Run that by me again, will ya?

I never would have thought the day would come when I could say I probably relate more to guys than to my own kind. And it's becoming sort of a problem coz sometimes, without realizing it, I inadvertently give the cold shoulder to the alpha females in my block whenever I hear shrill chatter about girlie stuff. But don't get me wrong. I can be quite the girlie girl. I think. There's a degree of kikayness to me that I can't shake off, as my friends would attest to with grating candor. Not that I've really ever tried anyway. Shaking it off, that is.

Fine, so I'm vain. Not that girlie-ness should equate to vanity, but I guess if vanity is considered a soft trait, then I would say that's the extent of my, er, softness and hence, femininity. So there you go. I am vainvainvain. (You're so vain, you probably think this blog is about you....)

Crud, everyone is vain anyway, big deal. It's all a matter of being able to live with the fact that you are what social self-righteousness says you shouldn't be. All I can say is, occasional bouts of self-lovin' should be all right as long as you don't take yourself too seriously. So damn the hecklers, go on and be a little kinder to yourself. Come on, you know you want to. Indulge a little. It can be quite healthy, too. Hehe.

***

So, as I was saying. Lately, I've taken to exchanging more words than are necessary with one of the top guns here, and even more so with my dude cubicle-mate. In the office, Bry has always been a little more interesting to me (as a person, you ha) because of our shared affinity for sports. He's my one-time swimming tutor who got me interested in trying out wakeboarding. Unfortunately, not even his National Team background could get me to learn how to freestyle properly. But that was just an hour's worth of lessons anyway. And his freestyle is pro-level too, by the way. Excuses, excuses. Guess that means I gotta make do with my dog paddle for the meantime.

Jer, the boss man, seems to be a fun guy, too. I mean, he listens to house music and owns a rockin' digital SLR. He's also into boxing, thereby rounding up the triumvirate of male enthusiasts of the sport in our department, with me as the lone thorn among the so-called roses (or should it be the other way around...?) Plus, he just participated in the Adidas King of the Road 21K citywide run last July 1. Coolness in a barong and suit, that's what he is.

Anyway, those two got to talking about joining The Great UP Run to be held next month in, where else, UP. As for me, it has always been a sort of goal for me to be participating in a marathon someday. Fun runs like these are a fine way to get started, I guess. So I turned to Google and got to checking out The Bull Runner and Our Awesome Planet, plus a couple of other blogs whose authors/titles now escape me, all espousing the glorious merits of taking up running as a serious hobby.

After signing up with the guys at UP, I found out Jer and Bry were also running. And like the saying goes, the more the many-er, I mean, merrier. So we sort of teamed up and now, we have, like, snatches of mini-powwows revolving on possible places where we could train and getting decent/lousy finishes and what-have-you.

I'm also planning on joining the run that's being sponsored by the Quezon City Red Cross on August 5. Which reminds me, gotta speak to the peeps over at the City Hall in QC about registration. There's also another run on August 12 under Runners' Plus. I still have a little under a month to improve my endurance. Never mind the speed, although I would probably hate myself if I finished last, even if I am a beginner. Whatever. Running is funfunfun. It's just a wonder that it took me this long to fully appreciate the fact. I used to dread getting on the treadmill coz it tends to get a little boring and, well, tiring. But after the initial few minutes of torturous self-egging at a graduated pace of 7-10 km/hour, you begin feeling a certain kind of high. It seeps into your consciousness, setting your body on fire and making you want to keep at it for as long as your legs can carry you. Beyond that excruciating period, it starts getting so good, you feel like you never want the ride to end.

So what's with the crammed August sked, you ask? Well basically, being a late bloomer in this thing, I need all the opportunities I can get before Ramadan sets in this September. Of course, then it would be zero activity for me. Tried being a little more active during the fasting month in the years since I started becoming a jock-wannabe, but it just didn't happen. And it can be a pain in the ass trying to get back on the horse after staying a long time away.

***

Speaking of which. I'm kind of nervous for tomorrow's class. After a month-long sabbatical from the training gym on account of reviewing for the wretched certification exam (okay, plus the week-long Palawan trip I took in mid-June), I'll be making like the prodigal son and heading home to get the blessing of the disapproving Mafioso father to train again and try to recover whatever magic I lost during that much extended breather. Everyone's already been telling me to bring my game up in terms of power and technique, and now the momentum's off coz of my long-winded detour from the whole learning process. If last night's practice session with my original training instructors at the gym-gym (which is different from my training gym in that this is where I work out) is any indication of how even more olats I am now, then I'd better start practicing my dude face tonight for the barrage of quips and needling my teachers are sure to throw my way after a lackluster showing.

Plus, if Kru Roy tells me to gear up for a sparring match, I can't very well back down. Even if I go home from that gym limping on busted kneecaps, I will try. You get hella tired from all that exertion, the attempts at outthinking and outmaneuvering the opponent, that you feel like you've forgotten how to breathe right. Not to mention, it's like a friggin' sauna in that place, that half the time you can't see through the sweat-drenched, matted hair that keeps falling all over your eyes while you're trying in earnest to beat the living crap out of your sparring partner, who happens to be the instructor who keeps telling you to amp it up and fight like you mean it coz you're not hacking it.

But hands down, sparring gives you the best high. Never mind the injuries that now seem to happen at a regular basis and the fugly bruises you've never in your previously sheltered girlie existence had. Muay Thai's a keeper. Nuff said.