Fly Trouble

Something has really been annoying me lately, and I'm not sure I can handle it much longer. It's such a small thing, but worse than anything I could ever imagine. As I've noted in previous posts, every morning I get up and run 1.2 miles. Sometimes 1.1. And every freaking morning, this stupid fly, my arch-enemy, gets up at the same time and follows me the whole way.
Now, I don't know if it's the same fly every morning--in fact, I'm sure it isn't; that would just be weird--but why would so many flies try so hard to annoy me? I just get up, minding my own business, wanting to go for a nice little run and listen to my music in peace. I don't run around with a flyswatter and bug spray, making it my goal in life to hunt down this fly. I just want to run and lose weight. I mean, the hatred I have for this fly is stronger than anything I've ever felt. I want it to suffer, and I want its family to feel the pain, as well.
And geez, I look like an idiot out there. Let me be more specific--the entire time I run, I look like a schizophrenic tripping on acid. I'm constantly swatting and jerking, as far as any neighbors are concerned, at what are probably a halucination of purple vampire bats. And every time I get a hand on this fly, I think it just makes it mad. It starts buzzing around me more, making sure I see that it's definitely there, and landing in my hair a lot more than it had been. And that's something I hate more than anything else. The feeling of a fly in my semi-sweat-covered hair. There's nothing worse. Nothing. So then I start swatting double time, trying to keep up my pace while my arms are swinging wildly in the air. It's really not easy, and not fun to watch. I start insulting the fly, swearing at it, threatening it. Nothing works. This fly is cold as stone. It follows me all the way back home. I don't even lose it until I step into my back door.
I'm seriously considering carrying a flyswatter with me tomorrow morning. This has got to stop.

Remodeling Blues

This whole remodeling thing is really getting to me. It's funny how little I actually knew about the process. When we bought our Great Depression-era 1200 square foot mansion in February, I thought for sure we'd be moved in by March. All we had to do was drywall the ceilings, rip out the upstairs bathroom, replace everything in there, paint the whole upstairs, carpet it, rip out the kitchen, put in new flooring, cupboards, cabinets, and a countertop, paint the rest of the house, and BAM--we're in, just like that! Doesn't seem like much, right? But little did I know, this kind of thing takes much longer than a mere couple of weeks. Four months later, we're still working.
Let me tell you why it is so hard to get work done on this house. There are many excuses, uh, reasons why it has taken so long, and many of them aren't even my fault. For instance--waiting on things. A lot of our time is spent waiting. Waiting on the carpet to be installed, waiting on power tool batteries to charge, waiting on lunch to be delivered, waiting on friends to finish their portion of my work, etc. You can see that this whole "waiting" thing really slows down the process.
Another problem is the fact that once we do one thing, we find something else that needs to be done. For instance, we ripped out the kitchen cupboards, and while drywalling that wall, we found that the outlet receptacles needed to be updated. That takes up a whole afternoon, especially if you don't know what you're doing. Please pray that we did it right.
My family is also holding back our progress. I know, I know--"How could that be?" you might ask. "Isn't your family trying to get in as quickly as you?" I thought the same thing. Well, my beautfiul, intelligent, social, extremely forgiving wife chose to quit working inside the house for a while--and decided she was going to put all her focus and energy on plants. Yep, three weeks of planting and pulling weeds, watering and filling. And what am I going to do? I have to help her! I can't let my little wife do it all by herself!
And not only is my wife delaying the move-in date, but my daughter is making things even harder! "But I thought your daughter was only 15 months..." That's true, she is. But I think she's going to be the downfall of this whole project. Luckily, my in-laws are able to watch her some of the time when we work on the house; however, other times, we are not as lucky. Let me give you the scenario. Say we're going to attempt to paint a bedroom. We take our daughter, Abby, to the house and set her in her playpen. We pour the paint and get our rollers ready. No worries. I paint one strip of wall, and here it goes--Abby starts screaming as though someone had ripped the chocolate milk from her tiny clammy grasp (which I have been known to do--I just love the taste of that cold, thick chocolate on its way down my throat). I don't know if you've ever tried to accomplish ANYTHING with someone SCREAMING IN YOUR EAR, but let me tell you, it is NOT easy. My emotions start to go haywire. I want to yell, laugh, and cry all at the same time. I can't think or focus, so nothing can be done. We rush out of the house in tears and go back to our temporary home with the in-laws, Abby's mission accomplished.
So maybe some of it has to do with me not wanting to work sometimes, but that's a very small portion, and not even worth mentioning.
But after all that, there IS actually an end in sight! We will be picking up our furniture this weekend and moving it into the house! So we can't move ourselves in until the kitchen's done, but it will be soon! Until then, I'll just keep waiting, helping my wife and listening to my daughter scream.

Rundown

I started running recently. Not much, but enough. And it makes me wonder...what is it about running that people like so much? I've talked to so many people about it (including my wife) and the answers I get are ridiculous! "Running is relaxing...just me and the road." "I have my best ideas when I run." "It's a time to reflect on nature." "Running gives me a chance to think about the beauty of good and the danger of evil, to really capture the essence of God and all he has done for us through his sacrifice of Christ on the cross." That last one was my pastor.
Do these people not feel what I feel? Are they not bound by the same laws of gravity I find in my neighborhood? If someone asked me what I thought about running, the last word that would come to my mind would be "relaxing." "Excruciating," "agonizing," and "self-inflicted pain" are just a few of the words that pop into my head first when I reflect on running. And I don't reflect on it unless I have to.
So why do some people love running, and I hate it? Here are my thoughts:
I'm a big guy. Gravity has a lot more to work with when I run.
I don't have all the cool running clothes that real runners have. They're in their little "tech shirts" and "tight tech shorts" and I'm in my "heavy cotton shirt", "knee-length floppy gym shorts," and "grass-stained walking shoes."
I'm not in touch with nature.
I'm running because I have to, they're running because they want to. This is probably the biggest reason.
I have to run. Believe me, if I didn't have to, I wouldn't. My weight has gotten over the acceptable amount for someone my height and build, and over the last couple of years, it has started to show. I had to do something, and I couldn't stop eating at McDonald's, so here I am, every morning. I get up at 6:00 am, a time of which I was previously unaware, and put on my heavy cotton shirt, knee-length floppy gym shorts, and grass-stained walking shoes and start my morning run. And I don't look pretty doing it, as I'm sure is hard to imagine. I look good for maybe the first tenth of a mile. Then my jaw just sort of drops open and I heave oxygen into my lungs. I use "heave" as an onomatopoeia. Say the word, "heave." Now say it like a really old man about to die. That's the sound I make when I run. My eyes get kind of droopy and sweat starts pouring down my face, blocking my vision. By the half-mile, I'm swerving all over the road. My heavy cotton shirt is soaked through and the heavy cotton boxers I'm wearing under my knee-length floppy gym shorts need a good wringing. I've actually seen mothers jerk their children behind them, screaming as I pass by.
But I don't stop. I keep going and pushing until I finish that 1.2 miles. I don't know why 1.2 miles is the cutoff point, but I know that once I hit that marker, my body just kind of shuts down. And once I'm done for the day, it's the most satisfying feeling in the world. But when noon rolls around, I start thinking about tomorrow morning at 6:00 am and the satisfying feeling vanishes. But I just keep in mind that as long as I keep going, as long as I keep my feet pushing concrete, I will be ready for that 1K race sooner or later.