Still plugging away

Sudden onset of ankle and achilles pain halfway in shortened my workout to 40 minutes; but it's better than nothing. I will load up on Naproxen and be back at it tomorrow. I really thought I had kicked (ha!) this achilles thing. 

In other news, Black Beauty arrived yesterday. I'm ripping more old cds into iTunes so I only have to sync him once before I get to listen to my entire library in the car *bliss*. Ol' Blue the 4G will remain in service and will have the important job of holding my workout music all in one place. 

Now. If I can just get my car alarm/remote starter remote to work, I will be a happy girl. Oh. And a new dress. And a new pair of shoes. And a cut and highlight. Eyebrows threaded. Some chocolate...

Entitlement

To what do you feel entitled?

At times, I still feel entitled to treat myself (at least that's how I spin it when I'm in the moment). Or I feel entitled to medicate myself. Or even numb myself and check out.

The word entitlement sparked a pretty intense discussion between my fiance and I one night, as I argued the point that maybe the little one should have a doughnut or a milkshake for her bedtime snack. Not a doughnut and a milkshake. Let's not even go into the fact that there has to be a snack every night before bed, even if the little one is not really hungry. Sometimes I just get tired of fighting.

This night, however, he struck a nerve as the disagreement went on: "She's healthy and she's not overweight and she's entitled to have doughnuts if she wants them."
At the mention of anyone being entitled to deep-fried dough, covered in syrupy glaze - as if it were a basic human need like shelter or water - my head nearly spun off and exploded.

Feeling "entitled" is what drives me to fight with myself nearly every minute of every day. Entitlement is what drove me to hit drive throughs on my way home from work (even though I had just had dinner an hour ago). Entitlement is what has sparked many impromptu shopping trips for favorite binge foods. Entitlement is why I sit on the couch and watch dvr shows when it would benefit me more to be working out. Entitlement is why I grab packages of cookies from the medic room, even if not the least bit hungry.

So I figured it would be a good time to look at entitlement in a new and positive way. Why not make a list of things to which I really should be entitled?

• I am entitled to love myself enough to spend at least an hour on myself every day, my hour, improving my physical conditioning and making my body strong and healthy
• I am entitled to feed my body high-quality, non-processed foods
• I am entitled to "waste" food in the disposal rather than "waste" excess food into my body
• I am entitled to say no to anything that cuts into my hour, just as I am entitled to work just as hard to find time for my hour as I do for tv and coffee consumption
• I am entitled to ask you to take your tempting sweets and put them out of my direct eyesight
• I am entitled to walks in the woods with my dog.. because it keeps us both sane.

Yesterday was day 3 in a row of working out hard, and I'm starting to feel that almost gravitational pull that the treadmill has on me. Even when I feel fatigued and foggy, like yesterday, I could hear it calling me. Procrastination turned out to be my friend this time. My entitled side was feeling the need for breakfast for dinner - could be healthy, but the version I had in mind certainly wasn't. Turns out I put my workout off just long enough that as soon as I was done, I had just enough time to shower and get ready for work, and shove the makings of a chef salad in a bag to take with me.

After working out for an hour and not having eaten for several before, I always look at a salad on a plate (no matter how big and loaded it is), and think, "Is that it?" See? Always feeling entitled to something more.

Yesterday, however, it was plenty enough. Repeat this cycle enough times and maybe one day I will think to myself (and really mean it), "I'm feeling entitled to a salad today!"

Shhhhhh

*whispering*

Don't tell the gods of laziness and food worship... but I've actually eaten reasonably and run the past 2 days. 

(Shhhhhh!)

Remember...

... this?

Well, now I know what they're thinking. My partner and I were privy to a conversation in the ambulance parking area, between a hospital security guard and mid-40s tough-guy-wannabe (who ended up looking more like a spoiled toddler than a tough guy)

There it was, the single clueless SUV taking up a space in the ambulance parking area. I'm sure it looks like prime parking real estate, being right in front of the ER entrance - especially you're one of those self-important types with a raging case of COTUS. 

The security guard must have tracked this guy down in one of the ER rooms (he was a visitor, not a patient), and asked him to move his vehicle. The conversation we witnessed went a little something like this:

Pissed-off middle aged tough guy: "This isn't over, buddy"

 *cue menacing glance* (who even says that, outside of bad action movies, anyway??)

Security guard: "All I asked you to do is move your vehicle to the parking area provided for ER patients and visitors."

POMATG: "WHY??? Why Can't I use that space? The lot isn't even full up here!"

SG: *sighing* "These spaces are clearly marked 'Ambulances and Police Vehicles only'."

POMATG: *smug grin*

"Well, where are the ambulances, huh? Huh?"

SG: *trying to be patient*

"These spaces are reserved for the ambulances so that when 6 of them come in at once, and they do, there are spaces for them. Again. They are clearly marked."

POMATG:"Hey. You know what? I want your badge number!" 

(again... people really do this?)

SG: *gives name and badge number and calls his supervisor right in front of the guy*

POMATG: *gets even more pissed-off, now practically stomping his feet* (at this point I'm waiting for him to hold his breath until he gets his way)

"I bet if my guts were hanging out you wouldn't have a problem with me parking here."

SG: *keeping a straight face, I have no idea how*

"No, sir. If your guts were hanging out we'd valet park your vehicle for you."

POMATG: *finally speechless, stomps off to move his SUV*

Just a reminder.. don't be that guy. 

Wordless Wednesday

Today's theme - Hospital Repentance

Dear...

... paid-off 2002 Grand Am SE that has power locks but not power windows I'll never understand,

You really want a new home, don't you? 

I didn't complain when you needed $300 worth of front brakes and rotors a month ago for inspection. But your constant clickityclickclick under the dash is driving me up a batshit wall. Do you know how many times I have tried to find a bridge abutment to ram you into at 80mph because of that maddening sound?? I also didn't find it so funny when you set our alarm off while driving through the shopping center. I'm thinking the guy in front of us, who thought he was being pulled over by the ghetto-est undercover cop car ever, was not amused either. 

You told the mechanic on Friday that your hazard switch was bad, but you are a lying bastard. It is your multifunction switch, which is of course, way more expensive both in parts and labor. The final straw was when your fucking passkey system locked out the ignition this morning and you wouldn't let the mechanic start you to get you into the garage. You are now reset, and getting worked on, and I DON'T WANT TO HEAR A PEEP FROM YOU for at least 2 years now, outside of asking for an occasional oil change and tire rotation. Don't fuck with me. I am losing patience with you.

Air filters and wiper blades,

The one who already has her new Venza picked out 

NOT FOOD.

Now, then. I can totally understand why a dementia patient - who can't put together a coherent sentence any more and who doesn't realize she's on this planet - could mistake the above for food. I mean... look at it! It's shaped like a gingerbread guy, with that come-hither eat-me smirk on his little face. And he's approximately the color of, oh, chocolate chip cookie dough! So I don't bear any ill will toward the poor demented 89 year old, who took several bites out of his leg and sustained a localized reaction to her lips that made her look as if she'd gone to see Lisa Rinna's plastic surgeon for collagen injections.

That is where my understanding stops. Because someone that lives in this locked dementia care unit did not go out and buy this lye-ridden imposter. A family member had to have bought it. What bonehead would give a dementia patient a soap that looks like yummy cookies?? Couldn't find any seashell shapes, or hey, the standard square non-appetizing cake of soap?

People never fail to amaze me.