Foodie Metamorphosis and Strange Cravings

It’s natural when one progresses to adulthood to have one's food desires and tastes shift. Some go from hating all types of onions on anything, to dabbling in placing them amongst hamburgers or grilling them alongside the peppers you also hated as a child for a delicious homemade fajita which was also gross. .

As for me…

I recall not liking the following as a wee child. (Note the irony of going from not liking "bad for you foods" to liking "bad for you foods." My life never has and never will make sense. You should likely be used to that by now).

• French Fries. What the hell? Yep. I didn't like them and could easily fore go a French fry with incredible indifference. "Away with it! Where is my juice?" baby fist pound.
•  Syrups. Hated syrups. I was a jam girl thank you.
• Pancakes. 
• Onions of all sorts… clearly. What kid likes onions? Loser-kids that’s who. Were YOU a loser kid?
• Peppers of all sorts (see #4 explanation of onions)
• Fajitas – why have a fajita when there is chicken fingers to be gobbled?
• Donuts. I really disliked donuts. They didn’t appeal to me on any level – even the Butterfinger donuts from the Food Ranch. You should know that’s a big deal to not like Butterfinger donuts from the Food Ranch. It's basically crazy talk.
• Pastries of all sorts.
• Overly fried anything… in addition to the actual French fries.
• Hot dogs. Gross. Pass.

What I will now eat as an adult from the above mentioned list... and perhaps why I exercise more as well.

• French Fries. Well, I’m picky about my fries but I like them more than I did as a wee one. My pickiness is contained to Wendy’s fries (which may not seem picky at all but never the less) Red Robin steak fries, Crown Burger fries, and store bought sweet potato crinkle fries. Mmm… sweet potato crinkle fries. 
• Pancakes. I don’t necessarily like them, but I’m no stranger to the “Banana Pancakes (with syrup) on the weekend” craving. I also enjoy IHOP's Fall special pancakes. Oh... oh those are tasty.
• Onions – I like them, mostly. Purple onions are my favorite and I feel they bring a nice flavor mixed with the grilled…
• Peppers – which I like to plop altogether upon a…
• Fajita.
• Hot Dogs. I don’t mind ‘em now but most definitely prefer my dogs at a baseball game or dripping in some sort of special sauce. There was once a time where I’d always pick a burger over a dog at a BBQ… now? I’m entirely unpredictable as to my meat of choice! I could pick anything! ANYTHING! Ahahahahahahah! Lightening flash! Thunder clap!

The dislikes that stuck...

I still don’t like fried things. When glancing over a menu and things are dipped into a vat of bubbling oil which produces a crisp beige-like crust upon otherwise delicious and possibly healthy food – I have to say no no no thank you. And it’s not entirely a “health” thing – as it is a “this makes my tummy hurt and doesn’t taste good” thing. Exceptions?  A few French fry confections as noted above and chicken nuggets. YUM! I like chicken nuggets AND chicken strips. Fry those suckers on UP! Serve 'em with sauce! 

I still don’t like Pastries. When I say pastry I mean jelly filled crumbly confections just screaming “not worth it” from their glistening sugar coating. And it’s not worth it. Like the fried stuffs, it’s not entirely a health thing as a “this makes you feel sick every time” sort of thing. And some things are WORTH feeling sick after eating…. Like an entire container of chocolate frosting and graham crackers. WAY worth it. Pastries? Not.

And finally…

The biggest change of all…

Donuts.

I don’t like most donuts still – BUT – I’ve strangely been craving chocolate cake donuts almost every single day for two months. A strange craving indeed. A donut is not usually something I would seek out, rather, would accept upon it being offered and generally implore said offerer to “half it with me, will you?” While living in Provo, I went through a “Crunch Donut” and Diet Coke breakfast phase for a while, and then realized the combination sugar/caffeine crash was ruining my 10am-2pm work efficiency (though my 6am-10am efficiency was like a 9 year old on Halloween night tweaking out on a 10lb bag of candy - good memories) and had to stop such shenanigans. Even during that phase, I didn’t crave a donut… and was surprised I had even adapted to eating one once in a while when offered. My dislike was such when I was a wee child, I could walk by a table glistening with any assortment of donuts and not even bat an eye.

Now?

Now all I want almost every day is a chocolate cake donut. They’re so... chocolatey and cakey. I think if I didn’t have any self-respect or desire to get married...ever, I would probably eat one every single day. As it is, it’s been ohhhhh… when was the Walking Dead finale… almost a month since my last cake donut consumption? And then probably a month before that one… and then probably years and years and possibly my WHOLE LIFE before that one. What happened?!?! It's like alcoholism. You may never know you're an  alcoholic if you never take that first drink. But drink I have (metaphorically...clearly) and in doing so triggered my "chocolate cake donut" addiction. I even avoid the bakery section of the grocery store - my all time favorite section - just so I don't have to fight the devil donut in my head whispering it's "come hither little girl... you ran today... you can have a donut or six or 24...  eat, drink and be merry!" Get thee hence chocolate cake donut devil!

Though I'm sure you will likely still see me shamefully consuming a chocolate cake donut in a darkened ally way with frosting on my lips and a maniacal look in my eye once in awhile. The devil wins sometimes... and a splendid win it is. 

So you see… as I’ve progressed into adulthood sure my tastes and cravings have changed. But these last two months have been a real challenge with this newly added desire for everything chocolate cake donut. In fact, today may be the devil's day because all this talk about chocolate cake donuts is making my eye twitch. Must. Consume.

I said I'd do it and I did

You may recall over the last 2-3 years I've made a resolution to run a half marathon and naturally, have never done it.

Well...

I guess I'm doing it.

In Park City on August 18th.

I finally got sick of failing.

Reckless Abandon

Usual breakfast

Today's breakfast

I live on the edge.

It's Coming...

I feel I am dangling on the precipice of a bonified cold. The pressure in your head, the boogies encrusting your nasal cavity, the slight aches in your shoulders, and the feeling that your world is about to shatter around you. All these things I am feeling right now. All these things spell out "you're getting a cold, sucker face."

And what does one do in such an instance? Attempt to back away from the precipice? Hork Vitamin C this that and the other in the hopes of curbing this sickness that is sneakily laying hold of my body? Attempt to ignore it away (which I've successfully done before!) by not mentally acknowledging the existence of the a fore mentioned unpleasantness and pressing forward as if my only desire WASN'T to find my big heavy fuzzy blanket, some hot lemon tea with honey, and finish out Season 7 of the X-Files? Just repeat after me, "I will not get sick. I will not get sick. I. WILL. NOT. GET. SICK! YOU! SHALL NOT! PASS! (I couldn't help myself). Sure... I could try all that.

OR!!

I can let the sickness take me. Face it like a man! The sooner it takes me, the sooner it leaves me. Plunge over the precipice and hope I bounce off the ground with grace rather than a SPLAT!

Though, I don't think I've hit the point of no return quite yet. I think I could still beat this foe back with a little weekend R&R... which should probably start sooner rather than later. Best not to procrastinate the battle for fear of losing the war. And you can cross-stitch that. Call it your I'm a Sick pillow.

As for me... I'm going home.

It Ain’t No Stuart Little

Mouse! In the house! More like mice… but that didn’t rhyme so I had to stick with the singular there. Never the less; we have mice!  In our HOUSE! Pretty gross, right? Only gross because they are diseased ridden little varmints that scurry and scratch and dart and poop. Other than that, I find them kinda cute. What? How many movies/TV shows/literary characters can you name off the top of your head that showcases an adorable wee mouse and his or her mousey adventures?

• Stuart Little – Duh
•   Fievel Mousekewitz
• Mickey Mouse – duh
• Minnie Mouse – naturally
• Mrs. Brisbee
• Mighty Mouse! 
•   Basil of Baker Street aka the Great Mouse Detective
• Benjy Mouse and Frankie Mouse from a Hitch hikers Guide to the Galaxy
• Bernard and Miss Bianca – the Rescuers!
•  Chuck E Cheese
• Itchy – Itchy and Scratchy Show
•  Jerry – of Tom and Jerry
• Mr. Jingles – the Green Mile
• Pinky and the Brain
• The Three Blind Mice

Am I right? So though I understand people’s dislike of mice because of their carrying such diseases as the Hanta virus… which I just looked up and am now sufficiently freaked out!  Sometimes WEBMD is a blessing and a curse, am I right? But just in case I do contract the Hanta and effectually DIE like 60% OF THOSE WHO CONTRACT IT THROUGH MOUSE EXCREMENT…. I bequeath my book collection to Jaime, my clothes to Camille, and the $170 I have in my checking account to brother Nick. He’s a poor student and could use the help. The rest of my goods I expect to be sold at auction and the moneys given to the Fight Against Hanta Virus Non Profit Organization. I’m sure it exists somewhere. 

Anyway… what was I saying before crafting my living Will? Ah yes, how diseased rodents are kinda cute.

I first discovered our little mouse problem while watching an X-Files (Season 7!!) at home one night. I caught the varmint out of the corner of my eye as it skittered out of the fireplace and under our wood pile thing (scientific term). At first I thought, “If that was a huge spider, I’m moving out tonight!” And I rightly would have until the rodent made an attempt for the bookcase and I could see it was a little gray mouse instead of the eight legged creatures of my nightmares. Phew! Relief! I really hate moving.

Which brings me to another tangent…

On top of MICE problems we’ve also been combating a “spider in the tub” issue and I tell you I am an exhausted wreck because of it! I can’t take it! I have a very bad case of Arachnophobia and having to face some disgusting scurrying eight legged nasty first thing in the morning is not the “wake me up” I prefer. Oh gag. Oh loathing. I freaking hate spiders. FREAKING! In fact, my attempts to work out in the morning have been very successful with the promise of a spider free facility shower. This is me being more optimistic. Seeing the silver lining in my NIGHTMARES! How’d I do?

So now with both a spider and mouse problem – we decided it was time to kill the suckers. Kill ‘em real good. We called an exterminator who scheduled an appointment for Monday morning.Little did we know we were about to face the longest weekend of our lives. 

My poor roomie Alex made the decision to call the exterminator when she discovered that the mice had been having a Fiesta in her bedroom closet. She keeps protein and energy bars in a basket on the floor. Energy bars! And the FLOOR! So not only had these sneaky mice found the foody jackpot, they were all hopped up on complex carbs! “Hey fella’s! Look what I can do!” as he propels his fur-ball body from clothes hanger to clothes hanger, shitting as he goes. And boy to mice shit!! EVERYWHERE! Always! What’s more, do you know mice can procreate at 6-8 weeks old? Slut-mice! AND! AND! They can dump a 10-20 (TWENTY!) varmint liter in as little as 4-6 DAYS! What the hell?!?! So we could have great, great, great, Granny  Mouse leaping around hopped up on energy bars in as little as 2 weeks! This could only spell one thing, major anxiety and gross infestation.

Still, with images of Stuart Little and Mrs. Brisbee in my head, I convinced Alex to try the “humane” little traps first. Ya know, those little boxes you can catch them in and then take them to a field where they may roam free as wild mice! When those proved a complete failure, she opted for the glue sheets.  No mercy. Upon laying down glue sheets in her now completely cleaned out closet (full of gaps and holes by the way – yep – we were just asking for it! Come on in mouse! The front door is wide wide open… so is the back door and side door and a couple of windows… oh… and here’s some food within reach too). This was at about 5pm Saturday afternoon. I came home from a baby shower at 6:30pm and found a squeaky mouse struggling on a glue sheet. It was kinda sad and also kinda an internal vindication. I picked up the glue sheet (that’s right! I’m bad-ass) and walked Granny Mouse out to the garbage. Don’t worry, I prayed later that her death would be quick… she would fall asleep in the winter night and freeze. That was my hope. 

Alex came home and I told her of the adventure. She promptly went to lay down another sheet and just as she was placing it on the floor… FLYING MOUSE!!! It leaped out of a hole and face planted onto the glue sheet. Mouse #2’s attempt to flee was easily thwarted and leaving Alex to her panic attack, I walked  Papa Mouse out to join his hooker mother in the garbage can… a brief prayer to usher him in. Two mice in 3 hours! Didn’t bode well. The next day, Sunday, when we came home from church… Alex came running out of her bedroom because one of the sticky papers was gone. GONE? How could it be gone?

Here’s how…

TWO MICE! TWO MICE had fallen onto the glue trap and one of them had only stuck by its hind legs. With his front legs, he was attempting to drag them both to safety, “I can’t carry it for you! But I can carry you!” A fool’s errand! And as a picked up glue sheet three, he knew his struggles were in vain. I plopped these next two in with the others before them, making note that the other two from the night before were definitely dead. This made me feel a little better though at this point I was considering putting their heads on pikes and sticking them in front of crevices and holes around the house as a warning to other mice. Keep away! 

Instead, we opted to hold out for the exterminator and come Monday morning, he came galloping up on his white horse and placed “poison blocks” strategically around the house. He guaranteed us that if we saw a single mouse within 10 days they’d come back and dispose of them again. They ALSO said if we saw more than 6 (SIX?!?) spiders within 10 days they’d come back. They sprayed all around the house AND extra in the bathroom. I asked Alex if she gave him a big hug and slobbery kiss from both of us. She said she seriously thought about it – then felt weird. I said he probably gets a lot of love from a lot of ladies ALL THE TIME. That sly dog. 

So we shall see if the pests are good and taken care of. We shall also see if we start manifesting flu like symptoms centralized in the lungs in the next 2-3 weeks. If that happens, I bid you all a fond adieu with this advice: Screw Stuart Little! Just kill the bastards.

I'm just an innocent Mormon girl from rural Utah... truly

I'd like to tell you an embarrassing story. 

Saturday night I had a date. How embarrassing. Just kidding. That's not the embarrassing part. Saturday night I had a date and we went to the Bee's game. Now, as many of you Utahns know, this weekend is extra special. This weekend, we celebrate Pioneer Day; that most auspicious day when Mormon Pioneers first pulled their muddy worn handcarts, covered wagons, and tired feet into the Salt Lake Valley. "This is the place," announced then LDS President Brigham Young, "drive on." The Mormon Pioneers had arrived! They had found their Zion in the west! Their lovely Deseret! The freedom to practice their beliefs without persecution.

So naturally, upon such a momentous day, there's a lot of fireworks, picnics, bbq's, and general hullabaloo. How embarrassing! Oh wait... not yet. Thus, going to the Bee's game during this weekend has become a bit of a tradition for a good majority of Salt Lake City residents. Honestly, I've never seen a Bee's game so packed as it was during this weekend. Not even the 4th of July, America's holiday thus Baseball's holiday, is as packed as during Pioneer day weekend. Turns out, Utahns like Pioneers better than Revolutionaries. Makes sense.

SO! I'm at the Bee's game on a date with a guy I find pretty attractive and funny, there's a million people there and we're sitting ourselves down on the grass to enjoy some baseball. Mainly, to enjoy having conversations on the lawn eating hot dogs with baseball in the background. Lets me honest ;) I didn't watch too much of the game. How embarrassing! Oh wait... not yet.

So during this conversation, we begin talking about baby animals. Naturally this indicates the date is going well when you can openly discuss duckies and puppies. And of course no discussion of baby animals would be complete without a small commentary on kittens; which I happily obliged. I honestly don't know why we were talking about kitties, but then the conversation took a turn for the worse because I had the audacity to bring up cats. My friends, it was all down here from there.

Date, "So... there's kitties and cats... what are the inbetweens?"
Me: "Well... they're tweens... not kitties... not cats... they're... "

Now listen to me Internet... I'm a Mormon girl from rural Utah. Do you know what this means? Well, stereotypically it means I grew up contained within a little bubble of sunshine, rainbows, kittens, and asexuality. Thus, it means that sometimes, even though I'm now a 27 year old Mormon girl living in SLC who is finishing up a Master's degree and, I think it's fair to say, have a great multiplicity of friends from all types of backgrounds and belief systems, sometimes... SOMETIMES... my rural Utah Mormon-ness creeps in. I am also a self-proclaimed word-smithy. If you combine rural Mormon Utah girl tendencies with word-smithery... you get the following.

Lets pick up our conversation...

Me:"... so then if they're cat tweens then ... they're twa*s!" (do I need to spell that out? I'm afraid to spell it out because I don't want my blog tagged as R rated... I like to keep things family friendly. So if you did NOT get what I just alluded too..here's a link... from Wikipedia!)

Date: Huge eyes "BWAhahahahahaha!!!"

Me: "What? It's combining tween and cat... it makes sense... they're twa*s"

And Internet.. I said it LOUD... among a crowd brimming with FAMILIES and probably a Bishop or two... and my date just keeps laughing and shaking his head. I thought he just thought I was extremely clever... which I AM extremely clever so it makes sense to me why he'd be laughing.  The laughter was no indication to me that I'd just referred to adolescent kittens as a vulgar form of a woman's neither regions. NO. IDEA.

So the date carries on, we eat a hot dog, watch some fireworks, and all is well in my world of rainbows, sunshine, and asexuality.

Then yesterday, my roomie Alex and I decide it's Red Box Sunday and wander on over to the 7-11 down the street to get us a movie. As a side, I'm convinced property values are directly correlated to location relative to a 7-11. I'm just sayin. We rent Easy A. Have you seen it? It's decent... funny... not bad. So we're watching this movie and the main girl (Emma Stone) calls a girl a twa* during class. The entire class gasps, her face goes ashen, and I get really confused. Of course MY pronunciation was more in line with that "a" in cat rather than... well you know... but I could still tell it was the same word I had used to describe adolescent kittens at the baseball game the night before. So while the character is apologizing to the principal for her vulgarity, I go ahead and use my phone to google said insidious word.

And I nearly choke on a Nib!

Suddenly, everything comes together in one messy trough of word vomit! Lord love a DUCK! Did I? I did. On the date? Oh man. I totally said... wow. I'm a fowl-mouthed deck swab! I base scaly-wag! A slippery tongued, filthy mouthed, tripe! Maybe not a tripe... just the mouth of one. Yes, I know that a tripe is thank you.

I immediately texted said date from the night before and asked him if he would believe me that I had NO IDEA what "the word that must not be mentioned" meant and that I was completely 100% mortified that such a word came out of my little saintly mouth. Snort. Alright, perhaps not saintly as I have a few choice swears nestled nicely into my everyday vocabulary, but THAT word... such vulgarity! My excuse, I tell him, is I'm just an innocent rural Utah girl who is still getting acquainted with the ways of the world. He said he figured it was either my complete naive innocence or I had a mouth of a sailor.Alas. Though my date now knows I'm just an innocent Mormon girl from rural Utah, I'm pretty sure every person who heard my filthy adolescent cat word at the Bee's game are still offended I would give such utterance on such an auspicious occasion. You'd never hear a Mormon Pioneer say such things! How embarrassing. 

I just want you to know...

FIRST - that I LIVE! I do. But you may not hear from me for awhile... a good long while... as school is in full blown heady massive harry gooey widespread roundhouse kick SWING and I will be buried in eye twitches, academic journals, bibliographies, and major research papers.

SECOND, I want you to know - that SCHOOL WILL NOT DEFEAT ME! As illustrated by this picture.

Carry on.

Look for me around May 7th. I'll be the one in CAP AND GOWN! GRADUATING! Well, I'll be walking... still have a little capstone class to round out. But that's kibbles and bits compared with the meaty wooley mammoths I'm chawing through now. What great imagery. Right? Hells ya.

Masochistic Tendencies and Jumping Muscle Demon Spawn

Since the Greeks first started chucking spears, lobbing heavy metal balls, and trying to jump further and higher than that other guy, the world has admired great athletes. Athleticism is the ultimate form of self-mastery. The ultimate example of mind over matter. For centuries humans have conditioned, toned, bled, and pushed their bodies to accomplish feats of extraordinary measure - in some cases - almost reaching into the superhuman. From yoga, biking, and snowboarding to team sports like volleyball, football, and the occasional round of cricket (by jove!), humans have chosen to truly put these magnificent bodies we've been bestowed with to the ultimate test - the ultimate endurance - the ultimate measure of mind over matter - through any imaginable form of athleticism that can be squished into a two story building and laden with crude machines bearing weights of mass-destruction! We've all taken it upon ourselves at some point to push our bodies further than even our bodies say we can go. Mind over matter. The ends justify the means.

 How else could anyone VOLUNTARILY run 26.3 miles in a handful of hours? How ELSE could anyone cultivate a desire to climb the highest peaks in the world or play a game of basketball in the park so hard you're soaked through as if you've just gone swimming or pushed yourself so far you've vomited all over the gym treadmill again because you just wanted to push it a tiiiiny bit further. How else, I ask you!! Athleticism starts in the mind, young padawan. That's where the true endurance lies.The force is strong with you.

 Likewise, now that I'm thinking about it, lets talk about how America, who produces some of the worlds most talented athletes, ALSO is one of the (if not THE) most obese nations in the world. Very strange bedfellows indeed, right?

But I'm not here to talk about how America is a cease-pool of gluttony and fast-food addictions (even though we are!). And I'm not here to tell you that childhood obesity has nearly QUADRUPLED in the last 10 years (which it has!). And I'm also not here to tell you that this generation of youngsters (under age 12) are predicted to be the first generation to NOT outlive their parents because they suck on a butter-stick for a pre-afternoon snack (even thought it's TRUE!). Naw, I'm here to talk about another sort of masochism. As positive sort of masochism. The masochism that is:

Boxing Is For Girls.

Listen. I've played sports my entire life. From running around like a tow-headed orphan child in the streets of Smalltown, Utah to dance teams, basketball teams (short-lived... pun NOT intended thanks), volleyball, softball, ultimate frisbee, flag-football, mountain biking, hiking, swimming (ish), kick-boxing, snow-shoeing, running, running, running, and most recently, yoga, you could say I'm familiar with the sort of pain that comes with the satisfaction of participating in physical activity. And my mamma didn't raise no wuss puss neither. I can handle pain. I believe participating in sports allows athletes to not only respect their bodies by utilizing them, but to strengthen the psychological threshold of pain, sweat, and tears that comes with playing any sports if you're playing them well. I've had sprained ankles, bruises the size of cantaloupes (softball... that one hurt), cracked bones, stitches, bump and scraps, scabs, eaten dirt, bloodied lips, and the occasional volleyball to the face. The first time I went snowboarding - Lord love a duck - did I want to DIE the next day. I tell you, I've not felt intense muscle pain like that ever! So what I'm saying is, I can take it. I can take it real good. Well, that is until last week.

Last Tuesday, a couple of friends and I went to Boxing is for Girls located in Sugarhouse (1100 East 1983 South). I'd done some kickboxing before (just for cardio - not for arse-whoppin) and boxing itself has always intrigued me. To me, boxing was the ultimate full body tough-guy (erp... girl) sport, and I wanted to DO IT! So, I did it. And it was intense. Incredibly intense. Now I've given you my repertoire of sports ability and proven that I can hack it. I'm clearly a sports participator and I've pushed myself pretty hard at times to the point of nearly vomiting all over the field/floor/carpet etc. A healthy sense of competition will do that to ya. I've played hard enough that the next day I walk like a stiff-legged Zombie including the groan and glazed eyes. But this, this I've never felt before. The ensuing two days AFTER my first BIFG experience, I succumbed to something I had never succumbed to before in my athletic life - I took some Tylenol for the pain. Like Randy in a Christmas Story, I couldn't put my arms down... or up... or sideways... or any other ways arms should rightly move. After a day of staggering around work, I got home and examined the most tender areas and found that the underneath/rib areas of my arms was nice and swollen. All puffed out and tender. Swollen! I've never had such a physical manifestation of intense muscle break down ever. Ever.

So naturally...

I went again on Saturday! Cause I'm a crazy person!! And because I'd bought a 20 session pass (not cheap). That's right! Though this time, I'd learned my lesson and learned it good. I warmed up, stretched and stretched, worked out hard, and then proceeded to stretch and stretch, drink protein, water, water, water, and Gatorade the rest of the day. I thought I nipped most of the soreness I expected to manifest itself the next day in the BUD.

Well turns out.

Bud not entirely nipped. You can tell very quickly where you've stretched good enough and where you have NOT. Today, though my arms are actually feeling pretty good and my abs just have the normal slight soreness that comes with intense workouts, my quads are killing me. No really. I almost fell face first down my apartment steps because I was walking like Frankenstein's Bride... groans and all. Every time I had to think of rising out of a chair or church bench (Sunday) I braced myself for the creaking and burning that would be my thighs. And oh it burned. Burned like the fiery furnace of hell burns. Little demon spawns were having "jump like a demon spawn day" in my muscles. Little beasts.

So that said, it hurt, it still hurts, and because I have incredible mental powers and a desire to look all sorts of Baywatch in my swimsuit this year (there's the true mind over matter motivation - all comes back to stereotypical body image propaganda - durg), I will of COURSE be going back on Tuesday. And THIS time, I will be even better equipped to push my body through another fantastic work out. Only athletes (and crazies, and masochists) would suffer such pain and go back for more. Go back for more because as athletes, you're not going to let your body beat you. No pain, no gain, right? So I'm going back. I'm carrying on the tradition of the ancient Greeks and giving my physical body the respect it deserves, but also demanding it to push further than its telling me it can. And boy is it screaming loud and clear today; but it will pass and Tuesday will come and my body and I will do it again. Boo. Ya.

Watch a little something something here from Boxing is for Girls. You think Jillian Michaels is badass? You've not met Eliza.

(sidenote - I googled "boxing girls" so I could supplement this post with a kick-arse boxing girl... yeah... don't do that... my innocence was lost. Turns out "boxing girls" is just another way to say boobs... or porn... or boobs and porn)