Let's Get Physical!

As it is getting close to Spring cycling training (my calendar's opinion only at this point), this past weekend was spent practicing carb-intake at Duffy's brunch, shopping for athletic shoes and researching exercises that prevent common cycling afflictions.

While brunch went off without a hitch, shopping for shoes was a torment up there with Top 40 music, making spring rolls and riding the CTA (loud, putzy and pointless). In both stores we patronized, Mr. Bosco found shoes immediately and was ready to go. Your beloved writer, however, tried on no less than 30 pairs with little, if any success. The final two contestants were Nike, a brand that has never fit my foot before and about as ugly as shoes can be. Not that I'm particularly finicky when it comes to the look of my trainers; when one has flat feet and ankles that are more for show than bodily support, fashion is rarely even a blip on my consideration radar. But these 2 were really especiallitrocious--#1 was silver patent pleather with fluorescent pink accents and #2 looked like Michael Jordan had some bad sushi and puked all over them. As they both felt superb on my foot (and passed hopping, jumping and running all over the store), I went with #2 as it was a tad cheaper and a smidge less ugly.

Errands having been run, I returned home to do a little housekeeping and kill some time on the 'puter. Tempted to see what others thought of my new fugly shoes, I googled them--a big mistake. There was only two hits not related to shopping or pricing; one from a PETA site which had them on a list of acceptable shoes containing no animal products (who-hoo, my shoes are vegan!) and the second from some foot guru condemning them as a marketing gimmick to sell to the department stores and resolution runners that will return to their box of moon-pies within a month. Disheartened, I showed up as Bosco's last night frantic that I would again have to search and try on more shoes in an endless cycle of podiatricks. Thankfully, he encouraged me to come bad into the land of sanity and realize that 6 miles a week does not a runner make, the shoes fit and make my feet happy, and most importantly, to never, ever, EVER google my shoes again.

Lastly, in WTFWTT news, a little gem I discovered while researching preventive stretching. Talk amongst yourselves!

Sowing the Seeds of Love

Quite literally, as the above snapshot was from this past weekend's Chocolate Fest @ The Garfield Park Conservatory, an annual event brimming to the rim with caffeinated goodies.

Unfortunately, most of their cacao trees were feeling quite brown and under the weather, so the Ladies L-squared and I settled for this slightly frightening giant seed pod from the children's section of the plant exhibits--then again, with all food additives and growth hormones floating about our food supply willy-nilly, it could be quite realistic in a few years!

All You Need is Gloves...

No, the above picture is not a modern art installation purchased at auction from some reclusive outsider artist just discovered in the Shawangunk Mountains....it is merely photographic evidence of what I've been reduced to.
One of my most irritating tendencies is the knack of repeatedly losing my winter gloves, a habit that started soon after those cute little kiddie klips were removed from my mittens in 1983. But, after numerous years and $$ spent in the hundreds, I've decided it finally has to end.

This declaration actually came at the end of last year when I lost a lovely pair of Thinsulate red gloves in February. A brief stay of embarrassment was granted, however, as Bosco, hearing my rants had ran out to procure an even lovelier robin's egg blue fleece pair to surprise me that frigid night....it seemed such a shame to shackle them, so I decided to give myself a pardon and was sure losing the thoughtful gift was impossible.

Alas, they were sucked into the great glove ephemera sometime around the end of last March, and oncemore I was intent on keeping the next pair of gloves I purchased no matter how ridiculous the means. Yet again I was foiled, as this past October my mother sent me a sleek pair of black suede darlings. It seemed that they were less bulkier than previous pairs and thus had a good life expectancy--shackling them would only break their spirit! Do I even need to write that Mr. Left was abandoned at a furniture store in Niles, IL due to my rather exuberant hopping on couches? A new pair were quickly purchased at a nearby Target on clearance and were on the road to being hung as soon as I returned home. It having been one of those weeks where breathing becomes optional, I didn't get around to this immediately and instead have now managed to almost lose them 3 times over the past 2 weeks the last involving a panicky sprint back to a local Italian eatery before the busboy got a nice warm additional tip. But, the recent cold snap and dwindling or non-existent stock of gloves at the local store has scared me straight and the harnessing commenced this morning.

So, I'm 32 years old and yet again find my gloves on a string, it's unclear if this qualifies as poetic or tragic!