Smells like teen spirit

It is officially hot in Phoenix: 100 degrees and it is still April.  I love the heat, but I don't love the way the heat makes me smell.

I would not classify myself as an overly stinky person.  I've never been told I stink by anyone other than my wife.  And to be fair, she has the scent tracking ability of a bloodhound and the odor discernment of a truffle pig. 

This skill may be hereditary because my children have an odd fascination with stink.  They have a creepy habit of smelling my shoes and clothes immediately following the completion of a run.  And they don't just attempt to get a whiff of odor, they love to get their faces deep into my shoes and socks and inhale the heady aroma of sweat and feet.  Repeatedly.  Because they think it is funny.

And their critique of my manly fragrance following yesterday's 12-mile run?  "Daddy, you smell like cat pee."

Really?  I smell-checked my shirt and they were right.  Cat pee.  Or maybe cat pee mixed with windex, but either way, definitely heavy notes of ammonia.  What could this mean?  Usually, and this according to my wife, I just smell like dirt.  Dirt, like soil and dust, which in my opinion is preferable to the other b.o. classifications of butt, old person stink, or hot trash.

A quick Google search for "sweat smells like ammonia" revealed that I may:
1.  Have renal failure.  Impossible!  My kidneys were stolen from me in 1997 and sold on the black market.
2.  Have been a victim of cat marking by one or both of our cats.  Possible.  We are in a protracted turf war and I have (unsuccessfully) tried to mark our guest bathroom as my territory.  I refuse to cede.
3.  Be burning muscle for fuel while running.  Possible.  Running Doctor reports that eating more carbohydrates before a run could eliminate the ammonia stink.  Done and done.

From now on I will fuel with asparagus in an attempt to have my sweat smell like dirt again and my pee smell like vegetables.

So much better than Jazzercise!

This week, as part of an employer-sponsored health day, I participated in a high-intensity physical challenge that required far more discipline and determination than anything I have ever experienced.  No, not a Warriorspartanmudderzombiesurvior run.  Worse.  And by worse I mean more chafing (both nipples and crotch) and even more public humiliation  What could be more physically and emotionally painful?  Zumba.

The mandatory-as-a-condition-of-employment Zumba class was one of a few health and fitness demos offered in an attempt to help workers work on their pear-like physiques.

I immediately knew I was in trouble when the instructor donned a Janet Jackson style headset and said the only requirement was to have fun.  Fun is a sunny day at the beach.  Fun is launching model rockets with my children.  Gyrating my hips and shaking my groove thang is not fun. 

Why couldn't I enjoy the forbidden dance of fitness?  Because I am a terrible, nay, horrific, dancer.  Elaine Benes cuts a mean rug compared to my ghastly flailing.  And my dancing isn't helped by the fact that I am supposed to do exactly what the instructor is doing, except as a mirror image.  This may sound easy to those familiar with the concept of body coordination.  I am, however, as a coordinated as a manatee. 

My spastic convulsions did not go unnoticed by El Profesor.  Telling me to "hang in there" was just the final humiliation I needed to call it quits.  Truthfully, he could have been addressing the guy next to me after I merengued into him for the third time.

I didn't particularly care for the dancing, but what I found positively offensive was the dance remix of Taylor Swift's "Trouble".  Unnecessary and artistically insulting. 

At the end of the class, El Profesor pitched the goodness of Zumba as a "super fun way to burn fat".  The only burn I noticed was in my loins...burning to move in rhythm with the pulsing Latin beat.  Arriba!  Oops.  ¡Arriba!

How to protect yourself from airborne fecal matter

Yesterday there were some crazy winds here.  Crazy like trees knocked down, dogs blown into swimming pools, and planes levitating crazy.  Thankfully I completed my run in the early morning before the worst of the hard blowing commenced.  By 10 am, it was Kansas just before Dorthy vacated.

As an added bonus the wind kicked up an estimated 17 billion tons of dust, pollen, leaves, and landscaper business cards and sent it hurtling across the desert.  I didn't see anyone running yesterday afternoon and with good reason.  The air was thick with disgustingness.  It was all too similar to southern Afghanistan, except without as much airborne fecal matter (I hope).

If yesterday's air quality (think Beijing with cacti) were a regular occurrence here, I would probably find myself running with a respirator.  Commonly referred to as a "gas mask" or "meth cook's PPE", a respirator is designed to filter out pollution and poop particles before you breathe them in. 

Is it advisable or even possible to run while wearing a respirator?  Maybe and yes.

Although technically not a respirator, there are "sport" dust masks available to provide some protection against airborne pollutants.  Or you could get a 20-pack of dust masks at Home Depot for less than the cost of a single "sport" mask.  Not ready to make the commitment to air filtration by way of facial accoutrement?  Try breathing through your nose.  When run is complete (or mid-run) blow out the mess of goo collected in your nasal cavity.  Problem solved.

And I can personally attest that running in a full-face respirator is only slightly preferable to actually breathing airborne fecal matter.  While in Afghanistan I once (and only once) ran seven miles in an M45 mask.  I thought my face was going to liquify from heat.  But it was an interesting challenge trying to keep from hyperventilating. 

Three years ago, a motivated Devil Dog set the word record at the Marine Corps Marathon for running in a gas mask.  Apparently he has been surpassed by a few other masqueraders since his initial attempt and subsequent record.

So if you are a mouth breather, meth cooker, zombiephobe, or just allergic to ragweed, head down to The Surplus Superstore: Serving Paranoia and Paramilitary, and stock up on any variety of doomsday headwear.  Your bronchioles thank you.

Owww, my tight psoas.

I have this nagging lower back pain that is confined to my right side.  When I run it comes and goes, and can extend from just above my hip, through my butt, down into my hamstring.  The name of my injury/ailment/disease is ________.

Since WebMD has virtually rendered doctors obsolete, I have diagnosed myself, via the Thomas test methodology, with a tight psoas.  What the hell is that, word, which if I knew how to pronounce, I would repeat, you ask?

It's pronounced SO-us, and it is a muscle that runs from your lower spine to your femur, located inside of your pelvis.  One of its major functions is to lift the knee when running, so it can get used heavily.  Side note: quite the sacrum on Mr. Body Worlds in the picture.

So now that I have a pain in a muscle that I didn't even know I had, what to do about it?
1.  Eat more fiber.  Again, in this world without doctors, that just seems like sound advice.
2.  Stretch.  Do the Thomas stretch, named for Thomas Jefferson, who had notoriously tight psoai (yes, both of them were tight). 
3.  More stretching.  The kneeling lunge. 
4.  Warrior I yoga pose. 

And if you want to go beyond just the psoas and stretch the pelvic bowl, Dwight Schrute demonstrates the appropriate form.

 

 

Green leafy vegetables, stretching, and the internet.  See, doctors are worthless.

World's Worst Parents

Yesterday was the parent-teacher group fundraising spring fling at Audrey's elementary school.  It was billed as "epic" although it may have been a stretch to call five bounce houses and an inflatable slide "epic".

Robyn sponsored the inflatable slide (pictured) which was supposed to leave vinyl friction burns on the children in the shape of her logo.

Of course it is April in Phoenix and the daily temperatures are engaged in meteorological foreplay.  They're getting there, but still have some time before full mercurial release.  By noon yesterday it was well over 80 degrees.

The school went to great lengths to re-create the full Disneyland experience, right down to half-hour lines in the scorching mid-day sun.  Max and Audrey were determined to get the full economic advantage from the unlimited-ride wristbands, so standing patiently on line was just part of the "fun".

After an hour of vigorous line-waiting and bouncing, we decided to stand in another 30 minute line for a snow cone.  Robyn asked Max what flavor of snow cone he wanted.  He mumbled something and was wandering around near us in the line.  Robyn asked him again what he wanted but he couldn't form a coherent answer.  She scooped Max up and told me that something was wrong with him.

I don't remember how, but I ended up holding Max and hurriedly walking under a shaded area to find a place to sit.  I asked him how he was feeling, but his head was lolling on my shoulder and his eyeballs were rolling back into his head.  He couldn't speak.  He was completely limp in my arms and his face was a ghostly white.  I fumbled for my phone and tried to call 911, but in my panic I couldn't remember how to use an iPhone.  I threw my phone at Robyn and told her to call 911.  If the crowd of parents around me wasn't paying attention to my situation, they were now.

I sat down in the shade and laid Max in my lap.  I discovered that he had puked while I was holding him.  He still couldn't really speak, but was mostly conscious.  By now the crowd of parents and teachers were in emergency mode.  I was handed a couple of blankets, bags of ice, and water.  An ER doctor, nurse, and EMT all offered assistance.

Robyn was still on the phone with the 911 dispatcher.  Apparently 911 needed the exact address of the school where we were.  She was eventually able to convince the dispatcher that the best location she could provide was the cross streets.

After a few minutes of shade, ice, and cold water, Max started showing signs of improvement.  Time compression made the Phoenix Fire Department's response seem like hours, when in reality it couldn't have been more than a few minutes.   The responding station was just over two miles from the school.

The worst of it was over by the time the firefighters arrived.  Max was deemed fine by the paramedics, but got an ambulance ride to Phoenix Children's Hospital anyway.

Diagnosis: terrible parents.  We let our children run around in the almost-summer heat for well over an hour with no water.  Max was a casualty of heat exhaustion and mild dehydration.

Lessons learned:
1.  Pre-hydrate.  By time time the body experiences signs of thirst, it is already dehydrated.  We should have ensured that the kids had adequate water before and during the carnival.
2.  Take breaks.  Make sure you are scheduling rest breaks in a shady, cool area.  Again, we didn't do this.
3.  Wear a hat.  The cloth serves as barrier against solar energy, helping to prevent your brain from fry-o-lating.   We didn't do this either.

Disclaimer:  Please don't notify CPS, DES, the Salvation Army, or any other uniformed agency that could storm our home and take our children.  The dirty looks and passive-aggressive, "See, my kid has his own hat and Camelbak to prevent this" sentiments from the other parents are punishment enough (right?).  We are now officially and publicly terrible parents.    

FITspiration

Getting to the bottom of it

Today my son had a little accident.  He's four, so those things happen.  The weird part is that he had his accident while he was standing in front of the toilet peeing.  Apparently he decided that while he was peeing (with his pants around his ankles), he also needed to poop.  Right then.  So he did.  While he was standing in front of the toilet peeing.

Wait, it gets better.

He also decided not to let anyone know about the hot steaming pile on the floor.  So he covered it up with his step stool (no pun intended).

Wait, it continues to get "better".

Based on crime scene reconstruction, we estimate that 3-5 hours pass.

I go into the kid's bathroom to pee.  I think nothing of the overwhelming stink, because it always stinks in there.  I also think nothing of the pee still in the toilet, because my kids are devout water conservationists.  I pee into the pee already in the bowl and think nothing of the step stool in front of the toilet.

Another 1-2 hours pass.

Robyn goes into their bathroom, notices the powerful stink, and after a cursory search, discovers my son's hidden treasure.  She wins the prize!  Max said he "didn't want to talk about it".

Moral of the story: if there is an unusual stink coming from a bathroom, don't go looking for the source.  Ignore the odor and wait for authorities to assist.  This is especially important if stink is encountered in the restroom at your work.

Feetures! I love you! (making a heart symbol with my feet)

I wear socks.  And occasionally underwear.  But never both at the same time.  Can you guess which one I am not wearing right now?

This morning, pre-run, I discovered a hole, possibly from overuse, in one of the aforementioned items of clothing.  Overuse?  The hole definitely wasn't in my underwear. 

The hole was in a one of my many pairs of Feetures! socks.  Yes!  The exclamation point is theirs!  For emphasis!  To let you know that their socks are that exciting!

But despite their grammatical over exuberance, I really do like their socks.  I own a drawer full of their black and white no-show (just like my underwear) socks.  And today, a pair that was just shy of its first birthday, sprung a hole in one of the middle toes.

In Feetures! defense, I have some wickedly disgusting toes.  Nails that have fallen off and regrown into what appears to be a mollusk-like form, alternatingly crusting and oozing blisters, a stink that causes our cats to try to bury my shoes, athlete's foot trying to make a northbound run, and interdigital hair that would make even a chimpanzee stare.  There is a better than average chance that the sock was dissolved by an acidic chemical process occuring inside my running shoes: heat + microorganisms = unknown corrosive byproduct.

Whatever fate befell the sock, Feetures! has a lifetime guarantee.  Pretty incredible to consider, since if something goes wrong on our television past our 91st day of ownership, I guess I'll just carry it out to the garbage can (after cannibalizing it for rare earths, of course).   

Like any other product warranty, I figured that I would have to send in the socks at my expense (presumably so that a guy dressed in a biohazard suit could incinerate them), pay a processing fee, and then pay shipping back for a new pair.  This morning, I swallowed my pride and called their customer service number to ask for a "warranty claim for my socks."  No immediate snickering or discernible condescension, so I continued.  A nice lady took my name and address, asked me what happened to the sock, and said she would send me a new pair.  Seriously?  No need to produce long-since-trashed receipt or mail my putrid laundry back to the factory?  You just won me over for life, Feetures!  The way to my heart is apparently through my feet.  My foul, noxious feet. 

I may go commando, but never a shod step shall I take without my Feetures! (does that need a period or can I just end with their exclamation point?)

Slow down, Tubby!

I love to eat.  And fast.  I've always been good at consuming a large amount of food in a very, very short time.  Call it nutritional efficiency.  No time for conversation, breathing, chewing, or looking around.  Just stab, bite, swallow, repeat.

For my caloric maintenance, a big component is slowing the physical act of moving food from plate to mouth.  Sounds simple, but for me it takes work, patience, and practice.

Today I had some assistance in the way of major dental surgery.  That isn't my mouth, but it looks just like mine.  I had a crown lengthening on one of my top front teeth.  Luckily, I can still eat regular foods and not just hamburger smoothies.

Since I can only chew with my back teeth, I spent at least 30 minutes eating two bowls of homemade turkey chili and cornbread.  The protein and fiber in the chili is naturally filling and I was well past the 20 minute mark when the brain and digestive system coordinate a sensation of fullness.

How to eat slower without resulting to oral surgery?  Here's nine good ways.

Or you could could buy this $99 fork.  It's a fork!  Which costs $99.  And tells you that you are eating too fast.  Do not attempt to bring this fork to a restaurant in your pocket.  Because it's a fork.  Which costs $99.  But if you decide to risk fork-transport and are seen in a restaurant, toting your very own ridiculously colored $99 vibrating fork, you may be mocked by other patrons while eating, which would definitely slow you down.  So it probably does work.

Image courtesy The Simpsons and educational filmstrip The Moon of Earth.

Kill the 'If'

There are a million great reasons to workout or eat right.  But sometimes the persuasive power of a the million great reasons is not enough motivation to overcome one tiny little rationalization: if.

"If I didn't get shin splints when I ran..."
"If I knew how to cook..."
"If I had more time..."
"If it wasn't so hot outside..."

Kill the if.

The if is convenient.  Short and sweet, if lets everyone know that you could be tough and disciplined, if being tough and disciplined weren't so difficult.

The if relieves you of real accountability.  Relying on if shifts the burden of responsibility for your performance to the ether.  No if places your failure (and success!) squarely at your feet.

The if delays pain/challenge/discomfort, thereby delaying triumph/victory/improvement.  The if is insecurity and weakness hoping for legitimacy. 

The if is a boundary, a limit, that you cannot cross.  Do you like living with shackles of constraint?  Neither do I.

The if is a euphemism for resigned.  Resigned is a euphemism for quit.

Kill the if and destroy its lifeforce of cop outs.

Without if, anything is possible: no conditions, no stipulations, no negotiations.  Without if there is only action.  Kill your if and be the action.     

We tell our children that they can do anything and be anything they want.  Or parents told us they same thing.  When did we stop believing that?

An Open Letter

Dear Female Runner in the Town of Paradise Valley,

My sincerest congratulations on outrunning me today.  When I spotted you 200 yards ahead of me, I had no idea that you were running at a 7ish minute mile pace.  I was slowly closing in on you (in a purely uncreepy non-stalkerish sort of way) but then my route took me in another direction. 


I would like to think that you were just out for a three-mile jaunt which would have warranted your extra-quick step.  Unfortunately (for both me and my ego) when we crossed paths again three miles later, you were still hammering at your frenetic speed.

I couldn't catch up to you, but I do have some plausible excuses.

First, when we met I was on mile six of a twelve mile run.  Then again, you could have been on mile ten of a twenty-miler.  Excuse retracted.

Second, I ate a mountain of sugary garbage yesterday.  I spent Sunday shoveling bite sized Snickers into my mouth like firemen shoveling coal into Titanic's furnace.  Ergo, I was slow.  And constipated.

Third, I was scared.  Scared that I would use up too much trying to run down the un-run-down-able.  With little reserves and just beyond my halfway point, I would have had to limp five miles back to the house.  Of my excuses, this is the most embarrassing.

You won this time.  And just to clarify, you knew we were racing, right?