3athletejen

I’ve lived in my house for three years. Apparently, some guy named Zack has also lived in my house for the past year. Or at least Bill and Annie Smith (not their real names) in Overland Park, Kansas think he lives at my address. They send him a lot of cards – thank you notes, just for fun cards and yesterday, I received Zack’s birthday card. Obviously for me to know what kind of cards they send, I open them. The first time I received one, I “Returned to Sender,” but not since then. They keep on coming and I keep on opening them. It’s like reality TV, but through the mail. I’m not proud of my actions and suspect it’s illegal for me to keep opening Zack’s mail. But now I’m genuinely interested in how he’s doing. Zack got a new job last fall (Attaboy card), gave the Smiths Big 12 Tournament tickets (thank you note), and he had a birthday this week. Until yesterday, there was nothing of value in the cards besides sweet sentiment. But in the birthday card there was a Pla...

My college transcript came in the mail today. My dad doesn't read my blog, so I'll admit it - I did not apply myself in college. Twenty years ago I would have argued that point (and probably did), but at age 38 it is clear - I was an underachieving undergrad. More appalling than my grades are the classes. It is amazing Drake awarded me a degree at all. Of course, I did pick the school because there was no math requirement for a journalism degree. I'm not kidding. Some of the classes I received A's in: History of Rock and Roll (taught by a morning DJ who let us go after 45 minutes), Drugs in Society (where I learned what works best for treating hangovers), Deviance (what?) and Intro to Theater (clearly, I missed my calling.) Classes I earned C's in: Intro to Economics (8 a.m. on MWF is just stupid), Logic and Critical Thinking (I have no recollection of this class), and Intro to Women's Studies (how does that happen when you're a girl?). My grades also reflec...

Yesterday was my first outside ride of 2011. True cyclists will find that ridiculous, as there has been ample opportunity to get outside before now. Just not for me. I’m a ideal-weather cyclist. Criteria for riding outside includes: sunny with no chance of rain, winds less than 15 miles per hour, a location of either the downtown airport or country roads and the time of day must be low traffic. That leaves me with approximately eight hours of outdoor riding time per year. They say cyclists fall into two categories – those who have wrecked and those who are going to. I’ve only had one minor incident, which was hitting a road-closed sign because I wasn’t paying attention. (It’s easy to space out riding 80 miles on a 3.7-mile loop.) Fortunately, the injuries were minor. So that means the big wreck is still looming. This fear leads me to riding indoors on the trainer more often than not. Boyfriend, who is more cyclist than triathlete, finds this absurd. He does a ride s...

On my 38 th birthday, I listed some goals for the upcoming year. They included easy things like drinking more lattes, getting more massages and wearing a lot of hats. (Literally, not figuratively.) Easy stuff. Setting the bar low, if you will. One I did not mention is to be a better person. Vague? Yes. Achievable? Hopefully. But defining what exactly I mean proves challenging. Do I want to be nicer? Lots of room to improve there. More patient? Um-hum. Let the people who speed past and then want to cut over at the merge go in front of me? Even I have my limits. So last night I was rereading a sweet note my childhood minister had sent me. He had known my mom quite well and continues, 20 years later, to still mention her in one of his sermons. He wrote, “Your mother’s kindness and grace has always stayed with me.” A-ha! That’s what I’m talking about. Grace. Sadly, the only time someone has referred to me grace-wise was in sarcasm. (As in, “Way to go, grace” when ...

Like most women, I'm a worrier. The "shoulds" constantly nag at me. I should clean out the basement. I should seal the grout in my kitchen. I should eat less sugar. These little annoyances swirl around me like dirt around Pigpen. And then one day a switch flips and I actually do it. (Though the flip can be a long time coming.) I've lived in my house almost three years with my predecessor's bathroom decor choices. Some friends have called it the Fragglerock bathroom, others think it's a Miami Dolphins motif. Naming rights aside, it was bright teal with a lime green and bird covered valence over the shower. I mocked the bathroom upon first viewing. "Wow," I told my realtor. "That has to be changed immediately." In my world, immediately means two years, nine months. Last night, I heard angels sing as the valence came down. I patched, sanded and painted. Ta-da! I have a grown-up bathroom. Finally. Touch up paint is another fun "should....

It all started a couple weeks ago at the Hallmark Store. Driven by my chronic need for a "little something sweet", I impulse bought an overpriced chocolate marshmallow heart. ($4 for a little piece of candy! Really, Hallmark? Has the card biz gotten that bad?) Anyway, I sat down with a good book to read while eating it. Three bites in and there's a noise in my mouth, followed by the feeling I just bit into tin foil. What the hell? It's a marshmallow. There's no sediment in marshmallow. I immediately know something's wrong as both the upper and lower tooth are screaming at me to quit chewing. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. This cannot be good. The lower tooth is actually a crown and the upper has a filling. (Yes, I do brush my teeth regularly.) If either or both are cracked this is gonna be bad. So I do what any normal person would do and ignore it. Maybe it will go away on it's own, I hope. If I don't acknowledge it, maybe nothing's really wrong. Except...

I'm sitting in my living room chair under a blanket, half surfing the web and half watching mindless television. .001 percent of me is debating some sort of workout. But then I would have to actually get up and move. February should be renamed Funkuary. The cold, the ridiculous amount of snow and lack of sunlight make getting to the gym at 5:30 a.m. difficult. If I do drag myself out of the warm covers, it seems to be later and later. Friday I didn't finish my workout until 8 a.m., putting me at work by 8:45. Good thing they don't give out tardy passes. The double funk comes from an entire month off of swimming and yoga. A whole month. That's seven months in Jen-years. The funk was spiraling out of control. I had to do something. I needed a new mindset, damn it. So I decided to do what I should have done long ago and work on my weaknesses. The last two weeks have included lots of trainer and treadmill time. My legs are sore. I'm groaning a bit upon standing. But I...