You Can Color Me Rad Anytime You Want

Do y'all remember back in March when I made a grand proclamation about running a 5k? I was excited, I was motivated, and I had a plan. 

I didn't stick to my plan at all, however. I trained a grand total of 8 times between March 20th, 2013 and July 6th, 2013, and the week leading up the race I was nervous as hell. I went so far as carb-loading the night before, until it was kindly pointed out to me that its entirely unnecessary for one person to consume that much pasta for a 5K. In reflection, it really did give me a ton of energy for my 8:40am start time--although that could have been a combination of nerves and the Red Bulls they were giving me too. 

I'm about as competitive as it gets, which sounds like a good thing. Problem is, I'm competitive with myself more than anyone else. There is always this little voice in my head that's telling me that I can't do something, that it's too hard, that I should just quit. But then this bigger voice takes over, and it shouts at me in an angry voice that I have to keep going. I have to finish. I can't give up. 

I thought that voice was going to kill me. Every time I would stop to walk, that voice would berate me over and over again. I would walk just long enough to stop the lung-crushing pain in my chest, and then I'd be off again. By the finish line, I was more trotting than running. 

I finished my first 5K in just under 40 minutes--almost 6 minutes longer than some of my pals that actually run. But it was exhilarating to know that I finished, that I ran my heart out, and that I had a ton of fun doing something that I used to loathe. 

Before I left the starting line, the crazy guy with the megaphone told all of us first time runners that the Color Me Rad is a gateway drug, and that we'd be hooked. 

Yup. 



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Bah, Cats.


Growing up I had two cats. There was Jake, the refined rescue from the SPCA, that looked as if he was wearing a tuxedo and acted more like James Bond than a cat. He preferred the company of my mother, most likely because she was not going to dress him up in doll clothes and subject him to tea parties. Gizmoe, the short-haired Turkish Van that was larger than a full-grown male Basset hound, was my playmate. No matter how many diets we out him on, that cat was always the fattest cat you have ever seen. He was my companion, and hogged most of my twin bed every night while I slept. We also had a beautiful Sheltie named Halo, but she was resolutely my brother's dog. 

Gizmoe was a saint. He put up with all of my shenanigans, from playing beauty salon (the blue sidewalk chalk that I had used to color his fur nearly gave my mom a heart attack) to pretending he was my diaper-wearing baby, he would just calmly go along with nearly every scenario I threw at him. He never bit me, and rarely did he scratch me--and when he did, I knew that I had gone too far and deserved his anger. 

This wonderful childhood experience had led me to believe that I was a cat person. I was always very active in the care and training of our dog, and I have always absolutely adored dogs. Despite my love for dogs of all breeds and sizes, I was convinced that I was a cat person. So when I bought my condo, knowing full well that I was no longer living with anyone allergic to them, I got two kittens.  Very quickly I realized that there is a large difference between kittens and adult cats. Also very quickly I began to realize that, while cats entertain me to no end, I don't particularly like them. 

At first, I thought that it was because they were kittens. Then, as they started to grow, I blamed it on the, being orange cats and naturally crazy. Last fall I gave one of them to a friend of mine because the two of them were just too much. "One is easier", everyone was telling me. "With one, they calm down and are less trouble." 

Thanks for lying to me, jerks. 

One cat has not gotten easier. Cheaper, yes, because I happened to give away the one that ate 10lbs of food in a week, but in no way has it gotten easier. 

I still don't sleep, because she always wants attention. She destroys everything that she can get her paws on, and even the collars and room sprays that are supposed to help calm her don't work. She has toys galore, but she would much prefer pulling my books off of my shelves and breaking my snow globes to keep her entertained. 

I cannot comprehend how one cat can produce so much bodily waste, and I cannot keep up with the kitty litter--some days I have to clean it morning and night just to keep it from smelling up my condo. I have tried every kind of door neutralizer, cleaner, air freshener, and box deodorizer that I can get my hands on, and none of them have done even a satisfactory job. 

It turns out that I am also allergic to her, although I'm sure anyone would be stuffed up when a cat attempts to sleep on their face at night. Her saliva makes me itchy, I cannot handle the amount of cat hair that is EVERYWHERE (even with me vacuuming daily), and I can barely breathe when I'm at home. And I'm only mildly allergic to her--poor B can't spend more than a few minutes in my place before he has to leave--his throat will start bleeding if he is around cats too long--and I have to change my clothes as soon as I get to his house so that I don't spread the dander there too. 

I do love Gilford, don't get me wrong. She can be sweet as pie, and some days I really enjoy curling up on the couch with her and watching TV. The happiness that she brings to my daughter makes my heart swell...althought that could also be an allergic reaction to the dander. But those moments are not enough for me. 

It has taken two long, frustrating years, but I feel very confident in saying that I am not a cat person in the slightest. 

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Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other.


I'm not shy about admitting that I'm a bit of a stress-case, and I've written about it a couple of times now. If you follow me on Twitter, you'll have seen quite a few of my stressed out tweets from 2012. 

Every time that I would come home and complain about what was stressing me out, The Boyfriend would just look and me and ask "...and why is this your problem?. It took a while (read: all year), but one day I realized what he had meant. I was spending too much time and energy stressing out over things that were not only beyond my control but also didn't even affect me that much. So I decided to selectively give fucks only when I needed to. The rest of it? I just stopped letting it bug me. 

Let me tell you, I feel wonderful! No longer do I sit at home and stew over whether or not So-And-So was going to do what they said they'd do. Instead, when I leave work I stop worrying about work. And when I'm at work, I just don't let the little things get to me. 

Since this revelation came to me so late in 2012, I'm making "give less fucks" a resolution this year. Or, sorry. I'm going to "focus on what is important and forget about the rest", but just know that this is code for "only giving fucks when necessary". 

What bad habits are you trying to break this year?