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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