Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Killing Me Softly

Monday night the hubbs and I went to see the Foo Fighters (for the 2nd time!). The show was in an upscale Camden, NJ neighborhood (sarcasm); the venue smelled like fresh foot vomit, cigarettes and sweet pot. Thankfully all these smells hung in the air due to the blanket of humidity that hovered above the lawn section of the outdoor center. I was impressed with the variety of gluten free options (just popcorn), so I opted to roll the dice on purchasing $7 of stale tortilla rounds generously covered in liquid 'cheese'. Oddly enough, I felt this dinner choice had more nutritional value than a bucket of popcorn drowning in a pool of artificial butter. Call me crazy. The band freakin' rocked, restoring my faith that rock and roll is still very much alive.  They played a near three hour set. Only once did I panic about a later than usual bedtime.
We tried to leave the 'parking lot' (shit hole of a half assed paved area with pot holes and more stank), but were detained for close to an hour due to the nonexistent event staff. Long bitching story make a smidge shorter, my head hit the pillow around 2 am. Disaster awaits...
I planned to get my Tuesday run in after work as opposed to waking up at 4:30 am; that would have been good for nobody and NO body. The day dragged on, fueled by a nut bar and weekend coffee (cream and sugar); I powered through a delicious Greek salad with chicken and one (ONE!?!?!) stuffed grape leaf. I wanted to poke my eyes out, but I welcomed the necessary travel between two meeting locations to keep me on my toes. Before taking the girls to swimming lessons, the hubbs made dinner and I took off for a steamy run. My word, it was hot out there. I kept the pace easy and got in my planned 40 minutes by circling the hospital trails like a shark in the North Carolina waters (too early?).
I sat at swimming, in the room resembling an inside out fish bowl slowly fading in the hard plastic chair.  While typing most of this post from my phone I obscessively noticed an extra period floating around (located here - . -) and spent a good five minutes trying to corral it in with my finger.  Got it!  
I got home to scarf down another shitty dinner which had about an hour to digest before my yoga sesh.  With the girls in bed and the hubbs in the office, I retreated to my mat for 60 minutes of poses with the glow of a Shark Week feature illuminating the room.  The next day's workout appeared benign on the surface which, as foreshadowing will tell you, was a mistake.  
At 5 am this morning, I stepped out into a simmering pot of chicken noodle soup.  Well, there are no noodles, because I'm gluten free and to be honest, I didn't see any vegetables; however, the atmosphere had a murky appearance, just like a lighter colored broth.  Another long bitching story made just a wee bit shorter, I couldn't finish my workout.  I was tired and thirsty; my upper back started to give out.  I made it halfway through my first tempo repeat.  GAAHHHH.  I altered my route back towards home to get a much needed cup of water.  And that was it.  I parked my ass on my yoga mat for some easy recovery poses.  I'm currently in the process of 'getting okay' with not finishing my workout.  Coach won't be disappointed; I know that.  But he's not going to let me get away with it.