Monday, November 10, 2014

My Own "Cold" War

I want one dollar from every person in the world right now so I can start a vaccine research fund for the common cold.  Seriously, the average adult contracts 2-3 colds per year with a longevity of at least two weeks; and children even more. I know this from my extensive research on the subject. Oh yeah, I went all the way to the couch, procured the laptop and promptly typed in CDC common cold. I will stop at nothing to end this "cold" war.
My best friend, Mr. Kleenex

Like a good, responsible member of society, I religiously partake in the needle of the Influenza virus annually. But people, where have we gone wrong? Where is the cold vaccine? Colds are annoying; people with colds are annoying; and because this affliction is not life threatening - some think it's just fine to share their virusy, nasty little sinusy/cold parasites with the world. I think the new word of the year now is "Quarantine."

This post may be a tiny bit self serving, because after a week of nursing my teen back to health, I've been reduced to the position of "wide-gaping open mouth" breather. Yes, that's what I get for not quarantining my daughter to the woodshed for a week. But, no, I have to go and challenge Mother Teresa for a sainthood by allowing my offspring to stay in her warm bed within close proximity to my immune system.
Why you should quarantine your teen.

Okay, so back to my vast research where I've found there are more than one billion colds in the U.S. a year. Where is the civility? It doesn't take a rocket scientist - literally (I'm guessing it's some other kind of scientist) to figure out, we have an annual pandemic; and I'm beginning to believe nobody cares.

Now I'm going out on a limb here to make a statement I have not researched. But I'm pretty sure the common cold has been on our planet for-like-ever. Which leads to my next point. There have been years and years to study this bad-boy and still nothing. I'm not saying take the experts off of the killer infectious disease vaccine-making list, but don't we have some genius interns who are frothing at the mouth to relieve human-kind of this irritable nasal affliction?

I'd call someone and demand an answer, but for whatever reason my number seems to have been placed on every politician's and government agency's do-not-call-list.  I have only the three of you who read this to rely on.

Monday, January 13, 2014

It's Too Hard to Train for a Sprint Triathlon

I never would have accepted the assignment of a Sprint Triathlon I bestowed upon Big Red and me, had I realized training would be so annoying. You people do realize if it's iceberg weather, the only option for cycling, is inside on a one-wheeler traveling nowhere.

Big Red alway flaunting her thighs
Now, cycling was actually the least of my worries when I forced this commitment upon us. So as I started on my 45-minute jaunt,  just knowing "I've got this - because at least I will be sitting during this little endurance exercise," I finally realized  - THERE IS NO COASTING on a stationary bike. Nope. You sit, but your legs are in constant motion for 45 minutes. What? I'm sorry, but this isn't reality training. This just isn't going to work.

Let's talk about running, shall we?  What I'm about to reveal to you should in no way be construed as something I'm proud of, but here it goes - I can now run 5k in 36 minutes. Yeah I know, you're grandma runs it in 20. Give her a medal, will ya?

Now, Big Red however is a different story. She runs at the pace of your great, great Grandma. And yes, I know, that particular Grandma is no longer amongst the living. Exactly. I believe Big Red has mastered one-and-a-half miles at this point; and I don't dare ask how many markings on the clock dial are passed by the minute hand when the task is completed.

She is of German descent and claims her people are not runners - they are marchers.  Now I see it a little differently. Big Red was born in the wrong century as far as I'm concerned.  Her voluminous Herculean thighs are of the sort women in the 1800s donned after years of harnessing themselves to a plow in the potato fields. As time passed, these women were replaced by oxen.
Big Red couldn't fit her thighs in the car.

Now, for the swimming. Yeah, that's going to have to wait. It took a while to actually find a suit to fit, and our gym pool is very, very busy.  Just haven't quite jumped in yet. It's very mentally challenging to want to take a plunge when it is 20 degrees outdoors. Yes, I know, we have an indoor pool at the gym. I didn't say it was impossible, I'm just saying it's mentally challenging.  And most of you are aware, we are weak to such.

Thursday, January 2, 2014

Whose Glutes Aren't Larger Than Their Neck? I Must Meet that Person.

The first few steps to successfully committing to a Sprint Triathlon at the age of me, is: #1. Scour the planet for the easiest race in existence, no matter how far you have to travel. #2. Pay for it, or in my case, have Big Red pay for it, because she's so excited to be a part of it. #3. Buy, for the first time in your life, a one-piece swimsuit that fits like a Chinese finger trap.

So for any of you who haven't had the pleasure of shopping for "said" swimwear, I'm going to clue you in on the humiliation of such an event. Big Red purchased hers first and whined about the tightness in the shoulders, therefore she'd have to return it for a size larger.  Okay. I get it.

So, with all that knowledge under my belt, I confidently walked out of the sporting goods store with a royal blue, sparkly, shiny suit - complete with racing stripes - in yes, a size larger than I choose for clothing.

And then a couple of days later I decided it's time to give it a go.  Now, I know, most people would perhaps have the gumption to actually try the swimwear on before purchasing. I don't disagree, except with the winter storm we just endured, I was bundled up as if Ralphie's mom from "The Christmas Story" had taken an interest in my well-being.

So, now I'm home and I approach the entry by cautiously looking at the suit from all angles, and quickly conclude there are no zippers.  It appears the only plausible way to embark on this journey is through the neck of this contraption. Therefore feet first through the neck. Okay, so far, so good.  All I can think of at this point is, my neck is way smaller than my gluteus maximus (which is why it's called maximus, not minimus), therefore how do these manufacturers expect I pull this suit up to my shoulders.  FYI, this is not a stupid question after all.

It can be done. WARNING: If you're squeamish, exit this site right now.

All it takes is a contortionist attitude much like the magicians who find it fascinating to escape a straight jacket. Simply dislocate both of your shoulders; wiggle like a bobble head on a gang bangers dashboard; carefully insert arms through their designated space; and finally, slam your shoulders one-by-one into the nearest wall for perfect relocation.

Voila, success. Except, I looked like a ball of pasty, white dough stuffed into a narrow cylinder of chicken wire. Nobody needs to see this. So, like Big Red, I marched back to the swimsuit purchasing palace and traded that model in for another, only I chose one three sizes larger (not one).  The gal at the counter was so sweet after I told her  I clearly had a much smaller vision of myself with my original purchase. She quickly replied, "aren't you the one training for the triathlon," and after my nod, she said, "you can come back in a couple of months and fit into this one." I cried all the way home.