I'll try anything. I'll try a triathlon!

Last Friday night I decided I would begin training for my first triathlon. I’m really excited. I feel like I should be really nervous, but I’m really not.  Earlier at the gym, I told someone I was nervous – in fact, I said it twice. But about 20 minutes later, I realized that nerves turn into adrenaline and energy. I’m actually extremely happy about my decision.

First, some background - I always wanted to compete in a triathlon. Here’s why: When I was in my late teens, working at the YMCA behind the front desk with a gaggle of geese and geeks who made up my social circle, I met several members who trained for triathlons. Members trained for marathons and other competitive events all the time. They would be in line for the pool at the crack of dawn and usually finishing one last rep in the weight room as we were turning off the lights. They were dedicated. They looked absolutely gross. They sweat, and they smelled foul. But they won. They beat personal bests day after day, running farther, running faster, swimming longer. It was awesome to hear stories of their races in other states.  I was genuinely happy for them and for their successes.

But they are not my inspiration. My inspiration is one guy we’ll call Dude. I don’t remember his name – I can’t even say I ever knew his name – but Dude was actually really cool. He spoke to the front desk staff like we were his friends. He spent just as much time at the gym as we did, but he did it for free. I mean I love the YMCA, but I don’t want to hang out there.

Dude announced to all of us that he was training for a triathlon. We all encouraged him. Okay, not really. He was just another member trying to make conversation about his fitness goals, you know those people who put it out into the universe for some sense of accountability. (Yes, I see feel the irony draping around me like a Snuggie.)

Anyway, one day after his workout, he walked up to the front desk at the same time that Domino’s pizza showed up at the front door. Apparently, he was STARVING. He set the pizza down on the counter and attacked it.  Naïve as I was, I thought: He will most certainly share with me. No, he did not. In face, he ate the whole pizza in a matter of minutes. I watched him in awe. I could not believe my new hero was standing right in front of me.

I think the conversation went something like this…

Me: “Dude, that was AWESOME. You killed that pizza.”

Dude: “Dude, I can eat anything I want now. I’m burning so many calories working out, I’m actually LOSING weight.”

Me: “Dude, no way?! Are you serious?!”

Dude: “Dude, yes. The other day I ate a whole box of cereal after a workout. Didn’t gain a pound.”

Wow. Yes. Now. Sign. Me. Up!

And that’s why I want to do a triathlon. Seriously. Fat, selfish reasoning in three separate sports tied up into one fun race.

Believe it or not, I enjoy working out and exercising – quite a bit. If you remember my last post, you’ll recall that I don’t enjoy being rushed and feeling tired, both side effects of spending time beating your body, but the physical activity I enjoy.  I am looking forward to the training and to setting some goals and reaching those goals.

I have nine weeks to prepare. I am little fearful of the bike, but some experienced cyclists have agreed to help me.  My doctor – the best in town – has agreed to help me in the weeks leading up to the race.  I have actually been cheating on my self-imposed January OFF month by running a few miles here and there. (I am doing a run this Saturday, so I figured I would warm up the legs.)

I’m not sure if I’ll post more about this race, or the training. I don’t want to be redundant. But if I get through the next two months successfully, you can find me at B&J’s Pizza on the afternoon of March 30^th.

Just don’t ask me to share my pie.

I quit caffeine.

Today makes seven complete days without caffeine. I know – I think I am insane, too. But I have my reason. Yes, only one.

I decided to quit caffeine because I want my skin to look hydrated. Now, I am sure you are either rolling your eyes or thinking I am ultra gay, but I’m completely serious.  I stopped drinking caffeine and replaced almost every beverage this week with WATER.  I splurged on two 7-Ups and one root beer. I also tried a Passion Tea from Starbucks, which tasted like decaffeinated, pink sugar water. Other than that, I only drank good old H2O.

I love my skin, but I’m almost 40. I’m farther away from it than some of my friends (HA!), but I’ll be there in less than three seasons of “Dancing with the Stars,” so all of my anti-aging efforts have recently kicked into overdrive.  I purchased some extremely expensive eye cream – which I LOVE – and I have started a face cleansing-moisturizing-protecting regimen, which I now follow daily. I used to wash my face and that seemed to be enough. Now, I’m not so sure.

So where does nixing the caffeine factor here? Well, here’s my logic: When I was in my late teens I worked as bank teller. It was a great job. It remains the easiest thing I have ever done, and the hours proved few and very fun. I worked with a girl named “Kelly” who drank about three full gallons of water a day. She would fill up her gallon mug from the Texas Star convenience store three times during the day with water.  She would say that water was the only thing she would drink. She would brag that the doctor would tell her that her skin “was the healthiest and most hydrated skin he had ever seen.”

And it was. Her skin looked like milk. Her skin was so flawless; her pores were so invisible – her skin actually looked plump. I would get really close to her face and I would examine it all the time. No blemishes. No Rosacea. No wrinkles.

At first, I did not believe that she only drank water – but every teller on the line confirmed it: She was really a camel.

I always remember Kelly because I enjoyed being her co-worker very much. I remembered her skin last week and just like that, I became a Water Baby Omar.

The first two days were easy. Advice and tips flooded my Facebook Inbox when I announced my strategy online.  Days three and four pounded my head with ferociously painful withdrawal headaches.  Days five, six and seven I hardly remember because I usually fell asleep by, oh, six o’clock in the evening.

I gave myself one week to make it. I told myself that if I could make it one solid week, I would keep at it. I only wanted to cave once. Last night I put on a tuxedo and hopped over the Junior League’s Fairy Tale Ball. I drank alcohol.  A lot of it.  And I almost allowed myself to caffeinate for the evening. I admit – I have been sluggish all week, and my co-workers have told me that I have also been grouchy, blunt and near mean.

But I did not give up! I drank alcohol with water. No caffeine. Not even this morning during the nursing phase of the hangover! I felt so good when I realized that I had reached Day Seven, I thought, “I bet I could quit sugar, too!”

Then I came to delayed, decaffeinated senses.

January is spelled OFF.

I decided to take January OFF in terms of any kind of exercise and I have learned the following things:

1. I was always in pain.
2. I was always miserably tired and jacked up on caffeine.
3. I miss my working out friends.
4. Since I've stopped, I've lost about 7 lbs. 5. I'm ready for February to come back because the lack of discipline in my life is rather annoying.

 About two years ago, I started running pretty seriously. I fell in love with it. I became obsessed with it. I ran any free minute of the day: morning, lunch, evening, late at night. (Late at night, I always ran across the street from the cemetery...not on the sidewalk that bordered it.) I felt great. I looked great. But I also realized the change I felt existed completely INSIDE of me. I looked great, but I really looked exactly the same. I felt great, but I only lost about ten pounds over the course of a year – if that. 

The funny thing about running is that just one day of it improves me completely. After a long break, it’s tough to get back. It is. But then the first time I really hit the street for a few miles, my body instantly responds. I become more flexible. I sleep better. I am happier. My pants fit (better). Today I was tempted to run. I was home early enough. I cooked dinner early enough. I had all the fixings of a great workout, but I made myself stay home. I forced the time off because as much as I miss the physical benefits and the “good” that routine does for my soul, I know that running also takes over my life.

 I know that I will always be on the run, so to speak. I will be packing socks and shoes and shorts and shirts into my work satchel – the one that’s meant for work.

I will be a slave to a strict eating schedule to make sure I can run the minute I am free. I will add headphones and music to my OCD list of things I check before I leave the house: keys, phone #1, phone #2, dog in, doors locked – it goes on and on… I will always be cracking some joint on my body, anywhere and everywhere the mood strikes me. I release my hip in the hallways. I crack my neck in line at Jason’s Deli. I pop my back in the Barbie section of Wal-Mart. (Don’t ask.)

 I know it will be my life again soon, and I am very grateful for it. I thank God everyday that my body still works. I am big guy. Big. And my knees are fine. My feet are fine. My vision and hearing are fine. I’m not sure if I’ll make it to February. I bought the adult equivalent of Zips the other day. I’m itching to use them.

 Until the running muse returns, I’ll keep loafing around, reading, heading to bed early and eating in the middle of the night. There’s something to be said about waking up at 7 a.m., hours after my typical run would have started. I guess the thing to be said is this: As much as I love running, this break ain’t bad at all.