Lawyerish

Tips. Many Tips. English Tips.

A couple of bloggers I read borderline obsessively have recently mentioned taking up running, and I found myself in both cases rather pushily encouraging them to do so.  Yes!  YES!  I run, therefore EVERYONE ELSE MUST RUN!  If it is right for me, then it must be right for all! 

God, what an asshole.  I don't want to be that person, that person who goes around proselytizing about every damn thing I do, telling people they HAVE to go to MY favorite restaurants (and by the way, be SURE to get the potato puree, it is just DIVINE) and they HAVE to stay at this WONderful little hotel in Rome and blah blah BLAH me me I am fabulous blah. 

However!  (Yes, this is the second post in a row to start a paragraph with "however."  Thank you.)  I have gotten a few direct requests for advice/encouragement from others who are in the early stages of (or maybe just contemplating) joining the wonderful world of running.  And so I feel it is my duty, really, to share my ever-so-relevant experience.  (Ok, no.  Not really.  But it gives me something to blather on about.) 

(Insert legalese warning here about not beginning any exercise program without consulting your doctor first, which:  does anyone actually do that?  Seriously?)

I have a lot of runners in my family.  My dad runs, my uncle runs (he's more into cycling now, but he has finished marathons in under 3 hours, which makes him officially a badassss), my aunt runs, my aunt's boyfriend runs, my cousin runs.  You get the idea.  My dad's side of the family seems, if you'll pardon the phrase, born to run.  Tall, lanky, long-limbed, sturdy joints -- we are a pasty lot and lack appreciable lips, but we can run. 

Although I inherited my dad's body type, for years I figured the running gene had passed me by.  As a dancer, I developed all the wrong muscles for running, and none of the lung capacity the sport requires, so going for a brief jog would leave me crumpled somewhere alongside the road, gasping for air and clutching my burning thighs. 

Then I ditched the pointe shoes and, sophomore year of college, I joined the rowing team.  The novice women's coach was something of a running fiend.  She had us sprinting the stairs of the stadium, running hill repeats on mountainous side streets, doing suicides on the football field and racing wind sprints around the track.  My God, that woman loved to make us run.  And, OH, how I hated it.  I was slow as all hell, and yet I hadn't figured out how to modulate my speed such that I could actually take in oxygen during a workout; even if we were going out for five miles, I hit the pavement as though we were doing the fifty yard dash.  More than once, I collapsed from hyperventilation.  It was a rather pathetic display.  I eventually had to quit rowing due to a back injury, and I went back to ballet as soon as I could.

When I got to law school, in addition to going to dance classes I took up recreational running to avoid studying, stay in shape and, uh, avoid studying.  I'd jog down to Central Park, go as far as I could around the loop, then run back.  When I started out, I could basically make it to the entrance to the park and then I'd have to turn around.  But I kept at it, kept chipping away at it, and by the time first semester exams rolled around, I could do a loop (6 miles).  Then, during exams, it became two loops -- again, the motivation of running versus studying cannot be overstated.  The longer I was out there, the more time I was not reading about adhesion contracts and interpleader. 

Back then, of course (in the Dark Ages), there were no MP3 players, and I ran with a Walkman the size of a chaise longue attached to the waistband of my shorts.  And, by the way, since I was a poor student, I wore those baggy mesh basketball shorts that every college kid buys at some point, or (SHUDDER) Spandex bike shorts I'd bought at KMart for $5.99 a pop.  I did invest in decent running shoes, which is key to the whole operation -- more on that later. 

(Well, I have nicely managed to turn this around to be ALL ABOUT ME, haven't I?  God.)

I lost my point somewhere along the way, but suffice it to say that, aside from the lapses of reason that led to me running the marathon twice, I run because I like the way it makes me feel.  I still don't love every second of the running itself (it is exercise after all, and effort -- fleh); but afterward, I am always glad I did it.  I sleep better, I have more energy, and I manage stress much, much better when I run.  (When the familiar chokehold of anxiety starts creeping up on me, I know I haven't been getting in enough mileage.)  When I run -- whether it's three or six times a week -- I have a regular appetite and I don't feel like shoveling food into my craw at random (or if I do, it doesn't matter as much, because I will run it off).  And, of course, I look and feel more toned, yadda yadda. 

And -- AND! -- it is important to note that, when I started training for the marathon the first time, I was in effect a beginning runner, as it had been years since law school and I'd become a gym-goer, elliptical machine, uh, doer.  When I started training, I could BARELY run three miles on a treadmill.  So, for real.  You can do this.  And Lord knows, no one has to do a marathon -- I'm just saying, if I can go from three (slow) miles to 26.2 (slow) miles, then anyone can go from zero to three or whatever your goal.

So, without further YAMMERING, here are a few bits of advice for ye who wish to run:

1.   Even if you're going to be running on a treadmill or indoor track, you've got to have shoes that are right for you.  I'd recommend going to a specialty runners' store (and NOT any place that rhymes with Put Shocker -- AVOID!  AVOID!), where they can evaluate your stride and body type before recommending a shoe.  Barring that, if you at least know whether you have flat, medium or high arches you can go online to places like Road Runner Sports and use their handy-dandy shoe finder dealio to narrow the choices.  (And if you're still baffled -- because, LORD, there are a lot of choices -- call the 800 number on the Road Runner site; you will get to speak with someone who actually uses and knows about the products they sell.)

2.   If you have any pre-existing injuries or conditions like knee problems or asthma, you really should talk to a doctor -- but try to see a sports medicine person if you can, as they're less likely to summarily tell you not to run.  Sports doctors will work with you to figure out how to run healthily within whatever limitations you have.

3.   Run on asphalt or a rubbery track, not on concrete if at all possible.  Better yet, if there's a trail near you that's covered in wood chips, run on that.  The idea is to minimize the jarring and pounding.

4.   Keep a running log.  Even if you're not planning on doing any races or have no specific goal in mind, it's great to keep a record of your mileage.  You can get all fancy and throw in stuff like the weather, your route and how you felt; but at the very least, write in your day planner or put in your Treo how many miles you did each day -- you'll be very impressed with yourself at how you started out doing less than half a mile, and just a couple of months later you're doing five miles.

5.   Start slowly.  I mean speed-wise.  S-L-O-W-L-Y.  I still run at a snail's pace, relatively speaking, but I can run distances I would have NEVER thought possible back when I was in college.  It turns out I do have the running gene; mine simply happens to be a slow gene.  (Of course, you don't need the gene to run.  You're not going to get out of this that easily.  Runners come in ALL shapes and sizes.)  One of the biggest beginner's mistakes is going out too fast.  If you go out too fast, you will HATE running, because you will go ten feet and want to impale yourself on the nearest sharp object.  If you feel desperately winded and/or your legs threaten to secede from your body?  You're going too fast.  Dial it back.  Even if you're running slowly, you're still running.

6.   Figure out what motivates you and stick with it.  If you want to run with other people, there are running groups of all levels EVERYwhere.  If, like me, you'd rather be ripped apart by rabid wombats than run with a group of people, stay solo (which doesn't rule out races, by the way; I don't mind running AROUND other people, just not WITH them).  Except!  I will break my own rule and run with others under very narrow conditions:  I will run with close family or friends (my husband, my dad, my aunt) IF I can set the pace (again: SLOW).  That is, mostly I will run with people who are willing to go at my crawling tempo, and who won't judge me for it.  This probably means that I don't push myself enough and I don't ever improve, but I'm fine with that. 

7.   An organized race is a great motivator -- most local road races are set up to raise money for something and are open to people of all levels, so you don't have to worry that everyone else in the race is going to be smoking past you or that they'll have to keep the finish line open for eight hours until you come staggering down the chute.  A 5K is a terrific distance to start out with.  The whole event of it will get your adrenaline flowing, and there are few more satisfying moments than pushing it out at the end of a race course, a crowd (however small) cheering around you, and collecting your commemorative t-shirt afterward.  Good times.

8.   You can run in almost any conditions if you have the right gear.  For warm weather running, all you need is running shorts (YES, running shorts, because otherwise there will be chafing, and chafing is bad -- although even with running shorts, Body Glide or similar anti-chafing products are good to ward off the dreaded chafe) and a wicking singlet (and, dear God, a sports bra -- DO NOT run in a regular old bra; also, even with my small endowment I find that built-in bra/shelf bra tanks aren't enough support). 

In cold/wet conditions, layer.  Layering is key.  Tights or snug pants (sweats flap around too much), a long-sleeve wicking shirt, a running fleece, and a shell should do it, and you can unzip the layers halfway (you lose lots of heat through your sternum) as you get warm.  Throw on a hat or earband and gloves if it's below freezing.  You'll warm up quicker than you think, but in order to stay with it past those first few chilly moments, it's better to overdress than underdress.

Have I rambled on long enough?  Is this completely obvious or lame advice?  I'm going to file this under "Way More Than You Bargained For."  Good Lord.  I'll stop here, and if you have not slipped in a coma from the boredom and/or have specific questions, lemme know in the comments.  Or feel free to leave your own tips, as I certainly have not covered everything.

Move Along

Well.  I don't think I'll be doing THAT again anytime soon.  Or possibly ever. 

Everything seemed so promising.  My day of "Felicity" viewing was fantastically restful -- almost too restful, in a way, except GOD, I love that show; so plowing through a season and a half of Ben and Noel (while eating gummy bears) was about as good as it can get, as far as I'm concerned.  Seriously.  The dialogue?  The awkward moments?  Noel's sensous lips and Ben's alluring little grin?  I could die.  DIE.  Because I am SO Felicity, and she is me, except she had the cojones to break up with Ben when he couldn't give her what she needed. 

Oh, right.  The marathon.

So, yeah.  The expo:  whatever.  No big deal.  Except on the way there, I passed a massive line about a block long of thousands of hipsters waiting to get into the Decemberists' concert -- is there like some law that guys have to wear fedoras to Decemberists' concerts?  I kid you not, every guy in the line was wearing a black felt fedora at a jaunty angle.  And when I was coming back from the expo, toting my little bag of free jam (?) and Snickers Marathon bars and also THE TASTIEST THING EVER, which is this new berry/nut snack mix by Emerald Nuts -- good LORD, I must purchase some immediately -- I saw Elijah Wood in a black felt fedora going into the stage door at the concert.  Random.

Got up early, blah blah, buses to Staten Island, blah.  Cycled through the Port-a-Potty lines a couple of times, ran into a dude I went to college with and haven't seen in more than ten years, blah, lined up in the corrals.  And the whole "female-only, just behind the sub-elite women" starting lineup?  Totally bogus.  Everyone and their brother -- yes, brother, for no one official even glanced at the supposedly all-women corral, let alone kept the men out -- smushed in there, and then we headed to the bridge and the race started.  Hmph. 

I felt amazing, super strong and pumped.  On the bridge, I wanted to fling my arms wide and yell, "New York, I will never leave you!" as we ran those first two miles with the Manhattan skyline in the distance and "New York, New York" blasted over the speakers.  I was moving at a great pace; my legs felt strong, my lungs and heart felt strong.  STRONG!  I was on pace for about a 4:10 finish time for the first 12 miles of the race. 

(And. by the way, my good vibes/prayers?  Did y'all feel them?  I felt yours!  Until...)

Between miles 12 and 13, a sharp, crippling pain shot from my right ankle up my leg.  I've never had problems with my ankles in the slightest, and nothing happened to precipitate it.  I literally hobbled for a good mile until the next medic station, where I pulled aside and loosened my shoe and took a Tylenol, then limped on.  The pain was unreal.  Stabbing and unrelenting.  Based on what I remember from dancing, it felt like a stress fracture (I got them in my toes one Nutcracker season). 

At the next medical tent, I couldn't take it and approached one of the trainers for help.  He sat me down and looked at it and said that it was up to me whether I should continue; he could tape it up, but he didn't think that would help.  He thought it was a stress fracture.  I had him wrap it, figuring at least it would give me a little support, and I asked if something horrid would happen if I continued running on it (mostly because, at that same point in the race last year, my friend was running and a stress fracture in his hip snapped (he didn't realize it was there), and his femur ended up in a most inconvenient and uncomfortable place outside of his pelvis, which:  OW).  The guy said no, but it would be painful. 

I hobbled off again, barely able to put weight on my foot.  I figured I would stop at a medical tent in Manhattan and drop out of the race.  I just couldn't stand the pain.  I made it across the 59th Street Bridge and onto First Avenue, and when I saw a medical tent...I kept going.  I figured if I dropped out, I would have to walk home anyway, so why not just keep running?  I'd made it 16 miles, and maybe the pain would lessen as I went.  Plus, I knew my mom would be tracking my progress online and would get worried if she saw I'd stopped hitting the milestone markers.  And, of course, I knew I'd be disappointed in myself for not finishing.

So I kept running.  This time, I avoided the Gatorade and the gels and stuck to water, and I brought a pouch of gummy bears and used those to give me a boost when I needed it, so I felt a thousand times better than last year with that crippling nausea.  This time -- oh, just a stress fracture.  It took the stubborn, determined will of every cell in my body to keep going.  I kept thinking how it wouldn't be that hard for me to stroll right off the course and go home, where I could ice my foot and stop the pain.  But I just. kept. running.  (Must have been all y'all's positive thoughts being sent my way!) 

When I got to mile 18, I told myself that I only had two miles to go til 20, and then just 6.2, and how hard was that, really?  I felt strong except for my ankle feeling like it might shatter at any second.  I focused on a spot 15 feet ahead of me and gritted my teeth and blocked out everything else.  I ran right past my husband, the poor man, after he'd waited for over an hour (although not at a place we'd agreed upon, so I didn't know where to look) -- but it's a good thing I did, because if I had seen him, I might have collapsed in his arms and begged him to carry me home.

When I was in Central Park and knew I was home free (although I remain convinced that the last 6.2 miles of the race are, in actuality, 25 miles -- they just GO ON and ON), I started to tear up because I was so damn proud for having pushed myself so hard.  "Unconditional" by The Bravery came on my iPod and I started jamming to it while I ran.  I picked up my pace.  I was still WAY behind the time I wanted, but I ran strong for the last three miles, through the park and across Central Park South.  I didn't hear or see the crowds; I just saw that spot 15 feet ahead of me and listened to my music (without that iPod -- and GG's song suggestions -- I wouldn't have made it, that's for damn sure) and pushed on.  And then it was 500 meters left, then 200, 100, and I got the victorious, arms-up finish (but not the victorious time) that I hadn't been able to manage last year. 

Now that I've showered and put my feet up and crammed a juicy burger, fries and some mozzarella sticks (!) down my throat, I feel pretty good.  My foot hurts, but I'll avoid heels and not run for a week and hopefully it'll be fine. 

But, seriously.  Although the beginning and end were fun, the middle, oh, 20 miles, kind of blew, and I feel like I've proven myself now -- twice over, to show the one time wasn't a fluke -- and maybe I can let myself focus on running faster in shorter races from now on.  Getting competitive with half marathons or 10ks or something.  Or, you know, cross-stitching or crocheting.

Although....you know, I do get an automatic entry into next year's marathon since I ran nine New York Road Runners races this year, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste...

Ready or Not

After work today, I'll go to the Javits Center and pick up my race number, my commemorative t-shirt, my chip, and my pace bracelet.  On Saturday, I will finalize my iPod playlist (mostly courtesy of Guinness Girl) and lay out my race day clothes, BodyGlide (to prevent chafing, you pervs), shoes, running watch, iPod, gels, gummy bears and warm-up gear.  I'll also write out all of your thought suggestions/requests (there's still time if you've got more!) on my pace bracelet. 

Then I will sit on my butt and watch "Felicity" until dinnertime while my husband runs our weekly errands and cleans our apartment.  (Have I mentioned how amazing he is, how immensely supportive, and how I couldn't do anything I do in life -- including get out of bed in the morning, let alone run a marathon -- without him?  And he's like this ALL the time, not just when I'm doing something absurd and incapacitating myself ON PURPOSE.  I may make some quirky and sometimes just plain dumb choices in life, but choosing a mate?  I did good.)

Ahem.  Anyway. 

Around 7pm, I will choke down some bland, uneventful pasta with bland, uneventful chicken (one doesn't want to surprise the stomach on such an occasion -- this is not the night for lamb vindaloo).  And I'll go to bed super-early, although undoubtedly I'll half-sleep with one eye on the clock, living in fear as I always do the night before something big that my alarm won't go off. 

I realized today (thanks to the big "F" in front of my race number, which I somehow neglected to notice til now -- you know what they love about me?  detail oriented) that I'll be starting the race in a super-special corral of the fastest 9,000 women in the field.  Which doesn't mean much, and isn't really all that super-special, since that's practically every woman in the race, but it's cool because we'll be starting right behind the sub-elite women, and -- better yet -- there are NO MEN ALLOWED in our all estrogen, all the time corral.  Nyah!  (Not that I have anything against men; I just like feeling exclusive.)  Practically speaking, this doesn't mean much, except that we'll be at the very front of the pack (as "at the very front" as almost 10,000 people can be, anyway), so possibly I'll have to run 100 yards less than I did last year, when I was wayyyyy at the back.  So:  whoop-de-doo.  Bah.

And GOD, by now you must all be thinking, will this thing hurry up and be over so we don't have to hear about the damn marathon anymore?  To that:  yes!  Yes.  It will be over soon, very soon!  I'll give you some recappy love on Monday to tell you about how I emitted positive vibes in your direction (or at least some really, really strong B.O.) and/or how I got a boost from your fabulous thoughts along the course, and undoubtedly how, at some point, even though I wanted to curl up in a ball and be rolled home, I kept going because I was thinking of all the amazing people out there in the ether -- that's YOU, y'all! -- who have expressed their support for me, and who make me feel like We Are All One (we aaaaaaaaaaare the chiiiildren), thanks to this crazy techno-wonderland of the Internets.

Insert "Running on Empty" Reference Here

Last year, when I started training for the New York City marathon, I could barely run four miles.  I was fit, but in more of an elliptical trainer and Pilates way than a running way.  The first time I did ten miles, I thought I was going to collapse and die, but only after vomiting extravagantly all over myself.  With a lot of hard work, I gradually made my way up to a half-marathon, then eighteen miles.  A few weeks before the race, I creaked through twenty. 

What got me through all that grueling mileage was the mental image of crossing the finish line, triumphantly waving my arms and grinning with my personal victory.  Unfortunately, it didn't happen nearly so joyously. 

The day started off chilly, with a high fog drifting over Staten Island.  I spent most of the pre-race hours cycling through the port-a-john lines; my biggest fear was that I would have to use the bathroom during the race -- I didn't want to waste valuable minutes on the course peeing (or worse). 

Soon enough, it was time to head over to my starting corral and line up with the masses for the start at 10:10am.  En masse, like a group of protesters marching shoulder to shoulder toward the Washington Mall, we moved toward the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge, where we were roused by the national anthem and words of encouragement from the race director.  Then, with a cannon shot, we were off! 

Everyone was whooping and arm-pumping as we jogged toward the start line and onto the bridge.  Runners jumped onto the median to snap photos, people took off at wild paces they'd never maintain.  Helicopters hovered overhead, filming the action.

Miles 1 and 2 were quickly behind us as we headed into Brooklyn, where enthusiastic crowds awaited us.  By this time, the temperature was starting to climb.  There was hardly any breeze, and not a cloud in the sky. 

We ran on through Bay Ridge, Sunset Park, Red Hook, Park Slope, Fort Greene, Clinton Hill - areas of the city I'd never seen before.  All along, people lined the sidewalks and cheered us on, waving signs and flags and shouting out people's names (lots of runners wear their names on their shirts for just this reason).  I felt like I was just eating up the miles; I had tons of energy and I was finally seeing the upside of all that training.

The quietest part of the race was in South Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a largely Hasidic area.  The crowds and bands that had lined the course gave way to this religious enclave, where people wandered silently out of their buildings to watch the spectacle of 30,000 runners passing through.  You could practically hear crickets chirping.  Fortunately, we soon passed into the northerly part of Williamsburg, where tons of young, drunk people packed the sidewalks and brought our spirits up again. 

The midway point of the race is the Pulaski Street Bridge, which also marks the first major hill of the marathon.  It was pretty steep, but with fairly fresh muscles, not that bad.  I hit 13.1 miles with a time of 2:06, not far off from the pace I'd intended.  I still felt great, and I was energized by my fellow runners and the promise of the wild crowds of Manhattan. 

As we ran down the far side of the bridge into Queens, I saw legions of runners peeing along the walls of the warehouses along 44th Avenue.  Marathoners are huge proponents of public urination; as my uncle, a veteran marathoner, put it, decorum is the first casualty of distance running.

By now, the heat was in full force, and there was less shade on the course.  At the hydration stops, I would gulp Gatorade and then dump a cup of water on my head.  It was hot.  Really hot.  Over 70 degrees and, I learned later, over 90% humidity.  HOT. 

Then came the Queensborough Bridge.  Oh, the bridge.  This monstrosity spans from mile 15 to mile 16 of the race.  It is an incline that never seems to go downhill.  And it is steep.  The only sound was the pounding of thousands of feet.  One runner tried to liven things up by yelling, "Come on!  It's too quiet!  Let's make some NOISE!"  He was greeted by silence.  And then a lone voice yelled, "Idiot!" 

We hit a wall of sound as we descended onto First Avenue in Manhattan -- the people were easily ten-deep along the sidewalks; other spectators cheered from windows and rooftops of apartment buildings.  Music blared from bars and street corners.  I wanted to feel the jubilation, but that was when the nausea slammed me.  My stomach had had it with the Gatorade, the water, and the two Accel gels I'd forced down along the way.  I saw another runner puking her guts out on the side of the course, and I was quite inclined to join her.  I started to get side cramps.  The only thing that kept me going was knowing that my husband was waiting for me on 95th and First.

At 94th St, I slowed to a walk and lit up when I saw his sweet face grinning out of the masses of people.  I mostly wanted to sag to the ground and have him carry me home, but instead he took a quick picture of me and sent me on my way.  I had to press on (or lie down and die, either one).  I jogged off toward the final blocks in Manhattan. 

Once I hit the Bronx, things went to hell in a handbasket.  On the Willis Avenue Bridge -- another steep hill, leading into mile 20 -- people were falling apart; runners slowed to a walk, stopped to puke over the side of the bridge, and pulled aside to stretch cramped muscles.  This was it:  the dreaded Wall.  And I hit it.  Really hard.  I trudged through the Bronx in a daze.  I saw one guy in the crowd with a sign that said "The Wall is Gone."  If I'd had the energy, I would have ripped it out of his hands and smacked him over the head with it repeatedly.  I knew by then that I had way too much invested in this to stop; but I really wanted to either toss myself off the next bridge or hail a cab home (it's very crafty of the race organizers to put miles 20-22 in the Bronx, since cabs are not readily available up there). 

Even with unbelievable, stabbing side cramps, I kept going, and once we were back in Manhattan I managed to start running again.  I figured I would just get the thing over with more quickly.  I knew I had totally blown my planned time, but I didn't care; I just wanted it to end.  I even wanted the crowds to go away.  Who were these people, and why on earth were they cheering all of us through such an absurd exercise?  Also, I wanted kill each and every person who yelled out, "You're almost there!"  No, buddy, I am NOT almost there - I have 5.2 miles to go! Why don't you run it for me? 

In Central Park, I had to throw away the visor I had been wearing.  It was too heavy, and for some reason it angered me.  If I could have torn off all my clothes, I would have.  Everything was wet and cloying and sticky and weighing me down and hindering my progress to the finish. 

Also, remember those Jello Pudding Shakers they had in the 80s?  You know, it looked like a Tupperware pitcher, and you dumped the pudding mix and the milk in and shook it like a Polaroid picture?  Yeah.  That's what my insides felt like -- all jumbled up and liquified, as though they'd been agitated with some vanilla pudding mix.  Or maybe pistachio.

So anyway, FINALLY, we exited the park and went along Central Park South, which meant we STILL HAD ONE MILE TO GO; MY GOD DOES THIS THING EVER END?  And then the last half mile.  And then the last 300 yards.  The last hundred yards.  And then the finish line -- must…lift…arms…to…feign…enthusiasm.  It's wasn't glorious so much as like, well, YEAH, it SHOULD be over after all that goddamned running.  Mofos. 

And then the Night of the Living Dead shuffle began.  The crowds.  The medals, the space blankets.  Shuffle, shuffle.  The incredible pain of the blood redistributing itself from the legs to the rest of the body.  And the continuing nausea, the exceeding stickiness of the clothing, the oppressive B.O. of the finishers.  Shuffle.  Shuffle.  We got our little food bags and continued shuffling toward the baggage pickup (at which, THANK GOD, I did not have to stop).

Nearly an hour after I had finished, I made it to the family reunion area where my husband and our friends had been patiently awaiting my arrival for a very long time.  They helped me to the curb where I sat down and slowly regained a sense of equilibrium.  By then I could look down at my medal and space blanket and start to feel something like pride, instead of just wanting to upchuck on my shoes.

Now.  Why on earth do I want to do this again?