A Likely Lass

probably nothing of consequence

Archive for the tag “firsts”

Where was my mind when I decided this?

Some time ago (as in, probably a week or so) I signed up for 10k training. As in, running and/or walking 10 kilometers. MYSELF. No Segways allowed (I already asked).  The 10k is the first week in April, and the training starts January 1st. It will involve weight-training, run/walking, and etc.  I went and picked up my Official Training Team Tee Shirt today and finished the paperwork, so I am Officially Enrolled.

Now that it’s done, this is kind of how I feel about it:

To clarify why I feel such trepidation, I’d like to point out that, for all intents and purposes, one could classify me as a nerd. I play(ed) World of Warcraft from beta. I joined Chess Club in high school and avoided running a mile at all costs. I was helpful, socially inept, and ignorant of the favors a good pair of tweezers could do me. The intervening years have yielded at least better social skills, but fitness has definitely been a tertiary ambition, far behind Culinary Pursuits, Ganking Lowbies, and Trying To Find Mismatched Socks And Failing.

Some of that changed about four months ago, when my flock of doctors collectively threw up their hands and said “Something is wrong with you, but we don’t know what.” It’s not that I’ve been sick, but it all started three years ago after a car accident. Six months after it, I was finally released from physical therapy, but I continued having issues with my back. My doctor fished around but said that probably, after all the accidents I’ve been in (and in my defense, I wasn’t driving in most of them, and the ones I was driving in, I was stationary in a vehicle or on a bicycle) “having a bit of back pain isn’t going to be uncommon.” But then my gynecologist jumped on the bandwagon and declared, quite without merit, that I had endometriosis and/or hypothyroidism. Then there were some other -isms and -sises thrown around, some health scares, more doctors and bills until one doctor finally lifted my diet and exercise restrictions and told me “Look, if something’s wrong with you, you’ll know it. Otherwise, get back to the gym and start eating better. If you don’t feel better, come back.”

Thank god, is all I can say. Three years of thinking something is Terribly Wrong is about two years and eleven months too long.

So I started going to the gym again, eating (somewhat) better, and lo and behold, have started feeling better. My back doesn’t give me much pain anymore, my knees are fine, my internal organs seem to be doing okay, and most importantly, nothing has fallen off yet or developed spontaneous chestburster qualities.

And then of course, in a fit of utter madness, I signed up for the 10k.

And then I realized that hey, I might actually need to train for this.

And then I fell down.

But I got better, and am now contemplating the next thirteen weeks of my life wherein I will be driven like a slave until my legs fall off participating in “group activity”.

The horror.

The First Kiss

Someone asked me about my First Kiss the other day, and if I remembered it. Of course I remember it. I also remember thinking about animal crackers…

There we were: on the parents’ couch, darkened room, watching a movie. I don’t remember what one, I was thinking about animal crackers. He was holding my hand. Then he leaned over and… I coughed.

Yes, I coughed. Loudly. A hack almost.

Was my throat overexcited? Did I inhale wrong, causing my lungs to fallop about like twin belugas?

Not sure. But, both to his credit and my sudden anxiety, my gusty exhalation of air and probably spit did not deter him.

I still remember it vividly: his lips, which I had the sudden and inexplicably crazy thought that they looked like moist slivers of liver hovering before his face, eyes almost shut in a dreamy silence as he leaned in and I tried hard not to lean away.

And then there it was: wet. So very wet. But gentle, kind of like a Saint Bernard. Tongue. TONGUE! Okay… okay… I’ll just.. Holy crap this is a LOT of SPIT! I pulled away, panic pinging around my brain. Was there supposed to be that much spit? Was it me? I swallowed hastily (let it never be said that I am a spitter, for I am not).

But he came after me. “It’s okay,” he said, as if he were talking to an exceptionally frightened fawn, “Just let go.”

He didn’t see the weird look I gave him because he was coming after me with his lips again and there they were, bigger and plumper, more moist, somehow, then they had just been. Okay, girl, I told myself, Get it together. You don’t want it getting around school about how you freaked the hell out and dove through a two-story window. The other side of my brain rationalized, If only they knew about the… sheer quantity of fluid!

He attacked my face with force, as if he sensed my inner alarm and sought to override it with his tide of masculinity and stun me with his eau de Brut. His lips kind of mashed mine and I, in a frozen state of oh-my-god-what-do-I-do just tried to mimic what he was doing, less fluid. I mean, it was kind-of enjoyable. I guess. If you enjoy being gently mauled by a bathroom plunger.

I am unkind.

It went on for an eternity. I did my best to reciprocate because I didn’t want to hurt the chap’s feelings, and it was semi-pleasant at the time. But when he leaned away (for air, I presume, or perhaps he’d tired of trying to find my tonsils), I ducked my head down and dabbed at my lips frantically with the edge of my shirt.

“I’m going to the restroom,” he said, getting to his feet with a smile I supposed he meant to be sexy, and a flip of his hair. “Do you need anything?”

“Can you grab me some animal crackers?” I asked.

Let it never be said I am a girl who forgets her purpose.

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