I suck at incentive spirometry and other truisms.

Nursing school is the worst possible place for procrastinators, hypochondriacs, and perfectionists because if you didn't already exhibit these qualities, they will emerge. During respiratory lab, I convinced myself that I have both a restrictive and obstruction respiratory disorder. I could sustain inspiration for ten seconds (like you should with an incentive spirometer) at a pitiful 1500. Others in the group could make their cartridges climb much higher for shorter periods, but not markedly shorter periods. The lab prof praised me for pacing myself properly because anyone can move a cartridge with force. Not everyone can move a cartridge with patience. Well, when I inhaled as vigorously as I could muster, no... not everyone can move a cartridge with force. It hovered around 1750. At least I'm consistent?

Then it was time for measuring what's known as forced expiratory volume, a good indicator of how well asthma medication is working. Well, I'm deficient in this area, too.

WHY? :( I run three miles (well, like I said. What I think is three miles. I'm still not confident enough to test my theory) and cool down with a yoga sequence of my own design. I should be better at breathing! Just the fact that I'm alive should make me better at breathing. Geez. You should see me now, trying to practice my yogic breathing while running. I'm pretty sure my neighbors think I'm nuts. No matter. I'm going to get my hands on an incentive spirometer.

listen to your body tonight

Running the cranberry bog in its entirety was no fluke. However, if my practice of yoga has taught me anything, it is this: listen to your body.

You are a new person with each new day. Yesterday's accomplishment is not necessarily a possibility today, as I learned two days after my first full completion. It is interesting to see how big of an impact external factors make. Is it muggy? Is it hot? Am I angry? Am I sad?

huge difference in run times, breathing capabilities, everything! I mean, y'all probably knew that -- but hey. I'm learning, k?

In somewhat unrelated news, I have replaced my computer chair (which was a bum-sore and an eyesore) with a medicine ball. Strong core, strong body, right? we shall see. The only bad thing about it is I feel less associated guilt with skipping runs on days I do a lot of homework because dangit, I've been busy stabilizing my core.

derp.

by the road called river, I laid down and wept.

That pesky goal I set for myself at the beginning of the summer? Finally done. Yesterday, I ran the entire length of the cranberry bog, approximately 3 miles, without stopping. -raucous applause- And then, as the title implies, I laid down by the road access to the bog and cried. Happy tears, happy tears.

I'm off to go make sure that wasn't a fluke.

stay tuned.

Mo!

he would not accept my lettuce offering.

not really on board for the photoshoot, either.

 

Everyone, meet Mo, denier of love. Typical man. (probably. I didn't check him for parts)

uno, veggie lasagne, and the great date sasquatch, or the story of how my friends are wonderful and boys are terrible.

"Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end; then stop." Aye, aye, Lewis Carroll.

I did as I had promised the other day, I ran (ran so far awaaayyyy). When I'm crunched for time, I like to set an alarm on my phone to let me know when my time frame is nearing its end. I mistook two phone calls from Valet Man Man Man Man for the alarm. But then I realized, gosh, that seemed like a really short five minutes.

Three missed calls. Woops! VMMMM asked me what I was doing that evening. I told him that I had plans with some friends to sample an almost-famous veggie lasagne recipe, and that I couldn't flake. He was more than welcome to join us if he so wished. He readily agreed and asked if he should bring anything. I was a little impressed. Alright, VMMMM, maybe I misjudged you.

--ERRRRRNH--

We set a rendezvous point and time. I hopped in the shower. When I emerged seven minutes later, I found that I had missed another call from Valet Man Man Man Man. He called in a panic because he's "not good at meeting more than one new person at a time," and he wasn't sure he'd like all the vegetables in the lasagne. I assured him that it was all right. Three new people at a time was the maximum. He breathed a sigh of relief and told me he'd meet me. "Call me when you get there," he says.

 I picked up my partner in crime and her main squeeze and headed to the cafe for a caramel apple spice. I called, as directed, which was directly forwarded to voice mail. I guessed that perhaps we had tried to call each other at the same time and shot him a text. Once inside, we discovered that Bestie was just about to go on her fifteen minute break, so we pounced on a large, open table and waited for her. We chatted away with Bestie until she had to return to work. At this point, two others in my inner circle joined us at the large table during their dinner breaks.

I received a text that said something along the lines of, "Hurry! The lasagne waits for no man!" at the tail end of the inner circle's dinner break. Still no Valet Man Man Man Man, after several more text alerts and phone calls sent directly to voice mail. Without even an ounce of guilt, I bade my inner circle goodbye and left in search of lasagne. Thankfully, I was distracted. But in retrospect, I sat there for at least 45 consecutive minutes. I was safe. I was surrounded by friends. But still, being stood up sucks.

The rest of the evening was lovely. English word games with competitive spirits who have a limited vocabulary in the language and Uno with colorblind schemers was the most fun. In the middle of one such game, the host disappeared on his bike for a quick jaunt to the liquor store. It's like he knows us. It is a wonderful thing to have friends who love you and laugh with you and cook you dinner to get your mind off your status.

err, but so running.

I have been running every day. Thursday was truncated. Friday, I made my tiny goal! I said I wanted to run to this little silo lookin thing without stopping. I did. Then I said out loud where I was going to run the next day and the next day and the next day without stopping. Today, I exceeded the goals for all three days!

Admittedly, this was probably only 300 or so more steps than yesterday's goal, but hey. I need small goals to feel like I'm accomplishing things because clearly, the three miles thing was out of my league. Once I can get around the entire cranberry bog, I figure I'll do that thing where I run to my favorite beach because I trust the global positioning satellites in my car more than my pathological liar of a pedometer.

Also whilst running today, I found a tortoise. I decided to name him Mo. If Mo is still around tomorrow, I am offering unto him an offering of lettuce leaves.

nudity, bridal showers, and myth bustin.

I thrive on the bizarre, emotional, and awkward. I picture it like that rain cloud featured in depression med commercials, but instead of darkness and precipitation, my raincloud drops unicorns, confessionals, and giggle-snorts.

Today was no exception. (Names disguised to protect the innocent. Not very imaginatively, either.)

Walking to meet my clinical group this morning, I found myself closing the gap between my clinical professor and I. Now, I am at an age where I know intellectually and legally, I count as an adult, but I don't quite feel like one yet. It makes for an awfully awkward time in social situations. How do I address other adults that do not fall into my age bracket? Do I call my clinical professor Jane or Professor Doe? Do I call my friend's divorced mother Sandra or Mrs. Lee? Is she still Mrs. Lee, or is it Ms. Lee? Is calling her by her first name a bigger faux pas than calling her by a name she kept for convenience? I DON'T KNOW.

Instead of greeting her like a normal person while this inner monologue plagues me, I slowed my pace. I still caught up with her at the base of the stairs, where Valet Man Man Man Man faithfully waits and greets everyone who enters the lobby. He said hello to Professor Doe (I guess I'm sticking with guardedly respectful here); she raised her eyebrows and her hand in response. He said hello to me and congratulated me on making it to the second year. I asked him how he managed to work on a fishing boat all summer and walk away with no more tan than I remembered in May.

Professor Doe laughed to herself and said, "It's so funny you two know each other like that."

Instead of offering up a generic answer like a normal person, I divulged, "Oh, well, he sort of asked me out the last day of clinicals last semester... and then we never spoke to each other again because he sort of stood me up once. Well, until just now, of course." -facepalm-

This comment is still infinitely less socially inappropriate than the one I served up to my last clinical instructor. My friend (shall remain nameless) has gotten herself engaged and is nervous for her wedding night, shall we say? I decided to be that friend who will buy her a seemingly harmless gift and fill it with things that will horrify her. I was dismayed to find the empty, barred husk of Simon Mall real estate that was once Spencer's gifts. Determined to make a quality buy, I turned on my heel to hunt for lingerie in the Macy's across the hall. I couldn't decide if I wanted to buy the lacy hipsters she may actually wear or the granny panties that would fit my friend like an unflattering one piece bathing suit. Comedy or kindness, comedy or kindness? I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I suppressed the urge to shriek, whipped around, and recognized my latest clinical professor as the tapper. Always friendly, she asked what I was up to. Always honest, I answered. completely. How CVS had aesthetically displeasing lube options, how Spencer's was out of business, how good of a deal I got on the reasonable, red herring item. I am sure that during this speech, I must have noticed the eagerness in her eyes to leave the conversation or the unexpected nature of my answer, but that didn't stop me. Just before her successful escape, a regular customer of the cafe in which I work walked by and told me how good it was to see me "wearing clothes."

...

awesome. THEN, when I got the email that notified students of their clinical group and placement, my stomach stole the show on the uneven bars because I had precisely the same floor assignment as last semester... and oh my stars and garters, does that mean I had the same clinical professor, too?

Thankfully, no. I shan't start off the semester with the woman in control of my grade thinking I'm a sexual deviant. Just a girl that gets stood up on dates. wah-wahhhhhh. Hey man, I'll take pity points if she awards them.

STRIKE THAT. This lady just got a call from Valet Man Man Man Man Man. squee! :D date tomorrow? b'okay.

He says "definitely" a lot. He should stop that.

P.S. I'm gonna go run or something.

holy foreshadowing, Batman.

first day. second year. yeah buddy.

I've never been a proponent of the practice, "dress for the job you want, not the job you have." At least not on purpose. Three continuous weeks of putting off laundry forced me to put on a skirt for lecture and patient prep one day last semester. With all the positive feedback (I was even mistaken for a doctor twice), I decided to continue the trend... of not doing laundry. But mostly dressing for my goal, not my current standing.

This morning, I pulled out all the stops. Well, as many of the stops I could pull out, considering I slept through my alarm and, therefore, didn't have time to wash or style my hair or shave my legs. Sleek, gray slacks; blue, ruffled top; black wool sweater; and these babies:

try to contain your drool.

Bear in mind that these are the first heels I have ever owned or worn. (training wheels are for suckers!) Strutting in them in the level, carpeted Cole Haan outlet store felt so natural that I considered suspending my nursing career for a spell to pursue modeling. It would pay for grad school, k? Don't judge me.

This morning, walking on uneven surfaces made of pavement proved to be slightly more challenging, but not enough to shake my confidence. Stairs served another unique challenge -- it's harder to walk up them when they're taller. Between forgetting that I had already baked pastries because I set them on top of the oven instead of placing them on the countertops or the cooling rack and walking up three lengthy flights of stairs in (very) high heels, I feel like I completely sympathize with the rest of you (short people).

Getting back down the stairs was an entirely different matter. I almost ate cement. The heel caught in the excess fabric of the boot cut of my pants midair. I flailed about, not unlike Wile E. Coyote attempting to fly, and, by the grace of the Almighty, caught the railing in my hand. Inertia whipped me around one hundred eighty degrees, panting and giggle-snorting. My markedly shorter classmate accompanied me to my car, in case I made an additional pit stop to pirouette atop another outdoor stairwell and didn't stick the landing.

We made for a comical pair, the wary giantess and the diminutive spotter. I'm pretty sure I broke a sweat descending a flight of stairs. That cannot be healthy. It is probably related to the random dependent edema I experience when I run. (and you thought I couldn't circle back!)

This is true. I know it is time to stop running when my knuckles swell too much to curl my fingers. Is my heart failing? I doubt it. I've never heard of exercise-induced heart failure, and I'm a nursing student. I'll google it. Or maybe not. I swear, if I google'd half the stuff I said I would, my name would probably be atop every no-fly list out there.

To sum up the last month or so of exercise, I've been pretty consistent. for me. I make an effort to run around the cranberry bog across the street from my house daily. The occasional early shift that is CRAZY busy waylays me, but let's be honest. Cape Cod has had fabulous weather this summer. There haven't been many of those. As a result, I also feel like I haven't been properly tested for commitment to my fitness goal. It's one thing to say, "gee willikers, I fancy a run today," on a day free of humidity and clouds. It is another to say the same thing when it's pouring rain or snowing or hailing or tornado'ing outside.

I am terrified of tornadoes. I would divorce running for the day if there was a tornado. Can you blame me?

Erm, anyways. I took online advice to tell others about my plans to run a marathon. All the world's a passive accountability partner, I suppose. I do slip it into conversation with some individuals that I am still on the market for a proper running partner. I even have a sponsor! A regular customer who regularly badgers me en cafe offered to sponsor my ass. Considering he's a white man in his sixties and said "your" instead of "yo," it concerns me that his intention is to see his name printed on the seat of my shorts. Listen here, Creepy Allen's jacked younger brother, this is NOT happening.

I have made many strides. I'm slowly but surely running for longer stretches of bog, making loops and adding steps to my run. Only problem is, I have no idea where I am distance-wise. My seven dollar pedometer sits on a throne of lies when it comes to step-count. Phyllis (the pedometer) also feels that I take tiny baby steps because the mileage math is askew -- and different every day! If I ever work up the courage to find out if what I think is three miles really IS three miles, I will run to my favorite beach, three miles away.

I feel as though I need a few more weeks of practice before I get there. And considering lecture starts tomorrow, I will be put to my first real fitness test: where does physical fitness rank in the list of importance whilst competing with things like education and stress management.

The Descent, the Caitlyn story.