ahream

It’s raining. I hurt my knee. And all I want to do is lie on the couch, eat leftover Christmas fudge and read my ultra-running magazine. That’s wrong, isn’t it?

Injuries – in this case an aggravation of an old injury that is entirely my own fault and I should’ve seen coming four track loops away – make me cranky. First of all, there’s the fudge. If you just got back from a run, you can eat the fudge largely without much guilt. Lying on the couch, it’s another matter, and that’s enough to piss anyone off. Chocolate depravation is not the way to get on my good side.

And then there’s the endless daily rotations of physical therapy, ice, ibuprofen, cross-training, more ice, which – let’s face it – is bound to spiral into a fudge fest at some point. There’s only so much one woman can take. Especially with the farting. The farting is really what pushed it over the edge.

Unable to run, I’ve been dragging my sorry, limping self to over-priced spinning (i.e. stationary bike) classes, along with my ice, knee brace, ibuprofen and bad attitude. The fudge I left at home. This will turn out to be a mistake.

Like all real estate in L.A., even spin floor space is precious. Bikes are shoved in cheek to jowl. You have to develop anorexia just to squeeze between them to get to your equipment. The only way for this not to dissolve into “Lord of the Flies: The Sequel” is for everyone to be very, very polite. Forget what your parents told you before strapping on your angel wings for the preschool Christmas pageant, THIS is the time to be on your best behavior. That means, above and beyond all else, no farting. I can’t possibly overstate this.

Picture the scene. Everyone is up out of the seats of their bikes, leaned over the handle bars, pedaling furiously like Lance Armstrong in the mountain stages without his secret stash. The bikes are crammed in there. Your nose is disturbingly close to the butt of the person in front of you. Dogs don’t like this kind of intimacy. And what happens? If you’re me, the ogre – who you just know is an attorney – in front of you let’s that bean burrito lunch special rip.

There are no words. No words.

Fortunately, there was an ice pack, which turns out to make a mighty fine billy club in a pinch.

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (3) Most Recent Twitters: A 3-foot long alligator was found walking down the middle of the street in Venice Beach this morning. I love L.A. In case you were wondering, it is very difficult to get a hummingbird out of your house. They are irrational and prone to hysterics. L.A. Finds: The Nickel Diner on Main between 5th and 6th is a made-to-look-old, throwback of a place that melds into the old downtown and is, at the same time, part of the renaissance. They serve their burgers medium, their soda in bottles and offer all they can to locals in need. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks by Christopher Brookmyre What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2007-01-17 10:23 AM No fart, no foul It’s raining. I hurt my knee. And all I want to do is lie on the couch, eat leftover Christmas fudge and read my ultra-running magazine. That’s wrong, isn’t it? Injuries – in this case an aggravation of an old injury that is entirely my own fault and I should’ve seen coming four track loops away – make me cranky. First of all, there’s the fudge. If you just got back from a run, you can eat the fudge largely without much guilt. Lying on the couch, it’s another matter, and that’s enough to piss anyone off. Chocolate depravation is not the way to get on my good side. And then there’s the endless daily rotations of physical therapy, ice, ibuprofen, cross-training, more ice, which – let’s face it – is bound to spiral into a fudge fest at some point. There’s only so much one woman can take. Especially with the farting. The farting is really what pushed it over the edge. Unable to run, I’ve been dragging my sorry, limping self to over-priced spinning (i.e. stationary bike) classes, along with my ice, knee brace, ibuprofen and bad attitude. The fudge I left at home. This will turn out to be a mistake. Like all real estate in L.A., even spin floor space is precious. Bikes are shoved in cheek to jowl. You have to develop anorexia just to squeeze between them to get to your equipment. The only way for this not to dissolve into “Lord of the Flies: The Sequel” is for everyone to be very, very polite. Forget what your parents told you before strapping on your angel wings for the preschool Christmas pageant, THIS is the time to be on your best behavior. That means, above and beyond all else, no farting. I can’t possibly overstate this. Picture the scene. Everyone is up out of the seats of their bikes, leaned over the handle bars, pedaling furiously like Lance Armstrong in the mountain stages without his secret stash. The bikes are crammed in there. Your nose is disturbingly close to the butt of the person in front of you. Dogs don’t like this kind of intimacy. And what happens? If you’re me, the ogre – who you just know is an attorney – in front of you let’s that bean burrito lunch special rip. There are no words. No words. Fortunately, there was an ice pack, which turns out to make a mighty fine billy club in a pinch. Read/Post Comments (3) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top