So this is a blog, huh? It's cold in here. And they said there'd be cookies. Bastards.
While I now know what a blog is, I confess that I'm 38 and I'm slowly developing the what-the-Hell-are-the-kids-talking-about worldview. I'm up to about 45 words a minute on my Blackberry, but I still believe in old-school punctuation in email and I still have to Google the IM abbreviations used blithely by anyone born without first-hand memories of Welcome Back Kotter (UYNWARH = up your nose with a rubber hose, for you confused young 'uns).
Honestly, it always struck me as rather self-absorbed to post a blog - who on Earth cares about whether Jenny thinks the US foreign policy is off-course, or whether Johnny thinks blue cheese is not really cheese or that Bruce Willis is the antichrist (as if anyone who has seen Die Harder could doubt this)?
Then it occurred to me - the singular and undeniable value a blog provides: self shaming.
Naturally, every hyper-caffeinated pseudo-journalist madly pecking out his pontifications in his basement in the maternal glow of his PowerBook believes that his posts are eagerly awaited by thousands, that Presidents and Prime Ministers ponder his razor-sharp insights (perhaps even taking credit in this afternoon's Chiefs of Staff meeting), and that if only Jimmy Carter would return his letters, he could help with that bloody Middle East mess. I, however, harbor no such illusions (anyway, if the letter with a lock of my hair couldn't get Jimmy's attention, nothing will).
My goal is less grand: I intend to use this blog as a source self-discipline.
It'll be like walking down the beach if you're out of shape. It's likely that no one is paying attention, and those that are probably don't care, but the idea of waddling my tuna-belly-white self down the sands of the Internet where anyone could be looking will be motivating. Well, could be. Maybe.
To wit: today, on a whim, I registered for the Vancouver Marathon.
Today is November 28, 2007.
The marathon is in 157 days.
Oh, I should mention - I don't know how to run.
Well, I know how to run. If something clawed and toothed and scary (or even, truth be told, mildly menacing) were pursuing me with culinary intent, I would doubtless respond with the manliness and fortitude of a six-year-old girl and scarper with the best of them. What I don't know how to do is run recreationally, or at least not without the cardiac equivalent of an epileptic frog hurling itself against my ribcage.
A bit about me:
I am currently living in Toronto, but have accepted a new job in Vancouver, where I'll be moving January 1. So, for the time being, my efforts will be painful and embarrassing and cold. However, after December, my efforts will be merely painful and embarrassing and wet. I'm roughly human-shaped, prefer Betty to Wilma, Jack to vodka, red to white, and Guinness to pretty much anything else. What I know about sports could be written on one side of a napkin that's been folded in half, I have a no-tolerance policy with stupid, rude, or just oblivious people, and I believe that people that just step off of escalators and stop need to be slapped. Hard. I haven't stubbed my toe in years and feel vaguely superior about it. I believe that musical theatre is the artistic equivalent of swallowing your own vomit, am on a campaign to bring back the word 'cockamamie', and, although there are apparently a multitude of methods, I wouldn't even know how to begin skinning a cat.
In addition to my observations about running I intend to post a few key health facts here each week (or, at least 'periodically') - weight, body fat, miles logged, and favorite cheese. Much like Bridget Jones, only with fewer references to sweets (candy), stones (14 pounds - what is it, btw, about the British and the number 14? See 'fortnight'), and lorries (trucks). The theory is that these statistics should improve. There will, however, be posted for your amusement and to feed your sense of cardiovascular superiority periodic descriptions of my social humiliation that, with any luck, will be primarily related to running.
Today, at lunch, I'll be beetling over to the NIKE store to weather the commission-fueled smiles of sales people as they mask their smug disdain at my wretched state. If all goes well, I'll emerge with a pair of shoes, some socks, and a totally unjustified and artificially-inflated sense of confidence.
Of course, the odds are badly stacked against me. As any runner with Internet access knows, training for a marathon can take place in 16-20 weeks, but that's assuming you have a solid "fitness base". Bah! I have something better than a "fitness base" - I have moxie. For a while there in the '90's I even had chutzpah. And now, against my better judgement, I have a blog.
What could possibly go wrong?
While I now know what a blog is, I confess that I'm 38 and I'm slowly developing the what-the-Hell-are-the-kids-talking-about worldview. I'm up to about 45 words a minute on my Blackberry, but I still believe in old-school punctuation in email and I still have to Google the IM abbreviations used blithely by anyone born without first-hand memories of Welcome Back Kotter (UYNWARH = up your nose with a rubber hose, for you confused young 'uns).
Honestly, it always struck me as rather self-absorbed to post a blog - who on Earth cares about whether Jenny thinks the US foreign policy is off-course, or whether Johnny thinks blue cheese is not really cheese or that Bruce Willis is the antichrist (as if anyone who has seen Die Harder could doubt this)?
Then it occurred to me - the singular and undeniable value a blog provides: self shaming.
Naturally, every hyper-caffeinated pseudo-journalist madly pecking out his pontifications in his basement in the maternal glow of his PowerBook believes that his posts are eagerly awaited by thousands, that Presidents and Prime Ministers ponder his razor-sharp insights (perhaps even taking credit in this afternoon's Chiefs of Staff meeting), and that if only Jimmy Carter would return his letters, he could help with that bloody Middle East mess. I, however, harbor no such illusions (anyway, if the letter with a lock of my hair couldn't get Jimmy's attention, nothing will).
My goal is less grand: I intend to use this blog as a source self-discipline.
It'll be like walking down the beach if you're out of shape. It's likely that no one is paying attention, and those that are probably don't care, but the idea of waddling my tuna-belly-white self down the sands of the Internet where anyone could be looking will be motivating. Well, could be. Maybe.
To wit: today, on a whim, I registered for the Vancouver Marathon.
Today is November 28, 2007.
The marathon is in 157 days.
Oh, I should mention - I don't know how to run.
Well, I know how to run. If something clawed and toothed and scary (or even, truth be told, mildly menacing) were pursuing me with culinary intent, I would doubtless respond with the manliness and fortitude of a six-year-old girl and scarper with the best of them. What I don't know how to do is run recreationally, or at least not without the cardiac equivalent of an epileptic frog hurling itself against my ribcage.
A bit about me:
I am currently living in Toronto, but have accepted a new job in Vancouver, where I'll be moving January 1. So, for the time being, my efforts will be painful and embarrassing and cold. However, after December, my efforts will be merely painful and embarrassing and wet. I'm roughly human-shaped, prefer Betty to Wilma, Jack to vodka, red to white, and Guinness to pretty much anything else. What I know about sports could be written on one side of a napkin that's been folded in half, I have a no-tolerance policy with stupid, rude, or just oblivious people, and I believe that people that just step off of escalators and stop need to be slapped. Hard. I haven't stubbed my toe in years and feel vaguely superior about it. I believe that musical theatre is the artistic equivalent of swallowing your own vomit, am on a campaign to bring back the word 'cockamamie', and, although there are apparently a multitude of methods, I wouldn't even know how to begin skinning a cat.
In addition to my observations about running I intend to post a few key health facts here each week (or, at least 'periodically') - weight, body fat, miles logged, and favorite cheese. Much like Bridget Jones, only with fewer references to sweets (candy), stones (14 pounds - what is it, btw, about the British and the number 14? See 'fortnight'), and lorries (trucks). The theory is that these statistics should improve. There will, however, be posted for your amusement and to feed your sense of cardiovascular superiority periodic descriptions of my social humiliation that, with any luck, will be primarily related to running.
Today, at lunch, I'll be beetling over to the NIKE store to weather the commission-fueled smiles of sales people as they mask their smug disdain at my wretched state. If all goes well, I'll emerge with a pair of shoes, some socks, and a totally unjustified and artificially-inflated sense of confidence.
Of course, the odds are badly stacked against me. As any runner with Internet access knows, training for a marathon can take place in 16-20 weeks, but that's assuming you have a solid "fitness base". Bah! I have something better than a "fitness base" - I have moxie. For a while there in the '90's I even had chutzpah. And now, against my better judgement, I have a blog.
What could possibly go wrong?
1 comment:
I would also recommend, in addition to purchasing shoes and socks, a fabulous running outfit. Perhaps only females are motivated by how they look when they exercise (or do anything), however, looking the part helps you fantasize that you can actually accomplish what you are setting out to do. Good luck.
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