Stunted Adults

Welcome to Our So-Called Adulty Life


I Ran A Marathon, And I Liked It

After five months of training, a namaste-killing explosion, and a runaway gallbladder, the time had finally come.

It was marathon day.

I woke up at the inhumane hour of 4:15 am, laced up my running shoes, and headed out the door without truly comprehending what was happening.

About an hour later, I was standing with my friends at the start line when my stomach dropped to my feet.  The caffeine  finally kicked in, I woke up, and I realized that we were about to run a marathon.


I immediately recognized that this was a bad decision.  I was filled with terror.

But, I was trapped in a crowd with no clear way to flee.  And, you all know that there is nothing that I find more attractive than a bad decision.

So, this was totally happening.

The starting gun went off.

We were on the move in the midst of a pulsing crowd.

And, just like that, my terror was replaced with unbridled excitement.  I was running a marathon!! I WAS RUNNING A MARATHON!  I WAS REALLY DOING IT!


After a few minutes of that nonsense, I remembered that I had a long morning ahead of me and tamed my over-achieving adrenaline.  I took a couple of deep breaths, locked in my pace, and put my faith in my training.

It was all good.

But then at mile four it wasn’t all good.  The course was still very congested with 25,000 runners, I had zoned out, and I had lost my friends in the crowd.  I was alone!  Adrift in the sea of sweaty masses!   Never to be found again!

And I didn’t even have a volleyball to keep me company.

Things were not going according to plan.

But, my surprise solo time turned out to be just what I needed.  I reflected on how much I had changed for the better since I started training in September, I reveled in how proud of myself I was for not giving up on this insane idea to run a marathon, and I rocked out to my music.  With each passing mile, I felt stronger and more relaxed.

Watch out world — I am carefree and running a marathon!

It was magical.

But then at mile 10 everything fell apart.  I was bored and hungry.  My shoulders hunched as I despaired over the fact that I wasn’t even half way done.  The sun had risen and was beating down upon me with a tropical fury that had no place in the era of the Polar Vortex.

It was decidedly not magical.

Screw Gatorade and water, where is the pastry aid station?

My mind was invaded by all of the advice that the assorted marathon vets in my life had dropped on me.  Snippets of articles that I had read about proper pace, hydration, and nutrition bombarded my brain.  Was I doing it right?  Was I following the rules?  What if I was making mistakes?

But then I realized something.

Marathons are a lot like life.

The only way to get through them is to take a deep breath, believe in yourself, and just keep on keepin’ on the best way that you know how.

True that, Matthew, true that.

So, I did just that.

I relaxed.  I banished all pastry-related thoughts from my mind.  And, I went back to running how I damn well felt like running.  And, as usually happens, after I shut down the pity party and quieted my thoughts about what I “should” be doing, things got better.  By mile 12, I felt my inner-Phoebe creeping back in.

I easily cruised to the halfway point, which was where a few awesome friends were waiting to cheer me on and where Country Boy was waiting to join me for the back half of the race.

Country Boy was more than a smidge skeptical of my plan to run a marathon less than a month after I lost an organ via abdominal surgery, so he told me that, since he was pre-med for one entire year in college, he was basically a doctor and was going to run with me to keep an eye on all things medical.

Country Boy also, and I suspect primarily, ran with me because he is amazing and knows how to be supportive of his I-can-do-it-all-on-my-own wife in just the right way.

With Country Boy by my side, the miles ticked away.

We laughed, we talked about utter nonsense, we moved together in comfortable silence, and he knew exactly how to motivate me:

Hang on Leo! I’m coming!

A few miles later, my friends showed up, and they showed up hard.

As the crowd thinned out, I finally spotted my friends who I had started the marathon with and was able to catch up to them.  Together, we totally had this thing.

A marathon? Bitch, please, I’ve got this on lock.

At mile 16, two of my college friends were waiting for me with a sign to remind me that, at the end of the marathon, there would be all of the beer.  Just for me.  All of the beer!


Much as when we were in college, that is all the motivation that I need to do anything.

A few miles later, boredom and exhaustion were poised to make another assault on me.

But then, in the distance, I spied a very large panda clinging to a tree.  We’re talking 6’4″ large.  Next to Andre the Giant Panda was a giraffe and a banana.  They were also human-sized.

I assumed I was just experiencing some light hallucination.  That seemed like something that could happen.

But then my eyes popped open.  Those were people in costumes!  And you know what kind of people would do that?

People who I would be friends with.

I picked up the pace and, sure enough, that was my panda, my giraffe, and my banana!  Alongside a whole crew of other smiling familiar faces.  I couldn’t believe it!  I mean, I could because this is totally normal behavior for the type of people with whom I associate, but I couldn’t believe that it was actually happening so early in the morning!  And for me!

The Beatles were right, I do get by with a little help from my friends.

Who knew it was possible to laugh hysterically during miles 18 through 20 of a marathon?

By the time I got my case of the giggles under control, I realized that I had crossed the 20 mile mark.  I had never run further than 19 miles before in my entire life.

Every step I took was a new record!

It was incredible.

And then it started to rain.  And not in an “oh, isn’t this refreshing” kind of way.  Oh no.  It was raining in a soaking, horizontal, sunscreen running in your eyes kind of way.  I was soaking wet, cold, and blind.

Just when I was ready to call a rain delay, I heard some familiar voices.  My college friends were back!  They were standing under a tree in that crazy monsoon to cheer me on!  Again!

Upon hearing their voices, I wiped the sunscreen out of my eyes, regained the power of sight, and kicked it up a gear.  It was time to keep on livin.  If they could show up in the rain for me, then I sure as hell could show up at the finish line for them.

This rain ain’t no thing.

I was back on the upside of the roller coaster that was my marathon experience.

I had a huge smile on my face, I was chatting Country Boy’s ear off, and the miles were flying by once more.


23 miles down, the sun was back, and I was straight chillin’

But, what goes up must come down, especially in marathons.

Around mile 24, I hit another wall and I hit it hard.  I knew, logically, that I only had 2.2 miles to go.  I was totally there.  I was going to cross the line in 20 minutes or less.  No big thing.

But it was totally a big thing.

I managed to make it past mile 25, but I felt defeated.  My running friends had slowed down to drink water, and I regretted not joining them.  Every step felt like it was sure to be my last.

But then, out of nowhere, two more of my friends popped out onto the course.  I was so excited to see them that I started jumping around in the middle of the street, much to the extreme displeasure of every other runner.

Not only did my friends surprise me with their appearance, but they also started running with me.  It was so unexpected, so kind, and so needed.  We smiled, we laughed, we took selfies.  The other runners continued to not be amused, but I was having a great time.

Yes, those are my friends photobombing your serious marathon experience. Sorry!

After we climbed the last bridge of the marathon, my friends and Country Boy peeled off the course.  It was time for me to finish what I started.

I turned the corner and, much to my surprise, there was the finish line.  It was right there.  RIGHT THERE.  A huge smile broke across my face, and I sprinted across it.


F*ck yeah I just crushed a marathon!

The feeling when I crossed that line was incredible.  I didn’t feel tired (even though I was) and I didn’t feel destroyed (even though my muscles were).  Instead, I felt energized, I felt strong, I felt proud, and I felt incredibly loved by my friends, my family, and, most importantly, myself.

I was unshakably happy.

I dedicated five months of my life to running.  A lot.  Even when it was inconvenient.  Even when it was hard.  Even when everyone in my life hinted that I should give up.

But I didn’t give up.

Instead, I became mentally and physically stronger than I ever thought was possible.  Not only did I run a marathon, I did it while smiling, laughing, and having the time of my life.  To me, that, and not my finish time, was the true victory.

I found my happy place in the simplicity of just putting one foot in front of the other and seeing where it took me.

You should try it.



Just Call Me Jay-Z

Two weeks ago, my gallbladder got its drama on, up and left me in a very public fashion, and became an Internet sensation.  Thanks to the antics of the organ posthumously known as Kallbladder Kardashian, I was left with three stab wounds in my abdomen, a digestive system held together by duct tape and magic, and a world of pain.

During those first few days, I felt as if my life as I knew it was over.

I was exhausted.  I had no motivation.  And, it seemed impossible that I would ever be able to replicate the greatness that was my pre-surgery exercise and wine fueled lifestyle.

It was time for me to retire from the game.  It was time for me move on to running a record label, buying a sports team, and spending my days with Beyoncé.

I get you H-to-the-izzO V-to-the-izzA.  I GET YOU.

I get you 2003 H-to-the-izzO V-to-the-izzA. I GET YOU.

I was totally on board with the Jay-Z post-Black Album retirement plan.

But, then I realized that I knew nothing about the music industry and I didn’t have enough money to buy an NBA team. And, Beyoncé didn’t return my phone calls.

I know that you don't like the telephone, but it's me Bey.  IT'S ME!

I know that you don’t like the telephone, but it’s me Bey. IT’S ME!

My surgeon, however, did return my calls.  And, late yesterday afternoon, I met with him to assess how I was healing after surgery.

After he gave me a quick once-over and asked a few questions, I got down to brass tacks.

I asked with trepidation, “So, can I go back to normal?”

He responded, “Well, that depends on what normal is.”

I took a deep breath, and just let all of my weird fly.  If I was going to be forced into retirement, I was at least going to go down in flames.

I explained “Normal for me would involve running a marathon in less than 3 weeks, consuming wine in bottle serving sizes, eating a shocking amount of dessert, and having impromptu dance parties.  Can I go back to doing all of those things, preferably tonight?”

The surgeon stared at me in contemplative shock for several moments.  He took an audible deep breath.  Then he said “I don’t know how you pulled this off, but you appear to already be completely healed.  So, yes, you can do all of those things.”

WHAT?!  He actually said yes?!  I didn’t have to retire?!

I was not prepared for that answer.

Not knowing how to quit when I’m ahead, I asked “Are you sure? I really don’t have to retire?”

The surgeon paused, shrugged, and then responded, “Listen, I gather that you are the kind of woman who just does whatever she wants.  If I tell you no, you will just look for loopholes and badger me into saying yes.  And it’s late and I’m tired.  And, after a few weeks, you’re in better shape than most people are months after this surgery. So, you know what?  You win.  Do whatever you want.  We both know that you will anyway.”

Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth twice, I said thank you, shook his hand, and got the hell out of his office before he changed his mind.

Like Stannis Baratheon, I will take my victories any way that I can get them.

Like Stannis Baratheon, I will take my victories any way that I can get them.

And then things took a turn for the amazing.

When I got home, I immediately threw on my running shoes, cranked up my favorite work-out playlist, and took off on a five-mile run at my pre-surgery training pace.  Why do things in moderation when you can be excessive?

Hello old friends.

Hello old friends.

Despite initially appearing to be a smidge over-ambitious, last night’s run was one of the best runs that I’ve had in a long time.  I literally felt like I was flying.  I was back and ready to make the marathon my bitch.

Apparently, it’s easier to run with stab wounds than with a failing organ.  Good to know.

I returned home from my run to an invitation from my neighbor to come over for dinner since he had made too much food for himself.  Given me new-found freedom from my post-surgery diet of water, jello, and plain bagels, I grabbed Country Boy and a bottle of wine and sprinted across the street.  Within a few hours, I had defeated a giant plate of BBQ, the bottle of wine, and at least half a package of soft batch chocolate chip cookies.  You know, just a light mid-week evening meal.

Hello other old friend.

Hello other old friend.

After that festival of gluttony, I felt absolutely fine.  Actually better than fine, because, well, wine and cookies.

Country Boy and I eventually made the long walk back across the street to our house.  I had planned to get going while the going was good and go straight to bed.

But then I heard the sweet, sweet sounds of a young Michael Jackson coming from the stereo that I had accidentally left on when we went to dinner.

And then I realized that he was singing my jam:

So, obviously I had to dance.  And I danced hard.  I spun.  I got low.  I slid across the floor.  I might have even twerked a bit.

When the song finished, I took stock of myself.

I was a bit sweaty, but, otherwise, I felt fan-f*cking-tastic.

I had run, I had pounded wine, I had nearly overdosed on cookies, and I had danced like a boss.

My retirement was officially over.

Just call me Jay-Z, because I’m back in the game and better than ever.



To Twerk or Not to Twerk (I Cannot Believe that Was My Question)

A few weeks ago, I was invited to something called a Twerkshop.  Yes.  That is correct.  I was invited to a portmanteau of twerk and workshop.


This was all the doing of my dancer/fitness professional friend who was teaching said Twerkshop.

This friend is one of the most amazingly nice people on Earth and, over the past couple of years, her classes have completely transformed my body.  Because of this woman, I can finally, after about two decades of failed attempts, do push-ups like a boss.  I definitely owe her a solid and always want to do my part to support her.

But, twerking fitness?  Really?  REALLY?!

This was pushing it.

I went back and forth endlessly on whether to attend the Twerkshop.

To twerk or not to twerk was my constant question.

My freshman year English teacher was right, Shakespeare is always relevant.

My freshman year English teacher was right, Shakespeare is always relevant.

On the one hand, it would be a great workout, I would be supporting my friend, and I can always use some new moves.  Also, as anyone who has ever attended a wedding, party, or afternoon cocktails with me can attest, I LOVE to dance and have no qualms about doing it in public, especially after a wine or two.

On the other hand, twerking.  It is the ill-fated dance of Miley Cyrus.  I just couldn’t image me — 33 year old, home owning, desk job having, ballet flat wearing me — getting nasty on the dance floor on a weeknight while ostensibly sober.

Something about that just seemed wrong.  Very wrong.

But, as we all know, there is nothing I find more attractive than a bad decision.

If it's for Beyonce, it's for me.

If it’s for Beyonce, it’s for me.

So, last night, at the late hour of 8 pm, I slapped on my least tattered leggings, a neon pink v-neck t-shirt, and my running shoes, which was the closest thing I owned to the suggested “funky hip hop attire” (clue number 87 that this was a bad decision — I didn’t understand the dress code much less owned any appropriate items).  I slammed back a shot of whiskey for luck.  And then I took off for the gym.

While en route, I calmed my nerves by reminding myself that I was just going to the gym.  It was a place that I went almost every day.  It was my safe space.  This was going to be no big deal.

No big deal.

But then I arrived.

Where my gym had once stood was now a dark room with pulsing club lights and a DJ spinning in the corner.  My friend came bounding up to me — as welcoming and smiling as ever — but she was rocking pink hot pants, a black bra top, sneaker wedges (which apparently are a thing?!), and some serious hair.

This was decidedly not my safe space.

I was gripped with straight-up fear about what was about to occur.  But, I had just paid $20 for this class and, as y’all know, I’m cheap.  Plus, if I walked out now, I would definitely hurt my friend’s feelings.  So, I had no choice but to take a deep breath, frantically text Snarkoleptic for moral support, and stick it out.

And, stick it out I did.

For a solid 60 minutes, I strutted, I rolled, I did hairography (note to self, I need some hair extensions stat), and then I got down to business and started moving my hips all over the damn place.  My ass did things that I’m pretty sure are illegal in most parts of the world and that should never, ever be done in public again.  But, I was so sweaty and out of breath that I had no opportunity to laugh, to be self-conscious, or to even comprehend what I was actually doing.  It was all I could do to keep up.

That Twerkshop was hands down one of the hardest workouts I have ever done.  I woke up this morning and my abs and thighs were so sore that I could barely get out of bed.

Also, I learned that, while what Miley did does fall within the twerkosphere, you can twerk like a lady.


Here’s how.  First, stand with your legs apart, turn your toes out on at least a 45 degree angle, and bend your knees trying to get your thighs as close to parallel with the floor as possible.  This is also known as second position plie in ballet.  See, this IS legit classy, not classy lite.

Twerking and ballet are kind of the same thing.

Twerking and ballet are kind of the same thing.

After you take a moment to feel like an elegant ballerina,  put your hands on your hips and use them to push your hips forward and then backward a few times to get a feel for the movement.  Once you have that down, then its time to crank up the beats and channel your inner Beyonce.  Take your hands off your hips, move your hips forward and back to the beat, and throw out some serious attitude.  Within seconds every muscle in your body will be burning and you’ll be out of breath.

It’s twerk repeats every day from now on.


Miley Cyrus Crushed My Yoga Dreams

In what may come as a total and complete surprise, television and Country Boy are not the only loves in my life.

I’m also having a torrid love affair with both running and yoga.

I know.  I KNOW.  I am one of THOSE people who rearranges her entire schedule to fit in a workout and who actually looks forward to it.

My idea of a good time.

My idea of a good time.

Please don’t hate me.  I still eat cake.  Lots and lots of cake.

And by cake, I mean cake with wine.  Obviously.

And by cake, I mean cake with wine. Obviously.

About two months ago, I started training for a marathon.  I’ve never run that far before since I’m more of a 5K hit-em-and-quit-em kind of girl, but I decided it was about time I gave a long-term relationship a shot.

Up until a week ago, my training had been going really well.  I had worked up to running over 30 miles per week, I was still excited to go out and run almost every night, and I was remarkably injury free.

But, last Monday, I found myself with a gnarly blood blister on the bottom of my right big toe.  It was so mortifying and disgusting that I started referring to it as Miley Cyrus.

I woke up to find something of this caliber on my foot.

I woke up to find something of this caliber on my foot.

The next day, Miley and I decided to go to a yoga class.

I realize that is an obviously bad decision.  I knew that I should rest my blister so that it would heal quickly.  But, I’ve never been one to make good decisions, and I really needed to feed my yoga addiction.  So, off Miley and I went to the gym — a place where bad things often happen to me involving live television — with me swearing that I was going to take it easy and just focus on getting a good stretch.

By the time I walked into the studio, the room was bursting full of yogis and the only open spot was, of course, front and center.  I sighed, reminded myself to take it easy even though everyone would be looking at me, and took the dreaded center spot


At least being center square would bring me one step closer to Whoopi Goldberg. Pretty soon we’ll be living the dream singing Sister Act duets together.

For the first half of class, I stayed on message.  I modified whenever necessary so that I wouldn’t put too much weight on my toe, I kept my eyes on my own mat, and I almost forgot that I had a lot of people behind me while I was wearing very tight pants.

But then Jay-Z came on over the stereo.  My breath locked in with Hov and we were grooving together.

I couldn’t suppress my inner Beyonce any longer.

The teacher called out crow pose and, with Jay on my side, I popped right up into the arm balance.  I was feeling awesome!  I was flying!  And I was doing it in front of all the other yogis!

I was Sasha Fiercing the hell out of that yoga class.

The next directive was to move into a chatarunga, which is a low tricep push-up.

Instead of carefully coming out of the arm balance and stepping back to a push-up to keep my toe safe, I decided to jump back because that’s what Beyonce would do.


The move goes a little like this, although when I do it it’s high on speed and low on grace.

I did it!  I flew through the air!  I didn’t smash my face of the floor!  Maybe the class would give me a slow clap?  For sure someone would come up to me afterwards and give me a knowing namaste.  I’ve always wanted to be in the inner knowing namaste circle!

But that giant smile on my face disappeared the instant my right foot hit the ground.

There was a large pop.  I felt a searing pain as the right side of my body collapsed onto my mat.  And then I heard a gasp next to me.

Oh Miley, what have you done now?  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

Miley had exploded upon impact, and she went EVERYWHERE.

There was blood on my mat, on the studio floor, and on my neighbor’s mat.  All that was missing was some bright yellow police tape and David Caruso.

I tried to play it cool and just casually slide my towel around on the floor to wipe up the blood spatter, but I wasn’t fooling anyone.  There was nothing cool and casual about what I was doing, and, because it was a veritable crime scene, EVERYONE was transfixed and could not look away.

After what felt like an eternity, the class finally ended.  At that moment, everyone in the room fled from me like the pariah that I am.  No one made eye contact and no one said a word.  The way these yogis were acting, you would have thought that I had just twerked all over their stash of kale and quinoa.

So much for my dreams of a knowing namaste.

Thanks, Miley.  You really know how to win friends and impress people.


Death by Deer: A Tale in which I Save My Husband’s Life and He Doesn’t Appreciate It

A few years ago, my husband and I went hiking in Yosemite National Park.

Everything was glorious.


What could ever go wrong here?

We were just happily traipsing along in the woods when, suddenly, danger struck.

Deer 1

Danger! Striking!

I froze.

My husband, however, continued to move towards that wild beast with his camera at the ready.

Deer 2

Work it girl!

Panic filled my entire being.

I had no choice but to whisper “psssst!” at him with a tone of dire urgency.

He did not respond.

Deer 3

He just kept on taking pictures

Terror filled my entire being.

I whisper-pssted louder.

He did not respond.

I channeled my inner Tami Taylor and whisper yelled: “Get over here!”

He gave me an annoyed look and continued creeping towards the ferocious beast.

I was then faced with an existential crisis.

I had said more times than I could count that I loved my husband so much that I would do anything for him.  During drunken karaoke, I had publicly proclaimed that I would catch a grenade for him.

But I had never had to deliver on that promise.

Until now.

I had to decide whether I would take a charging deer hoof to the jugular for him.  I broke out into a cold sweat.  I frantically pondered what kind of person I wanted to be.  I imagined my life without him.  I imagined what death-by-deer felt like.  I imagined death.

Before I knew it, I was racing towards my husband.  I grabbed him and yanked him away from the deer.

After about one minute of that show, my husband wrenched himself free and asked: “What is wrong with you?”

I explained, triumphantly: “I saved your life!  I sacrificed myself to save your life! I caught a grenade for you!”

He responded: “I repeat, what is wrong with you?”

I said: “I repeat, I saved your life!”

He scoffed: “From what?  The wonder of nature?”

I responded, now questioning his mental capacity: “No!  From the deer!  Did you not see them?  You were going to die!”

He questioned: “Yet again, what is wrong with you?”

I exclaimed: “What is wrong with me?!  What is wrong with you?!  The deer was going to attack you! When deer see people they charge towards them and trample them!  You should never be outside with deer!  How do you not know that?  Didn’t you grow up in the country?”

He, between fits of laughter, exclaimed: “That would be amazing!  If deer ran after you, that would make hunting so much easier.  I could just go stand in the woods, give a yell, and we would have venison for dinner every night.  Deer!  Here deer!  Come on over tasty little deer!  Where did you get that idea from?”

I self-righteously lectured:  “From my mother.  All growing up she told me that I couldn’t play outside in the yard any time there might be deer around because they would attack and kill me.  It’s real.  First, they look at you, then they charge…”

Suddenly, all the pieces came together.

Deer do not attack and kill people.  My mother just didn’t want to go outside 20 times a day with her 3 rowdy children, so she told us the tale of the killer deer.  Once that tale of horror was seared into our little brains, she could shut down our never-ending whining about wanting to go outside when she was in the middle of something with a simple “not now, I just saw some deer.”

She probably assumed that her children were intelligent enough to figure out that the killer deer was a Santa Claus style farce by the time they reached double digits in age.   That was a highly inaccurate assumption.

I still get credit for catching a grenade for my husband, right?


Woman vs. Juice

I’ve been a bit under the weather this week with one of those nefarious “summer colds,” and, after coughing my way through a yoga class, I was besieged by a bevy of well-meaning yogis who were all imploring me to cure my illness with a course of green juice.

Greens with ginger will fix you right up, they said.  It’s a miracle elixir, they said.  It will change your life, they said.

I politely said thank you and shook my head at them when no one was looking.  I knew this was a bad idea.

Three days later, despite a continuous dosage of Tylenol cold and Chloraseptic throat drops, I still sounded like an 85-year-old chain-smoking mouse every time I spoke.  All that came out when I opened my mouth was a raspy whisper squeak.  It was not hot.

I was desperate.

The time had come to try the juice.  I had nothing left to lose.

I marched myself to Whole Foods, because that seemed like the kind of place that would have miracle elixir green juice.

I found this item:



I brought it home.

I stared at it in the refrigerator for a day.  We sized each other up.  I kept putting off throwing that stuff down my hatch.  Every time I went to try it, something else in the refrigerator caught my eye, because I knew that anything else, even those dried out old baby carrots in the back of the crisper drawer, would taste better.

I realized that I would never drink the green juice if I had any other available options, so I decided to skip my usual breakfast and bring the juice with my to my office, where I had no other food source, to have for breakfast.  I figured that eventually I would get hungry enough that I would be able to get myself to try the juice.

Around 10 am, my stomach was growling.

It was time to face the celery, cucumber, spinach, lime, romaine, wheat grass, and clover sprouts.

Seriously, that's what was in this stuff.

Seriously, that’s what was in this concoction.

I opened the bottle.  I sprinkled in some ground ginger.  I shook it up.

I stared at it.

I sniffed it.  That was a bad idea.

I stared at it some more.

I dramatically sighed.

And then I finally took a sip.

I could barely keep it down.  My face puckered into a shape that it hasn’t made since that time I accidentally took a shot of warm Popov Vodka in 2004.

I knew that I had to pull it together.  I needed to get on with my day.  And, I was STARVING.

I was not going to let 15.2 fluid ounces of liquid vegetables defeat me.  I had climbed international mountains.  I had survived attacks on my home and having my face vomited on.  I am a dive bar trivia champion.  I had made Home Depot my bitch.  I had saved my husband from killer deer.  I COULD, NAY I WOULD, DO THIS.

Move over Adam Richman, there's a new sheriff in food crazy town.

Move over Adam Richman, there’s a new sheriff in food crazy town.

Of course, every great triumph requires preparation.

I cleared off my desk.

I rolled up my sleeves.

I blasted Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger while imagining myself in a boxing ring.

I did a few jumping jacks.

I took a deep breath.

And then I slammed that motherf-ing juice down my throat.  Take that vegetables.  TAKE THAT!

After approximately one second of relishing my triumph over the juice, I was frantically speed-walking down the hallway to raid the candy jar that my co-worker kept in her office. I had to do something about the superfund site that was my mouth, and I knew that the only way to eradicate the heinous taste of extreme health and wellness was to pound multiple fun-sized Twix bars.

The whole experience looked a lot like this:

I had actually become Ron Swanson.  This was a pretty low moment for me.

But, about two hours later, I felt better.  I was talking like a 30-something year old human being again.  I had energy.  I was really focused on my job.

What the?

It worked!

Green juice really was a magical elixir!

Green juice forever!

I bought another bottle on my way into work today for breakfast.  It has been one hour and I have only made it through three small sips.  It smells and tastes like actual dirt.  It has been torturous, but I’m STARVING and I need my post-green juice focus high to hit before my late morning meeting.

Looks like its time to cue up Eye of the Tiger and the candy bar chaser…