What's unfortunate is that it doesn't carry the same weight spoken as it does written. Written, you see this magnificent thing: stinkard, but spoken you hear stinker with a fumble on the end, possibly due to a piece of stuck food coming dislodged and, by chance, forming a hard consonant on its way out of your mouth and perhaps onto a friend or, one could only hope, a co-worker.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Thursday, November 05, 2009
More Shit I Got to Deal With
If you write an email to me "just checking up" on a project, then you really mean "will you please hurry up" on my project.
This is valid.
If you write that email to me to "just check up", but also CC not only my supervisor, but my supervisor's supervisor, without warning, and without having checked up with just me first...
then you are a fuckhole.
This is valid.
If you write that email to me to "just check up", but also CC not only my supervisor, but my supervisor's supervisor, without warning, and without having checked up with just me first...
then you are a fuckhole.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Week 4
My first failed week.
Last week I continued on my 2 days per week, take it easy on my legs plan, and it was working fine. Over the weekend I thought that if I still felt good after Monday's run, I'd try to go back to 3 days per week.
Instead I was home sick Monday with some stomach issues, and I wasn't feeling it Tuesday or Wednesday. Wednesday night I hurt my knee bounding down the stairs, so I pushed it off until this morning, whereupon I decided bed was too warm.
Next week I have to kick it off strong or I'm in danger of falling out.
Damn. Sports do make you stupid. What the fuck does the above sentence even mean? I can't even imagine a scenario in which I can take myself seriously as those words, in that order, come out of my mouth.
Kick it.
Last week I continued on my 2 days per week, take it easy on my legs plan, and it was working fine. Over the weekend I thought that if I still felt good after Monday's run, I'd try to go back to 3 days per week.
Instead I was home sick Monday with some stomach issues, and I wasn't feeling it Tuesday or Wednesday. Wednesday night I hurt my knee bounding down the stairs, so I pushed it off until this morning, whereupon I decided bed was too warm.
Next week I have to kick it off strong or I'm in danger of falling out.
Damn. Sports do make you stupid. What the fuck does the above sentence even mean? I can't even imagine a scenario in which I can take myself seriously as those words, in that order, come out of my mouth.
Kick it.
Monday, October 05, 2009
Week 3 Day 1
I was bargaining with myself. Or debating. One or the other.
The debate was to run today or to run tomorrow and sleep in today. I mean, since I'm only going to do two days a week for the time being, why not do Tuesday and Friday to maximize the time between runs? On the other hand, if I keep my schedule of waking up early Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, even if I don't run on Wednesdays, it will be easier to integrate that third day when I'm ready.
Really what it came down to though was this: I didn't want to wake up early today.
I'm glad I did though. Today was the first time I had fun since day one. There was still soreness in my ankles, but not as much, and for the most part I was able to keep good form. I had also decided to halt my advancement down the Couch to 5K Chart, but instead of dutifully timing my jog times at 90 seconds, I decided to jog until I was uncomfortable, which felt more natural.
Each morning I go out it's closer to night time darkness. It's amazing how rapidly that change seems to happen when you witness it a few times a week. To the west was the nearly full moon and to the sun was below the horizon but coming quickly. It's night when I leave, day when I return. Cool all around.
Also, there's something about those shoes. The novelty's worn off by now, so they're not on my mind like they were two weeks ago. When I slip them on though something magical happens. It's like I've been granted super feet, my feet with super grip powers and super tough soles.
I don't know. I haven't had any coffee this morning and I'm beginning to realize that this post is a mess. But hey, for what it's worth, at least I didn't squeeze the Charmin.
The debate was to run today or to run tomorrow and sleep in today. I mean, since I'm only going to do two days a week for the time being, why not do Tuesday and Friday to maximize the time between runs? On the other hand, if I keep my schedule of waking up early Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, even if I don't run on Wednesdays, it will be easier to integrate that third day when I'm ready.
Really what it came down to though was this: I didn't want to wake up early today.
I'm glad I did though. Today was the first time I had fun since day one. There was still soreness in my ankles, but not as much, and for the most part I was able to keep good form. I had also decided to halt my advancement down the Couch to 5K Chart, but instead of dutifully timing my jog times at 90 seconds, I decided to jog until I was uncomfortable, which felt more natural.
Each morning I go out it's closer to night time darkness. It's amazing how rapidly that change seems to happen when you witness it a few times a week. To the west was the nearly full moon and to the sun was below the horizon but coming quickly. It's night when I leave, day when I return. Cool all around.
Also, there's something about those shoes. The novelty's worn off by now, so they're not on my mind like they were two weeks ago. When I slip them on though something magical happens. It's like I've been granted super feet, my feet with super grip powers and super tough soles.
I don't know. I haven't had any coffee this morning and I'm beginning to realize that this post is a mess. But hey, for what it's worth, at least I didn't squeeze the Charmin.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
Week 2
The Blue Zipper caught up on my writing about my attempt at running and offered me some advice which I could be sum up to be "slow down."
I wanted to heed this, but more-so, I wanted to just push myself on the self discipline front and not have to worry about injury, but after running Monday I knew that I had to change my plan up somehow. The muscles in my lower legs hurt too much and I was slowed to a shuffle. Having not ever really injured myself with a strain or a pull, I wasn't sure what the warning signs were and I didn't want to find out the hard way.
So Wednesday the Mistress and I went on an early morning walk instead. Much less strenuous and it kept me on my wake-up schedule.
Friday I ran again with modest success. My legs weren't happy, but they felt recharged compared to Monday, and it makes sense. So, my plan from here, I think, is to pause on the schedule where I am (90 seconds of running, 2 minutes of walking, alternated for 20 minutes) until my muscles build up in my calves, feet, and ankles.
Luckily the reign of blisters has ended.
I haven't given up yet.
I wanted to heed this, but more-so, I wanted to just push myself on the self discipline front and not have to worry about injury, but after running Monday I knew that I had to change my plan up somehow. The muscles in my lower legs hurt too much and I was slowed to a shuffle. Having not ever really injured myself with a strain or a pull, I wasn't sure what the warning signs were and I didn't want to find out the hard way.
So Wednesday the Mistress and I went on an early morning walk instead. Much less strenuous and it kept me on my wake-up schedule.
Friday I ran again with modest success. My legs weren't happy, but they felt recharged compared to Monday, and it makes sense. So, my plan from here, I think, is to pause on the schedule where I am (90 seconds of running, 2 minutes of walking, alternated for 20 minutes) until my muscles build up in my calves, feet, and ankles.
Luckily the reign of blisters has ended.
I haven't given up yet.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Week 1 Day 3:
I got out the door a bit earlier today, so I saw the sunrise. Kind of. Again, I only really saw brilliant orange clouds in an otherwise dark sky due to buildings and foliage but man, it's something to see. Somehow it's very different than sunset.
The blisters felt better today. Not great, but better. It was the legs that were hurting. My ankles and calves were so stiff that after 10 minutes I almost decided to head back for fear of hurting myself, which of course, I don't want to do. I pressed on because I'm afraid that the first time I bargain or cut myself slack will just open the floodgates for further, weaker excuses. I made it, and as of lunchtime here, I'm not feeling any ill effects.
Except, of course, from being tired. One day a week of good sleep is not nearly enough.
The blisters felt better today. Not great, but better. It was the legs that were hurting. My ankles and calves were so stiff that after 10 minutes I almost decided to head back for fear of hurting myself, which of course, I don't want to do. I pressed on because I'm afraid that the first time I bargain or cut myself slack will just open the floodgates for further, weaker excuses. I made it, and as of lunchtime here, I'm not feeling any ill effects.
Except, of course, from being tired. One day a week of good sleep is not nearly enough.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Week 1 Day 2: Whose Genius Idea Was This Anyway?
I fully expected the first day to be the worst. This was incredibly shortsighted and foolish. Today sucked more by a high order of magnitude. Day one was all nerves. Day two? Day two was all pain.
My run was more of a fast shuffle today as the springs were worn and rusty. The thing, whatever it is, that connects my heel assembly to the calve muscle, or maybe that's just more calve muscle, was very sore. It was tight all of yesterday, but I was hoping a good night's sleep would allow it to heal up a bit. Unfortunately I haven't had good sleep recently.
It was hard to tell which part of me was dogging it and why. Was it getting too little sleep every day of the week but one since like, forever? Was it the sore legs? Was it the seams rubbing against raw skin with each step?
The blisters were both not as bad and worse than I expected. I never knew the proper way to deal with blisters was to pop them. I thought they were to be treated as pimples: just let it be. My feet felt much better after I mauled them. I tried popping them Monday night with a needle, but the needle wasn't sharp enough to go through my tough foot skin, so I had to wait around for a pair of sharp scissors to boil. Yeah, you read right, I hacked at my blisters with a pair of nose scissors. Splort!
(Warning, don't read the above while eating. Especially don't read it if you're about to use mustard and that little bit of yellow mustard juice just ran out onto your sandwich because you forgot to shake it enough. Yeah, don't read the above then think about that.)
The blisters on my big toes felt pretty good today. Not peachy keen, but easy enough to ignore. The blisters on the inside arch of my foot, however, were on fire. Friction every step. In the end I couldn't wait to get back home, stretch again, shower, and... go to work. I could have gone right to bed, to be honest.
Thing is, today's run almost didn't happen. To describe it, I wish there were a way to measure discrete amounts of will, and in addition, that there was a way to adequately communicate the experience of having just one little bit of that will left to do a thing. Then giving that up. That's where I was this morning, round about 6:12. I'd woken up at 4 and was awake well past 5, so of course I was good and sleepy when the alarm went off at 6. After snoozing a couple times* I rationalized. I'm really tired, yeah? Like, it's probably unhealthy for me to try to exercise without proper sleep, not to mention running on such stiff legs. Yeah. You can always run tomorrow. Turn off the alarm. Sleep in.
I had that one last atomic bit of that resolve to actually get out of bed, go outside, and do the pain thing. And as my hand was on its way to relieve me of it, my phone's alarm, which I set just in case the regular one isn't getting my attention, went off. I begrudgingly got up.
I still have to say I love the shoes. I wish I were wearing them now, though if I were, I'd be tired of answering questions about them, and I do think my blisters would protest. Also, the morning sky is quite a thing to behold. I only wish it weren't obscured by so much urban muck and that I could actually see a horizon.
Let's see what Friday holds.
My run was more of a fast shuffle today as the springs were worn and rusty. The thing, whatever it is, that connects my heel assembly to the calve muscle, or maybe that's just more calve muscle, was very sore. It was tight all of yesterday, but I was hoping a good night's sleep would allow it to heal up a bit. Unfortunately I haven't had good sleep recently.
It was hard to tell which part of me was dogging it and why. Was it getting too little sleep every day of the week but one since like, forever? Was it the sore legs? Was it the seams rubbing against raw skin with each step?
The blisters were both not as bad and worse than I expected. I never knew the proper way to deal with blisters was to pop them. I thought they were to be treated as pimples: just let it be. My feet felt much better after I mauled them. I tried popping them Monday night with a needle, but the needle wasn't sharp enough to go through my tough foot skin, so I had to wait around for a pair of sharp scissors to boil. Yeah, you read right, I hacked at my blisters with a pair of nose scissors. Splort!
(Warning, don't read the above while eating. Especially don't read it if you're about to use mustard and that little bit of yellow mustard juice just ran out onto your sandwich because you forgot to shake it enough. Yeah, don't read the above then think about that.)
The blisters on my big toes felt pretty good today. Not peachy keen, but easy enough to ignore. The blisters on the inside arch of my foot, however, were on fire. Friction every step. In the end I couldn't wait to get back home, stretch again, shower, and... go to work. I could have gone right to bed, to be honest.
Thing is, today's run almost didn't happen. To describe it, I wish there were a way to measure discrete amounts of will, and in addition, that there was a way to adequately communicate the experience of having just one little bit of that will left to do a thing. Then giving that up. That's where I was this morning, round about 6:12. I'd woken up at 4 and was awake well past 5, so of course I was good and sleepy when the alarm went off at 6. After snoozing a couple times* I rationalized. I'm really tired, yeah? Like, it's probably unhealthy for me to try to exercise without proper sleep, not to mention running on such stiff legs. Yeah. You can always run tomorrow. Turn off the alarm. Sleep in.
I had that one last atomic bit of that resolve to actually get out of bed, go outside, and do the pain thing. And as my hand was on its way to relieve me of it, my phone's alarm, which I set just in case the regular one isn't getting my attention, went off. I begrudgingly got up.
I still have to say I love the shoes. I wish I were wearing them now, though if I were, I'd be tired of answering questions about them, and I do think my blisters would protest. Also, the morning sky is quite a thing to behold. I only wish it weren't obscured by so much urban muck and that I could actually see a horizon.
Let's see what Friday holds.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Week 1, Day 1: Blisters and Hills
I had a lot of anxiety about my first run. First of all, I the plan was to get up at 6am, be back by 7.
That sucks.
Second, I was going to be outside. In town. Where there are other people.
That too sucks.
I like working out in private. It's a very solitary thing to me. I feel very self conscious doing it, and the prospect of being in public only made it harder to self motivate.
I'm talking serious anxiety.
Which kinda melted away when I took in a cool breath of air and I saw the orange morning clouds and the blue behind.
Down the corner from me is a student I know. He's very involved and he was standing on his porch in a suit, checking the time. I startled him when I said hi. After all I was in a sweatshirt with the hood up, and besides, what was I doing out at 6:30 anyway?
The first week is three days of the following: a 5 minute walking warm-up followed by 60 seconds of running and 90 seconds of walking, which alternate for 20 minutes. During the warm up I was itching to start running. I was ready.
Running felt... effortless. Really. I mean it felt good. That is, until I ran out of flat land.
At some point I had to go up or down a hill. Both suck. Uphill really kicked my ass and the downhill, well, that sucked because it's just hard. Jarring.
When I read reviews of these shoes online, people were amazed at how they could feel everything on the ground. The textures and everything. I was not impressed in this regard, and I wondered why until realized that I've been wearing the same pair of shoes pretty much daily for the past year and a half, and the soles are wafer thin. I guess I've been practicing.
They say your feet will be sore and tired because they're going to be used to the support of shoes, which lead to weak foot muscles. My feet feel fine, except for the blisters (which I suppose are to be expected). It's my calves which are tired (which is also to be expected, since they're absorbing the body's shock). I had a lot of meetings to walk between today and believe me, I took my time getting to each one.
My spiffy heart rate watch worked the whole time and it was cool to see where my heart-rate was.
I wish I had a flatter place to run, but there's nowhere to go that isn't a drive. It's almost time to pop some blisters, but for now, check out this kicks man.
I was going to get a pair in black, or at least brown, to attract the least amount of attention possible, but really I like the blue pair the best. I just wouldn't have had the guts to buy the blue ones if they weren't the only pair left. On a related note, I'd like a percentage of any pools that open up to bet on the date I get beat up on account of these.
That sucks.
Second, I was going to be outside. In town. Where there are other people.
That too sucks.
I like working out in private. It's a very solitary thing to me. I feel very self conscious doing it, and the prospect of being in public only made it harder to self motivate.
I'm talking serious anxiety.
Which kinda melted away when I took in a cool breath of air and I saw the orange morning clouds and the blue behind.
Down the corner from me is a student I know. He's very involved and he was standing on his porch in a suit, checking the time. I startled him when I said hi. After all I was in a sweatshirt with the hood up, and besides, what was I doing out at 6:30 anyway?
The first week is three days of the following: a 5 minute walking warm-up followed by 60 seconds of running and 90 seconds of walking, which alternate for 20 minutes. During the warm up I was itching to start running. I was ready.
Running felt... effortless. Really. I mean it felt good. That is, until I ran out of flat land.
At some point I had to go up or down a hill. Both suck. Uphill really kicked my ass and the downhill, well, that sucked because it's just hard. Jarring.
When I read reviews of these shoes online, people were amazed at how they could feel everything on the ground. The textures and everything. I was not impressed in this regard, and I wondered why until realized that I've been wearing the same pair of shoes pretty much daily for the past year and a half, and the soles are wafer thin. I guess I've been practicing.
They say your feet will be sore and tired because they're going to be used to the support of shoes, which lead to weak foot muscles. My feet feel fine, except for the blisters (which I suppose are to be expected). It's my calves which are tired (which is also to be expected, since they're absorbing the body's shock). I had a lot of meetings to walk between today and believe me, I took my time getting to each one.
My spiffy heart rate watch worked the whole time and it was cool to see where my heart-rate was.
I wish I had a flatter place to run, but there's nowhere to go that isn't a drive. It's almost time to pop some blisters, but for now, check out this kicks man.
I was going to get a pair in black, or at least brown, to attract the least amount of attention possible, but really I like the blue pair the best. I just wouldn't have had the guts to buy the blue ones if they weren't the only pair left. On a related note, I'd like a percentage of any pools that open up to bet on the date I get beat up on account of these.
Prologue
I decided I'd give myself a birthday present.
This is the culmination of many factors.
I've always wanted to.
And so the plan came together.
I've always held a watered down disdain for runners, solely for the fact that I couldn't imagine what they were getting out of running. Running? Really? My feelings could be summed up in a single line from Back to the Future III, spoken by an incredulous drunk native of the 1800's, upon hearing Doc's rambling description of the future. "People run? For fun?"
I've always been a chubby kid. I don't know if I'd say fat, but I remember I got to a certain age and noticed that I was bit more rolly and polly than average. My pants were always called "husky." I had tits. Then came gym class: changing in front of my peers, followed by swimming: no way to hide.
My favorite personal indignity: Boy Scout camp. The showers were a concrete pad, surrounded by walls, cold water only. And like many bathroom sinks they had to be held on. Being homophobic shy young men we avoided to shower and I think at a certain point we were forced to go. Why else would we have all gone together?
The unspoken agreement was everyone showered without removing their underwear. This is how I found everyone my age wore boxers. Everyone except me in white. Tight. Briefs.
That wasn't bad compared to what came from the mouth of a young man who had a learning disorder, the kind of which led him to say whatever observation came to mind, much in the manner of Ralph Wiggum's classic "my cat's breath smells like cat food." We were all soaped and showering, doing our best to avoid eye contact and conversation, when he turned to me and said, almost joyfully, "you look like a sumo wrestler."
Some months ago I'd read an article espousing the benefits of "barefoot" running. I use quotes because it was really about shoes that protect the foot from rocks and such while being as thin as possible to mimic the feel of running barefoot. Apparently thicker sole running shoes are designed to minimize heel impact through padding, though their shape necessitates running on your heels. This, they say, is the cause of many running injuries. The alternative would be to run more "naturally" by taking away heel padding to make it painful to strike hard on the heel. Just like running barefoot.
I'm a very skeptical person, and I don't buy into anything new-age-y easily, frequently, or much at all. I was surprised at how much sense this article made to me, and how much I wanted those shoes just to walk around in. I love walking barefoot, I just hate cuts and broken glass and being thrown out of pretty much any commercial establishment (1) (I've grown fond of service(2)).
I forwarded the article to my friend Tyr who I knew would enjoy it, and that evening he'd purchased a pair. Soon after The Blue Zipper sent me a similar, if not the same article (I can't remember), which I thought was aneat coincidence. Then, some weeks later an author, Christopher McDougall, was on the Daily Show. In the roughest of summaries by memory: he'd been studying an ancient people in Mexico who, when the rest stayed to fight the Conquistadors, fled to safety. They live in the middle of bf nowhere but are now being threatened by drug lords, those sons a bitches. Well, what's notable about these people is that they run a lot, and they're super happy, and they don't have cancer or suicide, nor do they have knee or other running related problems. Also, they may or may not fart rainbows. Why? Because they run barefoot.
Now that's not very scientific, but in lieu of some new-age conspiracy afoot (he he) to plant a bunch of articles and books and such to promote the same product at the same time, I took it as further confirmation and pined again for those shoes. "It's a shame I don't run" I thought.
Also, shame they're so ugly.
At one point in my life, I was in relatively good shape. On and off through the years I've done weightlifting routines. Then, one summer I worked as a "meter exchange ... something", and in the summer months I'd hoof it around changing electric meters while wearing long pants, a t-shirt, a thick long sleeve fire retardant shirt, and pounds of tools. The dude training me was a bit of a, uh, dumbass, and when he went on about how much weight he'd lost and how much I'd loose doing the job I just blew it off as bull.
Three months later I was down from 215 pounds to 180. This was still overweight according to that BMI thingymaboob, but it was good. I could wear a large t-shirt and not feel self conscious. It was the first time since that adolescent doubt first began that I started to feel good about how I looked.
I stayed around that weight for a good few years. Then college ended, unemployment and a 4 hour block of Star Trek on Spike TV set in(3). Somewhere along the way I also learned to cook for myself, which has presented a challenge at times. Fast forward to now. I'm around 225. My pant size has gone from 34 to 38 or 40 (depending on stretchability), and I'm pretty self conscious about my gut. I look like a sausage in a large t-shirt, and I have a lot of cool shirts that don't get any love anymore. Hell, there are two I bought that I love and I've never worn them.
I want to wear them.
Then, a few weeks ago, walking side by side with my lady, I had a moment. I thought, in that moment, (though I was listening to everything you said D. Mistress, I swear), I want to run. It was a calm, serene feeling. I'm gonna do it. I thought.
I found this Couch to 5k program which is scheduled over an 9 week period, and I figured hey, if I start in mid September, I could be ready to run a 5k by my birthday. What a cool birthday present that would be, huh? Start feeling better, start losing some weight, stop feeling like a fancy sausage.
So I bought the shoes.
And I printed out the program.
And I dug my sweats out from the closet.
And I dug my larger pair of sweats out from the closet.
And I set up the cool heart rate monitoring watch I got from woot.com for twenty bucks yeah!
And I opened up the door
and I set off into the sunrise.
(1) This hasn't really happened.
(2) Services and goods.
(3) ...it was worth it.
This is the culmination of many factors.
I've always wanted to.
And so the plan came together.
I've always held a watered down disdain for runners, solely for the fact that I couldn't imagine what they were getting out of running. Running? Really? My feelings could be summed up in a single line from Back to the Future III, spoken by an incredulous drunk native of the 1800's, upon hearing Doc's rambling description of the future. "People run? For fun?"
I've always been a chubby kid. I don't know if I'd say fat, but I remember I got to a certain age and noticed that I was bit more rolly and polly than average. My pants were always called "husky." I had tits. Then came gym class: changing in front of my peers, followed by swimming: no way to hide.
My favorite personal indignity: Boy Scout camp. The showers were a concrete pad, surrounded by walls, cold water only. And like many bathroom sinks they had to be held on. Being homophobic shy young men we avoided to shower and I think at a certain point we were forced to go. Why else would we have all gone together?
The unspoken agreement was everyone showered without removing their underwear. This is how I found everyone my age wore boxers. Everyone except me in white. Tight. Briefs.
That wasn't bad compared to what came from the mouth of a young man who had a learning disorder, the kind of which led him to say whatever observation came to mind, much in the manner of Ralph Wiggum's classic "my cat's breath smells like cat food." We were all soaped and showering, doing our best to avoid eye contact and conversation, when he turned to me and said, almost joyfully, "you look like a sumo wrestler."
Some months ago I'd read an article espousing the benefits of "barefoot" running. I use quotes because it was really about shoes that protect the foot from rocks and such while being as thin as possible to mimic the feel of running barefoot. Apparently thicker sole running shoes are designed to minimize heel impact through padding, though their shape necessitates running on your heels. This, they say, is the cause of many running injuries. The alternative would be to run more "naturally" by taking away heel padding to make it painful to strike hard on the heel. Just like running barefoot.
I'm a very skeptical person, and I don't buy into anything new-age-y easily, frequently, or much at all. I was surprised at how much sense this article made to me, and how much I wanted those shoes just to walk around in. I love walking barefoot, I just hate cuts and broken glass and being thrown out of pretty much any commercial establishment (1) (I've grown fond of service(2)).
I forwarded the article to my friend Tyr who I knew would enjoy it, and that evening he'd purchased a pair. Soon after The Blue Zipper sent me a similar, if not the same article (I can't remember), which I thought was aneat coincidence. Then, some weeks later an author, Christopher McDougall, was on the Daily Show. In the roughest of summaries by memory: he'd been studying an ancient people in Mexico who, when the rest stayed to fight the Conquistadors, fled to safety. They live in the middle of bf nowhere but are now being threatened by drug lords, those sons a bitches. Well, what's notable about these people is that they run a lot, and they're super happy, and they don't have cancer or suicide, nor do they have knee or other running related problems. Also, they may or may not fart rainbows. Why? Because they run barefoot.
Now that's not very scientific, but in lieu of some new-age conspiracy afoot (he he) to plant a bunch of articles and books and such to promote the same product at the same time, I took it as further confirmation and pined again for those shoes. "It's a shame I don't run" I thought.
Also, shame they're so ugly.
At one point in my life, I was in relatively good shape. On and off through the years I've done weightlifting routines. Then, one summer I worked as a "meter exchange ... something", and in the summer months I'd hoof it around changing electric meters while wearing long pants, a t-shirt, a thick long sleeve fire retardant shirt, and pounds of tools. The dude training me was a bit of a, uh, dumbass, and when he went on about how much weight he'd lost and how much I'd loose doing the job I just blew it off as bull.
Three months later I was down from 215 pounds to 180. This was still overweight according to that BMI thingymaboob, but it was good. I could wear a large t-shirt and not feel self conscious. It was the first time since that adolescent doubt first began that I started to feel good about how I looked.
I stayed around that weight for a good few years. Then college ended, unemployment and a 4 hour block of Star Trek on Spike TV set in(3). Somewhere along the way I also learned to cook for myself, which has presented a challenge at times. Fast forward to now. I'm around 225. My pant size has gone from 34 to 38 or 40 (depending on stretchability), and I'm pretty self conscious about my gut. I look like a sausage in a large t-shirt, and I have a lot of cool shirts that don't get any love anymore. Hell, there are two I bought that I love and I've never worn them.
I want to wear them.
Then, a few weeks ago, walking side by side with my lady, I had a moment. I thought, in that moment, (though I was listening to everything you said D. Mistress, I swear), I want to run. It was a calm, serene feeling. I'm gonna do it. I thought.
I found this Couch to 5k program which is scheduled over an 9 week period, and I figured hey, if I start in mid September, I could be ready to run a 5k by my birthday. What a cool birthday present that would be, huh? Start feeling better, start losing some weight, stop feeling like a fancy sausage.
So I bought the shoes.
And I printed out the program.
And I dug my sweats out from the closet.
And I dug my larger pair of sweats out from the closet.
And I set up the cool heart rate monitoring watch I got from woot.com for twenty bucks yeah!
And I opened up the door
and I set off into the sunrise.
(1) This hasn't really happened.
(2) Services and goods.
(3) ...it was worth it.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Monday, May 04, 2009
Shit I've got to deal with: Gentle Reminders
Somebody sent a "Gentle Reminder" to my inbox today. This should be strongly discouraged. Not only do I think the qualification of a reminder as gentle is unprofessional, I find it insulting as well. What does the word gentle add do a message? I cannot recall any communication intended to remind that profited from the word gentle, nor any that suffered from its omission. Gentle, then, has nothing to do with the content of the reminder, and everything to do with indicating the author's displeasure at having to send a secondary or tertiary message to those of us who are too busy ranting about the idiosyncracies of our workplaces to respond an email within a week or so of the first time we read it.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Hands Wrung Hard
I haven't mailed the forms in yet. Tomorrow. But I contacted the director of the program, as well as the grad admissions office, for that nice school in Boston. You know, the one I visited and fell in love with? I notified them today of my decision not to attend.
This came after much time spent going over numbers and numbers. Estimates, guesses, these were all I had really, but what I figured was this: I'd leave with between $50,000 - $60,000 in student loans. Perhaps I would also leave with contacts and opportunities I had not considered, but most likely I'd leave in search of adjunct teaching positions for not much more than I make now, if not less. As it stands, I'm a long way from being able to afford $700 per month in student loan payments.
Though I know I'd love going there: moving to a new city, not just any city but a literary hub packed with history and opportunity, spending my time in a community of fellow artists dedicated to honing their crafts, meeting new people and forming friendships, partnerships, and artistic connections that would last a lifetime, developing myself as a person and exploring new areas of creativity, being exposed to new experiences that would shape me in ways I couldn't begin to fathom right now, in the end I decided the promise wasn't worth the potential cost. I felt as if I were selling part of my future away for some wonderful experiences now. With there being other, cheaper, opportunities out there, I passed.
Speaking of which, that nice school in Seattle has some TA positions up for grabs. I should find out in a day or two if one of those comes my way. If so, I'm Washington bound, tuition free. If not, I'm facing a similar decision, with an expected $45,000-$50,000 in student loans. Then there's that school I've wanted to go to from the get go down in North Carolina. I know they want to find funding for everyone, but I haven't heard yea or nay from them yet either. Hope springs still, but I'm not feeling very lucky these days.
This came after much time spent going over numbers and numbers. Estimates, guesses, these were all I had really, but what I figured was this: I'd leave with between $50,000 - $60,000 in student loans. Perhaps I would also leave with contacts and opportunities I had not considered, but most likely I'd leave in search of adjunct teaching positions for not much more than I make now, if not less. As it stands, I'm a long way from being able to afford $700 per month in student loan payments.
Though I know I'd love going there: moving to a new city, not just any city but a literary hub packed with history and opportunity, spending my time in a community of fellow artists dedicated to honing their crafts, meeting new people and forming friendships, partnerships, and artistic connections that would last a lifetime, developing myself as a person and exploring new areas of creativity, being exposed to new experiences that would shape me in ways I couldn't begin to fathom right now, in the end I decided the promise wasn't worth the potential cost. I felt as if I were selling part of my future away for some wonderful experiences now. With there being other, cheaper, opportunities out there, I passed.
Speaking of which, that nice school in Seattle has some TA positions up for grabs. I should find out in a day or two if one of those comes my way. If so, I'm Washington bound, tuition free. If not, I'm facing a similar decision, with an expected $45,000-$50,000 in student loans. Then there's that school I've wanted to go to from the get go down in North Carolina. I know they want to find funding for everyone, but I haven't heard yea or nay from them yet either. Hope springs still, but I'm not feeling very lucky these days.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
You Suck, March
I had a moment this morning to reflect on the past few weeks. I haven't been feeling well lately, and I recalled that about a year ago I found myself cursing the month of March and the challenges it brought. I also recalled that I had quite a miserable March, 2007. Is it the time of year? Coincidence? Perhaps month names that are also verbs are destined to suck.
This month started off great as I rode the high of my MFA acceptance through a fantastic and carefree weekend with some friends. The day we got back, however, we had to tend to a sick Starbuck. Some non human entity had been leaving strange pukes around the house, so we isolated the chief culprit, Starbuck. We didn't catch her puking, but in two days she didn't do any eating or drinking either, so we took her to the vet.
It wasn't good. She'd lost half her weight, and had a condition that necessitated immediate care. Over the next few days we agonized on how much money to spend in search of what was wrong and then how much to fix it. There were many teary nights and harried vet trips. When all was said and done, we were able to care for her at home: she required feedings every 4 hours through a tube run through her neck, as well as several medications doled out through the day.
(Click here for more information on what was wrong with Starbuck)
For the next two weeks the Mistress and I traded off waking up at 4am to feed Starbuck. Feedings take about a half hour, all told, and by the time I would get back to bed I was too awake to fall asleep quickly. Our sleep debts quickly began to compound until the two of us looked like the walking dead. I'd stopped caring to trim my beard and mustache, and the stupid mistakes I was making at work began to garner attention.
Thankfully our efforts and attention paid off and Starbuck began to eat on her own. We could cut back her feedings in order to encourage her to eat more on her own, allowing us to catch up on precious sleep.
The increase in sleep allowed me to regain my mental prowess, which upon its return, began to focus solely on my wait to hear from the remainder of MFA programs I applied to. The two schools that accepted me, the nice one in Seattle and the nice one in Boston, have not offered me much in the way of funding. Nothing from the school in Seattle, and the one in Boston offered a Graduate Assistantship position which, generous though it is, would barely cover my living expenses. For either school I would be looking at student loans in the neighborhood of $45,000 dollars. This is more than the $20,000 debt limit I'd set in my mind, so I'd been counting on one of the other four schools I hadn't heard back from to give me a good offer.
In the mean time, on the small chance that I did choose to go to the school in Boston, I thought The Mistress and I might as well go to the open house to see what's what. That, and I've never been around Boston. This past weekend we dropped Starbuck off with mom and headed north. Raucous P. L. B. Filibuster and The Big E share an apartment in a neighborhood of Boston and were nice enough to let us crash at their place for the night.
Of course, we had a fantastic time in Boston, and I liked the school a great deal. It's made the decision much harder, and every day that goes by I wait nervously for word from one of the remaining schools. It's hard for me not to assume at this point, however, that I'm not getting any other offers. The decision I'm left with in that case is presently tearing me up.
I'm only considering the nice school in Boston, as it's given me a better offer financially than the nice school in Seattle. So what if I decide to go? For one, I get to spend the next three years focusing on my writing. The school offers classes in many genres and types of writing, and I think I might also like to take a class on writing for magazines. Oh, and there was one about writing for columns that I'd like to take. In addition, they have a very tough teaching course that is required if you want a Teaching Assistantship. Less than half those that take the course are actually awarded a position, and it's decided by an interview system. This sounds intimidating, but I respect it. I think it's more fair to the undergraduates being taught and to the new teachers than other schools who throw TAs into a freshman comp course with little preparation. Of course, I don't know if I'd like to teach, but it is the one field that I would be more qualified to work in post MFA than I am now. The pragmatic side of me is very excited about that.
Specifics aside, attending would mean three years of challenges that would push me to grow as a writer and as a person. I would have fun with some good friends, and enjoy living in a culturally rich city. When all is said and done, I might have a chance at chasing down some teaching opportunities, and maybe I'd open up some other writing opportunities that I hadn't planned on. I'd also, however, struggle to make ends meet while at the same time trying to give my writing it's due attention. That is, after all, the reason for going in the first place. Also, best case scenario, I find some teaching jobs that pay just about what I'm making now (not a lot) in a place I'd like to work. That, however, assumes a lot. Funding for liberal arts programs is waning and I presume will continue to do so so long as this economic crisis is in effect. Other than that, I wouldn't be qualified for anything more than I am now, (not much), so I'd have to find a job doing what I could, probably still making about what I do now or less. My increased loan payments would make it difficult to make ends meet, maybe impossible, and could prevent me from saving money or taking out a loan for a car or a house.
So what if I don't go? Well, first, I'd have to stave off the waves of depression as I think about all the fun and excitement I'd be missing. And then the waves of depression that will come as I realize I've got to either find a new job (doing what?) or suck it up and keep working at the job I have now, which feels like a prison sentence. I mentioned previously that it wouldn't be so bad to move away and start over, find a new job, a new place to live, but such a thing is much easier said than done. Especially nowadays. I dread that the truth may not be so, but I can only hope that somewhere, out there, there is a job that won't make me question whether I should wake up in the morning, and I am desperate to know what that job might be and how I can find it. Getting an MFA lets me explore one possible avenue while allowing me to enjoy life and learning for a few years before I again face that dilemma. However, it might make for a harder life down the road, and with the economy where it is, does that seem very prudent? But would it be worth it for the happiness and the personal growth?
This is the impasse at which I find myself, and I... we... are very much awaiting relief. All advice is welcome.
April, save us.
This month started off great as I rode the high of my MFA acceptance through a fantastic and carefree weekend with some friends. The day we got back, however, we had to tend to a sick Starbuck. Some non human entity had been leaving strange pukes around the house, so we isolated the chief culprit, Starbuck. We didn't catch her puking, but in two days she didn't do any eating or drinking either, so we took her to the vet.
It wasn't good. She'd lost half her weight, and had a condition that necessitated immediate care. Over the next few days we agonized on how much money to spend in search of what was wrong and then how much to fix it. There were many teary nights and harried vet trips. When all was said and done, we were able to care for her at home: she required feedings every 4 hours through a tube run through her neck, as well as several medications doled out through the day.
(Click here for more information on what was wrong with Starbuck)
For the next two weeks the Mistress and I traded off waking up at 4am to feed Starbuck. Feedings take about a half hour, all told, and by the time I would get back to bed I was too awake to fall asleep quickly. Our sleep debts quickly began to compound until the two of us looked like the walking dead. I'd stopped caring to trim my beard and mustache, and the stupid mistakes I was making at work began to garner attention.
Thankfully our efforts and attention paid off and Starbuck began to eat on her own. We could cut back her feedings in order to encourage her to eat more on her own, allowing us to catch up on precious sleep.
The increase in sleep allowed me to regain my mental prowess, which upon its return, began to focus solely on my wait to hear from the remainder of MFA programs I applied to. The two schools that accepted me, the nice one in Seattle and the nice one in Boston, have not offered me much in the way of funding. Nothing from the school in Seattle, and the one in Boston offered a Graduate Assistantship position which, generous though it is, would barely cover my living expenses. For either school I would be looking at student loans in the neighborhood of $45,000 dollars. This is more than the $20,000 debt limit I'd set in my mind, so I'd been counting on one of the other four schools I hadn't heard back from to give me a good offer.
In the mean time, on the small chance that I did choose to go to the school in Boston, I thought The Mistress and I might as well go to the open house to see what's what. That, and I've never been around Boston. This past weekend we dropped Starbuck off with mom and headed north. Raucous P. L. B. Filibuster and The Big E share an apartment in a neighborhood of Boston and were nice enough to let us crash at their place for the night.
Of course, we had a fantastic time in Boston, and I liked the school a great deal. It's made the decision much harder, and every day that goes by I wait nervously for word from one of the remaining schools. It's hard for me not to assume at this point, however, that I'm not getting any other offers. The decision I'm left with in that case is presently tearing me up.
I'm only considering the nice school in Boston, as it's given me a better offer financially than the nice school in Seattle. So what if I decide to go? For one, I get to spend the next three years focusing on my writing. The school offers classes in many genres and types of writing, and I think I might also like to take a class on writing for magazines. Oh, and there was one about writing for columns that I'd like to take. In addition, they have a very tough teaching course that is required if you want a Teaching Assistantship. Less than half those that take the course are actually awarded a position, and it's decided by an interview system. This sounds intimidating, but I respect it. I think it's more fair to the undergraduates being taught and to the new teachers than other schools who throw TAs into a freshman comp course with little preparation. Of course, I don't know if I'd like to teach, but it is the one field that I would be more qualified to work in post MFA than I am now. The pragmatic side of me is very excited about that.
Specifics aside, attending would mean three years of challenges that would push me to grow as a writer and as a person. I would have fun with some good friends, and enjoy living in a culturally rich city. When all is said and done, I might have a chance at chasing down some teaching opportunities, and maybe I'd open up some other writing opportunities that I hadn't planned on. I'd also, however, struggle to make ends meet while at the same time trying to give my writing it's due attention. That is, after all, the reason for going in the first place. Also, best case scenario, I find some teaching jobs that pay just about what I'm making now (not a lot) in a place I'd like to work. That, however, assumes a lot. Funding for liberal arts programs is waning and I presume will continue to do so so long as this economic crisis is in effect. Other than that, I wouldn't be qualified for anything more than I am now, (not much), so I'd have to find a job doing what I could, probably still making about what I do now or less. My increased loan payments would make it difficult to make ends meet, maybe impossible, and could prevent me from saving money or taking out a loan for a car or a house.
So what if I don't go? Well, first, I'd have to stave off the waves of depression as I think about all the fun and excitement I'd be missing. And then the waves of depression that will come as I realize I've got to either find a new job (doing what?) or suck it up and keep working at the job I have now, which feels like a prison sentence. I mentioned previously that it wouldn't be so bad to move away and start over, find a new job, a new place to live, but such a thing is much easier said than done. Especially nowadays. I dread that the truth may not be so, but I can only hope that somewhere, out there, there is a job that won't make me question whether I should wake up in the morning, and I am desperate to know what that job might be and how I can find it. Getting an MFA lets me explore one possible avenue while allowing me to enjoy life and learning for a few years before I again face that dilemma. However, it might make for a harder life down the road, and with the economy where it is, does that seem very prudent? But would it be worth it for the happiness and the personal growth?
This is the impasse at which I find myself, and I... we... are very much awaiting relief. All advice is welcome.
April, save us.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Five Days, Part 1
Phrases that describe the lifting of a weight from one's chest are cliche, yes, but considering the fact that I've had random chest pains that I finally pinned on my constant anxiety, I feel the cliche is apt. Thursday I received an acceptance letter from a fine institution in Boston, and since then the pains have been gone, gone, gone.
Of course, I wasn't sure if I was going to get the envelope open in the first place. Or, for that matter, if I was going to wake up on the floor some time later, only to be asked what day it is and if I know my own name. Trooper that I am, I managed, and inside was a wonderful folder filled with maps and pamphlets and a glorious congratulatory letter.
Have you ever seen old footage of women who go bonkers when they're told to "come on down" on The Price is Right? The jumping, the screaming, the demented facial contortions; I understand this now. After deafening the poor Mistress, I was on a high like no other. The sky looked sharper. Food tasted better. The world was full of possibility.
It made for a wonderful weekend that I enjoyed with the lightest heart I've had in years.
Now that I'm back, however, I'm faced with this reality: the particular program I'm accepted to, while highly praised, does not generally fund its students well. There are many MFA programs out there that offer funding in the form of tuition remission in addition to the traditional teaching assistant and graduate assistant positions. And, though it might be naive, I'm of the view that so long as I'm not paying tuition, I'll figure out a way to swing cost of living. How could I pass the opportunity up?
However, I have to now consider the option of taking out student loans and going into potentially substantial debt for a degree that won't help me pay that debt off upon exit. I don't know if this is something I'm prepared to do. It's not that I don't think the experience would be worthwhile. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't have spent over $600 to apply to schools in the first place.
It's just that, when I'm honest with myself, part of me would be okay with turning down a debt heavy educational opportunity in favor of starting over somewhere new. Finding a place I'd like to live, looking for a job there that won't drive me to drink, and dedicating my creative life to my craft on my own time. Yes, a tall order, but one I'm conceptually comfortable with for the first time in my life. See, I proved to myself by scrapping through the application process that I can write on my own time, that I'm capable. The praise I've received from my professors and the fact that I was accepted makes me feel that I'm at least a bit talented, and that I'm not wasting mine and everyone else's time. My craft would develop more slowly, and I'd lose out on invaluable perspectives, but how much am I willing to lay down for an MFA? The price of a small car? The price of a (very) small house?
That's not to say that more acceptances aren't on their way. Hopefully complete with rare juicy offers in an otherwise lean year all around. And, if that's the case, of course the sweat of my brow could afford to lie in wait for a couple years while I enrich my artistic side.
Of course, I wasn't sure if I was going to get the envelope open in the first place. Or, for that matter, if I was going to wake up on the floor some time later, only to be asked what day it is and if I know my own name. Trooper that I am, I managed, and inside was a wonderful folder filled with maps and pamphlets and a glorious congratulatory letter.
Have you ever seen old footage of women who go bonkers when they're told to "come on down" on The Price is Right? The jumping, the screaming, the demented facial contortions; I understand this now. After deafening the poor Mistress, I was on a high like no other. The sky looked sharper. Food tasted better. The world was full of possibility.
It made for a wonderful weekend that I enjoyed with the lightest heart I've had in years.
Now that I'm back, however, I'm faced with this reality: the particular program I'm accepted to, while highly praised, does not generally fund its students well. There are many MFA programs out there that offer funding in the form of tuition remission in addition to the traditional teaching assistant and graduate assistant positions. And, though it might be naive, I'm of the view that so long as I'm not paying tuition, I'll figure out a way to swing cost of living. How could I pass the opportunity up?
However, I have to now consider the option of taking out student loans and going into potentially substantial debt for a degree that won't help me pay that debt off upon exit. I don't know if this is something I'm prepared to do. It's not that I don't think the experience would be worthwhile. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't have spent over $600 to apply to schools in the first place.
It's just that, when I'm honest with myself, part of me would be okay with turning down a debt heavy educational opportunity in favor of starting over somewhere new. Finding a place I'd like to live, looking for a job there that won't drive me to drink, and dedicating my creative life to my craft on my own time. Yes, a tall order, but one I'm conceptually comfortable with for the first time in my life. See, I proved to myself by scrapping through the application process that I can write on my own time, that I'm capable. The praise I've received from my professors and the fact that I was accepted makes me feel that I'm at least a bit talented, and that I'm not wasting mine and everyone else's time. My craft would develop more slowly, and I'd lose out on invaluable perspectives, but how much am I willing to lay down for an MFA? The price of a small car? The price of a (very) small house?
That's not to say that more acceptances aren't on their way. Hopefully complete with rare juicy offers in an otherwise lean year all around. And, if that's the case, of course the sweat of my brow could afford to lie in wait for a couple years while I enrich my artistic side.
Five Days, Part 2
I'm suffering withdrawals. This past weekend was so great, so fun and carefree, that when we returned from our trip opening the door to my house felt like kicking the bottom out of a giant stack of cardboard boxes, each one hitting me with force enough to sting, but not to bruise.
How could I expect life to live up to the standards of our mini vacation? First, I had my new toy to play with, which dropped digital bread crumbs as we drove to New York to visit the Mistress's friend Filmic Lemieux. She's a hoot through and through, and we ended up wandering around Brooklyn in search of eats after the place we set out for was closed. We settled on indian, which was quite tasty, and had a great time before splitting the check and parting ways.
Though trying to find a place to piss in Jersey City that wasn't locked, closed, or occupied by those passed out from drug use sucked, the next leg of the trip wasn't so bad. That is to say, I honestly don't remember much of it: we drove down to Slim Jim and Bartlet's place, arriving after 3am. Bartlet was staying up with some Street Fighter, the kind that it's been a decade since I last played. I held my own to his challenges through my superior button mashery. I never had a Nintendo or a Super Nintendo, so my fighting game technique has essentially remained unchanged over the years: panic, and panic quickly.
Saturday was absolutely beautiful. Our first real spring day. Upon stepping foot outside I ran to the car where I've kept two mitts and a baseball for the past few years for just such an occasion. Between catch, the tire swing, and a tennis ball thrown up on the roof, we spent a few hours reliving childhood. That night Bartlet broiled up some steak, chicken, peppers, and cucumbers, and they were all fantastic. After dinner we settled in for beer, espresso, and the Battlestar Galactica board game. For reasons I can't succinctly go into, it was a fun game to play but a depressing game to win.
Sunday Slim Jim set up a shooting range for his fancy new pellet gun. It even had a real rifle scope on it, which I'd never used before. I thought I was doing pretty well in showing off what I have for marksmanship until the Mistress went all Annie Oakly on us and started dropping cans like it weren't a thing. She was the only one of the four of us who managed to hit anything while standing. I myself couldn't hit anything unless I was prone. If things get too much worse I know which one of us is getting sent out with the BB gun to net us some squirrel.
It was hard to leave, but we had jobs, cats, and untwatched Battlestar Galactica to get back to.
How could I expect life to live up to the standards of our mini vacation? First, I had my new toy to play with, which dropped digital bread crumbs as we drove to New York to visit the Mistress's friend Filmic Lemieux. She's a hoot through and through, and we ended up wandering around Brooklyn in search of eats after the place we set out for was closed. We settled on indian, which was quite tasty, and had a great time before splitting the check and parting ways.
Though trying to find a place to piss in Jersey City that wasn't locked, closed, or occupied by those passed out from drug use sucked, the next leg of the trip wasn't so bad. That is to say, I honestly don't remember much of it: we drove down to Slim Jim and Bartlet's place, arriving after 3am. Bartlet was staying up with some Street Fighter, the kind that it's been a decade since I last played. I held my own to his challenges through my superior button mashery. I never had a Nintendo or a Super Nintendo, so my fighting game technique has essentially remained unchanged over the years: panic, and panic quickly.
Saturday was absolutely beautiful. Our first real spring day. Upon stepping foot outside I ran to the car where I've kept two mitts and a baseball for the past few years for just such an occasion. Between catch, the tire swing, and a tennis ball thrown up on the roof, we spent a few hours reliving childhood. That night Bartlet broiled up some steak, chicken, peppers, and cucumbers, and they were all fantastic. After dinner we settled in for beer, espresso, and the Battlestar Galactica board game. For reasons I can't succinctly go into, it was a fun game to play but a depressing game to win.
Sunday Slim Jim set up a shooting range for his fancy new pellet gun. It even had a real rifle scope on it, which I'd never used before. I thought I was doing pretty well in showing off what I have for marksmanship until the Mistress went all Annie Oakly on us and started dropping cans like it weren't a thing. She was the only one of the four of us who managed to hit anything while standing. I myself couldn't hit anything unless I was prone. If things get too much worse I know which one of us is getting sent out with the BB gun to net us some squirrel.
It was hard to leave, but we had jobs, cats, and untwatched Battlestar Galactica to get back to.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Those New York Comic Con Photo Blues
I'm very proud of some of these photos, as I was often shooting in a hurry. Though another way of looking at it is I took hundreds of shots, odds were that some would come out. While there's so much that I could say, so many angles I could approach these photos from, I've decided to resist commentary. They are what they are. Click to embiggen, ponder where applicable.
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