Verbal Diarrhoea

In this month’s Runner’s World there were three articles that attracted my attention: Marathon Des Sables, It’s About Time and Human Race.

According to the contents page Human Race is about a teen who “defies epilepsy and dramatically improves his health through running.” According to the article Jaundré (our teen hero in this tale) used to suffer up to 14 epileptic fits a day, “despite heavy doses of anti-convulsive medication”. Since taking up running, he can go weeks without experiencing a seizure. “At most he has four seizures over a period of three months”.

Enter a heavy dose of cynicism from my side. I won’t deny that there are health benefits to exercise; I just need a little more than the anecdotal evidence of parents to believe that running decreases the number of seizures to such a degree. I want the opinion of five qualified medical doctors. I want to know if his diet has changed in anyway. I want to know if he’s switched drugs. I want bar graphs!  

Anyway, at least the parents aren’t advocating that others swap epileptic drugs for exercise. That my friends, smells a little too much like a certain Scientologist mocking a celebrity for “indulging” in anti-depressants. Postnatal depression is real, you fucktard!

What did however impress me about Jaundré Niemandt was the fact that he managed to complete a 10km race in 68 minutes. 68 minutes! Do you know how incredible that is? Seriously? Do you have any idea how hard I have to push myself in order to beat a time like that? Do you have any idea how many pep talks I have to give myself? It takes a lot of mental energy to force myself to continue at such a speed and here’s this boy who needs two people to hold his hands while running, and his kicking my ass. If that’s not inspiring, I’m not sure what is.

The daily journey to work should have taken me no longer than ten minutes. But I’d left the house late and now I found myself sitting in traffic.

Sitting there, hands clenching the steering wheel, lips chapped and attempting to sing along to The Postal Service, I noticed her running by. And instantly I hated her. I hated her and everything she represented. I hated her freedom. I hated the fact that it was nearly 8 in the morning and she wasn’t rushing off to an office with fluorescent lighting. Her fingers would not be gliding effortlessly across a keyboard, in an effort to update the latest database. I hated the fact that she had the luxury of spending her mornings exercising, her legs pounding away rhythmically. I imagined experiencing the exertion of my lungs, the cold air on my face and I hated her. I hated her pert ass and blonde ponytail swinging to and fro.

And as sat there thinking up a list of imaginary wrongs incurred by the young woman, I had what others would refer to as an “epiphany”. I realized that a few months ago my opinion of the woman would have been different. I would have looked at her in complete and utter awe. I would have admired her willpower. The discipline that it took to wake up at the crack of dawn and run anything further than a block, was beyond my comprehension. And this feeling of awe would soon be followed by one of dejection. I’d never be capable of any of this.

And now … Now all those things I’ve admired in other runners; all those things that I always I assumed I was incapable of doing, are easy. I’ve finally reached a place where I can run 8km comfortably. I’ve finally reached a place where running is actually enjoyable. I’ve finally reached the point where I can bite down and tell myself, “You’re not done yet. Dig deep. Find your inner strength.”

And as this realization hit me, I couldn’t help but smile.

On Sunday I was looking at babies.

In the whole history of Sid Kane, this is an unprecedented event. My usual stance of “Oh holy mother of fuck, why would anyone do THAT to their vagina” was replaced by looks of yearning, looks that has heretofore been reserved for hooker heels and men with really broad shoulders.

I’m talking about desire. For a baby. I Sid Kane, who previously duct taped a nappy to a kid’s ass and has often referred to kids as “rugrats”, am overcome with the sudden desire to have a little one.

 And all I wanted was the simple things

A simple kind of life

And all I needed was a simple man

So I could be a wife

It got so bad that while lounging at La Perla, I ignored any hot men in the near vicinity. Noting my fascination with the little buggers, Cazz finally commented, “You want a life altering experience? How about having one of those?”

Me: I did think about it but to be honest with you Cazz, I don’t think the parents would be too happy with me abducting their kids. Parents are kinda touchy that way.

I always thought I’d be a mom

Sometimes I wish for a mistake

The longer that I wait the more selfish that I get

You seem like you’d be a good dad

*Sigh*

I’m not quite sure what else to tell you guys. I guess I just don’t really want to tell you guys that for the longest time ever I’ve had this image in my head of me standing in front of my bedroom window, watching my husband and kids play soccer. Of course as the years have passed this vision has evolved to include me holding a camera, which has now become as much a part of me as my appendages.

Now all those simple things are simply too complicated for my life

How’d I get so faithful to my freedom?

A selfish kind of life

When all I ever wanted was the simple things

A simple kind of life

(Just reread this and can’t believe how girly and honest I am. And on a public forum no less. God I want to puke.)

Never too soon
Oh reckless abandon,
Like no one’s watching you

Sweet Disposition – The Temper Trap

Let’s go back in time when I was a freshman* at university and Britney Spears bothered to put on panties before leaving the house. Yes, the early 2000s was a time of innocence. Back then I still believed in soul mates, the healing power of chocolate and that a good job was all that was needed to OWN a house. Now the only thing I swear by is the healing power of chocolate – unless of course you’re diabetic, then you’re screwed.

Comic from Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal.

Anyway, the following story takes places a few months into my first year at uni. I’m in the Bolus Herbarium (Botany Library) searching for my BFFs (En-dee!, Fahiema and Goldilocks**). Not finding them I decide to share a table with a group of black students, one of whom I recognize from one of my classes.

So they’re sitting there having an interesting conversation, none of which I can understand because they were speaking in Xhosa. Of course I wasn’t going to let something as silly as the language barrier stop me from participating in a conversation that appeared to shock the audience.  

Me: Wait? What? I don’t understand you guys. Please repeat in English.

Girl: I was just telling them that I watched this series where a black mother caught her gay son having sex with a guy. She them poured boiling water onto them while they were still busy in the act.

Everyone shakes their heads and mutter something or other. And then the boy said something that shocked me.

Boy: Homosexuality – the white man’s disease.

And I just sat there, wide-eyed and disbelieving as everyone else seemed to agree with him. Until that day I’d always assumed that it was only the uneducated that thought this way – now I know better.  

*South Africans don’t use the term freshman so I have no idea if I’m using the term correctly.

**Goldilocks would later stop speaking to us after we screw her over but that’s a story for a whole different blog post. Actually I think I already blogged this story.

I’ve been thinking about Valentine’s Day and what it means to me and I honestly couldn’t come up with an answer. Am I the girl who sneers at the concept of a day created solely for the purpose of capitalising on the naïve idea that clichéd romantic gifts equals love or am I the girl who bakes everyone in her office muffins to ensure that they feel appreciated. Okay, I’m obviously not the girl who bakes muffins but you get my drift. Anyway, the brought to the fore something my dear friend Tracy said to me a while back.

I once sent around an email asking my friends to pick one word that best describes me. Weeks later, Tracy confided in me that she found me to be a bit of an ambiguity. That she was incapable of determining what I really believed in. She said that it was obvious that I was pretty obvious that I was open-minded by the questions I asked yet I seemed to conform to certain societal beliefs. The truth is that I have no idea what I believe in. I have no idea who I am. I do however know how I would like people to perceive me as.

I would like to people to think of me as this confident, brave, driven, articulate, poised woman. The truth is that I am nothing at all like that woman.

I am the girl who makes hooker jokes and fills her blog with ridiculous tales because she’s afraid that if she allows you in, you might not like what you find. You might come to realise that I’m not nice and that really isn’t anything substantial below the surface. And once you discover this, what stops you from running for the hills?

I am the girl who tells people that she doesn’t read because she’s afraid that you’ll discover that she is in fact stupid. That she simply can not comprehend any abstract ideas, that she is nothing more than a poser.

I am the girl who is so afraid of failure that she quits before even trying. I’m the girl, who although she has handed in most of her Masters assignments before all the other students, has actually prepared herself for the fact that she might not graduate. At this present moment in time I can not see myself getting any further with my thesis than a mere literature survey.

I am the girl who is dying to throw a temper tantrum when things don’t go her way, but will never do this because that’s not the way good girls behave. I am the girl who is unlikely to ever confront that jackass who keeps teasing her because she likes to keep the peace. Instead she’ll try her utmost to spend as little time in the company of the jackass.

I am the girl who has spent her entire life dreaming of spending a few months in New York but inherently know that she will never do so. She is simply too afraid to start afresh. She is afraid that she will be incapable of doing absolutely anything at all for herself, that at the very first sign of crisis she will fall apart.

I am very aware of the fact that, that girl with all her faults can sometimes surprise me with all that she is willing and capable of doing. I am the girl who jumped out a plane with nothing but a nylon bag to stop her from colliding head first with the ground. I am the girl who called up a guy and used Alicia Keys lyrics on him. I am the girl who sent a letter to the HR person telling her exactly where to shove her ideas – she hasn’t bothered me since. I am the girl who occasionally tells complete strangers about all fears.

Oh and happy Valentines Day …