On Saturday, I woke up at 5 am and set out to run my first half marathon.

Yes, normal people wear glitter eye shadow to run a half marathon.

My mom and brother came to DC to visit and support me in the race. Having them there was amazing. I was calm, I was motivated, and I was excited.

The race started at 8 am, but I didn’t actually cross the start line until closer to 9. The metros were super crowded and I didn’t arrive at Stadium Armory until 10 minutes before the start of the race. I used a port-o-potty for maybe the third time in my life. The experience was horrifying and made worse by the fact that there was no toilet paper. So basically, I had diaper rash by the time the day was over. Someone suggested I ask Rock ‘N’ Roll for a refund. It’s true. I paid $90 for the race—you’d think that would afford me a couple squares of TP.

Before the race. So fresh ‘n’ so clean. Well. Except for the whole no TP episode. At least I didn’t have to number 2.

I passed my mom and brother around mile 2.5. It was really hot out at this point and I wasn’t exactly looking forward to sweating for another 2 hours. But seeing my family and seeing the Capitol Building was really motivating.

At the 5k point, I already had a headache. I stopped at a water station and took some ibuprofen and dropped my ipod on the ground (I did this twice during the race, almost tripping the people behind me when I stopped to pick it up.) 

I was amazed by the people around me. They were all bigger and older than I was, but going at the same pace that I was. “Yeah. This is what you get for not training well, Lexie.” I actually kept up with what looked like a 90-year-old couple until about mile 6 when they get away from me. Yup. Beaten by somebody’s grandparents.

Around mile 5, the hills started. I allowed myself to walk on the hills. My walking pace was just as fast as the people running them, and I knew I was using less energy.

I cannot say enough about how amazing the spectators were between miles 7 and 10. At least five people shouted out to me that they liked my tights. Strangers were cheering for “South Buffalo.” I noticed a surge in my pace every time I went through these spectator-heavy areas. A few people were even handing out beer to the runners.

Around mile 11.5, things got ugly. My right ankle was hurting a lot and I was reduced to walking. I held back tears a couple of times. In my mind I kept telling myself “You didn’t come here to walk, you came here to run,” but even walking was TRULY painful at this point.

About .3 miles from the finish line, I sprinted faster than I had the entire race. I made eye contact with the spectators lining the finish line and found a final surge of energy. I expected to cry, but instead I just smiled. I was handed a finisher’s medal—a medal that I wouldn’t remove for the next three days.

I followed up the race with a nap, a nice dip in the hotel hot tub, three margaritas and an amazing meatloaf dinner at the Copper Canyon in Gaithersburg.

It’s still unreal to me that I’m a half marathoner. I’m definitely interested in tackling this distance again at some point, although I will definitely follow a stricter training plan next time.

And I guess the question is now, what about 26.2? Is the full marathon something I plan to do?

Hah.

I told my mom she had permission to slap me if I ever told her I was going to do a full marathon. I don’t think my Frankenstein feet can handle it.

In November, I signed up for the Rock ‘N’ Roll USA Half Marathon.

I don’t know why I haven’t mentioned it.

I’m weird.

And here’s something that probably doesn’t surprise you…

I’m extremely unprepared. I suppose that’s what you get when don’t follow a training plan whatsoever.

I’m dumb.

So I guess the question I’ve been getting the most is “why?” Why run 13.1 miles?

When I first started this blog, my goal was to run the 2010 Pittsburgh Half Marathon. I was in the best shape of my life that year, but it just didn’t happen. I was running really frequently and it just wasn’t getting any easier. Almost every time I ran, I would get a horrible headache that wouldn’t go away unless I took some sort of pain killer. I did a lot of online research, I emailed a few bloggers, I asked my nutrition professor, I went to my doctor…no one had an answer for me. So at the point, I decided to write off long distance running. It’s just not for me, I told myself.

I didn’t think about running a half marathon again until I saw 11-11-11 discount that Rock ‘N’ Roll Marathon series was offering for its races. I wasn’t nearly in as good of shape as I was in 2010 (and I’m still not), but I signed up. 

When I was about 10 years old, my podiatrist told me that my feet were so flat and growing in such an extreme outward angle, that if I didn’t have them surgically corrected, I wouldn’t be able to walk by the time I was 20. At age 11 and 12, I had an arch built in each foot and had my bones broken and set in the proper direction. I was non-weight-baring on each foot for 4 months at a time, and each time I re-taught myself to walk without any therapy.

After all I’ve gone through with the major construction on my feet, I feel like I shouldn’t take them for granted. Sometimes I think to myself, at age 22, “I shouldn’t be able to walk.” But I can walk. And I can run. So I should. I have the ability to run 13.1 miles, so I’m going to.

But then there was still the issue of the headaches.

After realizing that both my parents have asthma, I had my doctor prescribe me an inhaler to see if maybe the headaches were a result of exercise induced asthma. The inhaler definitely helps a lot, but hasn’t completely cured the headaches. Nonetheless, I’ve managed them well enough to half-assedly train for this half marathon tomorrow.

It’s been an interesting few months of half-assed training, too. I took my first ice bath (while reading You’re a Horrible Person, but I Like You).

I ran my a 5k in 0 degree weather.

And I sacrificed the skin on my pinky toes.

So hopefully tomorrow I will be able to call myself a half marathoner. And if not, someone better come look for me passed out on the streets of DC.

Despite the fact that I’m turning 23 next month, I have evidence to the contrary that I’m growing up.

For one thing, lunchables.

For another thing, purple hair.

I should also add that I was unpacking my summer clothes and putting away my winter clothes this week when I found a t-shirt with Big Bird on it.

Oh Miss Bond. Maybe someday you will act like an adult.

Back when I worked at The Pitt News, I received a paper hat award for the “Most Likely to Fuck with Your Facebook.” This was true. (Funny enough, the only words that could fit on the front of the paper hat were “Most Likely To Fuck.” Which is probably also true.) Basically, if people forgot to log out of their Facebooks on the work computers, I would change their profile pictures to a pickle and add Titanic to their favorite movies.

My love for pickles (and Titanic, but that’s another story) is intense. Which is why I’m surprised that until last night, I had never had a Captain Pickle shot. You heard me. A shot of Captain followed by a shot of pickle juice.

Delicious I tell you. And not just that, but I’ve even heard that pickles are good for preventing hangovers. I can’t confirm this yet. And it really wouldn’t be fair to judge the impact of one pickle and two shots of pickle juice against an internal-bleeding inducing amount of alcohol.

I woke up at 4 am this morning in a King size bed with two other people at a friend’s place in DC. All I could think about was a bag of jalapeno Sun Chips at my house that I desperately wanted to eat.

After some night rehashing, John helped Monica and I call cab companies since the metro wouldn’t be running for another few hours. I’ve never taken a cab in my life and had no idea what I was doing. The first cab company said they didn’t go into DC on the weekends. Racist. The second company we called went to voicemail. The third company’s number didn’t even work. f Finally, we got a guy on the phone at Diamond Cabs.

“Hi I need a cab to Bethesda.”

“Okay what’s your phone number?”

“Monica, what’s your phone number? *tells guy phone number*”

“Ok so it’s *repeats wrong phone number*"

“No no no no. *repeats correct phone number*”

“Ok what’s your name?”

“Lexie,”

“What?”

“Leck. See”

“Spell it.”

“L-e-x-i-e.”

“E-x-i-e-s?”

“Oh my god no just put it under Monica.”

“Okay. Monica. And what’s your address.”

*gives address* 

*doesn’t understand address*

*overly annunciates address and curses her white-trash-Western-Pennsylvanian accent*

“And where are you going?”

“Grovsner metro station.”

“Shady Grove?”

“No Grovsner. On the red line”

“Can you spell it?”

“Probably not. G-r-o-v-s-n-e-r or –o-r?”

“Ok and are you in a house or an apartment?”

“I don’t know. It looks like a house.”

“Well if it looks like a house it’s probably a house.”

“Ok let’s call it a house.”

“Ok thanks Monica.”

And then I paid for a $40 cab ride. All cause I couldn’t wait an extra few hours for those jalapeno Sun Chips. And you know what? They were totally worth it.

For the past few years, I’ve lived in urban areas that don’t require a car to get around. It’s nice to not need a car, but at the same time, I can’t say I haven’t been bitten by strange old black men on Port Authority buses before. Basically, I’m aware that public transportation has its downfalls. Therefore, last summer, I coughed up a down payment for George Bush the SmartCar.

I pay a monthly car payment for George Bush, a monthly car insurance payment, and $25 to fill him up with gas every week. And believe it or not, I don’t do these things to give you, my non-car-owning friends/acquaintances/male prostitutes rides home/to the metro/to the gynecologist. If I offer you a ride, fine. It’s because I like you, or I’m feeling generous, or I want to sleep with you. What bothers me, however, is when these non-car owners actually ASK me to give them rides or want me to go significantly out of my way.

You’re giving me car-ownership guilt, people! And yeah. I know how much time it will save you if I drop you off at the metro instead of you having to take a bus there. But if you’re that worried about saving time/having to stand in the rain or snow/being bitten by weirdos on the bus, maybe you should suck it up and make a downpayment on a nugget car and make a monthly car payment and a monthly car insurance payment and fill up your tank weekly like the rest of us.

This might be the bitchiest thing I’ve ever written.

The end.

PS: If you’re hot, I will drive you wherever you want to go. Pretend you didn’t read this.

PSS: I hate this post and I might delete it.

PSSS: Oh well I’ll leave it for now and delete it when someone comments and tells me what a bitch I am.

I’ve been known to dress like an American flag on accident…

What can I say? Sometimes when you try to pull off the nautical look, people end up pledging allegiance to you at the bar.

So you can imagine how depressed I was when I forgot to dress patriotic for work. Presidents Day—  legitimate excuse to wear red, white, and blue and not look like a complete nut job—and I forgot about it. I basically live to dress festive. This is not okay.

So here blog, here is my festive outfit. And this picture is only a little slutty, though admittedly it’s still completely douchebaggy. What is it about my webcam that turns me into a complete douche?

In other news, I had some visitors over the weekend…

Sammy, Maddie, and Devin came down from PA and I took them to DC for touristy goodness.

Thanks for visiting, homies. I like you.

I decided that I wasn’t going to be one of those single people that hates Valentine’s Day.

In fact, I even made plans with myself tonight.

Tonight, I will be getting drunk off of cheap strawberry champagne and watching “The Human Centipede.”

Happy masturbation day, single people.

…not to be confused with Mambo Number 5…

Tomorrow I’m running my third 5K—Pacer’s Love the Run You’re With 5K.

And unlike my first 5K and my second 5K, I actually feel prepared for this one. Although admittedly, this 5K is throwing me a bit out of my comfort zone:

1. For one thing, it’s not a tiny little hometown 5K with less than 100 participants.
2. And this is the first 5K I’m doing by myself—no sister, no friends.
3. Finally, the weather is going to be no joke tomorrow. Less than thirty degrees! My nipples hurt just thinking about it.

I went down to Arlington today to pick up my bib this afternoon. I had the option to pick it up tomorrow, but I figured the less things I had to worry about in the morning the better. I also wanted a chance at practicing the drive to Arlington. My GPS hasn’t worked in a while, so I felt like I was in the Stone Ages and google mapped my directions and wrote them on an old envelope. Old school, bitches. Of course I got lost anyway and ended up in DC a couple times…

Can I just say the only time it absolutely sucks to see awesome monuments is when you know it means you’re lost?

I eventually found my way to Pentagon Row and picked up my loot.

I love that this 5K comes with a blanket instead of a t-shirt. I have too many t-shirts.

In other news, I dyed my hair today. While I was getting my hair cut from hell, the hair dresser asked me if I dye my own hair. I told her yes, and she said “I can tell. I have 37 years experience coloring hair. You want hair colored, come to me.” Hmmm…. $14 hair dye job or $100 hair dye job? I think I’ll just do it myself.

Before:

After:

Sidenote: What is it about my web cam that makes me take the absolute douchiest pictures? I do not know.

In other OTHER news, I also made homemade drop biscuits this morning (gotta carbo load for those 3.1 miles tomorrow, right?)

I mixed 2 cups flour, 1.5 teapsoons baking powder, 1 teaspoon baking soda, a pinch of salt, a pinch of sugar, 3/4 cup soy milk, and 4 tablespoons melted butter and baked them for about 12 minutes. I ate them with sausage gravy because my brain is that of a 500 pound woman.

Ok.

My nipples still hurt.

Bye.

Although I find my mother to be an extremely intelligent lady, I’m usually used to insightful advice coming from my dad’s direction—homeboy’s a counselor after all. But a phone call with my mom the other day really got me thinking. We were discussing how I’m basically turned off when guys overly compliment me. She suggested that maybe verbal confirmation isn’t the love language I respond to best.

Of the countless ways we can show love to one another, five key categories, or five love languages, proved to be universal and comprehensive—everyone has a love language, and we all identify primarily with one of the five love languages: Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Receiving Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch. (Source)

The 5 Love Languages website offers a quiz to help you determine which love language you speak. I ended up mostly speaking the quality time language:

For people that speak the quality time love language,

nothing says, ‘I love you,’ like full, undivided attention. Being there for this type of person is critical, but really being there—with the TV off, fork and knife down, and all chores and tasks on standby—makes your significant other feel truly special and loved. Distractions, postponed dates, or the failure to listen can be especially hurtful.

Did you hear that? THAT’S why I get so mad when you blow me off. Well, there’s that and the fact that I whiten my teeth and go tanning in preparation for all of our dates.

Ok now go take the quiz and see which love language you speak. And if you think this contradicts my disdain for online surveys, you’re absolutely correct. That’s $20 in the contradiction jar, Miss Bond.

My mom once came to visit me at Pitt and accidently left her BlackBerry at Fudd Ruckers. We realized it was gone within 30 minutes and went back to look for it. Of course it wasn’t there and management claimed no one turned it in. “That’s what you get for having a nice phone,” I told her. Most people aren’t going to turn that shiz in.

On the other hand, I don’t have much to worry about. Nobody is going to want my Kin. But if someone did find it, they would be able to tell a lot about me just by going through my cell phone pictures.

They would know that I sweat more than most human beings…

and that my family thinks my car is a toy and likes to park it on the porch.

One could assume that I’m one of those assholes that takes pictures of people when they fall asleep in the car…

and that I have a 7-year-old’s taste in alcohol.

Of course it would be really easy to identify that I’m not entirely normal…

and that I have an extreme chinchilla fetish.

Additionally, it would be apparent that I’m a baklava-making champion…

and that although it’s February, I’m still driving with the top down.

Of course there’s something to be said about my Erasure ring tone and the fact that I own a Kin at all. I once had a guy tell me not to bother texting him until I got a real person phone. I’m sure he’ll be the first person I tell if I do. Even if he thought the word “sensual” was spelled with a ‘t.’