On Saturday morning, after more than a year of completely sucking, I finally did it: I had a race. A good race.
Sure, I’ve worn my fluorescent yellow team jersey and participated in races. I started running when the gun went off and stopped at the finish line, but in between my thoughts were, “Try not to keel over. It’s 8am on a weekend, why am I doing this? Am I done yet? Will anyone care if I drop out? This hurts.”
Then Saturday something clicked over in my head and those thoughts came out more like, “Hey, I’m going kind of fast, and I’m relatively sure I’m not going to die. Maybe I could pass that girl in front of me. This isn’t so bad. There’s R cheering for me! Five miles is a tough race distance, but I’m almost there. Also, I’m hungry.”
As I warmed up with five of my teammates (the really fast girls) and afterwards devoured a bagel and snacks at our post-race picnic, I felt like part of a team again. Happy JackieOh.
The resultant runner’s high carried me through Sunday evening, though it’s possible that the overarching awesomeness of my weekend was the source of my happiness. On Friday night R organized a dinner with a few of his friends, one of those fun but potentially awkward situations where everyone just knows R and the one friend he or she brought. Pitchers of sangria were the perfect solution to smooth out any lapses in the conversation and everyone was having a good time. Then things got weird.
I had suggested we go to an Italian restaurant across the street from my apartment because it can accommodate groups, and there’s always a bachelorette party going on and who doesn’t want to see a chick in a tiara, veil and sequined “BRIDE” tanktop getting drunk with twelve of her sluttiest girl friends? Well, us, as it turns out. The bachelorette party disrupting our dinner was sad and a little traumatizing for the easily offended – the future Mrs. could only round up three of her girl friends, but she outslutted them all when it was time for the waiter to dance/grind with her while Jock Jams played from the speakers. The waiter must moonlight as a stripper, and the bride-to-be was way too into dry humping him in the middle of the restaurant to be getting hitched any time soon. At one point a waiter sprayed a line of whip cream down her cleavage and licked it off. You can't even make this shit up. Not surprisingly, R banned me from ever choosing the restaurant again.
Saturday was one of those Fun York days, starting with the race. R and his friend M came to watch my finish, then the three of us and Coach G headed to the Great Lawn for some Frisbee action. We challenged four other dudes to a game of Ultimate, even though Coach G and I had nothing left in our legs. M carried us with some incredible catches, and I even scored one of our points. The other dudes wimped out before we could play to eleven, so we’re calling it a victory for The Good Guys. Later that evening, after naps and showers, we met up with R’s cousin and her husband for beer and barbecue. Life is good. We ordered a huge fishbowl drink that came with a plastic alligator filled with an additional shot. I spent the rest of the evening drinking with an alligator sticking out of the pocket of my khakis, the universal sign of a classy broad.
Sunday was cool and drizzly, so R and I went to the Guggenheim to see the Shapes of Space exhibit (check it off the Summer To-Do List!). We liked the permanent collection, but the exhibit itself was bizarre and disappointing. I’m pretty liberal with the sliding scale of What Counts as Art, but this pushed even my boundaries. Square of gold lamé on the floor? Not art. Plywood chicken coop with a TV inside playing a video of the chicken coop building process? Really not art. And the main attraction (as advertised on the subway) was a floor with square tiles that lit up in patterns to 50 Cent’s "Candyshop." I was disenchanted to discover that the tiles weren’t interactive and didn’t light up when patrons danced on them like the piano at FAO Schwartz in Big. Boring! But nothing a little ice cream in the park couldn’t fix. Really, there isn’t much in this world that ice cream can’t fix for me.
We rounded out the Fun York weekend with Chinese takeout and Superbad. Holy cow, I’m still laughing about a few parts. I feel like the movie makers took a big risk with a title like that – the potential for self-fulfilling prophecy is high. Humor is on their side, but if it sucked, one could answer the question, “How was Superbad?” by saying, “Super bad.” Anyway, it was hilarious. Supergood.
OK, I’m so bored that I might willingly make vocabulary flashcards to study for the upcoming GRE. With Easy and Easiest out on vacation I’m just left with Easier and JDate, neither of whom give me any work. Man, late August is a weird time at Nice Hedge Fund, when all of the bosses are out and the assistants are left to their own devices. T and I were talking this afternoon about our respective jobs. He works with creative types at a creative job where the tattooed to not-tattooed ratio is high, while I can think of two people in this entire office with visible tattoos: an over-muscled, intentionally bald IT guy with tribal bands around his biceps and a pseudo-cougar with your standard sun inked on her ankle just above the peep-toe stilettos that she wears every single day. The only “creative types” here are the admins who would rather be doing something else but can’t pass up the money. Hedge funds, it seems, are where creativity comes to die.
I think I’ve had enough fun for one day. Time to duck out early.
Sure, I’ve worn my fluorescent yellow team jersey and participated in races. I started running when the gun went off and stopped at the finish line, but in between my thoughts were, “Try not to keel over. It’s 8am on a weekend, why am I doing this? Am I done yet? Will anyone care if I drop out? This hurts.”
Then Saturday something clicked over in my head and those thoughts came out more like, “Hey, I’m going kind of fast, and I’m relatively sure I’m not going to die. Maybe I could pass that girl in front of me. This isn’t so bad. There’s R cheering for me! Five miles is a tough race distance, but I’m almost there. Also, I’m hungry.”
As I warmed up with five of my teammates (the really fast girls) and afterwards devoured a bagel and snacks at our post-race picnic, I felt like part of a team again. Happy JackieOh.
The resultant runner’s high carried me through Sunday evening, though it’s possible that the overarching awesomeness of my weekend was the source of my happiness. On Friday night R organized a dinner with a few of his friends, one of those fun but potentially awkward situations where everyone just knows R and the one friend he or she brought. Pitchers of sangria were the perfect solution to smooth out any lapses in the conversation and everyone was having a good time. Then things got weird.
I had suggested we go to an Italian restaurant across the street from my apartment because it can accommodate groups, and there’s always a bachelorette party going on and who doesn’t want to see a chick in a tiara, veil and sequined “BRIDE” tanktop getting drunk with twelve of her sluttiest girl friends? Well, us, as it turns out. The bachelorette party disrupting our dinner was sad and a little traumatizing for the easily offended – the future Mrs. could only round up three of her girl friends, but she outslutted them all when it was time for the waiter to dance/grind with her while Jock Jams played from the speakers. The waiter must moonlight as a stripper, and the bride-to-be was way too into dry humping him in the middle of the restaurant to be getting hitched any time soon. At one point a waiter sprayed a line of whip cream down her cleavage and licked it off. You can't even make this shit up. Not surprisingly, R banned me from ever choosing the restaurant again.
Saturday was one of those Fun York days, starting with the race. R and his friend M came to watch my finish, then the three of us and Coach G headed to the Great Lawn for some Frisbee action. We challenged four other dudes to a game of Ultimate, even though Coach G and I had nothing left in our legs. M carried us with some incredible catches, and I even scored one of our points. The other dudes wimped out before we could play to eleven, so we’re calling it a victory for The Good Guys. Later that evening, after naps and showers, we met up with R’s cousin and her husband for beer and barbecue. Life is good. We ordered a huge fishbowl drink that came with a plastic alligator filled with an additional shot. I spent the rest of the evening drinking with an alligator sticking out of the pocket of my khakis, the universal sign of a classy broad.
Sunday was cool and drizzly, so R and I went to the Guggenheim to see the Shapes of Space exhibit (check it off the Summer To-Do List!). We liked the permanent collection, but the exhibit itself was bizarre and disappointing. I’m pretty liberal with the sliding scale of What Counts as Art, but this pushed even my boundaries. Square of gold lamé on the floor? Not art. Plywood chicken coop with a TV inside playing a video of the chicken coop building process? Really not art. And the main attraction (as advertised on the subway) was a floor with square tiles that lit up in patterns to 50 Cent’s "Candyshop." I was disenchanted to discover that the tiles weren’t interactive and didn’t light up when patrons danced on them like the piano at FAO Schwartz in Big. Boring! But nothing a little ice cream in the park couldn’t fix. Really, there isn’t much in this world that ice cream can’t fix for me.We rounded out the Fun York weekend with Chinese takeout and Superbad. Holy cow, I’m still laughing about a few parts. I feel like the movie makers took a big risk with a title like that – the potential for self-fulfilling prophecy is high. Humor is on their side, but if it sucked, one could answer the question, “How was Superbad?” by saying, “Super bad.” Anyway, it was hilarious. Supergood.
OK, I’m so bored that I might willingly make vocabulary flashcards to study for the upcoming GRE. With Easy and Easiest out on vacation I’m just left with Easier and JDate, neither of whom give me any work. Man, late August is a weird time at Nice Hedge Fund, when all of the bosses are out and the assistants are left to their own devices. T and I were talking this afternoon about our respective jobs. He works with creative types at a creative job where the tattooed to not-tattooed ratio is high, while I can think of two people in this entire office with visible tattoos: an over-muscled, intentionally bald IT guy with tribal bands around his biceps and a pseudo-cougar with your standard sun inked on her ankle just above the peep-toe stilettos that she wears every single day. The only “creative types” here are the admins who would rather be doing something else but can’t pass up the money. Hedge funds, it seems, are where creativity comes to die.
I think I’ve had enough fun for one day. Time to duck out early.
2 comments:
“Try not to keel over. It’s 8am on a weekend, why am I doing this? Am I done yet? Will anyone care if I drop out? This hurts.”
...taking things out of context is funny.
Hahaha thanks for the helpful perspective, G.
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