the coolest kid on campus

Monday - the first day of my senior year of college. I flounced across the dewy academic quad in my new dress, backpack stocked with new pens, waving excitedly at all my old college chums I hadn't seen since my semester in New Zealand. (Okay, that last sentence is a lie. I didn't actually see anybody I knew. Somehow 80% of the student body look like freshmen this year. But so do I, so that's not saying much.)

I hurried into the grand old stone castle of the humanities departments to be a fashionable 5 minutes early for my poetry class. I sat down on a bench next to a dumpy girl in sweatpants and glasses.

"Are you here for Spanish class?" she asked.

I glanced at her and shook my head. Why was she waiting outside of the classroom for modernist poetry? Weirdo. A student walked into the room and I jumped up to catch the door before it shut.

I sat down at a chair in the middle of the room and looked around. I knew a couple people there. My roommate Libby was supposed to be in this class, but she wasn't there yet. More kids filtered in. A couple political science majors. A girl who'd once thrown up on the cross-country team's couch. A kid in a flat-brimmed hat. The dumpy girl from the bench. Where were the ironic square-framed glasses? Where were the leather messenger bags? This was all wrong.

I opened my planner. The numbers didn't jive with the numbers on the door. As quietly as I could, I shut the planner and slid it into my bag. Then I snuck out the door and hurried upstairs into the loving arms of my fellow English students.

I never found out if it was a Spanish class or not.

Coming back to campus is a bit of a shock, mostly because everything has shifted about five feet from from where it used to be: the printers in the library, professor's offices, the dressing at the salad bar. There's an entirely new gym and fitness facility, so I never know exactly where the exercise machines are or how to use them correctly. The English faculty's gotten rid of a bunch of old people and brought in a bunch of new ones. And the library's been reorganized yet again to help people locate numbers in order on a shelf.

Sometimes I find myself wandering around lost trying to remember my mailbox combination, and then some nice person intervenes to ask me how I'm liking my first semester of college.

Very much, thanks.

Besides being a poorly-adjusted upperclassman, I'm also kind of busy. I've got a senior project to work on (details pending), cross country practice every day, a whole bunch of photography supplies to buy, and a digestive system that's still adjusting to the cafeteria food.

Luckily, I found this blog to distract me.

I love this ice-cream-headed man so much I might set him as my desktop background. Or marry him, because what says romance better than an edible face?

Also coming soon - a compendium of Coach Rice quotes and pictures of tie-dye shirts.

Preview: "You all look like you've got tar on your shoes right now. But by the end of the season, you'll be so fast you won't believe it. You know what? I'm going to dip all your shoes in tar and see if it comes off at the end of the season. Right in time for the Conference Championship. Heh, heh."

weekend gravel grind

Oof. I rode back to Owhiro Bay and the Red Rocks reserve this afternoon. 20 miles feels like a really big day. I've got quite a ways to go before I'm ready for SSUSA in July. At least I got to see some a fur seal rubbing itself on a rock for ten minutes.

Thank goodness I live in the land of unlimited adorable sweets. When I rolled back into the city, I rewarded my lack of fitness with some treats from Martha's Pantry, an adorable tea room on Cuba Street. Take a peek at the Google page, you won't regret it. 

It's probably a good thing I'm only in New Zealand for a few months. These dietary habits should really only happen once in a lifetime. 

I have a problem

Lululemon sponsored a gelato eating contest. To create fat people who will join their fitness club?

The first step to kicking a habit is realizing that you have one.

I know this because I've been reading Irvine Welsh's novel Trainspotting, about a Scottish guy with a heroin addiction. It's a pretty sharp, crass comment on punk society and social standards, etc, etc.

Reading this book made me realize that I too have an addiction.  To ice cream.

I think this obsession came from the insanely hot summer we just had. Since every deadly-humid day topped off at 90º, I stopped wanting to eat anything warm. Hell, I didn't even want to eat solid food. When I'd finish my 7 a.m. run delirious and drenched in sweat, all I wanted to do was lay in a tub of ice. Then I'd yank open the freezer and consume frozen grapes like a vacuum.

Naturally I gravitated toward ice cream as a day-closer. Eating ice cream helped me visualize a time when it wouldn't be a blistering three million degrees in the shade.

Caught in the middle of a violent relapse in Boulder.

During cross country season, the weather finally did cool off. I cut back on my sugary fat consumption a little bit. I'm pretty sure ice cream doesn't necessarily make you faster. And I didn't want to end up like the girl who sits alone on a couch in the student center nomming on a pint of Ben & Jerry's with a plastic spoon.

Now that I'm not in competition mode, I've relaxed on the nutrition a bit. And once finals came in full swing, I bought my own pint of Ben & Jerry's. And then I started slipping myself little bits of ice cream after dinner. And today I ate a whole container of vanilla ice cream while "studying" for an exam.

I've fed my ice cream addiction like you'd feed a stray animal - secretl,y behind the shed in your backyard. And then it gets bold. It sneaks into your house and makes a nest in your pantry. It hisses at you when you try to cook noodles.

My ice cream addiction is living in my pantry. And I want it out.

I've realized that running on the morning after a dairy binge is not fun. Neither is not fitting into my pants. I've even been cranking out extra miles these days to make up for all the nomming. Cringe.

Then I saw the above Lululemon ad in an issue of Runner's World, and it made me think. Should I really be running for ice cream? Aren't there better things to run for? Like records and medals... or charities.. or breast cancer?

If I really wanted to do something for ice cream, I'd start training for an ice cream marathon instead. (Record for 1 gallon, 9 oz vanilla: 12 minutes, Cookie Jarvis).

So my last exam is tomorrow. Then goodbye, ice cream animal. Please stop hissing at me.