Random Thoughts from the Last Three (Four? Five?, nope, just Three) Months
So much has happened, lets go straight to the bullets:
- So I ah, did some stuff. I think I need a better intro, let’s try this again.
Hi! I am a guy who used to blog with regularity six or seven years ago, then blogged intermittently, then blogged about as often as Winter comes to Westeros. But hey, maybe Winter is here, so I will be blogging all the time! (And if you believe that, I have this great bridge in Brooklyn to sell you).
I am also a guy who used to live in Washington, DC, but now lives in Chicago. Maybe this should have been a bullet? I will never get the hang of bullet points. I understand its a convenient way to organize your thoughts, but come on, did Charles Dickens ever use bullet points? I think not. He probably didn’t use footnotes or asterisk points either. I cannot be too sure because the only Dickens book I ever read was Great Expectations in ninth grade. However, I did read a couple of his books on Spark Notes, and the Spark uses bullets. And now that I think of it, they are super convenient. So here we go again:
- I used to live in Washington DC and now I live in Chicago. That is also a quite inaccurate sentence. I lived in Alexandria, VA, not DC, and I live in the NW suburbs of Chicago, not the City.
- I moved to Chicago to be with my girlfriend, who will be my, well lets not get into that now. Whenever that thing happens, it will not happen soon enough for her. It is coming though.
- As part of my move from DC to Chicago, I decided to run a half-marathon in Cincinnati. It was not spur of the moment, but it worked out that I could literally run towards my new home. Even though it was a loop. And Cincy would be several hours out of my way if I was driving straight through. Nevertheless, the symbolism was fun.
- Except for the part where the course went up 400 feet in elevation. Fuuuuuuuck that shit. The only thing remotely similar I did before that was going up about 100 ft in a mile running along the Mt. Vernon trail where it ends and goes up a big hill to George’s House (because it was 17whatever and he got to build his house on awesome land because he married a richass widow, so of course visitors have to trek up to the house at the top of the hill). I persevered, and though the last two miles were brutal, I finished in 2:09 and change, ahead of my goal of 2:15 (though well shy of my best case scenario of 2:00, but that was super unlikely, even without the never-ending mother fucking hill).
- I enjoyed it though. And I have been a lazy ass for the last few weeks so I am doing a 10K in about 8 weeks and hopefully another half in September.
- Money owns this town.
- I have a palatial suburban apartment. It has a separate bedroom and everything (meaning a balcony and a place for a kitchen table). It is much huger than the studio I had in DC. And cheaper. AND closer to the train I take to work. DC is fucking expensive.
- In DC I had a job that was great, but never had enough interesting work to do. In Chicago, I am going to be doing litigation work. This is quite the, um, change (understatement). I am excited in a way. I finally get to be a law talking guy; though obviously worried that I am going to use phrases like “law talking guy” in front of a judge. http://youtu.be/FtVllgTPyfk
- It is nice having my family close again. My parents are about 45 minutes away. One of my sisters and her husband and my niece are about the same, another set of sister/husband/niece are moving back to the area in a couple weeks. So it is good to be back.
- Of course, the very best reason to be back is the girlfriend, as I alluded to above. Being back with her has been amazing. We spent nine months apart, and being back together has been great. There are adjustments sure, the situation is not the same as it was in DC, but holy hell is great to see her. To have her say that she is going to be over at my place when I get home from work. To have her make me delicious dinners. To “collaborate” on a delicious meal on the grill (it was all her idea, and she made all the good shit like grilled corn on the cob. I was just a marionette, but that is ok, that is how it is gonna be. She is better at stuff than me anyway). It is just great to be back with her, and soon we will stop “spinning our wheels” and get on with this life we have to live together.
This was a post. See you in September!
GAAAAH; Broken
So my fancy new half-marathon training that I started at the beginning of the year pretty much wrecked the shit out of my left foot. Either I did too much running (and hockey and various other activities) too quickly or the surprisingly-cheap running shoes that were the exact same type as my previous running shoes were so cheap because they were actually cheap Chinese knockoffs-caused the problem. I am hoping its the former, because I want to buy another pair of cheap Brooks Glycerin 8s before they go off the market (or my parents can get me a legit pair of the of the Glycerin 9s, wink wink, hint hint. Oh wait, they don’t read this blog. Better just e-mail them. I digress).
So I have not run in a week and a half. I have self-diagnosed myself (with the help of the internets of course. You better carry medical malpractice insurance Internet), as having plantar fasciitis. This is some bullshit, pussy ass ligament in the foot that gets all hurt when you use it too much. I was mostly just pissed off at my foot for the first few days and refused to acknowledge the constant pain with every step I took (and every breath YOU took (yeah, that’s creepy)), but in the last several days I have been doing to the stretches and icing it, and it is getting better.
However, I do have this random paranoid concern that I have a bone spur on the top of my foot. I get this pain when I bend my foot at the balls (of the foot) (basically whenever I take a step), that is more localized at the top middle of the foot, rather than running along the bottom or the heel. Then I remember that Brett Favre was a bitch about his bone spurs, so I again refuse to believe a possible injury for no legitimate reason whatsoever.
In the last week, I have gone swimming 3 times. And I have to say, other than not making my foot hurt, it is a fantastically good time. Swimming is pretty fun. I have always enjoyed the water, but in my fatter days, I avoided the water. Now that I am less fat, or really, either more self-confident or mostly that I have a woman who wants to have sex with me on a regular basis for the rest of my life so I do not give a shit about what anyone thinks about my flab, I find diving into the pool to give me the same thrill I had as a kid.
Now I am all mature-ish so having fun in the water isn’t just splashing around and playing Marco Polo. I swim laps now. Slowly, but getting better. I know how to swim, I just do not have the muscles or the technique to do it well. But I am getting better. And hell, I love it. When I get to the point where I am ready to get out of the pool, I feel that longing to do another lap, just because I am not ready for the experience to end yet (the same thing happens with running, but seeing as how I constantly am hurting myself, I stick to a prescribed distance or time. Not that it fucking helped).
Today I did laps over the deep end. I found myself wishing that I had a penny so I could toss it to the depths and then have to swim down to get it, just like I did as a kid. I did not have a penny, but in the middle of one of my laps, I did swim down and touch the bottom. Just to remind myself that I could.
And then I got the bends. FUUUUUUUUUCK.
Holiday Belly
If I learned one thing over my two week christmas vacation, and believe me it is highly unlikely that I learned anything, it is that vacations are only supposed to last a week.
The nice thing about a vacation is that you are allowed to splurge, to indulge in the things you avoid during the regular daily grind. During my vacation, I threw caution to the wind, and gave into my vices. Which is apparently cookies and beer.
Nowadays I never eat cookies. I occasionally eat chocolates (or go to town on a package of mini peanut butter cups from trader joe’s. God those things are like a crack with a creamy heroin center), but generally do a good job of controlling, or at least usually regulating, my sweet tooth. During christmas vacation, with cookies fucking every where (and my girlfriends parents always offering me sweets when I come over and I can’t be rude and refuse right?) I just go to town on cookies. I eat them all. ALL THE COOKIES!!
As for the second vice, I shockingly never got too drunk over the last couple weeks. I had to do a lot of driving so I was never more than buzzed. However, when you start drinking at 2 or 3 in the afternoon and go to bed well after midnight, one can still drink a lot of beers without any college style “pounding” of them.
My point here is that one week of vacation is genial indulgence. Two weeks is gluttony. And now I have a belly and my new skinny pants are very tight. It almost makes me want to eat a cookie as comfort food. Instead I will try to motivate myself to get on the treadmill today (because it is fucking 19 degrees in DC so outside running is out).
The End?
Hey check out my run! Because I know you care so much.
I headed down to the Mall today to do a little running. I ended up at 3.75 miles. However, I felt pretty damn good during the run and even at the end. I had to say to myself, Self, better stop now.
See, a couple months ago I was running over four miles. I peaked at 5.83 miles (give or take a bit). Then, my leg started to hurt. Not just the usual aches and pains, but the bone.
Because I am a doctor (a juris doctor anyway) and I have access to the internet, I set about diagnosing myself. My worst fear was that I had caused a stress fracture in the tibia. I decided the best course of action was to take a month off.
Which sucked. I had been running since my girlfriend has started studying for the bar. Mostly as a good excuse to get out of the den of crazy for a bit (hehehehe, love you babe! And you passed! so it was all worth it). And, surprisingly, for someone as sloth-like as me, it grew on me. For who could ever learn to love to run? Other than lots of people. I started off getting winded after a minute. I did the run/walk/run/walk thing for a few weeks. And despite my fatness, I was in decent cardiovascular health thanks to playing hockey once a week for two years. Not good health, but decent.
After a month, I tried running again. Unshockingly, it sucked. I made it about two miles and my bone still hurt. I took another week off and fell into deep, deep thought. I tried again, running real slow, for about a mile and a half. I then realized that my calves were killing me. Like one minute in my calves started to get all tight. I thought to myself that this can’t be right. I am borderline obsessive about stretching. And because I am a doctor, I went back to the internet to determine the cure.
All the other non-doctors on the message boards I pulled up had the same solution—The Stick. I used the power of my doctor approved (by the ABA, and certified by Illinois) thoughts to deduce that these random message board people were clearly correct. And so it came to be, that I purchased a The Stick.
You can learn about the stick The Stick yourself (this video is helpful), but when I rolled it up and down my calves I discovered something I had no idea was there. Kinda like Columbus, but I am not a dickhead. Iin my calves I found several knots. Like big knots. Two in each calf, running horizontally down the leg. Wow, I thought, this is surely putting extra strain on the leg bones and is likely what is causing my bone pain. However shall I remedy this relatively common ailment?
I should have realized that my calves were much more sore than they should be. When I first started running, they would get a little sore, but be fine the next day. As time went on, they got worse and worse, to the point where I was hobbling around after running and the next day. I may be a doctor, but like that other famous (and fictitious) non-medical doctor Frasier Crane, I was unable to see my own flaws. On the plus side, no stress fracture.
Ahhh massage. That seemed to be the only solution. My sister is a part-time massuesse, but she is all the way in Indonesia. Last time she was state-side, she massaged my girlfriend a bit and taught me how to do it, which provided my girlfriend great relief on certain muscles (at least when my sister did it). I figured if massage can help a muscle under the boob (kinda), then it had to be perfect for calves.
Raise your hand if you have ever had a massage therapist feel around your knots and say, “Oh Boy.” After that first session, I bought a package of five more. I have to say, that after three sessions the results have been great. The knots are not quite gone yet, but a lot of the soreness is. I can run a couple miles before I even feel any pain in my calves.
So that is why I had to stop even though I wanted to keep going. Cannot overdo it again. I signed up for a half-marathon in May. Down in Cincinnati. The Flying Pig. Hey, I spent 7 years of my life in southwest Ohio. Seems fitting to return to the place that taught me to drink and eat Great Steak and Potato three times a week to enjoy my 3/10ths life fitness renaissance.
Bloodlust
I continually insist that to my girlfriend that she has a bloodlust. I just went to go make my lunch and clean up the kitchen. She started watching Walking Dead. This is the gchats I had when I got back:
GF: THE BLOODS!!!!
and ZOMBIES!
Sent at 10:03 PM on Sunday
GF: OMFG
SOMEONE IS GONNA DIE!
Sent at 10:08 PM on Sunday
GF: SO MANY ZOMBIES!
Sent at 10:10 PM on Sunday
GF: the first few min of season 2 is SO bad ass
Sent at 10:13 PM on Sunday
GF: OMFG
a woman STABBED A ZOMBIE IN THE EYE WITH A SCREWDRIVER!
christ
Sent at 10:24 PM on Sunday
GF: STABBED IN THE EYE!!!!
Sent at 10:25 PM on Sunday
GF: omg kid dont do it!!!
hes a zombie!!!
he will eat you!
She loves it. This is why she loves hockey. This is why she love Spartacus. She has a bloodlust. It’s cute (at least when I am not the one bleeding).
Dreaming and drifting
I wrote this into a blank e-mail at 7:18am Sunday morning: “My dreams have gotten weird. Just woke up from floating down the potomac with my gf, don draper and joe posnanski”
Most of the details have now fled my brain, but thanks to the foresight to write it down, I remember some (unlike the crazy dream I had later that sunday morning, when I thought to myself “I should write that one down too. Naah, it was so fucked up I will remember.” Remember kids, you will never remember.)
My girlfriend was on the boat because, well I think about her all the time. She is back in Chicago now, so I miss her tremendously. Stands to reason that she would join me on my dream boat with a fictional character and a sportswriter. However, she did not really do much in the dream. She just kinda looked at me, with a raised eyebrow, as if to ask, “seriously, you are dreaming about a sportswriter and a fictional character. What am I gonna do with you?” She says that latter part often.
Joe posnanski is a sportswriter, formerly of the kansas city star, now with SI, and always with the internet. His blog posts are long and interesting, even if many of them contain the argument “He is great, but not really great, great you know? (See, Jeter, Derek; Verlander, Justin).”. I always enjoy and dread seeing a new post of his show up in my reader. I know it will be interesting, even when the topic appears to be drab, but the real question is, will it take me five or twenty minutes to read and how much time will I spend googling thoughts I have that were sparked by the article.
I cannot say specifically why Joe showed up in the dream. He hasn’t been blogging so much lately, so it might be that I missed him (theme boat?), or maybe that he recently wrote a long piece on the tragicomedy history of the Cubs. Or maybe it was guilt that I was not watching more baseball playoffs (it has gotten slow and boring in my old and ADD’d age) and it manifested as the likeness of Joe.
After sitting around on the boat for a bit, joe decided to take the road less traveled, as he was talking very philosophically at the time (about something important no doubt. Probably xFIP). So he got onto a second, either very well hidden or magical boat, and began rowing upstream with one of them long poles rather than an oar. As he poled the punt upstream, setting sun at his back, he called out “Sometimes the answers are upstream.” Profound.
Don Draper was on the boat because on saturday I watched the second half of the first season of mad men. Just a marathon of Mad Men. Which was quite enjoyable. But 7 hours of intense character development exposure is bound to affect the psyche. So there was Don, heading down the river with me (as for the Potomac, I suspect it was there, not just because I cross it every workday, but a week before I walked around Arlington National Cemetery for three hours. The view from Robert E Lee’s of the DC area is spectacular, and the Potomac is prominently featured). Don was relaxed and unaffected by the secrets he carries just below the surface. Once I realized he was starting to charm me, I made my girlfriend magically disappear from my dream. I will be damned if I am gonna allow some amoral fictional character to seduce my woman in my dreams.
After Joe went upstream to ponder life’s mysteries and look at things from a new perspective, the boat split in two. Don, left on nothing more than a plank decided to continue to float down the Potomac, cattail in his mouth, laying on his back, hands behind his head, as though he were a Mark Twain character without a care in the world. The plank started to sink and the last I saw him, he remained laying down, smile on his face, drowning without even realizing it.
That left just me on a third (or maybe the original?) boat, but now with a straw. I had been told the water in the potomac was ok to drink, you just had to get the water from the bottom. So I stuck my new found straw into the water, contemplated for a moment, then started sucking.
How About these apples
Yesterday, I twittered that the 20th best thing about apples was that they remind me to floss. Here is the top 19:
19. Trader Joe’s Apple Crushers
18. The crunch
17. Apple Crisp (the one thing I can bake)
16. Hitting an Apple with a Baseball Bat
15. Oregon Trail (on an Apple IIe of course)
14. Peeling off the sticker
13. Picking your own apples from an orchard
12. The Shape
11. Taste
10. The fact that if you accidentally eat an appleseed, you will die
9. The Hope/Fear that you will discover a worm in the middle (yeah, its gross)
8. Sticking the sticker on some random person/body part
7. iPods, iPads, and iTunes!
6. American was built on apples. Eating them is patriotic
5. The names: Granny Smith, Golden Delicious, Gala, seriously, there is like a freaking million
4. Seriously, there is a Cox’s Orange Pippin Apple
3. Twirling the stem off to determine the first letter of the name of the person you will marry
2. Holding your tongue and trying to say “Apple”
1. Shining the apple on your shirt
Far Behind On Book Reviews
Hmmm, It looks like it has been nearly 5 months since my last set of book reviews. Not that Anyone reads this site anymore, but lets get caught up:
The Brothers K—David James Duncan—Yeah. This book is fucking awesome. I guess it might be a take off of The Brothers Karamazov, but with baseball, but I never read that book. And this book is good. Long, but good. My only gripe with this book is the whole, oh the Vietnam War has defined my identity even though I never fought in it and it is this whole big thing that is important to me and I am using my book to explain after the fact all my greatly reasoned oppositions to it. I know people oppossed it. I know it was a stupid war. Lets just spend less than 200 pages on that from now on. Kaithanxgoodbye. (Still, Awesome book. I am sure my generation is gonna write a ton a shit about 9/11 and Iraqs and Afghanistan. Well, a shit ton more than we have. Yeah, get ready for more).
The Night of the Gun—David Carr—Do you ever wonder if the subject of an Intervention episode could wax poetic for 10,000 words? If so, this is the book for you. No one denies Carr’s talent to write, he is at the NYTimes, except for maybe Carr looking back at his own drug addled life in Minnesota. Dude can write. Dude stayed flush for 10 years because he could write despite being strung out all the time. This seems important to me. Where does the drug addict get his money? He talks about it a bit, mostly in that “Editor X said I was talented and worth the bullshit; for a while.” More on this would have been nice. Also, the second half of this book is the redemption song, which has its dark and interesting moments, but gets a little annoying after a while.
The Game—Ken Dryden—HOCKEY!!! So this gets my #1 thumbs up total recommendation. But hey, Dryden was a phenom, retired at 33, and ended up in Canadian Parliament for a couple of years. And he lets you into his head for a couple weeks. More complicated than the regular hockey player (eat, hit, score, score with chick, sleep), his insight in playing in the 70s is awesome. Unfortunately, it falls into the fallacy we see today, Gut v. Stat Geeks. Dryden writes from the Gut. Guys play how they feel. We are sluggish some days, and on those days, sometimes get the win, sometimes not. A strawman Stat Guy says they play the same all the time. The Canadiens of the 70s were fucking awesome. They should have won. Dryden explains this. Dryden goes into the crazy ass draft rules that helped the Canadians. Dryden talks about how Scotty Bowman coached the team (something I have always been interested in). This is a look at hockey theory, psychology, and the personal and physical strain you just cant get elsewhere. Sure it’s 30 years old now, but in getting into the day to day grind, it’s amazing. Even better than the Bullpen Gospels (maybe just because Dryden is a lawyer(!) and a goalie who can spend all his time observing (note—I do not think him being a lawyer has anything to do with anything. Just nice to see) he sees something else. I dont know. But I like it).
Fight Club—Chuck Palahniuk—It is Fight Club. What can I add? Knowing the ending from the movie sucked. When I finished this book, I excitedly texted my girlfriend that I actually finished a book within a day. That is right, Read in Under 24 Hours. Her response? ”HAHAHAHAH, that book is like 150 pages with HUUUGE Type. Way to go.” I think her way to go was sarcastic. Whatever, I started the slow reading machine, and I read this book in less than a day. If I was in a reading fantasy league with handicaps (like golf), I would have Thrown for 450 yards, 4 TDs, rushed for 50 yds and 2 TDs and caught a TD pass from a quasi-Wildcat formation. I Owned That Day.
The Postmortal—Drew Magary—You may know Drew from his funbags and Jambaroo at Deadspin and his posts at KSK and elsewhere on these here internets. This is a SERIOUS novel, where actions have CONSEQUENCES (well, occassionally, considering the premise of the book is that no one can die, kinda). It was entertaining, but I do not think I will spend the next five years searching for a nonexistent deeper meaning like I did with The Long Walk (but to be fair, I was 15).
Front Porch Prophet—Raymond Atkins—Barnes and Noble offered this book for free a few months ago. I like free stuff, so I got it. And a couple months later I read it. Like I started it, and a couple days later I had finished it. Do you understand? This was a free book. That I read. All of. Without coercion. There are much worse books out there. This one is interesting and engaging with lively characters and fun situations. No one is gonna confuse this with Mark Twain’s books (particularly me, I do not think I have ever finished a Mark Twain Book)
Football Outsiders Almanac—Schatz & Co.—This book is the reason I am dominating my fantasy league. And getting destroyed in another (but hey injuries and shitty Mike Williams (TB)). Actually, I bought their KUBIAK projections (what they expect players to do based on a baseline for points expected over the average at that position), and it rules. I also bought this book, it does not really help with fantasy but it will make you super smart about football. And it will make you hate all the talking heads on ESPN who talk in platitudes, rather than actually breaking down why, for example, a particular teams offense will play well against a particular teams defense because they can pick up the blitz, or run seam routes, or the defense’s inside linebackers are terrible against the pass, or the the defense’s free safety tends to bite on the play action, or the QB is overvalued because last year the defense should have intercepted 10 passes that they dropped, etc, etc, etc. Seriously, it totally beats “This Guy, NOW THIS GUY, is a Football PLAYER in the NATIONAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE” /rant.
Assholes Finish First—Tucker Max—A lot of this I think I read on his website, or maybe his message board. That was annoying. However, the anchor story is the hilarious tale of how he got pulled over in an RV in Harlem. Like the best of his stories, he comes off as the butt of the joke, who somehow emerges unscathed. This story takes up about 1/4th of the book (I think? probably not. Its long as shit though. And funny as fuck. FYI Fuck>Shit). Its not as straight through hilarious as the first book, but if you like the first one you will like this one.
Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother—Amy Chua—In terms of Lifetime achievements, I think that the eldest daughter of Amy Chua, Sophia, following me on twitter is right up there with Matt Ufford linking my old blog on the KSK football/sex mailbag. Both are great accomplishments that have nothing to do with either of them knowing anything about me. Anyway, if you want to learn how to raise a musical prodigy this is the book for you. To me, there is way to much emphasis on the music in her kids life and not the other stuff. Why music? Why not science or math or alchemy or whiskey aging? The beginning touches on the importance of music, but I am still left with questions. Regardless, the lessons imparted are valuable if separated from the subject. The hidden truth here is that this is a mother that is invovled in her child’s life. She stood there for the entire music lesson. Everyday. For Five hours (when there were two kids). People I know get annoyed when they have to drive 20 minutes to drop the kid off. At the least, this book proves the correlation between involvement in the child’s life and possible success the child can achieve. At the most, it is an insightful discussion into a method of raising your kids that you may not have considered, but should fold certain facets of into your own experience.
Moonwalking with Einstein—Josh Foer—If I met you at a party, and you were of the type that tried to remember all the names of the people you meet, you would likely associate my face and name with a great big bug. That way, whenever we met in the future, you would recall that mnemonic, think of a great big bug, instantly recall my name, and duly impress me, which would undoubtedly result in me showering you with riches. But remembering names makes up a small part of this book that discuss Memory. The meat of the story is the author’s quest to become the American Memory Champ in one year (which sadly, if successful, ranks him about 800th in the world), but there are useful discussions of memory tactics, memory history, sad de-empahsis on memorization for kids these days, and entertaining asides about drinking. I finished this book in three days. That, is the highest praise I can bestow upon a book.
That’s it. Note to publishers: If you are gonna make a Kindle version of a book, go ahead and make a Nook version of it too. I would be appreciative and show you how appreciative by giving you my money. Thanks.
Random halloween memory
When I was in second or third or fourth grade, no clue which, but one of those awesome grades where you did crap like dress up for halloween and have parties for Pulaski Day, I dressed as a soccer player for halloween. I wore my awesomely creative costume to school for the big halloween party (I think someone else was a soccer player as well).
However, something traumatic happened at this school-sanctioned halloween party. Some bitchy blonde hussy made the snide comment to me that my costume was, and I quote for maximum painful transmission through blog post, “really stupid.”
Maybe it was because I knew deep down that my costume was actually “really stupid,” but I think I may have actually cried. I was a sensitive kid. Back then I still had lots of emotions. Of course this bitchy blonde hussy never told the other kid dressed as a soccer player that his costume was “really stupid.” Clearly, I did not wear it better.
So I went home after school, likely still all blubbery, and red in the face, with a runny nose, and blurted out through tears to my mom that I did not want to be a soccer player anymore. My mom, always looking out for her #1 son, probably told me to suck it up (haha, yeah right). Later I met up with my best friend and neighbor and told her mom that I did not want to be a soccer player. I probably cried then too. Because I was not yet a man.
Thankfully, my best friend had an older brother who had been playing hockey. And so it was, that on that fateful halloween I was able to trick or treat that night as a hockey player, in all sorts of pads and coverings and sweaters, rather than a lame soccer player, in a t-shirt and shorts.
So thank you bitchy blonde hussy, for making me cry like a little sissy girl that day, because now I love hockey and am deeply apathetic towards soccer (even the world cup). And without you, I would have remained a soccer loving pussy.
Weird, but not really
It is weird, but not really, how different activities require different muscles. Now, obviously such disparate activities such as eating and kicking a soccer ball clearly require different muscles (unless you are this guy*). But take two primarily lower body activities. Like jogging and ice skating.
I went for a four mile run yesterday** and of course I woke up completely sore from head waist to toe. Specifically sore in my calves. I was hobbling like Burt Bacharach.*** Then tonight, I played hockey. My quads were sore, but werent too bad. However, I did not even notice my calves. They apparently are not used in hockey (which I knew, but whatever). Hockey is more side to side than straight/up and down. Or whatever.
Anyway, my girlfriend has gone to Greece. So I might tumblr more. Clearly I am out of practice. That is all.****
*I wrote this before I found the linked video because I knew there would a video on youtube completing the joke. Also, my fifteen seconds of searching on youtube left me extremely disappointed in the quality of eat with feet videos. Step it up internet.
**Brag, Brag, Brag
***I do not know why I am being mean to Burt Bacharach. Just seems like it would be the name of an old dude that hobbles. I suppose Murray would work as well.
****except for all the footnotes. Now th-th-th-that’s all folks!
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