Typetrigger: Future Plans

"Tell me about your 5 year plan." 

Such a strange prompt.  A skeezy motivational mantra picked up by some entrepreneurial ponytail yuppie at a financial empowerment convention that became the blazing signifier of the capitally ambitious.  The prime opportunity to demonstrate one's perfect application of strategy, drive, and confidence.  And the ultimate corporate Freud-probe designed to opportunistically sniff out the most opportunistic of candidates.   

Like most interview questions, it is not directed at gauging who you are truthfully as a candidate, it is more a measure of how cleverly you can structure your response to get the desired result.  All parties benefit from a little lie.  Too big, and you can't be trusted; planning on going to the moon shows your head is in the clouds.  Too small, and they can't feed off of your meager motives.  Too honest, and they don't believe you anyway. 

My favorite response? 

"Well, I plan to be alive in 5 years." 

Without fail, it sets off an alert that flashes from behind the panicked pupils of my would-be skill set parasite.  Either this woman hasn't the self-respect to set expectations, or she has no respect for the institutional order of success - either way she is out of control.  Who doesn't know what we want to hear? 

Then I laugh.  And he or she laughs, because we all want to communicate that we got the joke, even though we're not entirely sure we got the joke. 

And I say after a contented, drawn out sigh, "Really though, I see myself... (pausing for visionary effect) ...in a corner office, working out the details of a plan with my strongest team players to enhance productivity and encourage and reward buy-in from employees at all levels in the department." 

Because I want the job.   And a shower.

Runner's Blog - Certifiable

So this is gonna be a quickie.... inasmuch as I am actually capable of such things.  One week later = 3 weeks into the 30 day workout and a new crunch time goal for running training.  And by crunch time, I mean "stumbled on an entry slot for a race this Saturday" crunch time.  (look here, and you'll see in full color my sudden obsession with entering something official).  Yesterday, I just happened to mention off-hand that I was bummed about the sold-out status of the race, and my new baker friend Liz called me to the table as a replacement for someone with an unfortunate injury.  She didn't know I was bluffing, so I had to see her bet before she could call my hand, which means getting serious about doing some running so I don't make a complete ass out of myself in three days.

This is how I work best.

Most people around me would probably say that I am a very strategic, analytical, and deliberate thinker.  It's not that they would be wrong, it's just that for all the time I spend analyzing and strategizing, most of it goes out the window when it comes time for me to make the final call.  It seems as though a disproportionately huge amount of my active successes in life are achieved as the result of pushing myself to meet some unrealistic, ill-timed goal brought on by a gut instinct decision: DO IT, OR DON'T.  In this case, I'm doing it (provided that all the registration can be transferred over, blah blah boring stuff).  And to get prepped, I dropped the pretense, plugged in the tunes, fired up the training app, did the stretching and the timing, and even the "hardcore" workout, and then I went running.  4.5k.  And I feel pretty good.  What was all the fuss about again? 

Runner's Log - 2 weeks later

Ahem.... so, right back to it, eh?  As you can guess, my slacking off is a condition that expands beyond the blogosphere right into my running shoes.  After the last time I wrote, I may have gone running once, not that I remember, particularly.  But not to worry, my activity did not completely cease.  I've spent the time working on the yard, whipping the house into shape, and whipping myself into shape, finding little glimmers of motivation here and there, and completely ruining my theories about needing to find the zen space between my heels and the asphalt.

Recently I've been spending the occasional Saturday morning working out with a friend.  I was a little embarrassed by the strenuous amount of effort it took me to get through one little 30 minute video workout, so I decided to study on my own time.  Equipment:  2 hand weights and one workout video promising amazing results in 30 days (all under $25 from the Bulls-eye) and one bleary-eyed, just-out-of-bed body.  First of all, let me just say that I don't believe any claims about anything.  Ever.  That being said, I took the "ripped in 30 days" claim of the video as a challenge.  I'll do damn near anything I have to to prove it doesn't work, or I'll kill myself (and by kill, I mean accidentally shape up and have to eat my words, which can be a very poisonous diet) trying.

As of now, I'm smack in the middle of the 2nd week, and much to my surprise, I've stuck with it every day so far.  Apparently structure, direction, and accountability aren't such terrible deterrents to getting something done... oh, and also it helps to have somebody scream at you through the tv screen (we'll just ignore any subtextual inferences about self-torture).  Really, it's about one thing:  know thyself.  Just because your goals may be more about proving obstinate points than getting ready for "bathing suit season" (does anybody believe this, really?) doesn't mean that they're still not goals.  And just because you don't like an activity enough to get through it without the driving distraction of screaming guitars or screeching trainers doesn't mean you can't reap the benefits of at least giving it a go.  And it never hurts to find a friend who not only doesn't think you're crazy for yelling back at the tv, but will air punch that bitch in the face right along with you.

Today, I decided to abandon all reason, lace up the shoes, plug in the tunes and hit the road before my normally scheduled workout.  I won't lie - I didn't like it.  But it didn't kill me.  I still got all the way through my workout, and I do feel a little proud... but not enough to brag about stats.  Who cares anyway?

PS - It should be noted that there is a diet to go along with the video.  I refuse to follow it, which will probably break any claims I have as to the efficacy of the system, but I figure that's a given.  I don't like diets; they're complicated, too frequently unfounded, and they make the joyous indulgence of eating boring and tedious.  Here's a little entertainment for you:  That Mitchell and Webb Look: Lifestyle Nutritionists

Adios til next time!

Runner's Log 2

It's been about a week since my last update, and I have gone running a grand total of two times.  I could go over a whole host of excuses, mainly involving my love of sleeping in and my innate talent for overbooking myself, but I've realized something about that inclination: who cares?  I'm pretty sure it's a monster genetically akin to the mutated form of worrying (my other special talent) and serves no greater purpose than to waste time and hot air - like a political ad sponsored by my own MicEnergy-Diversion Super PAC.  In fact, I think a thousand baby popples have starved to death just in the time that it took me to write this introspection.  Don't let the baby popples die.

Instead, we'll start here:  I've noticed a trend developing over the past few runs without my little electro-crutches.... I don't go as far.  In fact, I've dropped my distance by about two-thirds.  This is perhaps where a prudent person may start to examine various factors that could play into this, and where a maniacally-obsessed analyzer such as myself will chase down every rabbit hole until the path of reasoning tangles into a giant hairball suitable for choking on.  I'm going to liberate myself from that dirty task and just chalk it up to mental trickery and outside motivators.  My goal is not to run a marathon by the end of the month, it's to learn to like this thing... and I have to say on that note, it still sucks.  But hey, I increased my distance a little today.  Now it's off to the real races.

Runner's Log - Star(t) date NOW...ish

I work at a bakery.  A pretty amazing bakery.  Which means there's loads of tempting goodies persistently at my gustatory disposal.  And when people come in and ask me how I stay "so thin," I smile politely and try to change the subject.  Sometimes I attempt to alleviate myself from tripping down the path of exchanging discounted objections, vacuous niceties, and awkward remarks about lucky genetics or self-control (because, frankly, I don't know how either of those things work) and simply offer up the innocuously reasonable explanation that I run.  I am a runner.  Kind of.

I cringe a little bit any time I end up ascribing a designation to myself that implies both action and practice.  Reader, writer, bass player, songwriter, and artist.........-er, among other categories that mangle the suffix pattern, are things that I would say I have a passion for and engage actively in.  But even for my most favorite pursuits the drive comes in fits and spurts, and it should be noted that running is certainly not something I'm passionate about - at least not in any way that I have control over.  It is something I do because somehow my drive to avoid spending summer days piled on my couch in front of a never-ending wellspring of Dr. Who episodes (grievances with Netflix and Stephen Moffat to be filed at a later date) morphed into a determination that carried me far beyond my usual two week "just a phase" lifespan and past the guilt ridden point of no return.

I decided to start running a little less than a year ago after I spent a month bushwhacking my way up and down dusty desert mountains, lecturing myself on the benefits of being in shape, especially for the oh-so-common occasion when a humanities student finds herself on an archaeological survey.  I figured the best way to ensure that I of little willpower would stick to the plan (a term I use very loosely) would be to start small - an obstacle that has been the constant, bore-inducing stumbling block of any undertaking that becomes the hot focus of my obsessive little brain.  But starting small meant that all of that pent up tendency toward excess had to come out somewhere, this time in the form of preparation.  I did days of research, studying endless articles on training plans and proper stretching, mental conditioning, form, and diet, sifting through tired rants about ill-kept municipal trails and inconsiderate road-sharers, and learning about beneficial properties of man-made materials that wicked moisture from places I didn't want to think about.

I created a web of crutches, engaging a ritual of tracking and interval apps, playlists, stretch routines, and digestive coordination that would surely make it impossible for me to get out the door.  But somehow, in spite of myself, I managed to not only hit the pavement, but do it repeatedly, day after day marking my progress, getting faster and going farther, and feeling that my usual inclinations toward great meals, great booze, and great relaxation, for once, had been earned.  Part of me felt really great about myself... although the louder part of me hated every second of it.  I battled with increasing contempt the rules that were popping up all around me: You can't go for another two hours until you're properly fueled up and hydrated; You've waited too long and now it's too hot; You don't have time to run the fully scheduled distance for today; My app doesn't function properly, how am I going to time my splits?  the likes of which would send me into a time consuming tailspin of anguished analysis before finally concluding that it would be best to skip it and punish myself with double-duty or deprivation of some gloriously calorie-laden reward (Oh, I didn't go running today... I'd better not).  Periodically, that contemptuous side of me would win and I would quit running altogether just to ensure myself that my increasing self-confidence was not purely dependent on upon my daily workout, that I was not becoming that woman.

I hate running.  Nine months of this cyclical start and stop, physical and mental bludgeoning in pursuit of self-betterment has taught me that. But my better, non-guilt-driven side feels there's something inherently good about the potential of all of this, so I want to like it, or at least be at ease with it.  So I've decided to start over, start small for real.  No goals, no playlists, no apps, no schedule restrictions, no judgement, no punishment.  Just me and my two legs.  We'll see how it goes.

due diligence (typetrigger response)

I think you owe me something. 
It's a small thing, I mean, it's not a no 
                                                                  thing 
But not a big thing.  At least not 
compared to how long things can go 
                                                                on 
                                                                     and           on 
           and it's not like the time you borrowed fifty bucks from your cousin Serena and she wrote it down in her green book of things she liked to keep record of to stay sharp so that she could brandish it in an argument five years later after she insisted that the favor need not be returned. 
                     With compounded interest, 
                     you owe her a high season trip to the Ice Hotel 
                                                            and apparently a new cat. 
                                                                                   A tabby one. 
It is much smaller, 
this deficit between us. 
                                                      In fact, 
your coverage need not be repayed in currency 
                                                                                       or service, 
(though it should be known that I would not deny the former)
                            but a word is all, 
              just a word. 
One word


http://typetrigger.com/trigger/due%20diligence

nameless (typetrigger response)

Soulless? Voiceless? Loveless? Brainless?  Not so much business in loss is Nameless.  It's a burden as manageable as a bottle without a label or a product without a logo.  The contents is still present and can, without extreme effort, be deduced by a modestly motivated consumer - motivation, of course, hinging on the degree to which said consumer is observant and industrious enough to read..... 
                       ......on second thought, I'd like to trade for the baggage marked "Brainless," please.


http://typetrigger.com/trigger/nameless