Ch-Ch-Changes

You know how sometimes you have this huge internal struggle that you wrestle with for months?

And when you finally, finally decide "The heck with it; I'm balls in" you can't wait for the opportunity to tell all those you love?

Because you *know* all those you love will be shocked at the leap of faith you are taking?

But when you publicly drop the life-altering, life-changing decision you toiled over, all your friends and family are like, "Yeah, I saw *that* coming a mile away," leaving you wondering, "Am I really such a foregone conclusion?"

So that happened this month.

Yes, I'm talking about the decision to compete in my first powerlifting meet.

(Y'all saw that coming, too, huh?)(Apparently I'm last to the party on this one.)

At a recent training session, Kemper valiantly tried to argue one more time for the merits of going into figure competition. I finally trumped all his subtle coercion with the ultimate deal-breaker for me: modesty. There is no way around that one if I was going to go into figure competition. (Mom Those who may be wondering, figure competition is the one where you put on a tiny bikini and heels and stand on a stage to show the results of your months of strict diet and hardcore training.) Kemper conceded if modesty was my main issue then, um, yeah, figure wasn't going to work for me.

But if not figure, then what did I really want to do? I've spent the last twelve weeks working Kemper's 5x5 strength training plan. It was a total blast and hella effective. Here are the results from twelve weeks training:

Me getting ready to squat 170 x 5
Also, apparently I squat low bar naturally.
Because my traps are weak delicate.

I started the plan at 147.9 pounds (I'm 5' 3.5" tall) and 23.6% body fat.

I benched 65 for reps with a 1 rep max of 95.
I squatted 95 for reps with a 1 rep max of 155.
I deadlifted 115 for reps with a 1 rep max of 165.

Last weigh in I weighed 146 with 20% body fat.

I bench 95 for reps.
I squat 170 for reps.
I deadlift 165 for reps.

I have yet to test my new 1 rep maxes*, but I think it's fair to say Kemper's strength training plan has been fruitful. So what's next?

It's for STRENGTH GAINZ, geez.

The decision to go into powerlifting was hard for one simple, ridiculous reason. The scale. For me it started and ended with knowing I was going to need to change my diet to support my powerlifting goals, which meant I had to be okay with maybe gaining weight. Kemper used fun terminology like "calorie progression" to talk about eating for strength gains but I knew that was really code for "let's make you a nice, strong Chunky Monkey totally fluffified in time for all your Christmas photos". (Confession. The thought of Kemper actually uttering the words "Chunky Monkey" or "fluffified" kinda sets me to snickering.)(But it would be rad.)

This looks nothing like Kemper.
But the expression? Dude.

(Also, Random Thought For Free = I made Brian watch Brian and I watched The Fault In Our Stars Saturday night and Kemper totally has a facial expression twin. The actor that plays Augustus makes so many Kemper faces it kept taking me out of the imaginary world of Hazel Grace and Augustus (that was absolutely destroying me anyway, let's be honest) because I would be all, "Where have I seen that look..." and be mystified for all of three seconds before I was like, "Kemper freaking Sosa."

So what I was trying to say before Augustus Waters hijacked my life yet again, is that it took a fair amount of internal debate and reflection to see if I'm in a place to be able to mentally handle any body image issues that may arise because of bulking  becoming a fluffified Chunky Monkey  calorie progression. Finally I decided, "Dude, stop being a freaking girl and just go for it." So Imma do it.

What's the plan?

Baby Sister/Police Officer Extraordinaire
Full disclosure: Her name is Cassie.
But what kind of second rate older
sister would let the golden opportunity
pass to drop the nickname "Casshole"?
Not this one.

Firstly, I'm taking a three week break just to have fun. I'm sticking with the general outline of my strength plan (Mondays = chest and arms, Tuesday = yoga and sometimes run, Wednesday - deadlift and back, Thursday = chest/arms/HIIT, Friday = rest, Saturday = LEG DAY, Sunday = abs and HIIT) but I'm trying out a bunch of new-to-me exercises and machines. I'm training with Rachel Who Looks Like Meg Ryan on Mondays (and some Thursdays) and Powerlifter Sara on some Wednesdays and Saturdays. I trained with my baby sister (the beautiful and strong Casshole) last Thursday at LA Fitness. I'm playing around with stances and grips and throwing up new weights just because I can. HOORAH.

I'll meet with Kemper the first week of October to go over THE NEW TRAINING PROGRAM. You know, the one that prepares me for my first ever powerlifting meet. *throws up in my mouth a little from fear* I found a meet in January that is relatively close by; unfortunately it is only a push/pull competition, which means I will only be doing bench press and deadlift. (No squatting this time.)(Which I actually think might be a nice way to ease into this sport.) I'll start The New Training Program October 13, which gives me roughly 12 weeks to prepare. I'm also attending a meet in Grand Rapids, Michigan on October 11 to see Powerlifter Sara compete, which will give me some idea of what to expect when it's my turn.

I'm nervous, guys. I'm freaking out a little. I'm worried I may be the weakest person there. I'm worried I won't make my lifts. But this is good freaking out, and healthy fear. This is the fear that pushes me to try new things, to be better. These are the nerves that challenge my Navy Seal dreams. Second place is FIRST LOSER.

In conclusion, (I love that dropping that phrase always makes me feel like I've actually made some cohesive points) here is a picture of me hitting a new PR for deadlift on Sunday morning that has nothing to do with any of this post, and everything with just wanting to post a ginormous picture of myself deadlifting TWO HUNDRED POUNDS.

True story about this picture: Lifetime Fitness is relatively empty at 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, which made it the perfect time to play around with a sumo deadlift stance and see how much I could lift. I did some light sets of ten reps to warm up (at 95# and 115#) and then started rocking out two reps every 10#-20# increase. My previous 1 rep max lift was 165#; after Kemper's strength training plan I could do 2-3 sets of 5 reps each at 165#. But I'd never done more than that. When I got to 175# it was a big deal. A NEW PR! But I kept going. 185#. Then 190#. I was all, "THAT'S A 25# PR!" Then I thought, "A 30# PR would be nicer." So I did it. Then I reasoned, "I'm only 5 measly pounds away from 200 - which is a really nice number." So I pulled 200# and freaked the heck out.
 Then I proceeded to ask every single person within a fifty foot radius if they had a camera with them and would someone pretty please with a cherry on top take a picture (because: proof) and email it to me?!?!
Thankfully my new best friend Toni (a.k.a. previously a perfect stranger) ran down to the locker room (oh yes, she did) to grab her phone and take the lovely shot above which she emailed to me because she loves and supports other women who lift. And I am super, super grateful.
The End.

Up a creek (yep,*that* creek - literally) without a paddle. Also, when it rains it pours.

MY FIRST EVER VLOG. 

Y'all - try to contain your excitement. 

Here is a video to prove how Midwestern I am.

Also, just send me some love. For real. It's crappy here. LITERALLY.

(Sewage jokes, already? Too soon, Kel.)

What's smaller than a rocket but packs the same amount of punch? A mortar bomb? Because I totally snot mortar-bombed the guy at the zoo.

Day Two of the Great Trip Westward started in a glorious manner.

First, I awoke at 6:30 a.m. Cali time which felt like 9:30, so, yeah, that was pretty awesome. Next, Lauren was still asleep so I laced up my kicks and went for a run. (Also, I now apparently say "laced up my kicks" for those taking notes.)  I ran along the freaking San Diego Bay, ya'll.  I ran by palm trees.  The weather was perfect - sunny and low 70's, and there was a slight breeze along the water.  I decided to just run for four songs and turn around because I had no idea where I was going and only had an easy two miles on the schedule.

See the dude fishing on the right?  Doesn't he look super tiny?  WTHeck?

"I was ruh-ning."

It was one of those wonderful runs that feels like you could RUN FOREVER, which honestly only happens once in a blue moon for me, so I took advantage of it while I could.  I ran the whole peninsula we were staying on (a 2.8 mile loop I later learned) and must have passed 30 other runners on the road.  It was awesome.  I felt like I met my people.  After the run I checked out the Hilton's fitness center.  I grunted through an ab workout, did some squats, and then did my arms.  I was worried a little about missing my swim workouts that week (have I mentioned I have a triathlon tomorrow?!) and wanted to do some extra arm strength training to compensate.  I got a little carried away on the triceps, but don't worry, I totally whined like a baby about how sore my arms were for the duration of the trip sucked it up like the hardcore athlete I am.

This is a picture of the same meal I ordered
that I stole off the internets because I am
horrible at remembering to photograph my
food before I inhale it.  It turns out I actually
stole it from a food blog, so if you want more
of a description of my breakfast that includes
phrases like, "balanced flavors", check it out.

We ate brunch in a cute little restaurant called the Hob Nob Hill.  It had paisley booths and chandeliers.  It's like they knew I was coming and decorated the interior to cater to me personally. I ordered a spinach, bacon, cream cheese, and avocado omelette which was just as delicious as it sounds, and I convinced myself it was healthy because I dubbed it Paleo if you ignore some of the key ingredients.  It came with spiced apples and rhubarb coffee cake which I washed all down with Diet Coke.  (Nope.  I didn't even try to make this meal diet friendly. Well, I actually subbed the apples for the hash browns, so yeah, totally low-cal brunch.)


After breakfast we headed to the San Diego Zoo.  Admittedly I'm not much of an animal person.  I don't hate them, I'm just not the friend that really cares too much about your pet critters (but I promise I'm really good at acting attentive in the interest of supportive friendship).  In fact, Sarah's dog is usually greeted, "Wut up, Dawg?" even though her name is Tess (okay, Tess is freaking adorable)(she's a Labradoodle)(with gorgeous eyes) because I'm pretty gangster like that.  The San Diego Zoo is pretty pricey, but it is supposed to be one of the best zoos in the country, so it was worth it to pony up the cost of admission. (10,000 Awesome Points for a zoo pun.)

The San Diego Zoo is fantastic.  The tour guide told us to think of it as shaped like a bowl. The hills were steeeeep.  In fact, in several places there were signs warning that only the really physically fit take certain trails.  These trails were probably my favorite part of the zoo, because there is no way I would have been able to hike them three years ago.

It was at the zoo that I had an epiphany about both Lauren and myself.  This was unexpected because I've known Lauren for years ... and myself even longer. (Insert vocal rim-shot.) Lauren really likes birds.  Lauren also really likes photography.  I never combined those interests in my head before. Thankfully the four aviary's at the zoo had me well convinced Lauren likes to take pictures of birds.

Me surely being hunted in the aviary. I
don't even know what happened with
the lighting in this picture, but it totally
supports my argument that I was in
mortal danger.

Taking our time going through the aviary's normally wouldn't be a problem because I'm a super chill and undemanding friend except when I need iced coffee, but I discovered something about myself during the Lauren/Bird/Camera Epiphany.  Aviary's freak me the heck out. Like, a lot. Waaaay more than leeches.  You know in Jurassic Park, when they are being hunted by the raptors and you just know they are surely going to die in some grotesque way that will also be horribly painful? Being in the aviary's was exactly like that, except I knew poop would also be involved. Because, seriously, I'm like a bird poop magnet*. (*This post is already too long, but I promise I will share my bird poop stories another time.  Now that is the kind of teaser that keeps the crowds a-coming.)

After the first aviary I retreated as quickly as possible to the caged entryways of each aviary to "study the map".  (I'm pretty sure at this point I could get a job as a San Diego Zoo tour guide.)(#moremarketableskillzinmypocket)  I still had to walk through each one because I certainly wasn't going to confess my fears to Lauren because a Navy Seal doesn't ever show fear even when tropical sniper birds hiding in the trees above are aiming for a kill shot of poo.

"I'm coming for you, Kelly."

When I was pretending to appreciate the beauty of the foliage as I speed-walked through aviary #3, I saw two young guys meandering through behind me.  They were in their late teens and I was all, "Dude, that's cool. These guys are just hanging out at the zoo together, checking out birds."  I was preparing to greet them (because I have a big mouth and think the distraction of a good conversation is the best way to deal with stress when you are facing certain death) when, as I held open the chain link fence door for them, a bird totally crapped on the wrist of the kid reaching out to grab the door from me.  I immediately felt horrible, because I knew that poo was meant for me and this kid was just an innocent bystander.

I saw him look at his wrist, say, "ugh," look at me looking at his wrist, saw him get embarrassed and then get pissed because teenage males usually deal well with embarrassment, and I responded the way I do best.

I bit the inside of my mouth and thought, "please don't laugh out loud at this poor dude," and then, "ohmylanta, I'm totally going to laugh," and then, "maybe if I clamp my lips together nothing will happen," and then my body literally betrayed me.

I started to laugh, but since my mouth was out of commission, my giggles bubbled out in halting gasps through my nose.  This, in turn, produced a fine misting spray of snot to projectile from my face to this poor boy's outstretched avian feces spotted wrist.  It was like a snot-rocket that misdetonated.  Instead of producing a neat little ball of nasal mucus that projected forcefully to the ground, my halting reaction of suppressed laughter simply showered down in waves, drizzling over the unfortunate surface below.

I was all, "Sorry," and ran back inside the aviary.  So you know even though I was still giggling I totally felt bad about it.

So, yeah, the zoo was cool.

DFL - A Modern Day Horror Story

"Second Place is First Loser."
-the Navy Seals

I don't want to get too bragg-y, but in terms of my running speed, I'm pretty solidly in the 40th percentile.  Roughly 60 percent of the other runners in the race will cross the finish line before me.  I'm okay with that because 30 percent are finishing after me*, which I'm sure we all can agree is the main point of races.  You know, to beat somebody.

(*Even at my slowest, my very first 5K was comprised of both walkers and runners so I was guaranteed a middle-of-the-pack but totally an end of the pack for runners finish.)(It's not like any of the walkers passed me while I was running.)(That would be ridiculous.)(It totally happened.)(But if it did happen, it would have been by a cracked out power walker wearing Shape Ups.)(One who, if having incorporated just a little more bounce in her step would have technically been considered jogging.)(I'm going to suggest some of these "walkers" get tested for performance enhancing drugs before races.)(Because if there's one thing we learned from Lance, it's how to look bored out of your mind while confessing your contrition when you get caught doing the thing you spent your career vehemently swearing you didn't do   that it is possible for a Damage Control Publicity Tour to make you seem like more of a jackhole than the initial infraction ever did  that victory obtained through falsehood isn't true victory.)

As I was picking my races I thought, "It might be really cool to do an Olympic distance triathlon this summer."  The Olympic distance is twice as long as the Sprint distance I did last year.  I spent a few days warming up to the idea, looked up a good race, and committed.  I was going to do an OLYMPIC DISTANCE TRIATHLON.  I wrote out my training plan and took some time to revel in my own Bad-A self.  It was while I was dwelling on my awesomeness, picturing myself competing in this particular race, when I was struck by a horrifying thought.

(If you are a runner, there are a few acronyms you pick up along the way.  "PR" stands for the Personal Record, "LSD" is the long slow distance I drop every Sunday before church, and "ACL" is an injury to avoid like the plague.  Some acronyms you learn to save time, some to be cool, and some just for plain old survival. There is one such survival acronym in my arsenal that I never-evah-evah (Sorry Ms. Jackson)(forevah-evah?) wanted to see associated with my name.

D  F  L.

Dead Effing Last.)

I realized, what with the size (this race is very small.  Last year about 120 people raced the Sprint.  Only seventeen raced the Olympic.  Of those seventeen, two were women.) and caliber of athlete competing in this race (last year's slowest time - by a lot - for Olympic was 2:53:46), if I do the Olympic Distance Triathlon I want to do, there is a huge chance I will finish last.  Like last out of the whole entire race.  Both Sprint and Olympic combined.  DFL.

"So, Kelly, what's the big deal, find a different race."  I know.  I could just find something bigger and stop being such a drama queen get on with life.  But I like this race.  And now I have a mental challenge on top of the physical challenge of racing.  Can I emotionally handle being DFL?

So I've taken the first step.  (Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?) I've also taken the official next step, which I've decided is "Contact the race organizers and make sure there is not a time cut off for the Olympic distance."  Because the only thing more embarrassing than a DFL finish is the one you are not allowed to finish because you're TFS*.

*I made that one up.  You can work it out on your own.

How I Became an Ultra-Ironman Triathlete

I should not have put off writing today's post for as long as I have, as it is now late Tuesday night and instead of reveling in my normal hilarity I am sad, sad, sad.

Brian just took the in-laws to the airport. You know, where they will be boarding a plane to Africa.  For a year. (And by that I mean they will be living in Africa for a year, not boarding a plane for a year.)(It's just that my sentence structure was confusing and I didn't want anyone to be misinformed.)(Because here at Sublurban Mama we care about factual and accurate information.)(And avoid redundancies and repeating ourselves.)(Did you like how I said "we" like Sublurban Mama is more than me, a SAHM blogging in my jammies, wondering if Ezra will remember he has a Milky Way Valentine's heart from Grandma in the fridge or if he is still young enough that out of sight means out of mind, and if that is the case I should totally eat it?)

For those who already live far away from family, or just plain don't see yours much, in-laws in Africa for a year will not seem a big deal.  But I'm close with my in-laws, and the kiddos see their grandparents several times a week.  We live 3.1 miles apart (which is an excellent running route, because there's always cold water and a potty half way through)(and a ride home if I wuss out).  This will be an adjustment.  Because honestly, I can't see myself going out for a jog to Malawi anytime soon.  I am an ultrarunner at heart, but I should probably cover more than 6 miles at a time if I'm going to attempt intercontinental running.  Plus there's that whole "ocean" thing.  Although that could be the most intense triathlon ever.

The Ironman Triathlon is a 2.4 mile swim.  The Visit the In-Laws in Malawi Triathlon is about a 4,000 mile swim.  The Ironman follows it's swim with 112 miles on the bike.  My VTILIM Triathlon would have a 3300 mile bike ride.  The run would undoubtedly be the easiest part. The Ironman finishes with a little 26.2 mile marathon, and I think the VTILIM run would be about the same.  Except in a third world nation.  With no support or paved roads.  A trail run marathon.

Actually, my Visit the In-Laws in Malawi Triathlon sounds a lot like what I imagine is an everyday Navy Seal workout.  In fact, with a few minor tweaks (like the rule where you have to carry a weapon and wear camo body paint) I'm pretty sure I should rename this the Navy Seal Triathlon for Hardcore Endurance Athletes that Know Second Place is First Loser and that Pain is Just Weakness Leaving the Body.  It's catchier and more inclusive, don'tcha think?

Hoorah.

Oh, the weather outside is frightful

Dear Jesus, if you are going to send a
blizzard, I would prefer mine with
Oreo cookies.  

Well, the good Lord saw fit to dump a bunch of snow on our neck of the woods.

...


*Searching my brain for a Pollyanna-type comment*


It's really pretty from inside my warm and cozy house.





If I had my choice I would live somewhere warm and sunny all the time.  So today's post is a return to my happy place, when I could ride my bike outside on a wooded trail while wearing a tank top. Bliss.  Here is a day in the life of a hardcore trail-riding cyclist who also won the X-Games.

And THAT'S How I Won the X-Games (posted in June)

Facebook Status: It may be all Zen to you to practice your flute in the middle of the woods at 6:30 on a Saturday morning, but to me, on my first trail ride, coming around a bend and hearing faint strains of Bach's Partita in A minor only reminds me a bit of a whacked out suburban version of Deliverance. And I'm already peddling as fast as I can.

Yep. My first trail ride.

I left the house at around 6:15 a.m. after mapping and remapping my route obsessively via mapmyride.com. I had 12 miles scheduled and I've been spoiled by Sarah planning our routes. But she couldn't bike that day so I decided to Navy Seal it and do some trail riding. (Because if Navy Seals rode their bikes to train for a sprint triathlon they would totally go trail. Blindfolded.  While being chased by rabid squirrels.) Also, major roads (the kinds my neighborhood is surrounded by) still freak me out (maybe because Brian, in his deep seeded love for cyclists, mentions taking them out with his car how much he hates sharing the road with them whenever cycling enters the conversation).  So hitting up a place that dubbed me the biggest threat had a certain appeal.

I spent most of the ride pretending I was in the X-Games. I made sure I had my hardcore face on, and skidded on the gravel as much as possible because I have poor balance and limited overall control of my ride.  There were a ton of (imaginary and consequently invisible) fans cheering me on, and I mugged for the (again, imaginary and invisible) cameras and enjoyed a few voice-over commentary moments.  Like,

"Kelly, tell us about that last turn, where it looked as if you were going to attempt a full pirouetting dismount."
"Well, John, it got dicey out there.  I was going so fast and misjudged the angle.  (Insert dramatic pause to catch my breath because I had just finished the event and won.)  I thought I was going to have to bail and didn't want to eat it on those tiny bits of gravel huge rocks, but thanks to my extensive ballet training (i.e. my best friend is a ballerina and uses terms like pirouette in casual conversation) I knew it would be the best way to get outta there.  Thankfully I recovered without any dance moves."

also

"Kelly, on bridge number four you made this fantastic face - tell us what you were thinking."
"Are you referring to when I came out of the saddle, John?  I was thinking, "I'm totally riding out of the saddle.  In the middle of the woods.  And it's gorgeous out. And since I'm standing up I can see the stream raging river below the bridge.  And at the next games I'm going to suggest we ditch the bridges and ride through the rapids.  Because this is the X-Games, not a tea party*."

*not a political statement.  It's simply that I have a gaggle of girlies and have partaken in my fair share of actual tea parties.  And they are nothing like the X-Games.  But now that I'm on a tangent, I remember my children frequently wear their bathing suits and jump off the couch into a blue comforter. They also paddle board, surf, and barefoot ski on the same blue comforter, so, yeah, my house is pretty much like a year round X-Games.

Miles 8-9 took place on a paved trail where I experienced my first X-Games medal ceremony.  And really, it was almost embarrassing to win so many of the gold.  I also saw a group of deer, which was cool but completely unexpected as I was really close to a major highway.  Because I was going so fast (have I mentioned that yet?) I came upon them suddenly, and they were only a few feet away before they took off.

Also?  I've seen a number of sweet neighborhood rabbits on my morning runs.  They generally slowly hop away as I approach.  But I have a different effect on rabbits while on my bike.  They freak the heck out.  I wanted to be all, "Dude, rabbits, I'm cool.  I wouldn't run you over or hunt you.  Even if it was the end of the world.  Or the Hunger Games.  Probably."  But then I thought about it and knew I was lying in my head to those poor rabbits.  But maybe not.  Because although I would totally eat them during the Hunger Games, I would let someone else hunt them.  So, semantics = not a liar. Awesome.

I have another trail ride tomorrow - a scheduled 15 miles.  And in honor of the summer Olympics,  I might take a break from the X-Games, and enter a few cycling events there.  So I'll probably pass Michael Phelps as the most successful athlete in history.  Better call Guinness. (The World Records, not the beer.) (Heathen.)

First World Deluge

I actually felt it tear. *shudder*
When it rains it pours y'all.

"I can't sleep."

"The basement is flooded again."

"The minivan overheated on the highway and dinged a four minute warning bell that was code for 'this vehicle is about to combust' which was honestly like waiting through a bomb countdown right next to the bomb" (a bomb that would eventually cost $250 to defuse).

AND

 "Who knew tearing your calf muscle could be so painful?" (It's not actually torn all the way through.  I don't need surgery (thank God).  But it hurts like nobodies bidness.)

(Also on my rant rain list: Ezra's new therapy is $120 a week, Hosanna's skin is really having a hard time in this weather, our household humidifier needs to get it's stuff together, my gym membership is up at a $350 renewal fee, Ezra needs oral surgery, and why can't I lose these nine pounds?)(Answer: It's totally because I eat too much.)

I am thankful that all my problems lately are just merely inconvenient and not actual problems that keep me up at night (except for the first one).

Happy Fitness Friday!

The torture device from where I blog.
Seeing it is kind of like visiting Shakespeare's home, right?

I didn't post yesterday because it hurt to sit at the computer.   You know, because of my major and serious calf injury. And since I don't have a laptop or any of those other newfangled contraptions you younguns use nowadays I have to sit in a hard-backed chair with no cushion to play work on the computer.  But really it was the throbbing that kept me off the computer and on the couch with my calf elevated all day long. (And not watching Christmas movies, Brian, because I am a homeschooling mother.)(And I for sure didn't have real coke instead of tea for breakfast because that's what you drink at a pity party.)

The calf tear was all my fault.  I was being stupidly awesome yet again.  Wednesday night at the gym is a fairly easy night.  I have Ab Lab (a twenty minute abdominal class for which I will name my next child), upper body strength training, and a three mile tempo run on the treadmill.  Everything was easy peasy until the tempo run.  About halfway through I realized if I pushed it just a bit more I would do a sub-30 5k.  I really wanted that. (Especially since the first fifteen minutes of my run were spent telling myself to make it to fifteen minutes and then I could quit.  Runners, it was that kind of run.) I bumped my speed to 6.3 mph (which is fast for me).  With about five minutes left I saw I would need to bump it up more.  So I did.  And then a little more.  And a tinsy bit more.  I ran the last minute at 8.7 mph. Well, I ran the last 56 seconds at 8.7 mph.  The last four seconds I said, "DUDE!" (in my head, not out loud because I'm a Navy Seal and we don't show pain) while my left leg quit working because I felt something tear.  I slowed the treadmill down to a walkable pace, which? was 1.3 mph.  You know, the speed labeled "Barely Moving."

(For you other Navy Seals out there: I totally did a sub-30 5k.)

The pain was cuh-razy sick.  It felt like the first time you get out of bed after a C-section (which about ten percent of my readership will relate to, so good job being universal, Kelly).  I limped to the wipes and limped back to the treadmill to wipe it down (because I'm still considerate even though I was probably dying).  I limped to the locker room and called Sarah. Since she's in orthopedics, I was pretty sure she was going to tell me we needed to amputate, so I was prepared for the inevitable. Unfortunately she was working so I didn't get to talk with her and have some totally made up doomsday proclamations to tell Brian when I got home kind of realistic diagnosis before I made my way home.  It took close to twenty minutes to walk to my car.  I was obviously limping but trying to play it off like all was well like maybe I was just perfecting a new pimp walk.

At home I got some ice and googled "My leg needs to be amputated".  Or I googled "treating a pulled calf muscle".  I don't remember.  The internet mostly told me what I already suspected: RICE, Aleve, and snickers ice cream.

This is me trying to take a picture of my
own jammies without being able to climb
on the side of the bathtub and take it in
the mirror like any other sane person.
ALSO:  "Hey Kel, is that a snowman
toilet seat cover in your half bath?
You are rockin' some Christmas spirit."
Totally.  

That is why I spent Thursday morning wearing the coziest jammie pants* ever created in the history of jammie pants and chilling on the couch while I snuggled the kiddos and read, like, a ton of stories. And maybe wore my slippers when I drove the car to pick up Happy Meals for lunch because whoever said money couldn't buy happiness never spent $3.49 to become the Best Mom in the Universe.


*Those of you who read Runs for Cookies know the jammies I am talking about because Katie loves them, too.  In fact, when she mentioned the most comfortable pajamas ever, I knew she had to be talking about the Vera Wang pj's from Kohls, and I was totally right.

After lunch I connected with Sarah who told me to take off my slippers and put on real shoes to help out my calf.  She planned to come over after work and examine me in person because she is a good friend and I am spoiled rotten.



I also had this telephone conversation with Brian midday because he is totally sympathetic:

Brian:  How's your leg?

Kelly:  It hurts but I can walk, so whatever.  I'm just really slow.  I'm pretending I have a peg leg like a pirate and wearing an eye patch.

Brian:  But can you Walk Like An Egyptian?

Kelly: I was thinking about getting crutches because at least I'd be a little faster.  Plus I could wrap them with red and white crepe paper and they would look like candy canes.

Brian:  You should get a neck brace. (He is totally mocking my pain, y'all)

Kelly: It probably wouldn't hurt.


Sarah came over that night and confirmed that I have the worst calf injury in the history of the universe a strained calf muscle, and if it's not better in a few days she will procure a fancy lift to put in my shoe so I can be more stylish than ever.

Did I mention that I totally did a sub-30 5k before I blew out my calf?  Hoorah.



P.S. This post gets the award for Most Bold-type Usage.  Because apparently I am feeling emphatic today.

Mission: Do Not Puke

"Kelly, dude, SERIOUSLY RECONSIDER
what it is you are about to do.  I'm GARY
SINISE - I wouldn't lie to you."

I've always considered myself a strong person. I generally do what I feel is right and don't worry too much about what other people are thinking of my life decisions.  (I save my insecurities and caving into peer-pressure for the important areas of life, like fashion and my knowledge of pop culture.)  But something happened on vacation that took me by surprise.  It happened so quickly; I had no ready defense.  And I saw how easy it is to cave to peer-pressure.

This is my story.



Eve: Mama, you're like the best Mama.  I'm so glad I'm at Disney World with you. I want to be paired with you because you go on all the good rides with me.

Kelly: Thanks, kiddo.  You're pretty awesome, too.  What's next?

Eve:  Mission: Space.  It's where we pretend to be astronauts.

Kelly: Sounds good.  I think Papa, Grandpa, and Hosanna are also riding.


We all make our way over to Mission: Space, and discover there are two versions of the ride; Green - the pansy version, and Orange - the HARDCORE THRILL SEEKER / TOTALLY NOT A WUSS version.  Brian, Dad-in-law, and Hosanna are all card-carrying pansies, so Eve and I wave goodbye to them in superiority as we enter the Orange line.

This is when I saw the first warning:

This might be a good time to mention that I totally suffer from motion sickness.  I can't even ride the teacups on the Mad Tea Party (not a political statement) because I will puke everywhere.  But I took one look at Eve's face, all super excited to ride this ride, smiling at me with a hero-worship smile that communicated that she was so thankful to have such a partner in crime, me, a totally cool mom, that I decided, "It really can't be all that bad."

But a nagging thought sat in my brain, asking me to weigh exactly how much I wanted to do this for Eve vs. how potentially miserable I was going to be during this ride.  I was doing pretty well keeping it at bay (using the popular techniques of denial and distraction) when the audio warnings began. They went something like this:

"You will not die on this ride, Sublurban Mama, but you will probably feel like you would welcome death if it came. Because this ride will make you cuh-razy sick.*  You may choose to opt out of this version of the ride at this point."

*I may be paraphrasing slightly here.  And it may be a paraphrase more of what I heard than what was actually said.  All I know is that yeah, it was a dire warning.

I put on my brave face and charged on in the Orange line, because a Navy Seal would not back out on a mission, and I sure wasn't going to start on one as important as this one.  A mission that carried with it the opportunity to be the sole person on this vacation with the ability to delight my child.  Who's hardcore?!  MAMA IS HARDCORE!  Hoorah!

I wavered a bit at the second warning, because this one came straight from a prerecorded video of Gary Sinise.  Since he was in both Apollo 13 and Mission to Mars, he obviously knows what he's talking about when he warns of the motion sickness that could result from intense G-forces like the ones we were about to be subject to.  This warning also offered a time and place to step out of the Orange I'M SO TOUGH line and scurry over to the Green line to experience the pansy slightly less intense version of Mission:Space.

I looked over at my awesome kiddo who just happened to be rolling her eyes at the thought of opting out of the maximum thrill available.  Dude.  Now it was a matter not just of her personal disappointment if I stepped out of line, but of the essential obligation I had to maintain my status as The Currently Most Awesome Parent.

I was nervous as we entered our seats.  I noted with increasing concern that even though we were secured in every possible manner, the thoughtful ride designers had still managed to build a barf bag holder within easy reach.  With all the restraints already in use that could not have been a simple thing to implement in the design plan, which made it seem an even more vital addition to the ride.

The ride? It was agonizing.

I did take advantage of the bags offered.  The first one had someone's freshly used gum inside (dude) and the second I gripped tightly in my hand as I chanted, "Don't throw up," for the duration of the ride.

Orange totally delivered on it's promise.  It was a "highly turbulent motion simulator thrill ride that spins and creates G-forces and includes intense maneuvers that result in nausea and dizziness." At the end I wobbled out of my seat and wore my "if I concentrate hard enough I won't puke" face to the exit.

No one had any idea how I felt until I finally sharply declined a bite of the space ice cream Brian purchased for the kiddos.  (*gag*)

Let it be known I maintained my "Coolest Mom in the Universe" status ... until I had to sit out Ellen's Energy Adventure because it was in a moving theater.  Ezra, at two years old, handled it like a champ.  Until the giant dinosaur roared and he flipped the heck out and when he joined me in the lobby I had to snuggle him on my tumultuous tummy. (Thankfully the giant cheeseburger I pounded after that restored my stomach to rights, and the rest of Epcot was sublime.)

So, in conclusion, even as a completely secure adult, you are still privy to caving under peer-pressure.  (Although since it was pressure from my kid it was more like heir-pressure.)(Which is a hilarious homophone because it was the air-pressure of the G-forces that actually made me sick.)(Heir/Air?)(*giggle*)

Got Milk? I DON'T

After spending a harrowing three hours on the computer yesterday researching food options for my allergy kid, I'm going outta my durned mind, y'all. Which is why I have no post today. Except this one, which is totally cheating because it's not really a post. It's just me ranting about why there is no post.  

So here I am, just sittin' here, all post-less like, without a post, praying I would spontaneously have a reader who is an expert on how to feed a kid with milk, egg, peanut, tree nut, berry, citrus, sesame seed, and high fructose corn syrup allergies, and wants to gift me with their knowledge.  Or a reader who is a professional chef who specializes in food allergies who wants to cook for my family pro-bono.  Either one would do - I'm not picky. 

Anyone?

*jiminy crickets*

That's what I thought.  So my solution today is to go into my Awesome Bubble.  In my Awesome Bubble there are jammies until noon, art projects with the kiddos, iced coffee and chocolate chip oatmeal, and maybe, if I'm lucky, some closet cleaning/reorganizing.  Also, I finally got Insurgent from the library (the same day as Katie!)(and I had the same issue of reading book one so long ago I forgot what was going on) so there will be some reading under cozy blankets during Ezra's nap time.  

And then I will emerge from my bubble to submerge in the pool and swim some hardcore laps and drills with Sarah.  And I will feel much better.

Tomorrow I crush the internets with my pimp investigative skillz and come up with a stellar plan to feed my kiddo crazy good food.  'Cuz while I don't "got milk", I've definitely "got soy milk" and the heart of a Navy Seal.  And we don't give up.  Hoorah!

"Remind me to tell you the thong story."

This is totally what it was like.  If I played tennis.

This weekend reminded me that my friends are amazing and that I am spoiled rotten to have them in my life.

When I mentioned to Sarah (who finished her 70.3 IRONMAN in 5:43:30 BTW) I was thinking about running my first 10K because I was feeling horrible that I quit Jillian and needed to prove something to myself she was all, "I'll find a great race and run it with you!"  Score.

Sarah found a cheap great race close to home and we decided to go for it.  I was excited but not terribly nervous; any kind of new distance is a guarantee for a personal record, and I wanted to aim for a 1:06:00 finish.  This seemed fairly attainable and all was good.

Then I got a visitor.

I've never been one of those girls who bemoaned her monthly; sure, it's not the most pleasant of events, but it's just a part of life, you know?  But something happened to my body after I had Ezra.  I went from being a girl that had a normal uncomfortable time during her period to a girl who dreamed of mainlining Aleve and that arranged her schedule around the dreaded Day Two.  Why did my body change so drastically?

Of course I have a theory about that. Remember how I'm pretty sure that Ezra is my Siamese twin? I think that after carrying him in my womb for nine months my body is staging an ongoing rebellion that he had to leave.  And so every month my uterus organizes a full scale battle on my mind, body, and emotions.  It will punish me until menopause or until I have another baby.  (Which I think about all the freaking time.)(Because all my friends are having babies.)(And they are adorable.)(The babies, not my friends.)(Although my friends are adorable, too.)(But then I remember that  babies don't sleep.)(And I do.)(And that is awesome.)

So basically a civil war is being fought every 28 days inside me and my uterus is the battleground.

Someone was all like, "Do you know what I should knit?  An angry uterus."  And they did it.

Thursday night was menstruation's golden time of arrival.  Which made the dreaded Day Two fall on Saturday.  The same Saturday of my first 10K.  Thankfully the wicked diarrhea I had from my delicious Friday night Applebee's dinner woke me up at four a.m. and totally distracted me from the awfulness that is a direct result of Day Two.

But I'm a "Game ON" kind of girl.  Sarah picked me up and we arrived at the race early enough to get parking, register, and use the porta potty.  It was about 45 degrees.  I wore pants and my ALABAMA sweatshirt (which only becomes a point of contention when they play Michigan or Michigan State)(Roll Tide) and was chilly enough to wish I'd worn more.  This worked out well as I was looking forward to the start of the race just so I could get moving.

Sarah wore her fancy running watch, so she was going to keep track of our splits (privately) and tell me if I needed to pick up the pace to reach my goal.  This way I wouldn't obsess over the numbers and could run according to what my body (in it's current rebellious state) could handle.  (Have I mentioned yet how great she is/spoiled I am?)

The run was both fantastic and horrid.  It just depends on when you asked me.

I told Sarah I wasn't going to be much for talking this run.  Since my stellar commentary is primarily what makes me so fun to be around, you will be saddened to know I said about three things during the six (point two) miles we ran. The first was, "Lowe's" as a shorthand response to Sarah asking what we ended up getting my Dad-in-law for his birthday.  I meant we got him a Lowe's gift card, not that we actually bought him the whole store, but since Sarah has common sense and college degrees, she totally understood what I meant.

I also said, "Remind me to tell you the thong story."  I don't remember what made this relevant to whatever she was sharing at the time, but I had a thong story to share, and good golly I did not want to miss the chance to tell it.  The Thong Story sadly was more my opinion and personal experiences with thongs, but did include the words and phrases, "don't want anything in my crack", "I'm bringing free ballin' back", "but then she told me, "free ballin' never went away."  Don't worry, I was able to eventually communicate all these things boisterously to Sarah while we were stretching amid 1500 people who were meandering about the post-race area.

I finished with, "I think I'm gonna die (huff, pant, huff) or puke."  I was not being dramatic.  Mile 5 to the end was painful.  At one point I thought about crying.  I heard someone call my name during this time, and when I turned around and saw someone I knew walking the 5K portion the information barely registered.  All I could think was, "Don't freaking trip because you will not get back up."  My split for the last mile was a lot faster than the first 5 because pleaseGodletitend.

I finished in 1:04:08.  Hoorah!  I was 251 out of the 344 that ran the 10K.  Apparently there is a medal for 251st place; it's called "Participation."  (But my family was so cute; when I came home with my medal, they got all wide-eyed and said, "Did you win?")

In conclusion, take that, Aunt Flo.  You might try to knock me down, but you will not keep me there. Because Eminem sang "Won't Back Down" in a continuous 20 second loop in my head the entire race I am a Navy Seal at heart, and we don't let a little internal insurgency stop us from getting the job done.

It truly was a Red October Run.  (*giggle snort*)
And I was surfing the Crimson Tide. (OMLawd, someone stop me.)

How to Lose 100 Pounds - Sweat Edition

So yesterday I posted about the nutritional side of my weight loss.  I tried to include the key aspects of my weight loss, like "iced coffee is a food group."  Today is dedicated to the physical side.  Once your food intake is on point, the only other thing to do is move yer butt.

So why work out?  Technically you can lose weight without it.  If you consume less calories you will lose weight.  But working out is the triumvirate* in the weight loss world.



1.  As your muscle mass increases, your metabolism (that crazy mechanism that burns calories) increases.  It's like taking speed for intense calorie burn.  (And who doesn't want permission to do speed?)

2.  It helps with the whole "loose skin" issue that Extreme Makeover: Weight Loss Edition has so thoughtfully made known to the world.  Because it's not like Spanx was totally helping a sister camouflage the ugly side of losing 100 pounds or anything.  Now when people find out about a big loss, their first thought is about the "apron" of skin (how sick is that visual?) that must surely be hanging sexily (totally a word) from your otherwise rock hard abdominals.  Truth? Lifting weights has helped tone my body so much that I have very little loose skin.  Yes, I have a rockin' baby gut but I've also had four C-sections in seven years, so I feel I have earned that.  It's like a trophy I will proudly display until I can afford a tummy tuck.

3. When your husband tackles you with the intention of blessing you with a wicked fart tent, you can totally defend yourself and tent him first.  Exercise is a gift to your body:
     Swimmer's arms, shoulders, and backs.
     Runner's hamstrings, quads, and calves.
     Yoga/Pilates's *ahem* flexibility.
     Spinning's tush.
     Step Aerobic's unfailing demonstration of how little coordination you have

A Girl's Gotta Move

My extensive athletic history began after Ezra was born.  It was September, 2010, and my sweet #4 child was seven weeks old.  I thought that since I was already as sleep deprived and hormonal as I was ever going to be it was the perfect time to add calorie restriction and physical exhaustion to the list as well.  (Again, I'm a planner, people.)

I started with a 5K running class based on the Couch to 5K program.  I can't say enough about this method; it is awesome for non-athletes.  It was hella hard, I'm not gonna lie, but 2 years after I completed the program I am still running.  I ran my first 5K on Thanksgiving 2010, and finished in 37:47.  My goal was 38:00, so ... nailed it.  By my first 5K I lost 53 pounds.

Waiting for the start.  200 pounds and so freaking proud of myself.  Also?  Terrified to run this race.

My gym offered two free personal trainer sessions for buying our membership, and since my running class teacher was none other than Trainer Tom, I signed up with him.  Our first session was awesomely horrifying, and I will write about it sometime, promise.  The best thing about these sessions is that they got me into the gym.  Up until then I was using my gym simply for the running track, on which I dutifully ran literal circles to reach my 5K goal.

Tom got me into the gym, showed me the equipment, how to adjust it, how to use it, and how to wipe it off when I was done.  (Dude - it's not that hard.)(Seriously.)  He gave me routines to do, and set up some goals to achieve and a plan to dominate them. (These were really do-able goals like "lose five pounds by next meeting(one month away)", "hold plank for 45 seconds", and "do 7 girly push-ups".  They weren't goals like "lose the 70 more pounds you need to lose" or anything that would drive me to quit.

When I started getting bored with my workouts, I signed up for another 5K.  It was great motivation to keep moving.  My next 5K was finished in 33:51.  Whaaaa?  Almost 4 minutes faster?!  Jeah! (Say it like you're Ryan Lochte.)

Let's forget for a moment how incredibly photogenic I am, and focus on me weighing 174 here.

Once I got bored (again) I started taking the classes offered at my gym.  It took me almost two weeks to convince myself to even enter the studio where Ab Lab was held.  Now it's one of my favorite forms of torture classes.  When I got bored (again) I signed up for another race.

My oldest ran the 5k with me and we PR'd! 32:47.  152 pounds.  (I don't know what my hair ate for breakfast, but I swear I don't have a mullet.)

This year I decided the next boredom buster was triathlon.  Obviously.  I signed up for a triathlete swimming class and met Sarah, who took me under her triathlete wings and made me a supuh-stah. (Sound it out.)  I worked for months towards triathlon, and it was fantastic.

Oh, you haven't seen this picture yet? (Haha, this is a joke because if you know me/read this blog/are friends with me on Facebook you have seen this picture 4,000 times.)  148 pounds.

Now what?  I am challenging Jillian Michaels to a 30 Day Shred competition in September. I also have at least two races on the books for this fall.  After that I'll just keep moving.

How Does This Help You?

And therein lies the best advice possible.  Just start/keep moving.  I started as out-of-shape as you could possibly be.  I was postpartum, recovering from abdominal surgery, and more than 100 pounds overweight.  I was worried about injury.  I was worried about failure.  I was worried about how fat I looked while I ran.  I was worried I would fart/pee when I ran. (Totally did.)  I had four children, a husband, and a household to take care of.  I was tired.  I was overwhelmed.  I felt helpless.

But I have the heart of a Navy Seal and I wanted my life to change, so I started the only way I could: small.

It's so cliched but completely true that small changes make a big difference.  I started with just being faithful to run three ugly times a week.  I sloooowly added strength training.  I slooooowly added cross training.  The gradual changes are the ones you'll stick with.

All my fears about injury?  Totally realized.  At first I got shin splints.  Then I had hip pain.  Then knee pain.  Then lower back pain.  All these pains had a legit reason.  I was using my body in ways it hadn't been used before. (Also I needed new running shoes.)(That's the story I sold my husband and I'm stickin' to it.)

Working out hurts (if you are doing it right).  You should be sore afterwards; it means your body is getting stronger.  I honestly don't remember the last time I wasn't a little bit sore.  But the trade-off? I'm strong.  I burn extra calories.  I have endurance.  I can play with my kids outside.  I don't resent the baby when he drops his paci and I have to squat with an extra 20 pounds in my arms because Dude, I do squats in my spare time - I got this.

All my fears about failure? I only failed when I quit.  It took me three separate runs to be able to conquer the ten minute cycle of Couch to 5K.  I learned through exercise what it means to persevere and that I am (physically and mentally) stronger than I think.  (Raise your hand if you are a parent/child/employee/spouse and, at the end of your freaking rope, and have uttered the words, "I.am.done."  Guess what?  After paying your dues as a runner you will say that a lot less.)

My fears about looking fat?  Um ... I was fat.  But every run put that stored fat to good use.  Farting and peeing?  Just a sign I am a real runner.  The kids, the hubby, the house ... they were all still there when I got back from working out, but I was a less stressed and way sweatier version of myself.

So, this is a little rambling-like, but I have a wicked paper cut on the tip of my middle finger, the hubs is watching politics on television, and I have my Ipod on to drown out the noise so I can freaking concentrate, cut me some slack, Dude.

To summarize:  Exercise?
1.  Just do it. (Just kidding, I totally stole that from a little company called "Nike.")

1.  Just do it faithfully.
2. When you get bored, do different exercises faithfully.
3. Repeat for the rest of your life.

Just for fun, to end this post I leave you with a picture my Sister Wife Rachel took at a wedding a few years ago of Rose and I.

I loved this dress.  It was totally cuter in person.  

And here is a picture of Rose and I at the recent Red Carpet Run 5K.

Suburban gang signs.  

Since this post turned into more of a generic shout out to exercise (What up, Exercise!), tomorrow I am going to do a Practical Tips post about specific helps for diet and exercise.  My "tricks of the trade" if you will.  And I have a lot of them ... because I'm tricky.

*triumvirate - don't hate me because I have a thesaurus.

It was like perfume. Stir-fry perfume.

Scene:  I am calling my mom-in-law.

MIL:  Hello?
Kelly:  Hey!  How would you like to contribute to the wellness of a marriage by babysitting for a young couple so they could go on a date?
MIL:  I would love to. (She might have also said something to the effect of, "How long have you been working on that line?" to which I replied, "This magic flows freely without thought or plan.")

That is how Brian and I ended up on a real date this weekend.  Because we are completely "out of the box" people, we went with dinner and a movie.

Our date began with seeing the newest Bourne movie.  We got there just in time, so we fully enjoyed about 30,000 previews (I am so going to see Chasing Mavericks, but not with Brian, who looked at me with complete disdain and implied I may have poor taste in cinema when I voiced my enthusiasm over the movie trailer.)

I sat next to a five year old who dumped his popcorn into my purse three times.  (If you didn't catch all that was unsaid in that last sentence, let me rephrase:  Someone brought a FIVE YEAR OLD CHILD to see the Bourne movie and at the end he commented it wasn't as good as the others.) Aside from the popcorn mishaps (which I am willing to blame on literal butterfingers) he was polite and said, "Excuse me"  every time he burped out loud.  I did my part to not get in a fist fight with his parents remain socially acceptable by refraining from ordering him, "Cover your eyes!" or "Plug your ears!" during certain scenes.

The movie was okay.  It didn't change my life like Pump Up the Volume, which fanned into flame the true idealist revolutionary I have become today.  Bourne movies make me feel:

1.  Confused.  I'm never really sure what is going on, but I am convinced that being genetically altered to be more like a Navy Seal would be the epitome of rad.

2.  Incompetent.  Should I know how to make fake passports?  Or ride a motorcycle down a staircase while shooting a huge gun?  At the very least I should learn to speak German.  Or French. Or, since I live in America, Spanish English.

After the movie I dashed to the bathroom, weaving in and out of other theater-goers because I was reenacting the motorcycle chase scene really had to go.  The theater had toilets that flush themselves so enthusiastically I thought, "TIDAL WAVE!" as the water came dangerously close to escaping the bowl.  I might even have jumped back in surprise, fully body slamming the stall door and sending a ripple effect down the other fifteen stalls to which it was connected.  At this point I was tempted to feel embarrassed, but instead I thought, "It's like I started The Wave in the bathroom by myself," which, admittedly, is unexpected and awesome.

We went to dinner and I devoured some BBQ Chicken Quesadillas while Brian enjoyed chicken and artichoke pasta.  Our waiter was kind enough to weigh in on a debate we were having about if Miami was a family-friendly vacation destination.  His two cents were, "Miami has a lot of Cubans."  So it's totally settled, we are going there so my kids can finally have an authentic Cuban Mojito Medianoche.

We concluded our crazy date night with a trip to Meijer so I could buy some hydrogen peroxide. This is where the night took a turn.

Kelly, why did you need hydrogen peroxide so badly that you allowed the need to crash your romantic date night?  THIS:

This Pinterest Pin connects to this website.  This is where I got the recipe for the detox bath. 

I haven't mentioned my head cold I'm miserably suffering with, mainly because as I read through different posts it feels like I'm always complaining about being sick.  But this information is pertinent to the rest of the story, so stop judging me.  Pinterest informed me of a wonderful detox bath that would be the cure-all for my head cold.  All I needed was to add three pints of hydrogen peroxide and two ounces of ground ginger to a hot bath, soak for thirty minutes, and I would be cured.  I planned on doing this detox bath when we got home, but my end-of-the-world supply of peroxide had dwindled down to the normal amount of one 16 oz bottle that we've owned for a year or two, so I actually needed to purchase three pints of the stuff.

Meijer had peroxide on sale this week, which meant there were only six bottles left.  After some frantic calculating, and a thankful shout out to God that I taught second grade math this year and therefore knew how many ounces were in a pint (ok, full disclosure, I totally panicked and did the math wrong and bought twice the amount needed) I got the peroxide and headed over to the other side of the store for ground ginger.  We may have gotten sidetracked by 1. 30 percent off work boots for Brian.  2. 20 percent off cargo pants for Brian.  3. A documentary called My Run for me  4.  A Meijer employee lamenting to a coworker that someone POOPED in the lamp aisle.  Of course we giggled like teenage boys had to look. Finally we got the ginger and went home.  (The ground ginger. We didn't kidnap a redhead or anything.)

My detox bath looked like swamp water.  I was a bit concerned about immersing my lady bits in such a mess, but the desire to breathe using my nose was greater than any fear I had about contracting Weird Detox Bath Disease, so I got in.

I felt the peroxide right away.  It bubbled up and around my whole body while I thought, "Please don't let this end horribly." I am a bit skeptical about holistic/natural/not approved by the FDA/not tested on things other than me methods of healing, which I attribute entirely to the Great Supplement Debacle.  I waited in this bath, letting the steam from the hot water open my sinuses and this is when I realized my bath smelled like stir-fry.

So yeah, date night ended on a pungent note; me, with my fragrant Asian cookery soaked skin and rockin' "mouth-breather all day due to stuffy nose" breath, and Brian with his "Sorry, Kel, the pasta is worse than Corona and shrimp" (a combination of food I have henceforth banned from his body due to the assault the manner in which it exit's his body launches on my olfactories.)  We were like our own special brand of perfume. Which you can apparently buy at Walgreens:

Camptastic: The Helicopter Rescue*

Note to REI : add "helicopter
safety harness" to your Camping
Needs list.

After all the drama camping has wreaked upon my life, you would think that once the weather broke, it would be smooth sailing (or whatever is the camping equivalent).  I had hope when I returned to the tent after the baptism and discovered that Brian, a.k.a. Best Husband Ever, had sopped up all the water inside and aired it out completely, that camping might turn into the fun so many people declare it to be.

Hosanna asked if we could go on a little date, just the two of us, to hike the trails she had explored earlier with some of the "big kids". The sign at the trail head said, ".19 miles", so I grabbed my camera and off we went, thinking we would return in, oh, about five minutes.

"Hosanna!  Put the camera away and
rescue your mom who is falling down
this steep, cliff-like, slightly
declining hiking trail mountain pass!"

The woods were beautiful.  It felt all cocoon-like ("safe", not like the movie Cocoon), was very green, and very quiet. Hosanna and I took some awesome adventure shots of us doing some extreme hiking.

"BELLA!  RUN!  LAURENT IS RIGHT
BEHIND YOUUUUUU!!"

We continued on in this fashion with Hosanna leading the way, until the girl tried to convince me the way back to camp was the right fork of a trail that would necessitate me belly-crawling through the woods and it wasn't even the Warrior Dash.

(*Confession:  I have been suffering some FOR REAL condemnation over my lack of Navy Seal attributes lately.  First, with the leeches.  I know Navy Seals wouldn't be scared of leeches; leeches are a fine protein source maybe even more so than Nutter Butters and probably grace the table at the occasional Navy Seal Potluck.  Then, this whole camping thing is really outing me for being a giant weenie.  I've probably lost my made-up, self-proclaimed standing as the Most Like a Navy Seal Without Actually Being One, due to my latest posts.  Lesson learned?  Honesty = ruins your life.)

In response to the belly-crawling trail, I pulled rank on Hosanna and in my best decision making thus far said, "No, let's turn left and see where it goes."  (You get chills just reading that, right?)

We walked a bit, still having fun because we were ignorant.  We walked some more ... and some more ... and some more.  Even Hosanna started to get nervous.

"Um, Mama?  Do you think we will get back to the tent soon?"
 "Probably!  Isn't this fun?  It's like we are on the most fun adventure ever!  I'm absolutely sure we are not going to die here."

But in my heart I knew this was exactly like the Blair Witch Project.  I even heard, verbatim (well, kind of, I haven't seen the movie in over ten years), Heather saying (in my head), "It's virtually impossible to get lost in America.  It's even harder to stay lost."  But look what happened to Heather, dude. (For those of you who haven't seen the movie, *Spoiler Alert*, she totally stays lost forever.)

I know the main rule of being lost in the woods is to stay put and don't move, but I was pretty sure we were within a half mile of our camp sight, and I was feeling scared enough to keep moving adventurous.  I took stock of my supplies, which included my camera.  If you are waiting for me to list the more helpful supplies like my cell phone or water, I didn't have them.  But if we were going to be attacked by the Blair Witch a raccoon I would be able to capture it digitally, and maybe it would be a You Tube sensation.  Maybe we would even be invited to be on the Today show and I could make things all awkward and bring up Ann Curry.  The possibilities were endless.

We kept walking and I started seeing signs marked "perimeter".  I choose to follow them until the trails they marked got less "trail-like" and more "traipsing through brush so thick a machete would come in handy*."

*this might be a slight exaggeration.  But I did have to step over like, a lot of logs, and the grass was getting really high and was also wet from the rain, so yeah, it was rough.

At the next fork, we stopped and I thought about our options.  I knew then the only way out was by helicopter rescue, which was on one hand super exciting, but on the other, not the way I imagined first meeting the Navy Seals. (Please indulge me and do not remind me that Navy Seals predominately do high profile/really dangerous missions water rescue.  The woods were wet, so hey, a girl can dream.)

I was trying to figure out how long we would have to wait before our rescuers arrived when I noticed some deep tire tracks off to the left.  Well it totally turns out that if you follow those tire tracks for about three minutes you are back at your tent.  So I didn't need the Navy Seals after all, which is extremely disappointing, but the way it has to be if you are going to redeem your Most Like a Navy Seal Without Actually Being One status.

Upon our return from nearly succumbing to the woods, guess what?  No one knew we were missing. It's like there wasn't even a real problem.

At least the day ended well.

This is my marshmallow.  Looks good, right?  What you can't see here is that those marshmallows to the left, on the two-pronged roasting stick?  Were done to perfection.  It was like I was sitting next to the Overlord of Marshmallow Roasting, but everyone just calls him Greg.  He kept dropping little nuggets of wisdom that I immediately tried to implement, like, "Using coals works best."  *my mind is blown because this actually works way better than my method of "catch them on fire because you think they cook faster but all it does is char the outside and leave the inside stuck to the stick when you try to pull it off"* I might be super jealous of his impeccable roasting skills, except that he was making those for his wife Tiffany who was pregnant with their fifth child and camping.  So, yeah, roast away Marshmallow King. 

*that never happened.