On the price of pain..

It would appear I've been a bit MIA from blogging as of late. Though I managed to blog during my work travel, it was amazing how the demands of April office life left me exhausted at day's end. And, really, there hasn't been a ton going on in my life outside of long days and job searching for my upcoming move to NC. Any energy I do have at the end of the day is spent browsing roughly 25 bookmarked sites so I may join my beloved as he takes on a hard earned, much deserved journey into the world of graduate school.

No job to speak of yet; not even an interview scheduled, though I've had a couple of conversations with potential employers that allow me to keep my chin up. That's worth something I suppose.

I have a big week coming up, but in a good way. Having fully succumbed to the world of Springsteen obsession, I'm seeing my third E Street show in 6 months on Wednesday night in Charlottesville. The timing of the show was quite delicate workwise, as May 1 is essentially the Black Friday of my field, but as long as I'm accessible via phone, I was granted time out of the office to indulge. I can't wait.

So I made a deal with myself about a week and a half ago in preparation for the time off. I told myself if I could hold off from biting my nails, I could treat myself to a manicure/pedicure. After all, the weather is getting warmer, and even I could see that the only way the world should have to endure my feet is with professional treatment.

Some people will tell you that once you get a mani/pedi, you never go back to "do it yourself" nail care. As my ability to do my nails is akin to a 2 year old with finger paints, the do it yourself option has never worked for me. And, usually, a manicure/pedicure really is an awesome indulgence. But, the thing is, I've never been so good at spending money on personal maintenance. I let my hair grow to states of damage until I get a trim, so you can bet that $40 on fingernails and toenails doesn't make it into my regular budget either. Plus, I bite my nails. I can't stop.

So I attempted a jog this morning on one of my favorite trails, came home to shower and headed out to try a local nails establishment. Of course, I managed to get a couple of blisters on my somewhat successful jog, so I knew a pedicure wasn't the best idea, but I forged ahead just the same.

I arrived and was tended to right away. The woman talked me into a "spa pedicure" for the added benefit of her rubbing two very fragrant sea saltish/mask-ish treatments on my lower legs and "massaging them". Felt like there was a lot more leg slapping going on than massaging, but what do I know.

Long story short, the woman made me bleed. She went to town on the backs of my heels - buff, buff, buff, bleed. No apology, no bandaid, she just asked "Does it hurt?" a couple of times between her endless "Does that feel good?"

Why was this situation seeming so creepy to me? Ooooooh yeeeeeeeeaah. Shudder. Ok. Anyway.

She also managed to completely offend me. I'm in the chair preparing for my leg beating maybe 45 seconds when she asks if I want an eyebrow wax. "Oh, no thanks," I smiled. I pluck as needed and don't fret on my eyebrows much. I don't have a unibrow so I figure I'm at least partially ahead of the game. "Oh no, you want one," she responded. I looked at her questioningly, my apparently disgusting eyebrows slanting down, hurt and full of protest. "No, really, I'm ok." "Really?" She went on and on to describe why I needed one. I listened politely, but did not agree to it.

I slid my way over to the manicure station to begin that portion of the experience. At that point, I must have been in there 45 minutes. I was bleeding and I was left to feel as if my eyebrows were the before shot in a makeover show. All that did was leave me wishing someone would nominate me for What Not to Wear so Nick, Carmindy, Stacy and Clinton can set me straight once and for all. And I would only trust Carmindy with wax to my eye. Let's be clear on that.

I picked a light pink polish for my toes and fingers. Boring, I know, but I still have to be Ms. Professional for my cornucopia of meetings that must be endured. "Do you like the color?" "Yes, it matches my watch!" I giggled. "Yes," she smiled, "and your skin too!"

Pardon me, but wtf people? You've made me bleed and you've led me to believe I have bush animals in my eyebrows. Now, apparently, I have pink skin? Oh, pardon me. I must be flush from the PAIN YOU'VE LEFT ME IN BECAUSE I'M BLEEDING BUT YOU DON'T CARE AND WON'T GIVE ME A BANDAID.

She finished up the experience by clipping a couple of my fingers.. yes, more blood. Honestly, did I really just pay for this experience?

Granted, everything looks great (minus the bandaid on the heel) and she clearly couldn't have done more with my feet once they started to bleed (and I can only hold in that dog leg kick for so long when they're messing with my feet). Still, I left physically and emotionally scarred from the experience. All to look just a little more put together. Just a little more "polished". Pardon the pun.

And yet, it wasn't enough. How about an eyebrow wax? At least she didn't point me toward their eyelash extension special, which some of the other women were informed of, and one even talked into. Yes, eyelash extensions. Well, actually, the sign read "Eyeslash extensions (darker and longer eyeslashes) very beautiful!" so perhaps it's not what I think it is.

Still, how did we get here? At the risk of sounding militant, how much more do we need to be pushed to work against what nature gave us? As she sea salted and beat the crap out of my legs, I realized I'd applied my self-tanner just an hour before - was this going to work against my efforts to look less pale? It left me realizing that maybe it's not just the money that keeps me out of these places on a regular basis. Media has me convinced I'm already flawed. I don't need to pay for the experience on a regular basis, and be told by a 90 pound woman that what I really need is an eyebrow wax.

Then again,no one asked me if I wanted an upper lip wax. The same can't be said for the woman sitting next to me. I'll take that small victory for now.

On going for the gold..

I'm officially disgusted with myself. While my week plus away from running was necessary for my sanity and the hours available to me in the day, trying to get back into it has proven painful. My morning running routine was impressive, but it was leading to significant mid day fatigue and I was beginning to notice errors in my work. Today, I thought, I'd try something different. A cool spring day, I decided to take advantage of the track at work and run outside.

I managed to make my escape to the track about 5:15 this evening. Just enough time to go for a jog, get back to my desk, take care of some last minute stuff and get home in time to sign onto a chat I had to staff from 8-10.

I gave myself a reasonable goal. 2 miles. I've been running 3 on the treadmill, but there were a few things I had to keep in mind: 1) treadmill running is easier than real running 2) It's been a week and a half 3) I'm jet lagged. 2 miles. I can do it.

And I did. And then I walked a lap and then jogged another two and walked a final. So 2.5 mile jog and .5 mile walk. Not bad, and all within 30 minutes.

I haven't run on a track since a few feeble attempts in college. I've spent a lot of time on tracks doing little that involves competitive running. Well, successful competitive running anyway. There were my high school days as a cheerleader; that's where we set up our blocks and performed our routines to the mocking fans in the bleachers. But there was also summer rec track in middle school. I remain scarred from it to this day.

"Go for the gold, girls!" screamed Lauren's mother from behind the fence. I was running anchor in the 4x100 relay. What the hell was I doing in the 4x100 relay? I was not a natural runner, I was not a fast runner, but I was tall and skinny and that was good enough for them. Lauren was on the relay with me as well. She was tall and skinny too. That was about all we had in common. Well, that and our parents came to every meet - her mother, my father. Lauren's mom screamed at us the entire meet; my father watched her from afar trying not to beat the crap out of her, all the while cheering us along.

When I first joined rec track, I felt like a superstar. My cousin was a state champion distance runner for my high school. As we have the same last name, coach was foaming at the mouth thinking of my potential for the high school team. Well, that didn't last long. It didn't take long to find there was little hope for me in field events either. Still, I wanted to try. I idolized my cousin and my father; both runners. I wanted to be as like them as possible.

And I tried so hard. I remember one meet I was lined up for the 800 meter and decided I was going to win it. The gun went off and I took off like a crazed woman. I'd never run so fast. Of course, by the time I made it 1 1/2 laps around the track, I was completely out of steam. I walked the last 1/4, fighting back a gag reflex like no other. I was devastated to see my dad's reaction; he'd been so excited when I first took off. It didn't take long to realize he wasn't angry or disappointed, but I desperately had wanted to impress him, and instead I looked like a fool. I, of course, still earned a ribbon for that performance, despite coming in last.

Being back on the track brought this all back. Sitting with Lauren's mom before our race and her handing me a kiwi for energy. I'd never had a kiwi before. I hadn't the slightest idea how to get into it. So I poked at it awkwardly until I observed Lauren with her kiwi long enough to know what to do. Haven't been a big fan of kiwi ever since.

But I could see the factory in the distance in Rumford at that very same race. The kiwi/"Go for the gold!" race. The stench from the place was disgusting. Who puts a track next to the mill? Honestly.

I really think I could have run three miles today. There's just something psychological about a running track. It's been the backdrop for so much defeat. And I'm not just talking about rec track.

Our football team sucked.

On the impact of one decision...

I'm back home. HOORAY! And I couldn't have had a better flight. As someone who has trouble sleeping on planes, and trouble keeping my cool on them in general, I can't explain why I was able to sleep the first two hours of my flight, but I'll take it. The fact that a Nic Cage movie was playing couldn't have hurt. Either way, the flight back home flew by. Ha ha ha. Get it? I'll be here all week. Try the veal. I also highly recommend making sure there are children present on any turbulent flight. As we made our descent into Washington, the once calm air began to reflect the precip around it; a typically scary dipty do was completely altered by the kids on the plane who thought we were on a roller coaster. "WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" they yelped. It was fantastic. I remember saying a Hail Mary the last time that happened without any kids to ease the tension. I'll take the roller coaster instead.

My spring travel season is remarkably short this year; short to the point where I'm actually feeling a bit guilty around my staff. Some staff have 2 1/2 weeks straight on the road before they have a few days at home prior to the next trip. Me? Two weekend trips and tout finis. I be done.

I drove back from Dulles on the last fumes in my gas tank, made it to a gas station to fill up and, upon seeing the cost of that, talked myself into a Five Guys treat for dinner to ease the pain.

I had a little bit of trouble unlocking my car as I handled the greasy paper bag that held my dinner. It was already starting to rip. As I closed the door a shadow lurked by. I looked to my left to see a man standing outside my window. "May I ask you a question?" he queried.

He looked like a working class guy. Looked like he was wearing an auto mechanic jacket. In the split second it took for me to decide to roll down my window, I thought "This could end terribly wrong."

"I'm not a thief or a robber. I swear. I'm not going to hurt you. I've just had a really bad week and was hoping to get a burger."

"I got you. I got you. I understand." I reached for my wallet.

He could have opened my door then. He could have done something as I rolled down my window. Instead, I handed him two dollars and he walked away. He was clearly grateful.

The situation was completely benign. I was fine and he had no intention of hurting me. It just made me think about how innocent some situations must start out that perhaps do not end in the same manner. It also made me wonder if he thought about doing me harm at any time. Of course, this all just makes me realize how distrusting I've become, we've become, around strangers in need.

And I knew I was taking a risk. Knew I was taking a risk the minute I decided to roll down my window. But feared appearing heartless, cruel, racist, you name it.

I'm glad I was able to help the man. But it's funny how the simplest situation can leave you feeling vulnerable.

Maybe it will keep me away from Five Guys. My waistline will thank me for it. The cashier recognizes me, after all. "Nice to see you again!" he offered as I walked in. Now that I think about it, perhaps that's the real problem.

On what's real...

L.A. I just don't know what to think of this place. As your "normal" girl, I'm quite certain I couldn't survive here. There is an extraordinary emphasis on presentation; even if you look like you're homeless, it's intentional and done with designer clothes and a lot of product. And if you ARE homeless, it's probably because you went bankrupt on the clothes and the product, but you still have the clothes and the product. Well, anyway.

We're staying in Century City on Avenue of the Stars. The back of our hotel looks over the old 20th Century Fox lots. We're directly across from CCA, one of THE top talent agencies, and we're next door to the corporate offices of both Fox and MGM. Cool? Naturally. But, as you might imagine, we're surrounded by a bit of a "scene".

As we walked to dinner last night, we passed through a high end shopping center so I know where I can pick up a Louis Vuitton bag before I head home (as an FYI, and so I keep my street cred, I had to look up how to spell Louis Vuitton. Not sure why it's important I share that; it just is.). Our entertainment for the evening was not necessarily our dinner conversation, or the "mallrat" kids loitering around Pinkberry. Instead, it was the people watching as we waited for our table.

Kristen, my colleague, kept snickering as people walked in and out. She's one of the best dressed people I know, and since we're the same age and I know for a fact she makes less money than me, it hurts to know what I SHOULD be dressing like, but don't. As such, she knows a thing or two about clothes and kept leaning over to me saying things like. "Every guy in here is wearing designer jeans." I looked down sheepishly at my new Old Navy jeans, purchased that very morning, thinking I was finally all the rage for purchasing a stretch pair without too much flare at the leg and a dark rinse. Sigh.

The women, on average, were 100 pounds. There was not a pale chick in the place. Kristen and I were the only two women not wearing either skinny jeans, leggings or some sort of skirt with accompanying booty that would allow instant casting in a Jay-Z video. Men wore just as much bling as the women. And yes, our waiter really could have been a model. I'm sure he's trying to be one. That's the sense you get from this place. Everyone looks like a model or movie star, and is desperately trying to be one, but somehow they lack that credibility that your average starving artist in NYC has. Maybe it's because I give Broadway more credit than Hollywood. Or maybe it's just that East Coast bias again.

What killed me? This was a Houston's. A national chain restaurant. It's like an upscale Applebee's. Spinach and Artichoke Dip and Cheese Toast are on the menu. So what the hell do places like The Ivy and Mr. Chow actually look like?

Let me make one thing clear; I don't envy these people at all. In fact, I find them kind of comical. I don't mean to judge them; I'm sure they're all perfectly nice. I think what gets me about this area is everything is beautiful, but it ain't got soul. I also know for a fact I couldn't date a guy who spends more $150 on a pair of jeans or buys diamond earrings for himself.

As we waited for our table, two older gentlemen were leaving the restaurant, their wives just a few steps behind. "So how long have you been married?" one said to the other. "53 years." They both smiled. "We're at 47 years together." "Eh, you're just getting started!" I looked to my left at my other colleague who met his wife as she was finishing high school and he was starting college. They've been married 40 years.

So that's what's real, I thought to myself.

The two wives passed as I got up to walk to our table. I looked up to smile. Perhaps they would have smiled back if it weren't for the Botox.

Sigh. Whatever keeps it going.