Cult Classics and the BetrAyal

I think I've already made it pretty clear that I'm a perpetual 14-year old trapped in a late 20s body.

Despite its ubiquity, "Call Me, Maybe" still brings a grin to my face. I'm not ashamed to be caught rapping the Ludacris solo during "Baby" or any other Bieber song-of-the-moment on the treadmill. One recent inquiry to The Google included, "Is there a rivalry between Big Time Rush fans and One Direction fans?" (I need to stay on the up and up for when I next run into Andrew's 17-year old cousin) and I routinely disarm people with a cool, "I'm Chuck Bass" whenever someone gives me the side eye (like... now).

So while my friend and I were discussing developments from last week's episode of Pretty Little Liars (actually, "developments" is a bit of a stretch; nothing ever happens on that show but I just can't give up all the pretty hair and clothes), she mentioned that Entertainment Weekly recently ran an article on the top 26 cult shows of all time. Naturally, Buffy was #1, but I was pretty happy to see a few of my other all-time favorites on the list:

Veronica Mars: I've already intimated my love of VM many times, so no need to rehash it all here. Team Logan 4 Life!

Firefly: Part Star Wars, part John Wayne, Andrew and I went through every episode of this totally underrated and too-short series in about two weeks. Throw in the cache of Nathan Fillion, Joss Whedon and Jewel Staite (who is once again lost in space, to my delight), and I couldn't turn it off. Also, after sending in a few Mars bars to save VM, I appreciate the tenacity of the Browncoats who managed to get Serenity into theaters to give the series the ending it deserved.

The Wire: Hands down the best tv show I've ever seen, and I've watched every episode of The Sopranos and Six Feet Under, and all but this past season of Dexter. I've heard a solid case can be made for Breaking Bad, but after the first season, I'm not yet convinced. The Wire, however, is pure drama at its finest.

It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia: Unlike the rest of this list, I have not seen every episode of Always Sunny. In fact, I took a staunch opposition to the show in the beginning, when Andrew and his goofy roommates would devote hours of their day towards it. I refused to watch, calling The Gang "stupid" and "not funny" for months...only to have my carefully erected wall disintegrate into dust when forced to play the part of "cool girlfriend" and watch the episode about kitten mittens. I now regularly find myself caught up in marathon DVD-viewing on Saturday afternoons. Well played, Danny DeVito. Well played.

Someone might have used Mac as his inspiration for an 80s party.

I've also seen every episode of Gilmore Girls, Castle, New Girl, The Sopranos, Six Feet Under and all but the second half of last season of Gossip Girl.* Then there are the shows that I formerly obsessed over, but finally gave up on because the plot started to weaken and the character flaws became magnified to the Nth degree. Dawson's Creek, Felicity, Fringe, Grey's Anatomy, The Office, Dexter -- I'm specifically looking at you. I intend to remedy the first three during my winter hibernation (Netflix Instant for the win), in part because I want to re-live the awkwardness of my teen years...

...but mostly because no one should ever be denied the chance to stare at Josh Jackson or Scott Speedman, both of whom I believe have only gotten better with age.

[Source]

Edited to Add: I wrote this post yesterday, before the PLL Summer Finale, aka "The BetrAyal" aired. WHAT. THE. F--K?! I refuse to believe that that.... person.... is what they made him/her out to be there at the end! If anyone wants to discuss, feel free to comment with a spoiler alert OR just email (caitieexperiment [at] gmail [dot] com) or tweet me. I don't want to spoil it for anyone who didn't get to watch, but that shit was CRAZY! 

*This list is by no means exhaustive; obviously if I included all of the classics from my adolescent years, we would be here for days. Boy Meets World (x2 at the very least), Saved By the Bell and Full House are but a small sampling.

The Injury Chronicles: Ever Onward

Warning: rampant navel-gazing ahead. Proceed at your own risk.
 
Apparently, David Ortiz of the Boston Red Sox has decided he's going to take the, "play through the pain" approach to his strained Achilles tendon, rather than having ultrasound therapy. While I'm not so sure I agree with his approach, I can certainly understand his reasoning (and it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact he has millions of dollars in an arbitration year riding on it). My sports therapist recommended ultrasound therapy for my "left peroneal tenosynovitis", which is the ultimate diagnosis we reached now that the stress reaction is healed. Coincidentally, my physical therapist pointed out that this is the same injury that caused Ortiz's teammate, Curt Schilling, to grace the world with his bloody sock.

Lucky me.

I think what's bothering me the most is that by most accounts, this is the type of injury that usually takes 6-8 weeks to heal, even at its worst non-surgical diagnosis. Yet here I am, now 15 weeks out from my last long run, and after 4 minutes of slow interval running a week ago, I still routinely feel like the outside of my ankle and foot are on fire. I'm doing everything right. I've been dutifully forking over what has now amounted to a small fortune in copays, popping Aleve like it's candy, wearing only supportive footwear and the world's ugliest compression sleeve and turning every frozen vegetable in the house into an ice bag. I do my exercises diligently, I go to physical therapy and I check in with my sports therapist whenever she tells me to. I've had all the x-rays and an MRI. I have an appointment with a stellar podiatrist on Monday, and he's really my last resort. It’s basically a given that he's going to prescribe custom orthotics, to the tune of $500. I'm doing everything I'm supposed to do and it isn’t solving anything.

It doesn’t seem fair, but that’s life. In the words of my Gramma (and some wise sage well before her), “it is what it is.”

I know a lot of people think I'm crazy, that I should just throw my hands in the air and give it up already, just accept that I'm not cut out to be a runner. Believe me, that thought has crossed my mind more than a few times over the past year. The problem is that the damage is already done. I can't walk for long periods of time, get out of the saddle in spin class, use the elliptical or the stairmaster or wear flip flops without pain. My beloved Zumba classes are out of the question. More importantly, I can’t even stand for the amount of time it takes to do the dishes without paying for it later. And so I sit here, 11 pounds heavier in body and a thousand times more in spirit.

It has never been a secret, to me or anyone else, that I have a problem prioritizing my personal goals outside of work. I always have, and that's part of the reason why I bounced back pretty quickly from my disappointment in my BAA half training and results: sure, I hadn't run the time I trained for, but I was proud that I committed to something and, four months later, saw that commitment through. It was the first time that has happened in almost as long as I can remember. I dream big, but I'm usually afraid to act.

I know that it’s time to start figuring out what other goals I can pursue outside of running. Grad school, home decorating, travel, writing, weight loss – these are all goals that I’ve vowed, time and again, to really commit myself towards achieving. A lot of the problem lies in trying to take on too much at one time, leading to burnout and episodes of anxiety that aren’t any fun for me or anyone around me.

Maybe this injury is a sign to start focusing on something else, something that can both divert my attention and give me a sense of fulfillment. Dedicated GRE study time, expanding my craft corner, an actual writing class, a website tutorial … these are all activities that I plan to ponder over the next few weeks. I’m not sure where I’ll end up, but it’s a start.

As my Gramma was also fond of saying, “Ever Onward.”

The Summer I Stopped Caring

You know it's going to be a good day when one of your best friends at work sends you this totally not offensive gchat immediately upon laying eyes on you:

Kristin:  You have a vampire vibe going on, it's both hot and intimidating. The Russian gymnasts all wore red eye makep one night last week.

And then, while ranting about how one of the Glamazons you work with stole your favorite pen, the same friend responds with this:

Kristin:  Just look at her blank faced with your vampire eyes and say "give me my pen."

Here's a pictorial of what prompted this outburst:

I promise it looked way worse in person.

Yeah, that would be another example of my immune system’s constant war against itself. Or, in this case, against my mascara.

In general, I'm the type of woman who puts just-enough effort into her everyday appearance. I shower regularly, try to tame my very wavy hair in some kind of passable style, wear basic makeup to work every day, avoid mixing black and navy and make sure that I have heels sticking out of my bag so that my fellow commuters know I am not completely fashion inept.

Despite these precautions, the Summer of 2012 will go down as, "The Summer I Stopped Caring."

Let's examine, shall we?

My faithful friend the Chi died back in April. Obviously, I took to Amazon in hopes of finding a new one for under $100. When this didn't happen, I assessed the situation objectively and realized, "My hair stays flat for two nanoseconds in the summer anyway," and therefore decided to hold off until the fall. Save for one blast of the roots after a mid-day spin class last week, nary a whisp of ionized heat has touched this mane in almost four months. You’d think this would be a good thing, but it’s not. Sure, my hair is shinier and softer and stuff, but I also spend half my time sporting a Bride of Frankenstein-meets-Hermione Granger vibe.

That's hot.

Moving on, allow me to discuss a predicament currently marring my existence: water weight gain. I know this is a problem for many women, and that I have a slight propensity for hyperbole, but I don't think I'm overstepping my bounds when I say that I bloat worse than anyone else I've ever met. We're talking "gained 10lbs in two days after eating a normal-sized portion of Easter ham" -style damage. If one more of my friends whines about how her pants feel moderately tight after chowing on a teryaki SmartOne the day before her period, I am going to flip my shit. For some perspective, the elasticized jeggings I shimmied my ass into this morning are a full two sizes larger than the Express jeans I wore to work on Friday -- and they are currently cutting me in half. If water weight gain were an Olympic sport, I could give Michael Phelps a run for his money. My solution to this problem has been an abundance of billowy skirts with elastic waists, leggings and an unfortunate amount of Andrew's clothing re-purposed to suit my feminine needs. Basically, I look like I clothe myself at the corner of Homeless Bum Drive and Destitute Vagrant Boulevard.

Don't even get me started on the state of my feet. Cute summer pedicures serve no purpose when your toes are perma-cased in an elastic sock that looks like you stole it from grandma's closet and grimy, four-year-old gym sneakers. The only reason I even took the time to slap a half-hearted coat of bright blue polish on my toes is because my physical therapist is forced to get all up close and personal with my metatarsals on a regular basis, and I know if I spent my entire day with other people's feet in my face, I'd prefer not to analyze the state of their fungus.(For the record, I do not have foot fungus, but I assume someone at PT does. And now I am more thankful than ever that I watch the interns Windex every bed when someone leaves).

All of this would be enough to send my self-esteem down the gutter, but now the ol' Vain Girl Gods have gone and taken my makeup from me. I managed to convince a doctor to prescribe me a steroid cream for my case of Flagrant Volturi Eyetis, which (thankfully) made the red dragon eyes go away. I then proceeded to ring up a smal fortune at Sephora replacing all of my hip, air-brush perfect eye makeup with the same safe, hypoallergenic brand I've been using since I was a teenager, and I had no problems using that over the weekend when I was only seen by people who have to love me anyway. Of course, after coming back in to work on Tuesday, fresh-faced as a Clinique commercial, my eyes started to water and burn after two hours at my desk. FOR THE LOVE OF MASCARA, CAN'T A GIRL CATCH A BREAK?!

All of this leads me to my current state, a true culmination of The Summer I Stopped Caring. Ridiculous topknot hair? Check. Unadorned face? Check. The kind of skinny jeans that makes passerby on the bus shake their heads and murmur, "oh, honey, no"? Check. Heinous footwear? Check.

Everyone and their mother seems to have taken off for vacation in August, so thankfully, no one has been around town to comment on my lack of grooming. I figure I have another month or so before someone bombards Stacy and Clinton with secret footage of me. In the meantime, I'll just be over here, continuing my quest to eradicate over-priced yoga pants one pair of Target crops at a time.

Random Thoughts Thursday

As usual, I am in need of a brain dump. You lucky people get to reap the rewards. The comments and photos about to follow don't have anything to do with one another aside from the fact that they germinated on my way in to work this morning. Don't say I didn't warn you.

- I really need to get back on the ball with socializing with other people. This summer has just been so crazy and out of the ordinary and between work, PT, family obligations and trying to maintain some semblance of health in my life, I've kind of let Operation: Social Network fall by the wayside. I've gotten to that point where if I don't have somewhere to be, I prefer to just stay at home in my air conditioned apartment with a book, trashy tv and a glass of wine. Even Google Reader has contributed to my laziness; I find myself thinking, "I have to remember to comment on so-and-so's post!" and then forgetting to do it. I've been making an effort with The Twitter the past week or so, but rest assured, I'm still reading.

Sunset Cruise on Boston Harbor. Not all work is bad work.

- Andrew and I have been getting really jazzed about craft beer lately. Our new weekend ritual is to grab brunch, head to the packie and spend a good 15 minutes browsing the craft beer selection. We usually buy one or two and share, swapping notes and opinions on our favorites. I'm currently really digging the Slumbrew Rising Sun. Sadly, all of this beer sampling is not particularly friendly to the waistline, so I've been switching over to soda water and lime once we finish the good stuff. How is it that we can put a man on the moon but we can't make light beer that doesn't taste like crap? It's 2012. Get with the times, brewers.

My favorite place to enjoy a beverage or two.

- Save for a brief year or two in my late teens, I have long lamented the fact that I am built like a linebacker. Watching the female swimmers and gymnasts compete, I've decided it's about time I embrace the fact that my shoulders don't slope downward, and as such have vowed to get my arms back in shape. I freely admit I've slacked on strength these past few years, so I bumped the wussy 3-lb weights I've been using for my scattered arm routines up to Andrew's 8 pounders. It's only been three days and I have to do a lot of modifications because my stupid foot is all delicate and can't bear too much weight yet, but I am sore so I choose to think it's working already.

Sunset on the Oak Bluffs Harbor

 - I had yet another bizarre Olympics dream last night. I don't really remember specifics other than I was a special agent charged with saving Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte from... something. I'm not exactly sure what (screaming fan girls, perhaps?). I can report that in my dream world, Michael is very sweet and secretly boy-next-door, the super athlete who enjoys a good hand-written letter. Ryan is like that popular guy in your class who is good looking enough to only date Plastics, but goofy and laid-back enough that every nerd is crushing on him, too. Unfortunately, I woke up before I completed my mission. Regardless, let's just say it was like 24 but with a way better view.

- Why don't I listen to the 90s Summer Playlist Pandora station more often?!

Well, that rounds up this installment of, "Random Thoughts Thursday," which is in itself random because, well, it's not an actual feature, just some rambling I needed to get out of my head.

I hope everyone's day is a bit more focused than mine!