I'm old and my body hates me

Monday, May 21, 2018

A few weeks ago, I turned 40 30 for the tenth time.

Confession: This is not my party.

And my body has pretty much been breaking ever since. I rolled my left ankle (which technically happened before my birthday, but my body doesn’t care about those details and all it knows is F this tri season) and wasn’t able to run for awhile.

And just when I thought I was starting to get better (even finishing third in my AG at Cinco Du Mayo – who cares if there were only like seven people in the field and they only gave hardware to the first- and second-place finishers so I didn't even get to stand on an actual podium), my calf and the rest of my leg got screwed up somehow and now I have shin splints that are so painful my coach thinks maybe I could have a stress reaction or fracture.

Icing my calf and eating this entire pizza all by myself.

 And then yesterday I opened the front door onto my foot and tore my toenail. 

You're welcome.

Victoria 70.3 is less than two weeks away. I feel so craptacular and disheartened that I bought this:


I just really need something to laugh at. (Also, there's probably a totally inappropriate metaphor here.)

Japan, I love you

Friday, April 27, 2018

Remember how I said I wanted travel to be a priority in 2018? I’m making good on my promise. Big Ginger and I spent two weeks in Japan earlier this month, exploring Tokyo, Hakone, Naoshima, Kyoto, and Takayama.

Japan is kind of a cat lover's paradise.

We braved the subway during rush hour (tightly wedged in with businessmen in black suits, white shirts, and black ties; all of them totally silent, some sleeping while standing, gently swaying with the train), hiked two peaks for views of Mt. Fuji (oh how I miss mountains), did laps around a hilly island on electric bikes (yes, I felt incredibly guilty but still couldn’t help yelling: “Look how good I am at climbing!”), saw a real-life geisha on her way to work at a Gion teahouse (it felt like a celebrity sighting), marveled at the cherry blossoms (and at the hanami, elaborate picnics beneath the blooms), drank an incredible amount of Japanese whisky (Taketsuru 17 is so good that it's spoiled me forever), and ate everything we could get our hands on (which didn’t turn out so well for gluten-intolerant me, who ended up “discreetly" barfing on a pristine Tokyo street in front of schoolchildren).

Of course, I also made Big Ginger go to two cat cafes and a shrine honoring maneki neko, the ubiquitous lucky cat. And we walked through a pet store that sold nothing but pet clothing, pants included. (Sadly, we didn’t make it to any of the cat islands – getting to them involves a lot of logistics and multiple modes of transportation. However, I did see some feral cats at Fushimi Inari Taisha in Kyoto; apparently it’s home to many cats, who emerge once the tourists leave.)

I know people fall in love with France (guilty as charged), Italy, and Ireland. You hear about that all the time. But I can’t stop thinking about Japan – the hospitality, the attention to detail (even convenience store onigiri is meticulously wrapped and presented), the way everything feels so hyper-modern and secular yet simultaneously so infused with centuries of history and an almost breathtaking sense of the sacred.

Sakura in Takayama.

 I want to go back.

my return to the pool

Monday, March 19, 2018

I’m happy to say I’m back in the pool and have been swimming pain-free for the past three weeks, which is great.

But you know what’s not great?

When you’re in the middle of a set and you feel random strands of stray hair winding themselves around your fingers. And you know in your heart of hearts that this is not your hair.

And then when you get to the wall and can finally stop swimming and check your hand, you discover a bird's nest of horror:


 Please pardon the gagging sounds.
 
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