I'm average, biatch.

My lungs have decided to strike. I woke up the other day struggling to breath. I'm not quite sure when they even unionized, I clearly didn't get the memo on that one. Luckily, there must be some scabs crossing the picket line, because I don't need to be on a ventilator...yet. Anyways, my general state of hypoxia left me with nothing to do that won't make the situation worse, until I remembered this blog and figured this is probably the time to actually write something, since typing takes minimal effort. I can't guarantee that it will be any good, since thinking takes a little bit more effort.

To begin, I have some advice. When you are sick with a lung infection and the lack of air has caused insomnia, a bad thing to read to help to sleep is a biography of Jim Henson. Yes, most of it is just happy muppet goodness, but if you get to the end it will really help the hypochondria to take over. As wonderful as Kermit is, just wait until you're better. Just trust me on this one.

Anyways, I can kind of see why my lungs might choose to abandon me at this point. I've been feeling a little under the weather for the past few weeks, but despite that I ran a 10k charity run on Sunday morning, then biked to work (whining the whole way about how stupid it was). As stupid as it was, the whole thing made me very proud. You see, throughout my life, I have received much recognition for my extraordinary ability to try when it comes to anything athletic. On any team I've ever been on, I have been appreciated for my constant trying. Of course, being the best at trying is generally a bad thing, because if you were actually succeeding, no one would notice your incredibly impressive trying (and it's pretty damn impressive, if I do say so myself, which I do).

In high school, I was well known on the cross country team for my trying. I'm not sure how I ended up on the cross country team, I think it was mainly because there was no limitation on team numbers so they took anyone. Sometimes when you say you ran cross country in high school, people assume that means you can run. That is a key example of why when you assume it makes an ass out of you and me. You because you're so very wrong, and me because I have to explain that my main contribution to the cross country team was, for the most part, managing to get through races without walking and/or dying.

Once, I got passed by the first place runner in the race that started after mine. He was nice enough to encourage me on in my valiant attempt not to die. Another time, my friend (who could run) finished the race, got her results and ran back to cheer me on as I finished. I was the person on the team that's contribution was making all the other members feel good that, if nothing else, they at least had me coming in behind them. I think it helped that I was very comfortable with this place. Back of the pack is a special place. You can cheer others on as you pass them, because you know they're eventually going to pass you back and that there's really no difference between 87th and 88th place in the grand scheme of things. Often, I would make temporary race friends, because, in the end, these were my people, those poor souls, struggling to survive.

But, this Sunday, everything changed. I got to the end of my 10k to discover that I am no longer a complete loser in the realm of running. I'm now distinctly middle of the pack. That's right. I'm not particularly good or particularly bad. I'm just there, running, like a normal person. My world has been turned upside-down, well, maybe not upside-down, but kind of on its side. I am an average runner.

I may have let this new position in life get to my head too quickly. My brother Shamus and I were having a conversation the other day that somehow ended with a challenge for us to race when he's visiting in a few weeks. In general, challenges with Shamus end with him winning, a fact that I've usually accepted prior to even suggesting we compete. Not that he's better than me at everything, for instance, I am a distinctly better tryer, and I'm more skilled at losing gracefully. But, my big head caused by my recent discovery that I am now average has led me to actually think I could win this one. Of course, my lungs disagree, but I'm sure they'll get in line soon enough. Maybe I'll just threaten to take up smoking, or something, that'll teach them not to mess with me. Maybe I'll call that Plan B, since I'm hoping that the time spent staying still writing this blog might have built enough goodwill for them to consider returning to work, at least long enough for me to kick Shamus' ass. He'll be sorry he ever questioned the power of my newfound averageness.

No bad touch

I've been feeling a bit guilty, ever since implying yesterday that Jim Henson was somehow involved in bad touch with Ernie. I don't really think that, but I'm afraid that if the spirit of Jim Henson is reading my blog that he's highly offended, and will no longer consider being my friend in the afterlife, as has been my dream for many years.

I even drew a picture of it.

Yes, that is Kermit in the middle and it would have been wonderful, but now I can't even entertain my BFF dreams, because I fear they will be torn away from me at any moment by the angry spirit of Jim Henson. Except, I don't think he could be angry, because Jim Henson is way too awesome for anger, but he might be like "Man, I thought you were cool, but you're so not." Then I'll be sad, because Jim Henson thought I was cool but I blew it for cheap laughs. I tried to draw a new picture to cheer me up, but all that came out was this...
And can you blame me? All my dreams of skipping through the clouds singing the Rainbow Connection with Kermit were seemingly gone forever. Then I realized, perhaps the power of blog works for good as well. Maybe, just maybe, I could fix the slander from my last post if I made an apology so spectacular that Jim Henson would be forced to reconsider my BFF offer. So, I drew another picture.
That's right. "No Bad Touch." Right from Ernie's mouth. You can't argue with that kind of evidence. Now I'm going to bed, to dream of hangin' with the Swedish Chef. He will feed me some sort of talking food (potentially foam-based). It will be fabulous. Then tomorrow I will write a guilt-free blog. That will also be fabulous, and will probably involve less crayons. Or maybe more crayons. I haven't decided yet.

I wonder if you can get BFF halos...they do seem to be the accessory of choice up there.