Cheetos and Marathon Butt

I've gone and dipped my toes into the water's edge of insanity again.  Yesterday, as I was walking to the drug store to buy my usual lunch of preservative-laden, artificial cheese-flavored snack things, I had a very disturbing thought.  

Though also disturbing, this is not that thought:

You know that cool, chemically breeze that whooshes out from a freshly opened bag of Cheetos?  Am I the only one who experiences that?  I'm sure that it's some some sort of weird gaseous mixture that they seal inside the bag to preserve the freshness of the toxic neon-orange garbage I'm about to eat, but for some reason I love it.  I think it must be something akin to liking the smell of gasoline.  

That was the thought that came after the initial disturbing thought, which was:

I should run another marathon.

First of all, no...no I should not.  It was painful and agonizing for about eight solid miles and I didn't have a normal sleep pattern for months leading up to it and then my pants didn't fit right for months afterward because I had, literally, run my butt off and my clothing just sort of hung off of me and pooled into little bunches of fabric around my rear.  Marathons are not really fashion-friendly.     

So in the middle of the crosswalk, I stopped and took a step back.  What had I just said?  And why?  What demon inside had compelled me to say that?  And had anyone else heard that who could potentially hold me accountable?  I don't want to run another marathon.  To be honest, I just want my one and only marathon time to not suck soooo badly...and so publicly, at that.

But the truth is that I probably will run another one at some point even though it's a huge commitment.  That's the cycle though.  And I was warned that once I ran one...there would be others.  Like dirty little fitness cockroaches.  There are much worse cycles to get caught in though.  Drugs and cat-hoarding and mail-order catalogue shopping and whatnot.  

And anyway, seeing as how I love love love to eat things that are high in yumminess and extra super high in butter/fat/sugar/calories/bloat/regret, marathon training was quite kind to my metabolism.  My very last training run before the marathon was on the Polly Ann Trail in my lovely hometown of Oxford, Michigan.  I strategically parked my car at the exit next to the Little Ceasar's and promised myself a whole package of Crazy Bread in exchange for my efforts.  

Yes, I'm a dog.  I perform for food.  Got it.  I really love some Crazy Bread though.  

So we'll see...I'm a little late for this year's bandwagon...so maybe next year we will meet again.  

Almost 30 years later, she was finally cool.

Sometimes personal validation comes from the strangest of places.  For me…today…it came from Harper’s Bazaar.

Finally, after years of feeling pitifully geriatric in my 28-year-old fashion sense, the ensembley eccentric brains over at HB informed me that the fall of 2012 was officially going to be the high point of my year.  Possibly of my life.  After countless seasons of wading through the unwearable muck of boho chic, animal prints, and neon jeans, they have finally come up with something I can work with.  No, not just work with.  Something I can master.

Granny-wear, with a subtle hint of militarization.  All the rage for fall, kids.  And praise Jesus, too, because this has breathed some life back into all those Peter Pan collars I’ve got shoved in the closet.  And my sock drawer full of prescription compression leg stockings to control unwanted swelling and unsightly varicose veins?  Très hip.  I knew if I just held out long enough, fashion would repeat.  Welcome to 1865.  Again.

Tweed, lace, collars, turtleneck sweaters, chunky crochet knits – good Lord – I think I even saw some hunter’s plaid in there.  As if I didn’t love the fall enough.  Now I can pretty much collapse blindfolded and drunk into my closet, roll around for three minutes and emerge looking effortlessly fabulous.  I couldn’t be more excited than if you told me dry, frizzy hair and crow’s feet were in vogue. 

So start raiding grandma’s closet, local estate sales, nursing home bridge clubs…whatever.  Fall approaches, and if you haven’t snagged yourself a pair of Velcro orthopedic sneakers by then I will absolutely make fun of you.  It’s about the only time in my life I am fashion forward…I’ve earned this.