I do note a slight trend in these two instances of spectacular falling – they happen on a longer run, and they happen when I haven’t had as much sleep. The morning started auspiciously enough, though – beautiful, crisp and cool.  I had been initially worried about this run.  In between all the traveling I’ve been doing, I haven’t been able to do a long run in weeks.  I ran a 4-miler on Wednesday and it sucked; I felt so plodding and slow that I was worried that I was losing my shape.

Though I took this run at a comfortable pace, my fears subsided and I began to enjoy my run.  I didn’t have an iPod with me, which allowed me to get lost in my thoughts. I didn’t want to stop, and around the 40-minute mark, I extended my run so I could run another twenty minutes.

At around the 45-minute mark, I was running on the sidewalk by a McDonald’s.  I saw a truck waiting to turn right, and I thought I recognized the truck as one from my complex.  As I looked at the truck, it happened again – that horrible feeling when you feel yourself falling, really hard, and knowing you can’t stop yourself.  Like last time, I don’t think I tripped over anything in particular. I think I was just tired, distracted, and I simply fell.  My inner dialogue went something like this:

Mind:  God, NOOOO. NOOOO. Not again! THIS IS NOT A GOOD ANGLE TO BE FALLING AT. Stop! Stop! I STILL WANT TO HAVE ARMS!

Body:  Chill out, I’m trying my best here. I can’t. I can’t! OH GOD.

And what felt like three minutes later, I finally fell and slid.  Imagine a baseball player desperately running to home plate, extending his arm out in front of him as he slides.  Or Superman, flying with one arm extended in front of him.  That’s kind of what I looked like.

And like last time, the first pang I immediately felt was my bruised pride.  I fell right in front of a McDonald’s along a busy road, which is right across the street from a school; I’m sure more than one teenager laughed at me as I munched it.

I stood up, feeling for scrapes and bruises. I knew right away that something wasn’t quite right with my right arm.  I knew just from the angle that I’d fallen at that I couldn’t be so lucky again the second time around.  It just felt…weird.  I started shaking it around. Something didn’t feel right.  It felt numb but different.

Then I felt my shoulder pop back into its socket.

OH.

HELL.

NO.

Let me say right now – I cannot stand bone injuries.  I don’t consider myself a queasy woman by any means and can watch those surgery shows without feeling sick.  But I cannot watch a bone being broken, even in movies. Do y’all remember that movie Descent?  It was not scary like everyone hyped it out to be, but that scene where a chick breaks her leg and the bone breaks through the skin? SCARIEST PART OF THE MOVIE. OH DEAR GOD.  It’s been like six years since I’ve seen that movie and I can still remember that shit.

In conclusion, I would much rather be lying in a pool of my own blood than dealing with a broken bone.  I am incredibly relieved that the only bone injury I had was a dislocated shoulder; if I’d broken my arm, I probably would have curled into the fetal position on the sidewalk and started crying and sucking my thumb.

Not even kidding.

I had about a mile to walk back to place. I did not cry.  I just cradled my increasingly sore shoulder, trying to move it, and alternately telling myself, “Stupid girl,” and “FUCK.”

I was dreading the moment I got back to my apartment, because I was afraid that my arm was hanging at some weird angle.  It wasn’t; my shoulder was sore, for sure, and a bone seemed to be popping out ominously. I also have some sexy contusions on my elbow and leg.  I’m unsure if it’s still partially dislocated, or if that’s just my bone’s way of dealing with, you know, being dislocated and located again in a span of thirty seconds.  I hope it’s the latter, because if I have to go in and get that shoulder set, someone is getting karate chopped in the face.

My shoulder is still pretty sore, but I iced it thoroughly when I returned home, and I took ibuprofen before going to work.  We’ll see how it goes this weekend. I really don’t want to go to the doctor, mainly because I don’t want to have to karate chop anyone in the face.

I read on the internet that you’re supposed to seek immediate medical attention if you dislocate your shoulder, even if it pops back into place. Eh.  I had a small fracture when I was a kid and didn’t really know it, and it ended up taking care of itself. I am hoping that the circumstances will be similar here.  (Of course, I was also 12, and my body healed itself a lot faster.)

Keep your fingers crossed that I will cease this streak of stupidity and actually stay upright for my next run.

When I was in high school, my dad and I were completing one of our early morning runs when a pack of dogs started running after us.  My dad had dropped his voice to a growl and said forcefully, “GET OUT OF HERE.”  The dogs scattered.  “You can’t show fear,” he had said afterward.  “They sense it.”

As the dog barked at me, I thought about that encounter and considered my options – would I have enough time to jump in the truck if he decided to charge at me?  Channeling my dad with all my might, I straightened my shoulders, dropped my voice, and shouted, “GET OUT OF HERE.”

The dog continued barking, so a whole lot of good that did.

I tried again, but even I could sense the weakness in my voice.  Finally, mustering my strength, I lowered my voice to a low register and bellowed, “GET OUT OF HERE.”

The dog stopped barking and looked at me.  Then it retreated with its tail between its legs.

Not gonna lie – that kind of made me feel like a badass.

II.  I went inside the gas station to purchase ice.  It was shady-looking on the outside, with bars hanging ominously on the windows.  Inside, the red decorations did nothing to brighten up the place.  Greasy food sat unappealingly on the counter, waiting to make the person to eat it miserable. “Oh God, don’t ever eat there,” my coworker had warned me. “No, no, no, no, no.”

As I purchased the ice, the cashier looked at me, and pointed at my sweatshirt, which bore the name of my alma mater.  “Is it okay that you’re missing school today?” she asked with apparent concern.

I couldn’t help smiling.  I told her that I’m no longer in school, adding, “I’m 27.”  “Oh my gosh,” she said, surprised.  “You look so young!”

When I’m out in the field, I don’t wear any makeup, so I do look much younger.  The older I get, the more I crave this mistaken youth.  I will be 28 in the summer; I know this isn’t old. I know this.  But I look at my face and see trace signs of laugh lines and crinkles around my eyes, despite the anti-aging creams I use. If I purchase alcohol, getting carded is no longer a guarantee.  Stubborn strands of white are starting to appear amongst my dark hair. I was at my alma mater a couple of weeks ago and when I visited the library, I couldn’t get over just how young everyone looked. Then I realized that these students had been in elementary school when I had started college ten years ago.

So if someone thinks I’m still in college?  I’ll take it.

III.  If you get along with the person you’re working with, you’ll talk. A lot.  You really get to know your coworker during these trips.  Only once did I have a terrible working experience, where silences punctuated our bickering. But most of the time, I really enjoy the time I spend with a coworker out in the field.  You will hear travel stories, confessionals, salacious bits of gossip about coworkers.

Eventually, the job will tire you and conversation lulls.  This is the perfect time for self-reflection, especially since you usually are out in the middle of an empty field. I can’t say that it’s always the most scenic-looking field.  But there might be a cow or horse keeping you company, and you find yourself staring at the empty expanse of land in front of you.  The sun might be sitting prettily in the sky, and you realize you are grateful to be out here, in the middle of nowhere, reviewing what you’ve done with your life to get yourself here, right now, in the middle of this field.

The field, if you haven’t guessed, is the perfect setting to think deep thoughts – when you aren’t working, of course.

As I sat on my bucket, waiting to take my samples, I allowed myself to be lost in my thoughts.  Like many people, I wear multiple hats and I try my best to balance the multiple roles I juggle in life.  I strive to be a good daughter, an awesome sister, a loving girlfriend, a loyal friend, a hardworking employee, a dedicated runner, an interesting writer, a competent musician.  No matter how hard I try, I can’t occupy these roles with perfection all at once.  I struggle to find harmony between my roles to make everyone happy, and I cannot.  It bothers me when I can’t.

But it all goes back to Radiohead – “If you can try the best you can, the best you can is good enough.”

Do you realize that your entire friends list can see that you comment on a page called “Fap Nation” multiple times a day?

You’re welcome,

Jenny

I know, I’ve already been sick of it for awhile and have ranted about it more than once on this blog, but I mean…I’m getting really, really, REALLY sick of it.  I’m only on Facebook now to keep up with a small set of well-loved, adored people.  Let me reiterate that this number is very small.  The rest of my friends list is comprised of acquaintances who are incredibly annoying.

I feel like when I peruse my news feed, I can expect to see one of the following items:

1.  “WOW! Great morning today! MY LIFE IS SO AWESOME! (insert example of how awesome said life is).  In case you all haven’t seen my last five status updates, I’m a REALLY, REALLY, REALLY HAPPY PERSON! My life is PERFECT. YAYYYYYY!”

2.  “Just got back from the gym/track/running trails!  It was a hard day today, so I was only able to get in 500 reps/fifteen 1600 meter repeats/14 miles.  Let me give you the details of how many laps I ran and the times I did them in and act like I’m out of shape, even though I’m obviously in amazing shape and just want validation from my friends list that I’m in better shape than you’ll ever be.”

3.  “It’s been a hard day.  Let me post a picture of the alcoholic beverage I’m having.  I post a picture of the alcoholic beverage I drink at least 3 or 4 times a week.  I like to give the impression that I’m chill and down-to-earth, though I may actually be an alcoholic.”

4.  “So here’s the hobby I’m really into right now, and since I’m so excited about this activity in my life, I feel the need to share every goddamn detail about it with you guys!  You guys care, right? OF COURSE YOU DO!!!”

5.  “Hey significant other, I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUU. YOU COMPLETE ME! I don’t care if our whole friends list is reading this!  My love for you is PUBLIC and I want my entire friends list to know every single tender moment we experience AS THEY HAPPEN. I LOVE YOU WUMPYKINS!!!!!!”

MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS HOLY.

I DON’T CARE.

PLEASE. STOP.

Whatever happened to privacy? You know, that thing that keeps us from SHARING every mundane detail in our lives?

You know what? I used to be that person, several years ago. I used to overshare on Twitter and Facebook. Do you know why? Because I was a miserable person and wanted validation from other people that I was living a fun and interesting life, when I really was living the opposite.

It was after I stopped worrying about projecting a fun life on Facebook and actually started living that my need to update the world on what I was doing lessened.  This is why I can’t help feeling skeptical every time I see so many frantic status updates from my friends list convincing me that they feel happy and awesome all the time.

We are completely in control of the projection of our lives on social networking.  We will not update about our sadder moments if it will conflict with the projection of a happy, accomplished person.

“You’re such a hypocrite, Jenny,” you may say.  “You have this blog after all. You talk about your happy moments and your hobbies.  How is this any different?”  My blog is a tangible collection of ephemeral moments in my life. I write mainly for myself. At the same time, no one will be reading my blog if they don’t want to. It’s not like my blogs are part of a stream of updates that you are scrolling through; it’s your choice to read this (and I’m incredibly grateful that anyone finds this readable in the first place, so thank you.)

I may talk about my more meaningful moments (like my marathon, which I purposely did not discuss on Facebook), but I also try to be as self-deprecating as possible.  You all know I’m not perfect. I’m often stupid and clumsy, and I think I project that pretty well on this blog.

I’m a much happier person now than I used to be, and I don’t hide that.  But my life is also far from perfect. This year has already presented some frustrations that really bothered me.  But I just don’t think that public forums are the place to air your problems, you know? You wouldn’t believe the dirty laundry I’ve seen aired over Facebook – baby daddy drama, family arguments, trashing of exes.  As the world finds a lack of privacy more acceptable, I clutch tightly to mine more and more.

I will never discuss certain experiences, because I feel like talking about them publicly will cheapen the beauty and simplicity of the experiences.  I want to keep the loveliest moments in my life right in my mind, where only I can access them and not anyone else.  I’m a greedy woman.  I want to cherish my most private moments and keep them to myself.  They will feel less special if I broadcast them for the entire world to see.

I just don’t understand why more people aren’t like that.

THE STREETS!

We crossed the Sabine River and entered Louisiana; I kept my squee to myself.  It was dark, so I couldn’t see too much scenery except the shadows of the trees.  We reached Lake Charles in no time and went inside one of the casinos.  ”So…this is it,” my coworker said, then hurriedly continued, “It’s not Vegas or anything.”

That was obvious. Granted, we were going on a weekday night, which could explain the relative dearth of people in the lobbies.  When we walked into a buffet, it was clear the demographic was an average 30 years older than we were.

We walked around the casino for a bit. I saw an alarming number of Gambling Addicts Anonymous signs with a toll-free number you can use to call for help. I felt like these signs were the equivalent to talking to an alcoholic about going AA over a round of drinks, or putting “HEY MAYBE YOU SHOULDN’T SMOKE BECAUSE IT’S BAD FOR YOU” warnings on cigarette cartons, but okay.

There were some Mardi Gras outfits on display.  My coworker recommended that I pose in one, resulting in one of the most awkward poses you will see me do:

After eating our meal, we walked into one of rooms.  My coworker loves card games and immediately went to the Blackjack table.  I watched her for awhile.  She’s very good at it and won $30.  ”Jen, I need to quit while I’m ahead,” she said after happily collecting her chips.  ”Want to try?”

I’d told myself I was only going to spend a maximum of $20, so I put that on the table. After losing $15, I got up and decided to try the slot machines.  The slot machines were alright. I liked them more than the card games, and I won a couple of dollars.  But eventually, I started winning less money.  I couldn’t stop myself from thinking, “This is pretty stupid,” after awhile. All I was doing was pulling a lever.

Maybe gambling would be more fun in a better atmosphere, like I’m assuming one that Vegas has.  This particular casino had a very seedy look to it, and its clientele seemed despondent.  I felt like my relatively youthful innocence was out of place around the jaded vibe.  I couldn’t help feeling sad as I looked the depressed faces of people who looked like they had given up.

Despite my quibbles, I still enjoyed the experience. I didn’t spend more than my $20, I won like $6, and can say I spent the evening in another state. It’s just not something I see myself really enjoying much in the future…though I would like to see Vegas.

I felt so alive when I started doing the drum solo at the end.  I improv’d it; it was nowhere near as impressive as Bonham’s.  There are few times when I feel like a real drummer; but after that song, as I looked to my guitarist for a cue to hit the final crash beat, I did.  Someone commented that we all had an energy that they hadn’t seen in  performances at past parties, and I believe it.  Looking at your fellow performers and realizing they comprise a set of people you love the most in this world is an incredible feeling, and to say any more than that would cheapen the experience.

I will say that seeing partygoers mosh to “Cowboys From Hell” was fucking amazing.

I also busted the same knuckle twice as I flailed around the kit, so droplets of blood spilled all over my white stockings.  It felt pretty rock and roll.

It’s amazing how such a simple night can end up being one of the best in your life.

At work, I was assisting with a proposal and was tasked with various items to assist the process.  When I asked my project manager if he needed anymore help with the proposal, he said, “Yeah, there’s some problems with the units on the table you put together.  Can you take a look at it?”  ”Sure thing,” I said, and began poring over the table.  In remediation, the Environmental Protection Agency compiles a list that tells us what acceptable contaminant levels in certain media (groundwater, air, or soil) are.  One of my tasks had been to find the guidance levels for the chemicals we were interested in, and convert the guidance levels from milligrams per kilogram to micrograms per kilogram.

Easy (or so I thought).

The units I had converted admittedly looked way too tiny to be feasible, but I did the math again – divide by 1000 to get from milligrams per kilogram to micrograms to kilograms, right?  I put together a spreadsheet showing my work in case they questioned it again.

Oh, they questioned it alright.  One of the project managers stopped by my desk afterward and said, “Jen.  Your units?  You’re shifting them the wrong direction.”  And then floods of shame hit me as I realized the enormity of my ignorance.

I needed TO MULTIPLY by 1000. Not DIVIDE by 1000.

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD.

The shame was enormous.  I mean, I’m the engineer, right?  I went to grad school.  I’m not saying this makes me the sharpest tool in the shed (because obviously, I am not).  But I mean, I had to get through Calculus 3 and differential equations and the horrible Dynamics and Vibrations class that stole our souls (I still don’t know how I passed that class), and then crazy math in grad school, but I can’t CONVERT UNITS PROPERLY?

SO MUCH SHAME.

I decided I was past the point of redemption, and went into my project manager’s office to apologize and see if he needed any more help.  In a moment of vulnerability and the need to create some kind of rapport, I said, “I felt like a dumbass when I realized I messed up the units.”  ”What?!” my project manager asked, sounding shocked.  Then I realized that at work, everyone knows me as sweet, quiet, polite Jen.  Which I am all of these things outside of work, but if you read my blog, then you obviously can figure out that I also curse frequently, which is not something I do at work.  ”I er…felt stupid,” I corrected myself.

And I left the office in more shame.

I guess I shouldn’t feel too bad about my mistake, right?  It’s pretty minor in comparison to NASA’s unit conversion mistake, which caused them to lose an orbiter.  All I lost today was my pride.

But this song is a perfect example of indie done right.

Oh God, I love everything about this song.  I love the intricate way the music is layered. I love how the doomed love affair is sung from two different perspectives.  The lyrics are so good, and so is the video – I mean, how cool is this video? It’s so creatively random and Gotye and Kimbra are SELLING IT.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it in the past several weeks.  In case you’re wondering, the entire album is good.

And just for fun, here is a mindblowing cover:

It’s five people! All playing one guitar.  Who the hell comes up with that? But it’s amazing.

You know what one of my pet peeves is?  Not returning a shopping cart to its appropriate cart return corral.  I mean, seriously, how long does it take? Maybe a minute at the most?  Instead, people are assholes and leave them wandering like lost cows all around the parking lot, crashing into parked vehicles and just being a nuisance.  I fully believe in karma , and I feel like I will invoke tons of bad karma by not returning my cart to the corral. And I park way out in the boonies, y’all.  If I can return my cart to the corral after parking five miles away from the store entrance, then no one else should have an excuse.  Way to be lazy, America.

I went for a run today and it was full of pain. I was trying to work out this week in my hotel gym because running in these small towns is a no-no unless you want to get raped.  I didn’t have my iPod charged, which meant I lasted maybe two minutes on the treadmill before being all, “THIS IS ALL MY BODY CAN PHYSICALLY HANDLE FOR TODAY.” (God, I hate the treadmill).  So yesterday, in a mad effort to do a workout before heading to a casino (more about that in a future post), I ran up and down three flights of stairs for five minutes. That may not sound like much, but I was really sore today, which meant calves were in pain during said run.  I ran so slowly. It was pretty sad.

Oh man you guys, I don’t know if I’m overtraining or if this is just my body reacting to the wimpy Texas winter or what, but all I want to eat is CARBS.  Two snacks I am in danger of overconsuming are Central Market Sweet Potato Tortilla Chips and HEB Whole Wheat Crackers. OMG.  I don’t even care how uppity and hipster I sound by saying that I am eating cinnamon agave sweet potato tortilla chips, they are AMAZING and HEALTHY (or, they would be if I didn’t have like five servings already today).  If you live in Texas, check them out without shame.  You will not be disappointed.

In case you are wondering about my “Tom Sawyer” progress, I’m on page 2.  Yep.

Goddamn it, is it Friday yet?

I need to sleep.

For real.

Night night.