Locker Room.

Locker Room.

I work with oh, about 700 other people. And of those 700, there are a core group of us who either go running or cycling at lunch. One item of note is that they're all men, with the exception of three of us (two walkers and julia). And the three ladies generally don't happen to exercise at the same time on the same day, thus making the locker room experience quite pleasant, quiet, and solitary, and, ergo, quite unlike the men's room.

Last week, I ran with New Work Boyfriend Who Is Probably Too Fast For Me and headed into the women's locker room. I saw one of the other regulars, let's call her Laura Ann, because that's her real name, sitting reading a book. In her street clothes. In the locker room. Right next to where I wanted to shower. I made a little joke, asking her if she was in here for the peace and quiet, because I promise you, I thought she really wasn't and was instead just waiting for her friend to get there so they could do their little aerobics class or whatever it is. She's all, "yeah."

I hear my running buddy walk into the men's room next door (did I mention that we can hear, albeit somewhat muffled, EVERY WORD THEY SAY) say, "oh yeah, I just ran with Julia [...he trails off/Laura Ann starts talking and ruining it]" and I tried to again jest with Laura Ann about how I like to eavesdrop their conversations. She's all, "[blank stare]".

I try to listen again, to no avail because there are too many voices in the next room, so I ask her what she's reading. She shows me the cover, the very paperback cover, of "Dark Symphony."

I've always had a sense with Laura Ann that we're both sort of on the same wit plane. We seem to get each other. But I, astoundingly, seem to tend a little towards oversharing, and nobody can really get onboard that plane with me. All of this crosses my mind as I process the fact that I'm getting ready to strip down and hit the showers and she's sitting there reading Dark Symphony. I assure myself that it's more of a more-power-to-her thing for not being ashamed of it, because everybody likes the soft-core or sci-fi, don't they? Come to think of it, I'm not sure which of the two genres "Dark Symphony" might be. I, of course, ask. Laura Ann then, THANK ALL THAT IS HOLY, laughs with me, because there's nothing more uncomfortable than being naked with someone who doesn't think you're funny. It's a romance novel, by the way, but she's been known to read both. By the way.

So I finally sort of make the universal gesture for "okay, I'm going to shower now, while you sit here and read Dark Symphony," and quickly take care said showering, and patter back into the main locker area. WHERE LAURA ANN IS STILL SITTING AND READING.

I finally start to feel uncomfortable. Not because of the naked vs. Dark Symphony thing, but because whenever Laura Ann is done with her workout, she'll shower in 2 minutes, quickly slip into her flowy bohemian outfits, flick her hair back, glance in the mirror at her glowing fresh face, shrug as if to say, "all done!" and skip on out of the locker room. I'm pretty sure she doesn't even need deodorant. And now I was going to have to parade all of my potions and salves in front of her while she sat back and relaxed.

Halfway through the potion and salve process, Laura Ann lets out a belly laugh. "They finally found the chef," she explains. The chef, you see, has been missing for days. Days! And they (the gorgeous female protagonist and sexy throbbing-loined male detective) just found him! In the laundry shoot! Wrapped in an ivory linen tablecloth! No, he's dead!

Yes, I asked.

And before long, I finish up and head out. The men's locker room is still bustling mumbledly through the walls, and Laura Ann is still thumbing through Dark Symphony. And at that moment, I absolutely adored my office.

Orange County, Kenya.

Orange County, Kenya.

Last night, I read in this month's issue of Runner's World magazine that Tate Donovan (TV's Jimmy Cooper!) listened to African drum music while training for a marathon, pretending he was a Kenyan runner.

I am so trying this.

Selective Amnesia

Selective Amnesia.

How quickly I forget about the 18,000,000 sweat-drenched emergency public restroom stops on the 20 mile training run. I have decided to sign up for a marathon again. Maybe my dad will sign up with me and run his second marathon 20 years later. That would be ridiculously great. You heard it here first. Actually, it's highly unlikely.

Race day last year, my parents were waiting at mile 17 or so cheering me on and not taking pictures with their unresponsive camera. I like to think I was moving so fast that I beat their shutter speed, but that would be a rotten lie. I digress. My dad commented afterwards that being out there in the race environment almost, just almost made him want to do it again. Keep in mind that this is a man who runs 40 miles a week every week with sweet Sammy the dog and doesn't realize the fantastic mileage unless you specifically ask him if he ran 5 miles that day, and yesterday, and the day before, etc... But he's getting on in years, and he just had a hunch that if he were to train for a marathon, it might very well be the end of his running career. I'm the type of person who gets excited just reading my mileage log, so to think of someone who runs 40 miles a week without noticing is just insane. Relatively, I don't have all that much banking on running (hah, I say that now...), but for my dad, it's huge and automatic for him in the same way as breathing or putting vinegar on chips/fries.

Maybe I can get my dad to be on my team when I do the Wild Miles Relay one year (anyone else? dibs not it on the 13+ mile all uphill leg), but for now I think I'm on my own for the marathon.

And alone I will feel. Having done Marathon Number One with the ubiquitous Team In Training (do it!), it's going to be overwhelmingly difficult to forge my way on my own this time. If anyone wants to run with me for a little bit even, such as pacing me for a few miles on my long runs, I'll be your best friend forever and ever amen and will always share my goo packets.

Who knows, maybe this time I'll be more forthcoming about all the ills of marathon training, such as my second toenail or what I un-affectionately refer to as Runner's Poop. Lucky internet. Poor toenails and butt.

Family Values.

Family Values.



The only message these family member car stickers properly convey to me is that I shouldn't get behind you because you probably drive like a moron, too.