enfinblue's Bluey (credit to Fifi for the nickname!) Diaryland Diary

"I am seeking, I am striving, I am in it with all my heart." -Vinc3nt V@n Gogh

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in the pool with the speedmeisters. go grannies!

It amazes me that someone like me with a resting pulse of 36-39 and who has taken multiple stroke improvement courses can be such a miserable swimmer. I went to the pool this evening and my ass was kicked by a kick-ass granny in the slow lane.

My excuse is that she was more buoyant than I am :).

The whole thing reminded me wonderfully of that ocean swim race that I did on the most easterly tip of Australia. S.'s mother pursuaded me to enter and I--completely terrified--decided that it would be good for me. I thrashed about with the other 500 swimmers in my 26-35 wave, hardly stroking more than two or three times at a go before I caught a salt water wave in the face and struggled to lift my head up to determinedly keep the shark boats in sight. Even though I managed to catch the current, S.'s mother--who started in the wave AFTER ME--finished before me and pulled me up on the beach like a beached whale when I finally arrived. I know I've written about this before--so please excuse the repeated indulgence-- but I have to remind myself of things like this because the things that terrify us and humble us also give us such great information with which to work towards redefining ourselves.

So I had an all-afternoon date yesterday. Huge mistake. I like this guy a great deal (the economics guy), but I don't want to date him. I won't go into the reasons.

The reason that I was on a date with the aforementioned guy is that he casually called me up for lunch about fifty minutes before he wanted to meet. Since I was sitting around slightly bemused over the fact that some strange guy in goggles was out weedwhacking my backyard (my landlords probably have him on as a regular in the summer, although I didn't know this), P. caught me off-guard and I said yes. The fact that he called me up fifty minutes before he wanted to meet strikes me as scarily reminiscent of some website that my friend alerted me to on which a guy advises ways that one can snare women with a high likelihood to cancel a date. I hope that this wasn't the point of the exercise with P.

During lunch I made the mistake of mentioning that I needed to pick up a medicine ball at the mall and P. asked if he could come along. What was I to say? When we returned downtown he told me that he'd had a nice time--which means that we are going to have to have that talk>. I loathe having that talk but it must be done. I always tell people the straight-up truth. And actually the straight-up truth should be good enough here because apart from being too young, too inexperienced with women (never been in love), too sedentary, and too conservative for my taste, he's a hardcore RC. Too many toos for me. But a nice, smart guy and pleasant to discuss things with. Polite and courteous. The only thing I won't tell him is that I don't find him in the least bit attractive, although he naturally gets a bit cuter when we speak bits of French. He's funnier in his native tongue.

Sigh.

Anyhow. That's about it. I started to think again about doing a Ph.D. in Canadian history. Not now. Someday. I do love history. But I'm also becoming interested in restoration so it might be possible for me to pursue something in, say, book restoration. I know of a couple of interesting programs that I could look into down the road. It would be great to use my prized thesis-gone-wrong data for a history doctorate, however. I still feel passionately about those women whose data I so meticulously collected.

Who knows. Time will tell. I'll get working first and I'll slowly figure this out.

At moments like this I feel I'm coping well with the injury. Earlier today, however, I had a moment in which I had to suck in my breath to stop myself from crying-- a moment in which the potential loss of--and it sounds ridiculous--my constant companion for so many years stung me anew. Like I said to my mom the other day when she said that I'd find some other activity to love, if I'm unable to run again, "You know, that's a bit like telling someone to go and find a new husband." Ways of living and of experiencing life can be as much a part of you as can be people. I don't have anyone special to love and to love me, and I rely heavily on sensory experiences for joy in life.

No more tears. And no more feeling sorry for myself. It felt nice to be in the pool, however much I was doodling around in it. I'll get into a routine with that and I'll feel solace inside my body again.

Actually, and this is interesting to me, I've realized that, indeed, exercising less than I do is good for my sex drive. When I was working in applied research in Ottawa in 2002 I was too busy to run much and I found my sex drive swelling. I've been doing very little hard exercise--apart from biking--in the last month and I'm observing the same libidinous trend. I actually had an INCREDIBLE sex dream last night. I say incredible because I so very rarely have a sleeping dream that is so...thorough...in content. I wish I knew who the guy was supposed to be. Can't say he resembles anyone I know in real life. Off the cuff, I have to say that the increase in my sex drive with a cessation of running puzzles me somewhat, since I thought that running--if anything-- depressed estrogen production (tilting one's hormone balance towards the testosterone in one's system). Worth asking about. I suppose I could google it but I have forbidden myself from conducting any further Internet medical searches of doom. I already have enough unattractive attributes without feeding this hypochondriacal streak that I've been on. Hmmm.

That's it. I'm making a comfort meal of pizza tonight and I did my usual thing: finished kneading the dough and then left it in a bowl without covering it, amidst streaky flour mess and bags and bits of ingredients and opened olive oil bottles strewn all over the kitchen counter. I'm a mess. Whilst making the dough--and talking on the phone (try it-- it's a feat!)-- I was trying to eat kalamata olives and I managed to drop one in the gap between my zipped top and my t-shirt, and the thing rolled down and left little marks all over the freshly-cleaned pale pink t. Not good. I call it an "L. move," since my mother is notorious for spilling things all over herself. She's always a good sport about it, though. Laughing at yourself is good. As they say, you might as well laugh.

Hmm.. Feels like an Elizab3th Bennett night. But maybe I should go out to a movie and see something new.

***

PS I loathe Stephen Harper more and more every day. Just thought I'd say that out loud.

I do, however, think that that girl from Alberta who came second in the Scr!pps Sp3lling Bee is adorable. Made me want to name a hypothetical daughter of my future Finol@. My favourite name for a boy is Fred (after one of the sweetly quirkiest and truest boys I've ever known, apart from my brother), so let's hope that a boy and a girl together are never cursed with me as their mother ;).

7:56 p.m. - 2006-06-02

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