A Hypothetical Question

I have a hypothetical question.

Where is the best, most discrete place to drop one in a supermarket?

You do know what I mean don't you? Pass wind. Bottom burp. Play the butt trumpet. Cut the cheese. Fire a stink torpedo. Elevate to Gas Master status. Conduct a methane gas experiment. Pop a fluffy. Shoot the cannon.

I was left to ponder this question yesterday when I popped into the local Coles to pick up a couple of things.

The obvious answer is in an empty aisle where you can make a quick get-away. But what if that aisle is the fresh bread aisle? It's one of life's little pleasures to be able to inhale the deliciously fragrant aroma of warm bread. Letting one rip there is really a crime against humanity. Especially if you go into that aisle specifically just to breathe deeply and reminisce.

That warm yeasty aroma always makes me nostalgic. It takes me back to the days when there used to be a big bakery not far from our school, on our route home from softball practice. We'd have gone straight from school to practice and by the time we were finished we were always starving. And the scent of the baking bread would waft over the park. We would be drawn to it like bees to honey or Mickey Mouse to the delicious smell of baking.

I would never be brave enough to ask. But that's what bigger sisters are for. And she was brave enough to ask even after our Mum had banned us from begging for bread again. But when Mum found a still-warm loaf hidden under the bed the gig was up for ever. My Mum had, and still has, the nose of a bloodhound.

So in my quest to relive the good old days, I managed to inhale something that surely could not have come from a human. And my reaction was a little like this monkey's - but without actually falling down in the aisle. I also may have gagged a little - so glad I still carry the airline vomit bag in my purse.

I totally understand that flatulence can be hard to contain at times. Sometimes all it takes is a hug from a family member to help it on its way. Or a sudden cough or sneeze. But assuming one had just enough control over the situation, there would be way better aisles to play a sphincter song. Like the seafood aisle. It always smells a bit funky. Or the deli where they keep all the stinky cheeses. Or even in the cleaning products aisle - they're bound to have air freshener in there that needs testing.

Any other ideas?

Cringe-worthy Moments

Cringe-worthy moments - we've all had them. They're those moments that you did or said something you desperately wish you could take back. But they're the moments that eventually fade into amusing anecdotes. Given enough time.

I have two stellar cringes.

Both were in my years of procreation. I found that all the niceties you'd been taught - to keep your knees together, to be modest, to keep your private parts private - go out the window when you're pregnant. You show bits of yourself, that you'd never dream showing in normal circumstances, to complete strangers. Who hasn't, in the throes of labour, offered to let someone check how far they're dilated only to find out that the person you were offering yourself up to was just there to do a quick tidy of the room and check supplies?

My first cringe-worthy moment was in my first pregnancy. I can talk about it now because it was over 27 years ago and time heals all excruciating embarrassment. I'd found a lump in my left breast. My doctor wasn't too concerned but wanted me to have it checked out just to be sure. So I went to my hospital appointment and was told to undress, put on a hospital gown and wait to be examined by an intern.

And I waited. And waited (it was a public hospital and a two hour wait is almost mandatory in a public hospital when you're basically naked). Finally someone came into the room and it happened to be a someone I had gone to high school with. Cringe!

I had to let him examine my huge, bovine breasts and as he was doing so, it dawned on me that he didn't actually recognise me. But instead of thinking 'phew, I've dodged a bullet there' I proceeded to introduce myself. Yep - I had to remind him that we'd been classmates just a few short years before. More cringe!!

And then his supervisor came in with a full complement of other students in tow to discuss my 'friend's' findings. Luckily I was allowed to cover myself up by then. It was decided that the lump was just a fibrous benign lump.

Being that it was a teaching hospital, that was a good moment for the supervisor to actually do a bit of teaching. He asked the group when would be the best time for surgery on a pregnant woman if the lump did need to be removed. There was dead silence. Until I piped up with an answer - the right answer, I might add.

I may have not had any dignity left but at least I could leave on a winning note.

My other incredibly cringe-worthy moment came in my third pregnancy. I was at ten weeks and I'd started to have some bleeding and cramping. It wasn't a lot of blood and the cramping hadn't gone on for too long but I knew that I needed to get checked out. So Iven took me up to the hospital.

They took me straight in and I didn't have to wait terribly long to be seen thank goodness. But once again the doctor that they sent in was one I'd gone to high school with.

Seriously??! How does that happen twice?

And this time was even better than the last. I refreshed his memory about our prior class-mate status in the middle of an internal exam. Again - seriously?? Who does that??? What a fun moment that was - reminiscing over the good old high school days when he was... well, let's not talk about where he was and what he was doing. But having said that, it was interesting to hear what some of my old classmates were up to.

So there you go - two of my finest! Over to you now.

One Less Session To Hate

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

Or it can be when that knowledge relates to speed session and knowing what session is ahead of you before you get there.

There are some speed sessions that I really don't like. Because they hurt. Actually all speed sessions hurt but some seem to hurt more than others. On a scale of 1 to 10, most speed sessions are about an 8 or 9. The speed sessions I like least feel like they're a 9.5.

They're usually the long rep, short recovery sessions. The sessions where I start out all optimistic that I can maintain pace but somewhere along the way I lose all will to live. The 10 minute rep session is one of these. Five minutes out and five minutes back with a two minute recovery that feels like 30 seconds. I have yet to complete one of these sessions with my internal dignity intact. I might be running on the outside but on the inside I'm crying that really ugly cry with snot and tears and a big red nose.

The other session I really don't like is the 3,2,1 session. Three kilometres, two kilometres, one kilometre. I usually start the session okay but lose my way in the second rep then pull it all together for the last. And I get so annoyed with myself for mentally giving up.

We do these sessions every so often and yesterday was one of those occasions.

I would have griped about it if I'd turned up on the morning and found out what was ahead but Coach Chris hinted at it on Saturday (not-so-subtly) so I had three days to anticipate the pain. Or to work up a good excuse why I couldn't be there.

A fake illness seemed like a good idea but I should have chosen one that's a little less exotic. Pretty sure he saw through that one.

Being a little short on imagination, I couldn't come up with anything else that wouldn't seem like cowardly piking and, as much as I'm a cowardly piker at heart, I don't want to look like one. My only option was to pull on my big girl panties and get it done.

But this time my aim was to not give up in my head on the second rep. No. Matter. How. Much. It. Hurt.

And it was going to hurt.

So Tuesday came and we did our usual warm up. Followed by the usual explanation of what torture is ahead. Followed by another explanation for all the people that were still chatting through the first. And then we were off.

My aim was to run the first three kilometres at a strong pace but without going over the edge like I usually do. And to not get ahead of myself and anticipate the rest of the session. When I finished the rep I looked at my watch. And I was happy - fast-ish (for me) but not stupid fast. 

Coach Chris must have been feeling particularly magnanimous because he gave us a whole kilometre for recovery. I won't say he's getting soft because he'd take it kind of badly and go out of his way to restore his reputation as mean, cruel and sadistic. 

Then I started my second rep. Two kilometres of not giving up. Two kilometres of not thinking about how far it was to go. Two kilometres of Rob Schneider yelling at me.

And this time for the first time in living history, (or at least in my living memory - which is probably only about a week or so at my age) I kept up a steady pace. I did not give up. I did not die. And I was encouraged enough to go a little faster on the last one kilometre rep.

So I now have one less session that I really despise. And I have a solid, working strategy for future speed sessions. Don't anticipate the pain - it's a given so you might as well embrace it. Don't go out too hard - that's a sure way to make the session a tragic farce. And turn off your brain - just run the rep that you're running and not the one that's coming after the next recovery or the one after that.

Are there any sessions that you dread?

Soy Or Lactose-Free Milk?

One of my regular coffee chops has just started offering lactose-free milk.

I say 'one' because I have a few that I deign with my presence. They are all cafes that are pretty consistent with what they hand over - hot, strong, not bitter and preferably with staff that know my order without me having to say a word.

I've been a soy drinker for a few years now. Ever since I realised that the stomach pains I was getting every afternoon were related to the cappuccino I was drinking every morning. I wasn't happy to have to make the swap but the lack of pain made it worthwhile. And I got used to the flavour pretty quickly. So now my coffee order just rolls off my tongue without it ever having to be processed by my brain - on the odd days that I have to actually utter it.

Seeing the sign which pronounced the offering of lactose-free milk presented me with a dilemma. Do I stick to my new tradition and just do the same-old-same-old? Or do I venture forth into a brave new world and try something new? Being that it was a public holiday (Happy Birthday Queen Elizabeth II) and I was feeling footloose and fancy-free and just slightly reckless, I decided that I'd throw caution to the wind and try something new and daring.

"Could I have a tall cappuccino on lactose-free milk?"

I forgot to order an extra shot of coffee but luckily the girl behind the counter recognised me. Or could sense my need of the extra caffeine. She charged me the usual astronomical amount that I'm happy to pay because daily coffee, books, running shoes and now running bras it seems are not wants but needs in my existence.

Then I waited on the other end of the counter for my order to be called out.

"Double shot cap on lactose-free milk!"

I felt every eye in the shop turn my way as I went to collect the coffee. And I felt a judgement that I'd never felt before when ordering soy.

Soy has street cred. It's drunk by vegans, health nuts and the lactose-intolerant alike. By ordering soy I could just be viewed as someone who's a little anal about their diet or someone who is willing to make culinary sacrifices to protect every living creature. Either of whom are willing to stand up for a cause - be it health or their fellow beings.

Lactose-free milk has no street cred. What. So. Ever! It is drunk by one sort of person only. The sort of person who has a defect. The sort of person who becomes a ticking time bomb after ingesting milk sugar. The sort of person that makes dogs take the blame for their indiscretions and who, in Billy Connelly's words, will 'never trust a fart'.

I slunk away from the shop feeling just a little bit of shame. And then I tasted the coffee. It really wasn't that great. But at least I know that it won't have any deleterious effects. And I know that next time I'll be ordering soy again so I can leave the judgemental cafe set wondering which category of soy-drinkers I belong to.

The Uphill Battle

Yesterday's run was awesome!

If you follow me on Facebook you may not have got that impression. I may have done a little whining there.

And I'll still say that the whining was justified because the session was hard. Actually, brutal wouldn't be too strong a word for it. Paddington and Red Hill have four of the top six steepest streets in Brisbane. Coach Chris has a sadistic streak in him so combine the two and you get the hill session from hell.

I know hills will make me stronger and fitter. Doing a hills session is like doing a leg weights session only you don't have to be in a gym and you don't have to sit in someone else's sweat when they forget to clean up after themselves. Doing a hills session in a group means that pride will make you work harder than you would on your own. But I don't have to like them. 

And as a hill runner, it wouldn't be wrong to say that I suck! Big time!! My leg strength is pitiful. I start to run uphill and I get slower and slower until I could be passed by a ninety year old who's using a cane because of a recent hip replacement. I run so slowly that I could be going backwards.

I might start of at the front of the pack but one by one they run past. Leaving me plodding on my lonesome towards the top. Legs burning. Lungs burning. Wondering why I got out of bed so early to torture myself like this.

Yep, it sounds pretty awesome, doesn't it?! No really, it was. Obviously not because of the running and the pain part. But because of a little blonde cherub who'd woken up too early and had been taken for a little walk outside by Daddy (presumably so Mummy could get a bit of a sleep in).

This little blonde cherub was so excited to have a whole group of runners running up and down his street. He became our cheer squad for that hill and, honestly, it made the hill that little bit easier to run (apart from the last five metres which were still a b!#ch). He made us all feel like champions every time we got to the top.

I was sorry when we had to move on and leave him behind. But I wasn't sorry to finish the session. And I was sorry any time I had to walk up and down stairs for the rest of the day. Or really any time I had to move at all. If I could have laid on the floor for the rest of the day I would have been happy - as long as someone threw me a few handfuls of food cause running up hills will give you a pretty ferocious appetite.

Some Days You Just Need A Bit Of Support

All I can say today is thank goodness for a loving, caring support network.

Yesterday wasn't the best. Some of it was okay. And some was pretty good. But the good bit - speed session at the beginning of the day (please don't tell Coach Chris that speed session was the highlight - it'll go to his head) - was overshadowed by the not-so-good.

Some work stuff. Some family stuff. An inability to just let it all go meant that I went to bed feeling a bit anxious. And I woke up feeling a bit anxious. And then I carried that anxiety all the way round on my run this morning. Like I was carrying a belly full of lead weight. My mind just wouldn't let it go. I was almost hoping that the Botanical Garden Flasher would strike and distract me from the stuff that was happening in my head.

Distraction finally came in the form of two hairy friends. So happy to see me home. Bringing gifts and joy to greet me.

To them I am perfect. Even my sweat tastes good. Especially from my left knee. Although it did make Toby burp.

Then I met up with a friend who just gets it. In one sentence she summed up exactly how my life feels sometimes. Because she's felt it too. And it's so good to know that it's not just me.

From there I hit the shops. To get a birthday card. And to have another coffee because it's likely that today will require additional caffeine. 

Spontaneity led me into a store I hadn't been in yet. The promise of a decent discount led me to the Intimate Apparel section. And despite the most hideous fitting room lighting - my home mirror definitely is kinder than the one I stood in front of today - I managed to procure the kind of support that every female runner craves. Unwavering, firm support that points you back in the right direction when you've lost your way. 

In pretty colours.

Hard-Nosed Business Woman - Who Me?

I've always felt like a bit of a fraud when it comes to my working life.

After all, I'm self-taught. I've had no training in my field unless you count a few semesters of Home Ec back in my early teens. I still remember proudly receiving my sewing machine licence after successfully sewing around the outline of a snail.

And I'm no business woman. I don't want a multi-national business or even employees because then I'd have to learn about stuff like paying wages and taxes and occupational health and safety. And I wouldn't be able to wear shorts to work (or bikini tops when it gets really hot) and I wouldn't be able to watch television all day while I'm working.

So it always amuses me just a little when I have to pretend like I know what I'm doing in the business world. Like I did last week.

I've had dealings with a designer on and off for a few years now and a couple of weeks ago he approached me about doing up a swimwear line for him. Actually, it was more like re-doing stuff that I'd done for him a little while ago and I already had the patterns so why the hell not?

So I ordered the fabric, cut out the bathers, sent them off to the machinist and Friday they arrived back. And so did the designer - to pick them up and have a chat about his plans.

Turns out he has pretty big plans. He wants to get his range into some resorts overseas. He was talking big numbers and his expectation was that I was going to be his manufacturer. He wanted to know costings for a bulk order. And that's when I started to feel out of my depth. Because I've never really worked out accurate costings for anything.

I go on gut instinct. And that's okay for small orders. If I under-charge then it's not the end of the world and if I over-charge usually no one's the wiser. But in this case it's kind of important not to under-charge. I don't want to spend weeks and weeks working for a pittance. And I certainly wouldn't expect my machinist to.

I came up with a number and he thought it was a bit high. I suggested that he might like to get them made in a factory - he'd definitely be paying less that way. But he was not keen. Seems he wants to work with someone he knows will be able to produce a garment to his standard.

That's when I knew that he wanted me to do the work more than I actually wanted to do it. And, seeing as I didn't care whether I got the work or not, it wasn't hard to say no when he asked if I could lower the price a bit. Oh I pretended to think about it for a minute or two. I used my most contemplative expression. I furrowed my brow and pondered. And then explained that I couldn't possibly.

Oh it was a heady feeling. My first real business negotiation and I'd won. Do you win business negotiations? It certainly felt like I'd won. I actually felt like a suit-wearing business woman in stilettos even though I was wearing my oldest denims and runners.

So I might be pretty busy over the next few months - as long as he manages to sell the range.