they call her demon, and she walks on silver swords...

Much to his credit, Ed has been quite patient with my whole stint on crutches. Admittedly, it can't be easy dealing with someone who can't carry her own water from the kitchen to the living room, or make dinner, or run errands alone and do laundry, or clean... yet who isn't good at sitting still for long.

I've been on crutches for three weeks now, and along the way have acquired the name "demon who walks on silver swords." I'm kind of fond of it now. Maybe I'll even make a t-shirt. I'm sure I've been deserving of this name, since I can't run, or really work out, or take care of all the things I usually take care of, I haven't exactly been a peach.

Maybe it's the fact that fiery darts shoot out of my eyes in anger and frustration on a regular basis, not at anyone in particular, but because I feel so helpless. And Ed hears the brunt of it. Seriously, I've never had such a feeling of helplessness in my life. Ed has always told me I go too hard, and too much for too long, and that I'm stubborn, and severely independent... all true. I just didn't realize HOW true until I was sidelined.

I'm going to actually try to learn something and accept a lot more from this experience... like that I'm not in control, no matter how much I try to be, that it's okay to relax and chill out in the evening after work, that Ed is capable of keeping house, cooking a darn good dinner and taking care of me. My appreciation for him certainly has grown.

I only have six more days though (that means four weeks and six days until I can start running again), and my foot isn't hurting as much anymore. I think the fracture is healing well. I guess that means soon I'll just be plain old "demon," one that hopefully can remember the lessons she's learning from this humbling experience.

In addition to Ed's, people at work have established quite a few new nicknames for me in the last few weeks, my favorites being, "gimpy," "sticks," and "crip." This means I am totally making my own gang sign.

another day in cube farm paradise...

I work for a, to remain nameless, media giant. I create pretty pictures and fanny about with the websites for my career. I love it. However, for those of you not in the media you should know a few things:

1. Everyone in media has rabid A.D.D. - you have too, or you don't survive, if you don't, we will chew you up, eat you for breakfast and then realizing the fat content we will vomit you back up.
2. We THRIVE on intensity, we eat intensity for a snack and follow it up with drama for lunch. You see, no one else will take us, so we flock to media, like the salmon of capistrano. We are a huge dysfunctional family and we love it.
3. It is loud. ALL. THE. TIME.
4. We all communicate through IM, interoffice, even if the person you are communicating with is in the cubbie next to you, because we are all too amped up from caffeine to pick up the phone, and it obviously takes too much time to talk in person, or email... none of these options are fast enough, therefore we IM.

Below is an example of an IM conversation I had with the I.T. guy one morning earlier this week on a day where it seemed everyone in this building had three Venti double shots by 10a and I was trying to drown out the ride on the crazy train with my iPod....

Rebekah says:
I'm listening to Bohemian Rhapsody again. Time for full butt rock.

I.T. GUY says:
i need to see this!!

Rebekah says:
Well i just put it back to play it again... so you just might be able to if you hurry, it's only 76 minutes long and you are on the other side of the cube farm! Tell me how it's possible to listen to this song and not sing as loud as possible.

Rebekah says:
Time to go FULL RETARD!

I.T. GUY says:
No, NO BEKA!!! Never go Full RETARD

Rebekah says:
BUT I CAN'T HELP IT. IT'S freaking QUEEN!!!!!

Rebekah says:
QUEENNNNNN!!!

first, the irony...

It's ironic that as I sit here, starting my very own grown up running blog, that I cannot run. You see I was at the height of training for my first marathon when I got a stress fracture. And it sucks. And my heart is fractured, probably worse than my metatarsal.

The frustration is only amplified by the fact that I wasn't just going to run a marathon in October, but had a total of six races I was getting ready to do right before this fracture happened. I know everyone says there is a reason, and that my body was screaming at me to rest, but I don't care. I miss running like a fat kid misses cake, and it is killing me to be sitting on my couch writing on a beautiful fall evening instead of out pounding the pavement.

I'm 29, I've tried to train for three marathons so far, and every time, something tragic happens. My goal in training for the marathon this year was to qualify for Boston. I was going to run the Wichita Marathon on October 19. My goal is to run a marathon before I'm 30, I have five months. And the goal isn't just to run it, but to qualify for Boston while I'm at it.

So this is my somewhat tragic, ridiculous, and irreverent tale of my quest to Boston.