On running in the heat (and more...)

Summer is one of my favorite seasons. The sun is always up, there are butterflies fluttering through the air, and warm gingerbread men and pansies and... wait, what? Ahem, sorry about that. I like the summer most because it's warm out - no, not warm, hot. I love hot weather, because you don't have to spend five minutes getting ready to go outside. Seriously, spending the last winter in New England taught me that humans should never, ever have to endure winters in New England. It doesn't get above freezing for a month sometimes, you're walking on frozen fucking tundra that turns into ice, and you slip on it, like, all the time. It sucks everyone's balls, not only my own.

A fact that many people seem to know about me (after all, it's on my Wikipedia page) is that I like to run. Occasionally, I even run well (like, an 8 minute pace!). I've been running a lot this summer, because I'm preparing for a 5-mile race on the beach... in Florida... in August. As you might imagine, I'm going to be running in some serious heat. This race will be the closest thing to actual athletic running I've ever done in my life, and I hope that if I die, this blog will carry on in my absence.

The thing is, I can only train in New Jersey for this race, and New Jersey summers aren't quite like Florida summers. The best analogy I can think of is New England winter:New Jersey winter::Florida summer:New Jersey summer, where both New England winters and Florida summers take testicular fortitude to endure. (This analogy is evidence, btw, that anyone from NJ who ever complains about the weather, including me, is a whiny little girl. Q.E.D.)

I will now complain about the weather in NJ during the summer. It is constantly hot and sticky, and when I run, it hurts my legs and my lungs because I am in poor, poor, piss-poor physical shape right now. If you ever see me on the street, don't wave or honk at me because I am likely too delirious to notice. The only thing I can think of while I'm running in 85+ degree heat is whether or not my heart is still beating.

Last week, I went out for 4 miles and literally forgot how to walk. By this, I mean that I tripped over my own feet, fell ass-over-tea kettle and landed on my right elbow, turning the right sleeve of my shirt bloody. That was fun, believe me. I come home weighing 4-5 lbs. less than I did when I left, my head is pounding, and my arms are shaking. Having said this, I am absolutely confident that if I can keep this up, I'm gonna be in pretty good shape by the end of the summer. Or, alternatively, dead. Like I said, fellas, keep posting.

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Has anyone else noticed that virtually no one seems to be driving fast anymore? I'm actually really curious about this one; ever since gas prices became super expensive, I feel like the average highway speed has gone down by a good 10 m.p.h. However, I did a Google search on "people driving slower" and it seems that no one has been documenting this. Am I making this up, in my head? If I'm not, maybe highway douchebaggery depends upon gas hitting some crucial monetary threshold? I think I've hypothesized some crazy, Freakonomics-type shit right here. Somebody, rein me in (or run a discriminant analysis and prove me wrong). I've gone insane...

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I went to Atlantic City last Friday with Brainpan, and lost my shirt. (Not literally, but close.) When I gamble, I follow Sports Guy's advice and set a "worst-case scenario" number (for me, $300) which is the greatest amount of money I allow myself to lose. Let's just say I hugged that asymptote pretty closely, so closely that I earned a free dinner that provided absolutely no solace whatsoever.

For example, I was playing $1-$2/NL and was sucked down to my last $50 (I sat with $100, and was cold-decked). I was in middle position with Ah-Qh, and raise to $14. I'm re-raised to $32 by a caller in early position, leaving me with nothing left to do (reasonably, given my remaining stack) except go all-in. I go all-in and find that I'm up against As-Ks, not good. I turn my queen, which of course was the Qs, giving him the flush. I could talk more about this trip - particularly about all the times I had 11 vs. dealer 6 in blackjack, doubled down a 4 to 15 and watched the dealer reveal a 3 - but nobody wants to hear me whine anymore.

I will say this, however. I should be nominated for The Shiesty-Dude-from-College Memorial "Taking an STD Test" Dealing-with-Uncomfortability Award (or TSDFCMTSTDTDWUA, for short) for the 40 minutes of sleep I somehow managed on the drive home. Brainpan drove us in his Hyundai Tiburon, and with the back of my head leaning against the headrest, my forehead was pressed against the back windshield and my knees were almost against my stomach. I tried to lay sideways, but my clown feet forbade me from moving at all. However, even given this, thanks for driving, man. You got everyone home safely, which is what counts.

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The above is what I like to call "mood repair." Blogging in a cranky mood is never a good idea, but doesn't this make you feel better? Aww....lookatthatcutepuppy. OK, that's enough for today. Stay classy.