3athletejen

The furniture has been rearranged; pictures adjusted; trash bags unpacked and closet organized. (My closet; not Boyfriend’s. I’m not allowed to mess with his clothes. Yet.) Knowing the move would be stressful we rewarded ourselves with cable. We reasoned cable is needed to watch the Tour de France. But really, I was missing Millionaire Matchmaker and House Hunters. What I didn’t account for is the avalanche of sci-fi programming that is on 24/7. Here’s the thing, boys. Regardless of what a girl indicates when you start dating, she does not enjoy watching science fiction. She may watch it with you, but it is only an effort to impress you. She is really praying it’s a thirty-minute show verses a full hour. This is not unlike when boy first has girl over to his house, apologizing that it’s messy when the truth is, this is the cleanest it’s been in six months. It’s all about first impressions. As with all broad statements, there are exceptions. But I am speaking for t...

Did you hear the wind blowing through Kansas City on Monday morning? That was actually my sigh of relief. The moving is done. (We laughed. We cried. It was better than Cats.) Actually, it was as bad as moving always seems to be, regardless of the preparation. Moving is like a false-flat, for any cyclists that read this. You do the heavy lifting, drive, unload, return the truck, drink a beer and breathe a sigh of relief. Then you look around the new digs and realize all the unpacking and furniture placement that must takes place and the relief dissipates. So let's just chalk it up to a long couple weeks. Moving always makes me nostalgic about the place I'm leaving. I love my house. (As a rental, it's still technically mine.) It was the only real estate I ever owned by myself. It was a little shoebox refuge where I honed my house upkeep capabilities - oftentimes with help - and learned to be okay with being alone. As my mood turned mopey about leaving Ash Drive, Boyfriend tri...

Here's how the impending move is going. Boyfriend is purging. I am merging. You can see the rub. I have stuff. Boyfriend has stuff. We have to stuff the stuff under one roof. We are no longer young-ens that move lightly. Our middle age accumulation is evident in the number of moving boxes at my house and the items that must be removed from his house. It's tons of fun. Remember the wagon wheel coffee table scene from "When Harry Met Sally"? Those conversations are simmering on the horizon. (To be fair, his coffee table is actually fine and will go in our newly rented storage unit.) Fortunately, Boyfriend realizes he has to make concessions. Many of them will be made this weekend while he's out of town. (Less painful.) It could have been worse. I had a dumpster scheduled to be dropped off in his driveway, but canceled after realizing my inability to lift by myself many of the items that need to go. Lucky man. So maybe the picture is confusing, but it should be docu...

When Boyfriend proposed, the tail end of the conversation was, “By giving you the ring I’m also handing over the stress.” The comment didn’t bother me at the time. Hell, I’d just got engaged to a fantastic guy. This is great. I couldn’t be happier. Yay me. Two weeks later and euphoria is gone. Maybe not gone, but buried deep under renting my house, reorganizing his house, moving my stuff, planning a wedding (that’s another story), working, coaching and supposedly studying for the GRE. Right. I was also supposed to race last weekend, but lack of training and Boyfriend’s comment that the water would cause hypothermia made me decide otherwise. Wimp. I’m not proud. I’ve decided no more races until the move is complete, which should be July 1. Oh, but that’s when we get our new dog. (She’s currently being treated for heartworm, poor thing.) I’ve created the “Master List” which entails all to be done at both houses, as well as preliminary wedding planning. It’s at three...

has been rented. It took 24 hours, a Craigslist ad and four photos. I was completely unprepared for the response. Ten people in one day. Everyone that saw it filled out an application. It threw me into a tailspin. There's something about renting a house that's been your home. I want someone that will care about it the way that I do, which is nearly impossible. I labored over who should be the renter of choice, checking references and verifying employment. It caused much emotional distress. Finally, Boyfriend (now fiance) said, are you expecting the renter to be your new best friend? Um, no. Sheepishly I decided on the girl that responded first to the ad. So in six weeks, my cute little house will be inhabited by someone else and I'll be merging my things with a man who has been living solo for several decades. There is much purging to be done and not nearly enough time to do it. And we're planning a reception. Sometime in the fall, hopefully October. And the first race ...

Ring criteria: Mine: simple, classic, not too fancy. Boyfriend: sturdy, usable to aid in escape if ever trapped inside something made of glass. Win-win.

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...