Crunchy ‘Nanas

Shots from my niece’s 1st birthday party:

Usain Bolt has his chicken nuggets. Apparently, I have Graham’s Sunday Roast.

Last weekend, we combined socializing, which means eating, with running the Nike+ Human Race in London. The night before the race, we gorged on Indian curry. The next day, four hours before the race, we tucked in to a lovely Sunday roast. I tried to eat daintily, knowing beef, red wine, Bailey’s birthday cake, and Phish food would not make for the best combination in my tummy at mile 5. Or even mile 2. (As it turned out, I ate too sparingly and was STARVING by the time wave 2 was finally let loose on the course, but oh well. I made it.)

The race was fun-ish, but I don’t know if I would do it again. It’s a nice idea, coming together to race against the world. (London came in second. It probably helped that Paula Radcliffe was chasing me…uh, running it in a later wave!) And yeah, leaving from Wembley Stadium sounded cool at the time we signed up. But, logistically, it’s really hard to run with 20,000 people in the dark down a narrow course with sharp bends (who thought that was a good idea?). It is especially challenging when it’s also pouring down rain and everyone is dodging puddles. And really, the area around Wembley, it’s not all that picturesque. So, it was fun, but not a total blast.

However, running-wise the race was a success. My official time is pretty far off my watch time, so I am sticking with my watch time (58:38). Our theory is that perhaps the chip did not log in at the first mat and my official time is actually the gun time and not the chip time. Who knows? I’m not worried. With my watch time, I finished with a pace of 9:26 min/mile, and I am a-okay with that considering I haven’t had the most rigorous of training regimes lately.

And yeah, there was all that beef.

I kept asking, how many people are joining us? (We were five all together.)

Eating my ‘nana on the tube before the race

Wet, but don’t I look cute in my running skirt?

One thing I’ve learned from living in England is you don’t let the weather influence what you do. If you sit at home and wait for a sunny day so you can go to the beach, all I can say is good luck. So, when the last summer bank holiday rolls around, and you have friends coming down from West Yorkshire to go to the seaside, you go to the seaside. Even if it’s rainy and cloudy. And you have fun, gosh darn it!

Rain? Clouds? Who cares!

We went out to Joss Bay on Sunday to catch low tide so that we could go do a little rockpooling and a bit of sand art. That lasted for about 10 minutes before running back to the cars with wet little ones. But, not before a crab had been found!

We got home, dried off, had some lunch and headed back out to Margate. Judging from the weather earlier, I didn’t bother to put my bathing suit back on. Stupid move, it was beautiful! So, we got a chance to splash around, make a starfish in the sand, and create “Emma Island.”

Then, we moved around the coast, had some ice cream at Morelli’s, and everyone was happy!

Perhaps the biggest lesson learned from the weekend was never read Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs if you want the sun to shine in England. (But then again, I’m not sure if I can handle that.) Oh yeah, and I ran 6 miles with hills and didn’t die, so I think that puts me okay for the Nike+ Human Race in London this weekend. I won’t race it hardcore (do I ever??), but I should have fun. Hooray!

Apparently, I’ve grown to be the kind of person that freaks out after the fact. I used to get anxious about shots or getting blood drawn, but now I can do it without worrying and shaking (too much). However, I feel weak in the knees as I’m walking home 10 minutes after the needle’s punctured my skin.

A month ago, one of my best friends asked if I would please be a part of her beauty consultation team and help her and her beautiful bride get ready for their wedding. I accepted with honor, despite not being what you’d say hip in the primping department. The last beauty magazine I can recall reading is so last century. The team also consisted of one of my other friends who, like me, looks at blow dryers and mascara as mysterious entities too scary to fathom, and one who totally knows how to rock the make up world. I wasn’t worried too much though because the request was basically a request to help her put her shirt on.

As it happened, everything went very well, if I do say so myself. We were able to suitably finish up the brides’ glowing natural beauty in a way that Shan’s mother exclaimed, “it’s still my daughter!” I think she may have been worried the circus was coming to town and landing itself at her daughter’s wedding. I was even able to bust out my french-braiding skills on the spot. They were a bit rusty, having not really french-braided since high school, but in the end, no one shouted in horror at Julia’s hair, so we did okay. (My mom reminded me later I received the women’s choir award for best french-braider, but I’ve always believed this was less a statement about my hair-styling skills and more a statement about my vocal qualities.)

And yet, last night I had the craziest dream that we were back two weeks and it was the morning of the wedding. Shannon’s hair was shorter than usual but it looked fine. However, Julia had dyed her hair pink and yellow. And then shaved columns out of it and mohawked the center short bits. I walked in, and was just like, oh my god, has your mom seen your hair?! What are we going to do? The dream didn’t last beyond that thank goodness, but I remember thinking it was all my fault.

I’d like to blame the full dose of advil pm I took to help me sleep last night, but I don’t think the dream was (too) drug-induced. I’ll be back to my usual half-dose if I need it tonight, though.

Me and the beautiful brides, sans pink and yellow mohawk, thank goodness!

Very Official Beauty Consultants!