demi Lovato or True Blood or my new obsession with Red Box movie rentals. But does it really matter? I realize I'm the only one getting hurt (literally and metaphorically) by skipping my training. Won't we all be so happy when I bust a kneecap or tear off a nipple and finally don't have to make these excuses?

Going to the gym for the first time in what was now over two weeks, was at once scary and exhilarating, like the prospect of a a stint in rehab or the new Whitney Houston CD. While my hatred of running on the treadmill is well-documented at this point, there was something more foreboding in the air this evening. I felt like I was sleepwalking my way into Planet Fitness, scared that I would enter the gym and everyone was going to stop what they are doing, weights would simultaneously clink and the Junk Alarm was going to go beserk. Luckily, a handsome woman in a reverse mullet snapped me out of my trance, and I realized that no one cares about me. And if I was walking in the same time as this human Body Glove t-shirt, they wouldn't even know I existed.

I decided to stretch, because this seems to be an aspect of the running process that I have avoided, like many of the people at the gym have avoided self-respect. After my deep stretch, I stepped onto the treadmill and let 'er rip. Ok, that's an exaggeration, because a 40 minute run / 3.2 mile run isn't exactly a rip roaring run, but I was very pleased that I was pretty much in the same time as my previous runs. Meaning, I am training so poorly, that two weeks off doesn't even effect me. Impressed?

The Breakdown of the Day:

The Playlist:

Kings of Leon - Only By The Night CD

The Food:

Still haven't gotten back on the whole tracking my food thing.

The Workout:



The Picture:






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Day 54: Clean Bill of Health

If you haven't noticed by now, excuses rule my life. My excuse for being fat is genetic, and not, for example, the chocolate Cadbury bar that I have hidden in my freezer. My excuse for my constant exhaustion is that I simply get more tired than the average person, and it's not fair. I'm perennially broke because someone has to keep the poor souls at Starbucks in business or the entire economy will collapse (whoops!). And so on, until I've justified everything from not doing my dishes for the past three weeks, to disappointing my mother by being single to purchasing the Chris Kattan classic, Corky Romano on DVD. The one day I went to my Psychology class in college (I couldn't! I had to work at that time! And nap.), I learned that a true sociopath's ability to justify their actions and mine were eerily similar. It also explained my penchant for murdering hookers. Go figure.

With my marathon training this particular side of my personality was out in full force. Anything from a dead iPod to the nomination of Sonia Sotomayor to the Supreme Court was cause for skipping a work out. So you could imagine my shock when an excuse I didn't make up, and thus couldn't undue, presented itself. My leg injury hasn't gotten much better and, at this point, I haven't run in over a week.

After seeking advice from a few valid sources like my cousin, Baby Dr. Michael (not because he's a pediatrician, but, because he's younger than I am and he's not a doctor - yet .) and my friend Suzanne, who is a trainer and in from Cali this week (I actually met her at her mother's house for their annual block party. We were, literally, partying like it was 1999), I took the week off to just let my body rest. For all the excuses I have been making over the past 7-plus weeks, the fact of the matter is my body was going through a lot of wear and tear, very quickly, and the simplest answer may have just been rest. I have never put much stock into the "simplest answer", mostly because I have an overactive imagination, and am not very good at math.

I quickly realized, as this week off filled me with a level of dread I usually save for looking at pictures of other people's children, that I had become obsessed with running the marathon. This is also fairly common. I am notorious for becoming quickly, unavoidably, painfully obsessed with something in a matter of moments, as evidenced by the mac power book I HAD to have, the 2 pump hazelnut iced coffee with skim that I'm drinking (the first of several) and my DVD collection that at one point had every movie I've ever seen. Most of the time the obsessions don't last and they aren't that solid - you can ask the Nintendo Wii I bought for $650 when it was out of stock and have only used twice. The same thing happened with the thought of running the marathon, only I was so busy hating the marathon, I didn't realize I really loved it. The depression then started to set in, not just because I might not be able to run the marathon and I was missing a week of training, but also because my relationship with the marathon so closely resembled a Katherine Heigl movie. I wondered if I'd be trying on several different bridesmaid dresses soon, or perhaps, going to dinner with vibrating underwear. This was going to be a disaster.

So I took the week off, started drinking again and went to CVS to buy $75 worth of running/body remedies - salt baths, ice packs, various creams and lotions. This in of itself should justify my dedication to this marathon training. It is a well-documented fact that I do not like to have substances touching me. But by mid-week, I couldn't get out of my own head and the prospect of not running firmly outweighed the misery of having to run. I called the doctor and my chiropractor and made two appointments for the end of the week. I needed someone to tell me I was gravely injured, a paranoid maniac or something in between.

Friday morning I saw my chiropractor, Steve, who is a good friend of my boss Ted. Steve is an unassuming guy, with a small, but very successful chiropractic practice out of Bayville, NY. I like him, because he's into holistic medicine without even the faintest whiff of New Age, Hippie Bullshit that so many flower children of a certain age seem to be unable to relinquish. I had be seeing Steve intermittently for about a year, ever since I injured my back at one of my Relay events.

For the amount of words I say in a single day (or write in a single blog), I can be surprisingly un-chatty when I want to be. It's mostly because I hate small talk or chit chat. I think it's a waste of oxygen, and as an asthmatic, I take that very seriously. Also, I don't generally like to be touched, so the chiropractor is not my favorite place in the world. Steve has a good understanding of that, and usually lays off the small talk and just uses his reflexology voodoo magic to make me better.

Steve's assessment of my injury was simple: I was 200 pounds trying to run a marathon. I was going to have some aches and pains. But I wanted to hear the words, so I made him say it: Just run through the pain. He also told me that I needed more salt intake and more calcium. I found both of these things shocking. I had been trying to stick to a low(er) sodium diet these past few months in an effort to lose weight. In all the years that I've struggled with my weight, I was genuinely surprised to hear that my diet was effecting my body. I know it seems silly, but I never put together the fact that I was pouring out gallons of sweat a day and my limited salt intake, and the adverse effects this could have on my muscles. The human body is much a mystery to me as the building of tunnels.

Friday afternoon, I had an appointment with my general practitioner, so my (now obviously) imaginary injury could get another thumbs up. My doctor is used to seeing me fairly often, because I can, on occasion, be "sickly". Years of asthma, allergies and general sloth like behavior have made my immune system somewhat compromised. Nothing serious, but if you have the common cold and I catch it, the chances of my body taking that cold an turning it into a pneumonia or ebola is highly likely.

I saw Dr. M. and he was pleasantly surprised that, to the naked eye, there was nothing dripping from any of my orifices. Obviously, he was confounded by what I was doing there without the need of a syringe to open up my tonsilitis infected throat, so when I told him that I was running the marathon he was positively delighted. He then went on to tell me all about his wife's triumphant marathoning days.

This is the problem when you tell someone you are running the marathon, they immediately tell you about someone they know who did the same thing. What I want to say is that your marathon running friend or family member probably was a lot more serious about this and wasn't clocking in at a whopping 13 minute mile and never went to two doctors in one day with a psychosomatic leg injury. But instead I nod and smile and agree with all the tips. People just want to help out, you know?

Dr. M., is a careful guy, who likes to run tests, so he checked my circulation, my blood, and ruled out a hernia (this was not something I was prepared for - I hope he wasn't insulted by my Man of Steel Superman undies). He started to suggest that perhaps I needed to build more muscle in my legs, and then pulled up my jeans to check out my legs. To say he was surprised would be an understatement - a lot of people are. I look like a pear running around on a pair of Q-tips.

Dr. M. came up with the same thing as Steve - I was fine, just a little worse for wear. He told me to take it easy and take the rest of the weekend off. But I was back on track. Someone other than the crazy person who lives in my heart of my mind had told me I was fine. Marathon: Here I come.

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Day 46: Tempo Pace

As you know, I decided to skip Monday's run in exchange for a cross-training bout of weight training, to let me leg rest up, as it was still bothering me off and on. Tuesday was supposed to be another cross-training day, but instead I went to my parent's house so we, along with Carla, my sister Lola, my grandmother and my Tanti Annie & Uncle Serge, could stuff and send the invitations to the 7th Annual Summer Hope Benefit (for more information visit: www.summerhope.org!). It was a difficult call whether or not to skip the Tuesday workout, but the fact that I left the stamps at my apartment in Ronkonkoma, sealed the deal for me, since Carla and I would have to go back there, drink a bottle of wine, watch Wedding Crashers and stamp 700-plus envelopes for the mailing. Wednesday, was a Tempo Training Run Day, where you run outside your comfort zone for 5 minutes, walk for 1 minute and repeat three times. Again, somewhat unfortunately, I had been staying up every night until 2 am reading "In the Woods" trying to figure out what the hell happened to Katy Devlin and wondering if the secrets buried deep in Detective Ryan's head about the disappearance of his two childhood friends would ever be unlocked! Like everything I do, this book completely consumed my life. You could imagine my displeasure, when I got home from work, promptly read one hundred pages and fell asleep at 6 pm until the next morning. No problem, I thought: Thursday was a Rest day, I would just switch them. Thursday I would run the Tempo Workout, a nice way to see if I was back on the mend or not.

I decided to run this out at the gym, figuring that the treadmill had a little forgiveness to it than the hard cement, and it might be easier on my legs. I was amped up to head there immediately afterwork. First, I'd have to hunker down and finish the last 50 pages of "In the Woods" for fear that I could have a brain aneurysm or get hit by a car at ANY MOMENT and would never know what happened in Kncoknaree Woods. When the book was over and I was completely and utterly annihilated by it's conclusion, I received a shocking text from Michelle My Work Wife:

Michelle: Are you napping?
A pretty spot on assumption: Eddie: Nope... Why are you obsessed with me?
Michelle: Wanna see the 6:45 Orphan? We would have to go right now.
Eddie: YES! What an unexpected treat!?!?!? Where? When? How? Tell me everything!
Michelle: Come here now. I'll drive.
Eddie: OK. I'm gonna wear my gym clothes. Don't judge me.

I knew that if I didn't go see Orphan fully prepared for the gym, the likelihood of me getting there was slimmer than anyone in that movie receiving an Academy Award. The thing is... I love movies about creepy kids. The Bad Seed? Yes! The Omen? "It's all for you, Damien!" The Good Son? A-MAZ-ING. I had been trying to bribe and/or beg any of my friends to see the movie since it came out, but I was shot down by everyone from Carla ("Yeah... I don't think I'm gonna do that.") to my horror-buff buddy Corey ("Nay for me - Don't fel like seeing another Good Son"). Another Good Son? IN MY DREAMS!

I wasn't expecting to see it until the hallow depths of paid cable snatched it up, by which point, I would've forgotten all about it. I had even been reduced to reading a spoiler-ific riff on the movie on EW.com. I certainly wasn't expecting this from Michelle My Work Wife, who rarely went to the movies, and even more rarely (now that she's preggo with twins) stays awake past 7 pm. Apparently, the idea was all her husband Adam's, who wanted to go surfing, but didn't want to leave Michelle to the inevitable siren call of the couch. I should be insulted, I think, that when Adam needed a babysitter for his wife, he immediately thought of me, only 1.2 miles away, with nothing to do. But, hey, I can't fault the guy for knowing me - and well, I got to see Orphan! Double score.

It was, of course, completely ludicrous, but unlike the rapper, not trying for any kind of prestige, like a recurring gig on Law & Order: SVU. I think the writers (and Producer Leonardo DiCaprio? Random.) thought that by luring award/indy movie bait like Vera Farmiga and Peter Sarsgaard, the movie would gain a pedigree all on its own. Unfortunately, that was immediately counterbalanced by the scene in which a little girl beats a nun to death with a hammer. It was mindless, stupid fun, but as Michelle noted, every subsequent scene got more and more ridiculous.

After the movie, I ran home real quick for some, uhh, digestive business, and still managed to head back to the gym. I did a massive stretch (I love stretching now. Stretching's my favorite!) and decided to run 3 five minute 6.0's on the treadmill to complete my tempo training.

Unfortunately, I was only able to complete two until my leg started acting up again, and the difference between pushing myself and injuring myself got blurred once more. I thought this was a good start back onto the wagon. We'll see.


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Day 43: Pumping Iron

After Sunday's false start, I consulted with Jilly and she advised me to skip my run on Monday, as to not strain my leg anymore. In the twenty-four hours since the 9 mile debacle, which more closely resembled the first 15 minutes of Scream than a marathon training session, my thighs were still bothering me. I downgraded this to "thigh pain" because I don't know enough about the human body to exactly pinpoint the source of the pain. I think it was my quads, but it could have just as easily been my knee or my tibia (being that I have no idea where on my body the tibia resides). What was the most worrisome, was the fact that this pain wasn't all that painful, which somehow would've eased my mind. A direct sharp pain, I felt could be worked out, stretched into submission. But this was different. It was a lingering, annoying sort of pain - like something being whispered in your ear while you're sleeping. On the one hand, skipping a run, suddenly became the last thing in the world I wanted to do. On the other hand, I didn't want to injure myself, and not be able to continue training. Somehow I had developed this weird Stockholm Syndrome with my marathon training - I hated it, but I couldn't give it up. Spurned on by my most recent issue of Men's Health sitting in the bathroom and True Lies which I had watched over the weekend, I knew the answer to this problem was simple: Hit the Weights.

As you can imagine, me pumping iron is as antiquated a notion as, well, the term "pumping iron." I get very easily confused on the machines at the gym, and the free weights are like a visceral nightmare for me. But I had to persevere and get to the workout that Men's Health and Josh Duhamel prescribed me.

I immediately realized that I was unprepared, however, because I had left my gold chain at home, and unfortunately, had decided not to gel my hair. I would be a laughing stock. I quickly wondered if I should run to the Wal-Mart across the parking lot from the gym and purchase a pair of extra baggy sweatpants with cargo pockets to avoid mockery, but realized this was too little, too late. Next time I would just grab some Muscle Milk for everyone, and all would be forgiven.

I first did some dumbbell bench presses alternating with pull-ups. I found it ironic that something called the "Belly-Off" Diet, would ask fatties of different proportions to pull themselves up and down a bar. We fat people don't like to hang in the air - it makes everything shift to different, very bad places. This immediately got me thinking of Elementary School Gym class, when we were taking the week long physical fitness test, the only part of which I passed was the sit and reach (I've always been freakishly flexible for someone my size). Mrs. Kuperberg and Mr. Schack would stand up at the class, calling us all up to the pull-up bar one at a time - the boys needed to do 7 to pass the physical fitness test. I had wondered, at the time, whose test this was, and what "passing" it meant? I assume now, as I did then, that it was completely made-up to torture the fatties like me. I haven't grown much as a person since I was nine. My classmates would fail and succeed at different levels (Zee, Lisa, Badee - you know what I'm talking about...), but even though I was a trim 175 pound third grader, and being able to complete a pull-up would be tantamount to curing cancer with my Mr. Wizard Chemistry set. And yet, I was forced to waddle up to the front of the gym, and hang loosely, defiantly on the pull-up bar, my arms out-stretched, my feet nearly on the ground, until the 30 seconds was up.

I wish I could say that this occassion, twenty years later, was different. It wasn't. My first attempt at a pull-up was met by my own snickers as I feel rapidly, holding on to the bars. I thought the momentum of a leap, would give me the added push I needed to get at least one pull-up complete. It wasn't. I then realized that I weigh about 200 pounds, and that if laying flat on a workout bench, I'd be hard pressed to lift 200 pounds, so what made me think adding gravity to the equation would make things easier? There is a facet of the pull-up machine at the gym that allows you a little boost to complete the process. I was able to finish my subsequent sets.

I left the gym, after a 10 minute cool down walk on the treadmill, pleased with my free weight performance, but still this nagging feeling about my prospects of running.

The Breakdown of the Day:

The Workout:




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Day 42: 9 Down... Way, Way Down

On Sunday, I was to run 9 miles. It would be the longest run of my career (you'll be hearing that a lot, and very often). I was excited, to be honest, to get that kind of mileage under my belt. It seemed inconceivable to me, almost as if the Dread Pirate Roberts had tricked me into drinking poison. After today, I would have run OVER 1/3 of the entire NYC Marathon. I never thought I would make it this far. Unfortunately, I was right (Isn't that ominous? DUN DUN DUN!).

You ever make a bad mistake, and as you're making it, you almost float outside of your body, and see yourself making it, hear yourself making it, but can't do anything to stop yourself from making it? I must imagine this is what Lindsay Lohan or the NY Mets feel everyday. It's certainly what I felt on Sunday, as I hit the streets for 9 miles.

I knew something was up when I couldn't complete more than one mile at a solid pace. If running is 70% mental, I'm at a major disadvantage, because my biggest proponent is my mother (who wasn't available to ride in her car besides me cheering me on) and my biggest detractor is my own mind. Often times, when I'm running, I just stop - for no particular reason, just cause I wanna. I have to remind myself - to keep going, but something inside my switches off. Several times, I've self-diagnosed myself with Adult Attention Defecit Disorder, but I'm scared of medication, and I'm sure my doctor is still trying to work his mind around the Epstein Bar diagnosis I gave myself fairly recently. This general, eventual ennui, is how I am in every aspect of my life. I feel like Evil Willow: "Bored now."

But this was different. This wasn't me being a quitter (which is something I am, fairly often). My whole body felt like it was locked inside itself, and pretty soon I would start speaking with my fluttering eyelids and paint with my two working toes. This was about 1.5 miles in and I should've probably turned back, realizing that this 9 miles wasn't happening. But my stubborness, rears it's misbegotten head at all the wrong times, and I decided to keep going. Every few songs/miles I would give another go at running, but I was getting a horrible pain in my thigh, and every subsequent step felt like another tear in some imaginary fabric being tentatively held together somewhere inside me.

Jilly, has been sidelined with an injury for the past few weeks, and her NYC Marathon bid is rather tenuous right now. Hopefully, she'll be back on track in another week or so, but I feel terrible for her - and I'm not entirely sure I want to do this without her. Granted, we signed up independently of one another, both in honor of her father, the great Ed Cook, but once I knew she was running the marathon as well, for some reason some of the pressure was off. We were going to do this together. Even if we weren't together on the run (Jilly easily outpaced me with her stupid softball training...), I never felt I could do this more than when I knew she was doing it too. However, her injury has scared the crap out of me - because it was likely that I could face the same problem if I kept pushing myself on this particular run. Once I made that connection, I knew there was no further I could go, running. I was giving up, but hopefully, I was going to struggle to waddle another day. The only problem was... I figured this out 4 miles away from my house, in any direction. Ass.

It's not fair, really. I am so used to skating by on wit and cuteness, that when harsh consequences come deservedly my way, I'm sort of stunned. The consequences of my poor training had finally bit me in the ass - or more specifically in my quad. I could hear some cliche, hardened coach from any based on a true story sports movie yelling: "You didn't respect the mileage!" Now how would I break down racial barriers, get the girl and chant Rudy in the stands? I finally limped home - the 9 miles completed, totally defeated.

The Breakdown of the Day:

The Playlist:

There's Not I In Team - Taking Back Sunday

This Town - OAR

Gold Digger - Kanye West feat. Jamie Foxx

If It's Over - Mariah Carey

Come Together (live) - Kris Allen

By Your Side - Sade

Transatlanticism - Death Cab For Cutie

Show Me What You Got - Jay-Z

Bloodshot - Jack's Mannequin

Best I Ever Had - Drake

Love Drunk - Boys Like Girls

Please Don't Leave Me - Pink

Cry Baby (live) - Allison Iraheta

Break Your Heart (live) - Barenaked Ladies

Sugar, We're Going Down - Fall Out Boy

Who's Lovin' You? - Jackson Five

Love Lockdown - Kanye West

Ego (remix) - Beyonce feat. Kanye West

I Only Have Eyes (For You) - The Southland

Now You Tell Me - Jordin Sparks

Dance, Dance - Fall Out Boy

Say It Right - Nelly Furtado

Tonight - Jonas Brothers (this is when full disclosure bites you in the ass)

Sky - Joshua Radin feat. Ingrid Michaelson

This Modern Love - Bloc Party

The '59 Sound - The Gaslight Anthem



The Workout:

9 miles / 2:39:14 / 17:41 per mile / 1,371 calories

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Day 41: 5K Loop

In accordance with my renewed commitment to that little 26.2 mile jog I've got going on November 1st, I headed to the gym on Saturday to run the prescribed 40 minutes as part of my training plan. The day started off promising enough, I was going to run some quick errands and actually take a run around my neighborhood. No problem. Well, it shouldn't be, right? Not at this point in my marathon training. Well, tell that to my belly.

I feel close with you readers, mostly because I can count the number of you on my hand, so I have no problem explaining to you that I got about 1/4 of a mile around my apartment and then had to run the fastest sprint of my life back to avoid a publicly indecency fine, for pooping in the playhouse my neighbors were selling at their garage sale. Is this an overshare? Probably, but my stomach problems are well-documented - almost historic. When the tummies hit, they hit, and there is (pardon the expression) shit-all anyone can do about it.

After I recovered from my near miss, I headed off to run my errands - these are mostly made up and not nearly as important as they sound - me trying to get someone to go see Orphan with me ; purchasing Watchmen Director's Cut on Blu Ray; finishing "In the Woods" the resplendent debut novel from Tana French which until recently, consumed my entire life. I also decided to take my run into the gym, because I'd be slightly less likely to mess my shorts. Under Armour is expensive, after all.

I didn't have much going for me on the run, and my days/weeks of half-assing my training, was coming up quickly to bite me in the ass. I thought that I would set the treadmill for stun, but that not being an option, I decided to hit the 5K button. I had never run a "5K" before, and this was better than a charity 5K, because it allowed me the opportunity to contemplate all the various ways a person could cut the sleeves out of their t-shirt.

The run was sort of miserable, and I felt every step of it, which I think is a bad sign. I couldn't really concentrate and my feet were landing with a particularly harsh thud. I had to stop to walk slightly more often than normal, and I felt achy all over. I think this is the longest I've ever stuck to something that I've decided to do, fitness wise, and it was starting to take it's toll on me. What if this became a regular habit? What if I started eating organic meat? What if I did sit-ups? Dear God, what if I had 8 servings of fruit a day!?!?! It was too much for me to handle on a single forty minute run - but luckily the nightmare was coming to an end: 5K in 41 minutes - nothing to write home about.

The Breakdown of the Day:


The Workout:



The Picture:



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Day 40: Let's Take A Long Walk

Friday hit me like a ton of Nike Shox, and I quickly realized that all the Meggy B. inflicted guilt I was feeling for not keeping my blog up to date, really paled in comparison to the empty promises I made to myself about taking my training a little more seriously. For some reason, even though the 16 stairs at work were still giving me the workout of my life, I wasn't really taking this "marathon training" seriously. I was taking it so Kristin Cavalierly (in the running for the gayest thing I've ever said? You decide!) that I hadn't trained since my triumphant 8 mile run the previous week. I decided towards the end of the week, as I was staring down a 9 mile run with the same grim determination and fear that Amy Winehouse regards a clean pair of underwear, that I would amend this week's training schedule to: Friday - Cross-Training; Saturday - 40 minute run; Sunday: 9 miles.

Luckily, my best friend Carla, and I had a day together planned, which usually involved hijinks and lots of time "regrouping." Carla and I had been best friends since the 8th grade, and as much as it seems that I, a nearly 30 year old man, should be embarrassed about still referring to anyone as a "best friend", I cannot refer to her as anything else. We're best friends. BFFs. Besties. I feel like to refer to her as anything but might give you the impression that she and I have a normal, mature, adult friendship at 28 years old. That would be a lie. And for all the things I am, I am not a liar.

Carla and my friendship started in the 8th grade when the misfit who sat between us in technology was shipped off after getting pregnant. For this, every day I thank God for loose morals, faulty condoms and bad decision making. If it wasn't for some delicious cocktail of those three (with a dash of self-loathing and sluttiness) the nearly cosmic force that is Carla and Ed would never be. And while everyone else who has ever come into contact with us (several retired, disgruntled teachers, our families, our closest friends) might be better off had someone decided to strap on a condom after a midnight screening of Casper at the Broadway Multiplex Cinemas, surely Carla and I would be mere shadows of our current selves, roaming the earth aimlessly, searching for our Hocrux (Harry Potter reference! Nerd alert!).

We've literally been inseparable ever since. The entire basis of my current incarnation of myself is somehow based around her - it was her brother, Steven, my surrogate little brother, The Bean, who passed away from cancer two days after turning sixteen (two weeks before we graduated high school) thus me taking this whole "cancer" thing so seriously. It was in Steven's memory (as well as the memory of my grandparents and in honor of my Tanti (aunt) Annie's battle with cancer), that I founded The Summer Hope Foundation, and subsequently got my job at the American Cancer Society. In Steven's passing, Carla and my already ridiculous relationship, was solidified into something more - in grief, we were bonded forever - a final gift from Steven.

Before you ask - for the five people who read this who don't know Carla & I personally - we dated briefly when we were in college. And when I say briefly, I mean it lasted 5 months, 3 of which she was away at "Seamester" for school. It was a disaster. We had become, without even knowing it, beyond a romantic relationship. Now it's an ongoing joke. Carla is now happily married to a great guy, John - a fact that hasn't stopped our reign of terror. As you can imagine, John is very understanding.

Incidentally, I wanted to go to California for college to be a writer or journalist or something, but when applying to schools, couldn't comprehend the thought of being across the country, while Steven was sick. It's funny how the things in life lead you to where you are.

Thankfully, Carla (all 100 pounds of her) was on a health kick and we did something we've never done before - we walked. We're not very active people to begin with, and we certainly have a tendency to bring out the sloth in one another. But Carla is nothing if not supportive - If I was found in a pool of blood with a knife and a nun's severed head, Carla would swear on all that is holy that the bitch had it coming. She knew I had to do some cross-training that day (and I checked my book and walking counts). John is an outdoorsy kinda guy - hiking, camping, pasteurizing his own milk, that sort of thing, so Carla knew of a path by their house. I find this very annoying, not just because the word Kayak sounds like a vomit noise to me, but it also seems like Jigsaw-level torture.

Carla and I went to the path, which was about .5 miles each way, and we walked in the blistering heat for about an hour. It wasn't a workout that was going down in history anytime soon, but it was in the ballpark of what I was supposed to do that day.

The rest of the day was filled with the usual missteps (all these years later, we can't seem to get anything right - even going to the bank is a process), but we enjoyed ourselves, specifically, looking for ugly things in Home Goods that could be used at Summer Hope's 1st Annual Hope Cup Golf Outing (Carla, naturally, serves on my board). We decided at our last meeting, that at The Hope Cup, there should be a trophy which would get passed around year to year, with the winners names engraved on it. But, of course, it would have to be hideous. Here were our options;



We sent these pictures to my cousin, Mike, an avid Golfer, Summer Hope Board Member and the person running Summer Hope's Golf Tournament. He didn't get back to us. In all fairness, he's sort of sick of us by now...

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