Health and Fitness Writing

Solamente necesito un kebab de doner...

2008-03-10T15:25:00.000-07:00

There’s nothing like a weekend trip in a foreign country to teach you a few things about yourself.

Mom, I hope you’re happy.

You’ve successfully done it.

The nervous twitch, the obsessive mental list-making, the excessive allowance of extra time, the compulsive desire to check my ticket, then re-check it, then take it to the ticket booth and show it to the man at the counter just to see him nod in approval. Well actually he just looked at me as if to say, “That’s great honey, but this line is for people that still need tickets…so MOVE!”

You just never can be too sure.

Hannah, my roommate, might argue that one with me. “Tranquila, Jessie”

Logistically speaking, our trip was a paranoid traveler’s nightmare. Not only did we take a plane from Valencia to Sevilla, thus making it necessary to get to the airport by metro (and honestly, who can feel confident about the metro. Things happen. Haven’t you been on that earthquake ride at Universal Studios?), but then we took our first bus of the trip from Sevilla to Granada. Our bus left at 8 a.m., meaning a very alert me felt the need to start speedwalking toward the station at 7 on the dot. Not even the Starkbucks (yes, there are Starbucks in Spain) are open at 7. No people = no possibility of asking for directions = minor panic attack. Once in Granada, we decided to top off our transportation sampler platter by taking a train back to Valencia. This is where I stood in the ticket line to play a game of show and tell with the not-so-enthused ticket man. Lo siento for being seguro.

After our adventure by plane, train and automobile, I feel as though I’ve picked up some traveling street-smarts. For instance, I now know that only couples travel by bus. Everyone seemed to get the “bring-your-significant-other” memo but me, Hannah and one random Spanish man. Had there been two random Spanish men, perhaps we could have worked something out…

Another new-found fact: all three forms of transportation are equally uncomfortable. That said, I continued to prove my roommates’ long-time suspicion that I can sleep anywhere. Siesta on plane: 1 hour. Bus: 2 hours. And drum roll please…my snooze on the overnight train home: 7 horas. Not only that, but I conked out in spite of the creepy man sitting behind me with his shirt off and white-socked feet propped on my seat and nearly resting on my head. No shirt, no shoes, and in my delirious state at the end our journey—no problem.

A final revelation—despite my paranoia, planning does not always prevent getting lost and/or forgetting something. In the case of our trip, it prevented neither.

This first truth dawned on Hannah and me at the bus station in Granada. Our bus rolled into Granada and pulled into the station. We got off, stopped by el baño, walked out of the station and...stood. Frozen. Silent and slowly turning our heads as if some giant hand was going to drop out of the sky and declare “Your hostel this way!”

That didn’t happen.

Instead, we looked at each other with identical faces of bewilderment and then doubled over in sobs of laughter.

The second verification of this fact came when we got ready to take much-needed showers after a day of touring in Sevilla, then realized we didn’t have towels. Minor detail. True, there were alternatives, such as renting a towel for 3 euros. It may not sound like a lot, but 3 euros can go far in a pasteleria (bakery). Thus, I fully intended to embrace my griminess. For those of you doing the math right now…yes three days of traveling without showers=smelly. But thanks to Hannah’s wooing abilities, she finagled a towel for free at our hostel in Granada, and I took the best shower since coming to Spain. Hannah also deserves thanks for remembering shower shoes, another item I forgot and had to borrow. No me gusta fungus.

As riveting as our journey probably sounds at this point, I feel it necessary to note that we did more than take public transportation. We had cathedrals to see and palaces to go to and in general jam-packed days. There are a few milestones that stand out in my mind.

Doner Kebabs. Doner Kebabs are Whopper of Spain (technically I think they are a Middle Eastern food). In just about every city I’ve visited so far, you can smell the meaty, greesy goodness of Doner Kebabs wafting from one of dozens of small little shops with German lettering. Sometimes I feel myself getting fatter from the smell alone. Inside these shops, a less than appetizing slab of meat roasts on a rotating spike much like gyro meat, only it’s not lamb. Might be chicken. Reminds me a bit of meatloaf-on-a-stick. I prefer to believe it’s chicken.

Once tenderness has reached its prime, a man shaves the kebab causing tantalizing morsels of mystery meat to rain down on a plate below. Add tomato, lettuce, onion, secret sauce, pita bread and Viola!—you have a Doner Kebab. Take a few bites and you also quite possibly have clogged arteries. Eat two kebabs in one weekend like I did in Granada and then you’re looking at heart attack. In fact, I’m lucky to be alive right now because not only did I eat two kebabs in one weekend, but in the same sitting I gorged myself on lemon and chocolate cookies, potato chips, diet coke and fruit (health first). This binge session left us in a kebab-ified stupor that took a few hours of lounging in the sun to shake off...Needless to say, I’d do it again. I’d eat three. Death by Doner would not be a bad way to go.

Perhaps just as memorable as our Doner Kebab feast was Elious, the Serbian chef/waiter of Doner Kebabs. Somehow he left a lasting impression, and I don’t just mean the linger of his lips on my cheek after he greeted us with besitos. Nor am I talking about the imprint of his finger on my forehead after he outlined the words “Los Estados Unidos” to make the point that I look unavoidably American. No, it was his answer to a question I ask almost every shopkeeper I meet that I will never forget.

“Which is the best, in your opinion?” I asked of the various kebab options.

“Well,” he started, “the one with chicken, lettuce, tomato and…mi corazon (my heart).”

My response—“Huh, didn’t see that one on the menu.”

He didn’t stop there with the unexpected answers. The typically safe, “How was your day?” question elicited a 10-minute monologue about his education background and future academic goals. Elious is working on his Masters in geography. I have no idea how his day was.

Those two responses alone where enough to win Elious a permant spot in my memory, but he didn’t stop there. In fact, he was just getting started. Warming up his vocal chords one could say. Why? All the better to serenade me with.

I don’t remember how it started, but suddenly Elious is looking into my eyes and singing sweet nothings about, well, my eyes.

“I can see into your eyes,” he crooned off-key and in a thick Serbian accent. That’s about all I understood before he lapsed into bad a Spanish/Serbian/unidentifiable language combination.

Unfortunately for Elious, I only had eyes for one thing during his serenade—my already-packaged Doner Kebab. He sang; I stared longingly at the plastic bag dangling from his hand. Apparently I did a poor job of masking my lustful desire, because every once and a while, Elious would pause in his serenade as if finished and hold out the kebab in offering. The moment I reached out my hand to receive, he’d pull the kebab back across the counter and continue his solo; a new meaning to the term playing hard to get. After about four of these faked finales, Elious must have seen not just my eyes but the crazed look of hunger, because he finally ended his song and handed over my dinner.

“Good luck with life, with love, with school, with me,” he yelled after us as we made quick get away.

Oh poor Elious…you’ll need more than luck in love if you continue to ransom the dinner of starving girls.

Elious was the only tone-deaf foreigner to serenade us that weekend, but we did meet a few rythimically-challenged Italians with whom, you guessed it, we danced the night away…terribly.

Meet Davida and Fabrizio…two petite Italians (Italian men make me feel gigantic) who were staying in our hostel. We met over paella on the roof and bonded over stories of me crashing into cars with my bicycle (if you’re confused here…see my blog about biking and failing miserably). Nothing like recounting humiliating stories of yourself to make a good first impression. Worked on Davida at least—we feared he would fall out of his seat from laughing. Probably also had something to do with the fact that telling a story in Spanish requires extensive hand motions.

After making fast friends, we went out in search of free tapas (a tradition in Granada with purchase of a drink), flamenco shows and of course, dancing.

Davida assured me that he was a horrible dancer.

This seems to be a universal cop-out. Everyone says they dance terribly…even me. And not to brag, but my air chop turns heads often…let’s be honest here.

Well turns out…Davida is very honest. At least about dancing. Never have I seen such a horrible dancer in my life who was at the same time so very committed. Davida’s favorite move involved waving his arms above his head as if he was at a country music concert. All he needed was a lighter.

Fabrizio, like me, has one move. This involves tucking his arms in, looking at the ground, and swaying back and forth. Rock on, Fabrizio.

Hannah did the Charleston; Erika reeled people in with an imaginary fishing pole; and I—big surprise—chopped the air like it was a cutting board and I was iron chef.

Needless to say, we were a sight. Even more so when you factor in the general lack of other dancers in the discoteca. Lack as in none. It’s questionable if the discoteca was even a discoteca. May have been a glorified bar with DJ…and as it turns out, entertainment in the form of two Italians and three Americans.

Aside from singing Serbians and jiving Italians, there are many more random moments worth remembering.

For instance, the best cup of tea in my life thus far at a tea shop in gypsy land. It was called Winter’s Dream, and a dream it was.

Also, there was the time our friend Joe thought it would be funny to sneak up behind me at night on the sketchy streets of Granada, grab my back and say "Give me your money!" in a low, raspy voice. He apologized profusely after he saw the look of terror on my face.

And I can’t forget the bus ride we took at warp speed down the side of a mountain. I’d like to…just can’t.

But of all the people and crazy situations over the weekend, there is one person that deserves a special shout-out.

Hannah, my roommate. Woot woot.

We bonded that weekend. Literally it seemed as if we were joined at the hip. It started in Sevilla when we ate dinner together in silence, sitting on the same side of the table and reading from the same book. I was page-turner.

The bonding continued in Granada when we sat shoulder to shoulder, butt to butt on a windowsill, putting on makeup the sliver of natural light.

Then there was the electronic guided tour of Alhambra. We thought we could both listen to the recording at the same time and thus save money. Essentially, we could. We just had to stand cheek to cheek to do so. Made walking nearly impossible.

Finally our bout of bonding ended in the dark on the stairs outside our apartamento at 5:30 a.m. Sunday. That’s where Hannah and I sat after realizing we were locked out.

At the time, we assumed someone changed the locks. Little did we know that Pepa, our madre de espana, had decided to play a cruel joke on us. The kind that involved her putting a key in the door from the inside, thus making our keys obsolete. Funny, huh? Not so much.

As you may have guessed, there’s another explanation for Pepa’s sudden decision to become a practical joker. Sadly, the true explanation makes even less sense.

Regardless, at 5:30 on that Sunday morning, I feel safe in saying that no explanation would have made sense to Hannah and I. Not wanting to disturb the household, we decided to spend the wee morning hours on the steps in the dark.

We started out optimistic, looking through pictures of the weekend on my camera. That was great until, “Warning: Battery exhausted.” And darkness.

We were intrepid. We moved to Hannah’s photos and got about halfway through her camera until Duracell failed us again.

My iPod…dead.

Our last resort--Hannah’s iPod. So there we sat, sleep deprived, listening to Savage Garden, one ear bud for each of us, mouthing to the words in the darkness.

"Eww I want you, I don't know if i need you. Eww i gotta find out."

Mmhhmm...we're lucky no one walked down those stairs.

Lost taxi drivers, gay old men and Edu--chalk it up to a good night!

2008-02-06T11:14:00.000-08:00

I’m starting to consider my tendency to fall into bizarre situations a talent.

Enter taxi driver from the other night.

If you ask me, it takes some skill to flag down the one taxi driver in all of Valencia who is 1) Pakistani and 2) a resident of Valencia for a whopping 15 days.

I have been in Valencia for 17 days, and I can assure you, you would not want me as your taxi driver.

I can also assure you that after about 5 minutes in a car with said Pakistani, my roommate, Hannah, and I did not want him as our taxi driver either.

“Where are you going,” he asks in Spanish.
“36 Poeta Mas y Ros,” we respond in our best attempt at a Spanish accent. We were meeting our friends there at a bar.
“Donde?”
“Po-Et-Ah Mass E Ross.” Why do all streets in Spain have impossibly long names?
“Que?”
“Pooo—eta Masy Ros” “Poeta MAS y ros” “Poetamasyros”

Nada.

No problema, we had plan B ready and waiting just in case of such and occasion: written communication. I reached forward and handed the now scowling taxi driver a scrap of paper with the street name written in large, neat letters.

He looks at the paper, looks up, looks back at the paper—blank stare.

Crap.

Plan B had never failed. Come to think of it, Plan A had never failed before either. Welcome to uncharted territory.

Hannah and I exchanged shoulder shrugs and crinkled foreheads as our little taxi jutted blindly through Valencia’s midnight traffic. Our driver looked annoyed with his two clueless American passengers and fumbled for something in the front seat.

“So…what brings you to Valencia?” I ask, trying to ease the mounting tension.
“Work,” he snaps.
“Oh, well how do you like it so far?”
“I don’t.”

OK, not a talker. Poeta Mas y Ros remains a mystery as I watch the red digital numbers of the taxi’s meter climb: 3.10 euros, 3.20 euros, 3.30 euros…

Mr. Jolly finally stops fumbling and next thing I know he’s handing me a 2-inch thick manual of the streets of Valencia and instructing me to start looking.

Me as navigator in the US—bad idea. Me as navigator in a large foreign city with an atlas written in Spanish—estupido.

Frantically, I flip pages as our taxi makes costly U-turns. At a red light, Mr. Jolly grabs for the book, and I hand it over willingly.

Green light—the book is back in my lap and it’s game on.

Red light—I sit still and watch my money disappear.

Green light—I’m flying through the pages and miraculously, wait, could it be…

“Aqui!” I exclaim marking the street with my finger and thrusting the book to the front seat.

Mr. Jolly takes the book and stares. He turns the map clockwise a quarter and stops. Another quarter turn. And another. Then to my horror he shakes his head, closes the book and throws it on the seat next to him.

5.50 euros, 5.60 euros, 5.70 euros…

We make another U-turn, and I feel the car slow to a stop. For a brief moment I thought we had arrived, but then I realized our driver was rolling down his window to ask two Spaniard guys for directions.

As luck would have it, they had never heard of Poeta Mas y Ros. And judging from their snickers as we pulled away, they had never seen a taxi driver with two wide-eyed American girls in his back seat pull over to ask for directions either.

That’s when Hannah and I saw our salvation standing obliviously on a street corner. His name is Mark. Mark is in our program. Mark speaks English. I have never been so happy to see Mark as in that moment.

Without even needing to ask each other, Hannah and I screamed at the taxi driver to stop, willingly paid 6.70 for a taxi-ride that should have been free, and jumped ship.

We burst from the taxi with fluttering hands and bulging eyes and thus thoroughly confused Mark who thought the taxi was stopping for him and as such, was doing everything in his power to shoo it away.

Hannah and I break into uncontrollable laughter. Mark is looking at us like we just beamed in from a space ship. We get it together enough to fill him in and take the next few minutes to regroup.

Then it’s back to the situation at hand. Poeta Mas y Ros. Bar. Friends waiting.

Mark recognizes the street name (for the first time that night) but unfortunately can’t remember how to get there. To his credit, he sends us in a general direction, and we set off on a mission.

After about five minutes of wandering down the road, Hannah and I realize we better enlist some help. She flags down an elderly Spanish man to ask for directions.

The old man wants to help but says he needs a minute to orient himself. He turns in a full circle, stops, and then looks side to side as if he’s taking in the scenery for the first time.

Turns out Hannah shares my talent for getting into odd situations.

“Just go straight ahead and then take a left,” the man says pointing right.

Hannah is not ready to give up on this one.

“So is that a left or right?” she asks.
“Uh…”

Time to back-pedal. We both start saying “gracias” and backing up but the old man is having none of it. Reaching behind him, he snatches two unsuspecting club promoters who were walking past and pulls them into our little circle.

“These people will help you,” he says without asking “these people” if A) they will in fact help us or B) they know where the street is. The old man walks off and we are left standing face to face with “these people”—a guy and girl that looked Spanish and about our age.

Before we can even begin to explain ourselves, the old man turns around and pops back into our circle as if he forgot something.

“I’m gay,” he declares in English. “But this man,” he says pointing to the young Spaniard, “is very, very…sexual. He is very sexual.”

Satisfied, the man proceeds to give us all besos before leaving again. I stand like a statue with my face stuck in a scowl as he plants to large kisses on both of my cheeks.

With the man gone, our circle stands stunned and staring at each other on the sidewalk.

“Uh…loco?” the apparently very sexual Spanish guy says pointing in the direction of crazy old, gay man.

I like this guy already.

He introduces himself as Edu (short for Eduardo) and the girl as Mirella. They ask where we are trying to go and for what seems like the millionth time we respond, “Poeta Mas y Ros.”

Maybe it was the lost looks on our faces or perhaps the possibly of getting a group of Americans to come to their club, but for whatever reason, Edu and Mirella gave the best answer we had heard all night.

“Okay, we will walk you there,” Edu says.

And then, completely breaking the trend of the night, he did. He walked us there. I probably wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen the street sign for myself. “Poeta Mas y Ros,” it said. It exists.

That simple street sign would have been enough, but Edu didn’t stop there. Before parting, he gave us his number and about 30 little coupons for free drinks at his club—coupons conveniently printed with a map on the back.

I wish I could say that coupon was the turning point of the night; that we went into the bar, handed out coupons to our friends and danced the night away with Edu and Mirella in their discoteca.

Not exactly.

There was more walking, more hidden streets and even a pair of lost keys thrown in the mix. But between Mr. Jolly, the gay old man, and Edu, I chalk it up to a good night.

Air-choppin' it like it's hot in Spain

2008-01-22T15:24:00.000-08:00

Since there was much talk of a possible Spanish prince before I left, it only seems fitting to start off by telling you about Vladimir and Semo.

My first encounter occurred on my flight from Philadelphia to Madrid. A sufficiently tired, massive backpack-lugging version of me took my window-seat in row 8A (conveniently situated in the gap between windows, therefore more appropriately referred to as a wall seat) and anxiously awaited the arrival of seat-holder 8B, my soon-to-be companion for the duration of our 7-hour flight. In my mind, person 8B could have been many people—another student from my program, a bullfighter traveling the world and finally returning to his hometown in Madrid, or just maybe, my Prince Felipe.

I didn’t expect Vladimir, the mousy looking man with a scraggly beard and long matted hair that plopped down beside me. My first thought—who let a homeless man on this flight. Second thought—7 hours.

Despite the fact that Vladimir may have been living on the streets, he was a good conversationalist, although a bit hard of hearing. As our plan crossed oceans, Vladimir and I crossed the awkward boundary of strangers on a flight to friends on a plane. I discovered that Waldo (as his friends call him) was a Serbian man living in Santander, Spain. He speaks six languages and he still laments the death of the dog he had in Serbia—they were like brothers. He even told me about the frightening time that airport guards mistook him for a Spanish terrorist and detained him for 3 hours (poor Waldo has no idea how anyone could mistake him for a terrorist).

Apparently our young friendship was not as obvious to some. When the flight attendant handed me a Diet Coke, Waldo jokingly snatched it from my hand yelling “Mine!” and the attendant looked ready to call for back-up.

But alas, after asking Waldo 20 million questions about Spain, reading a few chapters of my book and attempting to ignore the shooting pains in my neck enough to get a few desperately-needed hours of sleep, the plane arrived in Madrid, and Waldo and I bid our farewells. As the first semi-Spaniard I met on my journey, he holds a special place in my heart.

Little did I know that only three days later, at a discoteca in Toledo, another Spaniard would hold my hand.

OK, let me explain.

First, a disclaimer for the padres: said discoteca was very safe. There were many Americans from my program and a few tough-looking Spanish bouncers surveying all activity. Also, being me, I was of course rocking the air-chop in a long sleeve top with jeans—not exactly screaming seductress…for those of you who are unfamiliar with the air-chop, you clearly have never seen me dance. And a final noteworthy factor, there was a miniature apartheid between Spaniards and Americans—possibly my air-chop had some influence on this.

Regardless, at one point the techno musica picked up and a local Spanish boy busted a few moves reminiscent of the contestants on So You Think You Can Dance. Instantly, a cheering circle formed around the break-dancer, and instantly I found myself alone on the far side of the circle and completely stuck. Little me with pony-tail and headband, clutching my bag with white knuckles; Ten or more Spanish boys shoulder to shoulder around me shouting Spanish cheers with their hands in the air pulsing to the music. Excelente. Needless to say, I immediately located my amigas through the haze of smoke in the club and began planning my escape.

The song changes, there’s a deluge of back-patting as the circle converges on the break-dancer and suddenly, a rather handsome Spanish boy is taking my hand and whisking me away from the wall and to the middle of the dance floor. In other words, my plan—not so successful.

The Spanish stranger looked into my eyes, probably about the size of quarters by now, and said, “Tu eres muy bonita” (You are very pretty). If only I knew the word for pickup line in Spanish.

Next thing I know he’s bending to kiss my cheek, and I’m about to do a back-bend in the middle of the floor to avoid it. Again, I’m unsuccessful. Again, Semo goes in for the kiss, this time the other cheek. I make it difficult.

Standing up straight again, he smiles and says, “Me llamo Semo” (My name is Semo), as if his greeting was completely normal.

That’s when I remembered that it is completely normal to kiss someone on the cheek as a greeting in Spain. Breathe out, breathe in…breathe out, breathe in…

Semo has both my hands in his at this point and is waving them up and down while I move awkwardly to my own beat. I’m decapitated without my hands and thus without the air-chop. I figure I may as well introduce myself since this is more of a greeting than I’ve shared with half of my friends in the US, so I mumble a feeble, “Me llamo Jessie.” By now, my friends are swooping in to rescue me and laughing hysterically that I, of all people, was the first to dance with a Spaniard.

Once the invisible line between Americans and Spaniards was so unintentionally yet unavoidably crossed, there was no going back. Language barriers were thrown aside, that fact that Americans have no rhythm, overlooked, and Americans and Spaniards meshed together on the dance floor.

For once, I abandoned my air-chop, and welcomed the Spanish form of dancing. Unlike in America, Spaniards actually dance. I was twirled and turned, spun and swung, and always danced hand to hand- conveniently giving me the ability to push away any personal-space invaders. You could say we danced the night away, and for that I have Semo and his insistent dance invitation to thank. Muchas Gracias!

Thus concludes my first encounters with Spanish men. No princes yet, but a few interesting amigos.

And his name was Angel...

2007-11-30T19:23:00.000-08:00

Earlier today, I found myself crammed into a 4 by 4 foot square room with a man named Angel. I’d only known Angel for about 10 minutes, but our relationship progressed rapidly inside that little sound-proof room.

“Are you feeling well today?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. How nice of him to ask.

“Have you been to Europe or Canada in the last three years?”

“No.” I’ll be there soon though, I thought.

“Have you ever had sexual relations with a man that has had sexual relations with another man?”

Say what?

I’ve often heard of people hesitant to give blood. They give many excuses: the needles, the possibility of passing out, the blood. No one warned me about Angel and his sexually explicit questions.

Lucky for me, I’ve had no prostitutes, mad cow disease or anything else of that nature in my past. Angel gave me the nod and the paperwork, and I moved on to round two: Vitals.

Another 4 by 4 foot room but this time, a nurse with curly black hair and a warm smile.

“You’ve never given blood before?” she asked.

“First time for everything,” I shrugged.

Good answer. She beamed and told me I had a great attitude and pulled out what looked like a white-out tape dispenser. I breathed a little easier and felt my shoulders relax, and she started to swab my index finger with some sanitizing solution. I vaguely wondered why and heard her say something about a little prick. That’s when I realized that the dispenser she was lowering toward my finger did not dispense white out. Or tape. I didn’t actually know what it dispensed, only that it would make me bleed. My shoulders tensed back up.

True, blood was the reason I was there. True, I fully expected to be jabbed in the arm with a needle in a few minutes. But no one had mentioned the prick. And certainly not the dispenser of the prick.

Her hand was holding mine hostage, and the looming dispenser descended. There was no stopping it. I winced before the thing even touched my skin and looked away.

Cla-click.

Ouch.

A crimson bead appeared on my fingertip. The nurse slurped it up with a clear, skinny tube. I was mesmerized. She pressed against my finger and milked my little blood bead until the tube filled up. I’m pretty good at bleeding, I noticed.

A band-aide, temperature check and blood pressure reading later, Angel was back with more questions. This time, at least, we were open of the blood bank bus, and I was reclining in a cup-shaped chair.

“Apple or apple strawberry?” he asked.

Tough question.

“Apple strawberry,” I said.

I lay there awkwardly with my feet and head at the same elevation and sipped on my juicy box while another nurse tapped at the veins in my left arm. She seemed calm. Too calm. Like I was just another student waiting to donate blood. I was not just another student. I was a first-timer.

But this nurse worked quietly, offering no explanation. Chills crawled up my spine as I watched her smear a yellow substance on my skin. She Velcro-strapped a belt around my arm so tight that it cut off the circulation. But maybe that was the point. Or maybe not. Suddenly I was longing for Angel and all his questions.

Then the nurse put a red stress ball in my hand and walked away. Was I that obvious?

She came back and fiddled with my arm some more.

“Squeeze this for three seconds,” she motioned to the stress ball.

Finally, some instruction.

“Are you ready?”

“Uh, I guess,” I said quizzically.

She told me I could look away, and I did gladly. More chills. Someone pressed a pause button on my heart. Big breath in…

“Mosquito bite,” she said.

Must have been one of those giant African mosquitoes.

But it was over fast, and just like that I was donating blood. I sighed in relief and watched the blood pumping out of my body through another clear tube. Pins and needles tickled my left hand, and I asked Angel if loss of feeling was normal. He loosened the circulation strap, and the pins and needles disappeared.

Four minutes later, I slurped the last of my Mott’s apple strawberry, and the nurse told me I was done. She wrapped a “Give Blood” bandage around my mosquito bite a little too tightly, and I got up to leave.

Angel came over for one last time. Our 35-minute relationship was coming to an end almost as rapidly as it began. He handed me an oversized T-shirt and some Oreos as a parting gift, and somehow I felt like I should reciprocate. A hug, maybe? Uh, we weren’t that close.

I walked to the door, and looked back briefly. Our eyes met one last time.

“Congratulations,” he smiled.

“Thanks,” I said back.

Blood wasn’t the only thing I lost today.

Farwell, Angel, man of many questions.

Soquetocky Anyone?

2007-11-29T22:29:00.000-08:00

Last night, my roommate had an indoor soccer game. Indoor soccer, I’ve decided, is a hybrid sport: a soccer-raquetball-hocky combination. Soquetocky, perhaps, would be a more suitable name. Sounds a little like Japanese alcohol.

True, the rules and concept are similar to its outdoor counterpart. True the players wear shin guards and goal keepers bat down shots with big gloved hands. But some key things are missing: Grass. The game takes place on a court (OK, this might be obvious). Cleats. Players wear sleek tennis shoes instead. Throw-ins. A fuzzy soccer ball look-alike ricochets off the walls making throw-ins somewhat obsolete. Fouls. So apparently this rule still exists, although I saw multiple players slam each other into the walls without the slightest reprimand from a referee.

Who do we have to account for such quirks? Citizens of Newark.

According to the United States Indoor Soccer Association, indoor soccer dates back to 1885 at the Newark Roller Skating Rink. Glimmering beneath the rink’s electric lights, two teams faced off for the first ever recorded indoor soccer game. Since then, indoor soccer has developed into a full-fledged sport with its own rule-book, a professional league, an American league and a national championship. Not bad.

So why wasn’t I on the Soquetocky-bandwagon? For one—I’m not a big drinker, at least not of any Japanese liquor. Two: I run. Running does not require nor cultivate much coordination. Also, years of long-distance training = I can’t sprint to save my life. From there, simple logic prevails: If I have no skill, then I will hurt my team or perhaps myself trying to play, so I will cheer for my roommate instead.

Brain Surgery for Dummies

2007-11-28T22:20:00.000-08:00

As a child, I struggled in some areas: pronouncing my R’s (Grandmother = Gwandmotha), understanding the permanence of gravity (I whole-heartedly expected to fly one day), choosing clothes that matched (my mom would argue that this one is still a challenge for me). One hurdle I remember distinctly: my left vs. my right.

Most of the time, I outright guessed. I had a fifty-fifty shot of success or shame. I remember uncomfortable prickles of panic during the pledge of allegiance. I switched hands half-way through just to be safe. And the Hooky Pokey—what was that all about? “Put your right hand in, take your right hand out, put your right hand in and you shake it all about”—easier said than done if you’re directionally challenged.

Then I discovered my body’s built-in cheat sheet—the L trick. A quick flash of my hands, and my index finger and thumb spelled out the answer to my directional woes. Normal L meant left hand, backwards L meant right hand. Not exactly brain science.

Unless maybe you’re a brain surgeon at Rhode Island Hospital.

According to a CNN article, three different doctors at the hospital performed brain surgery on the wrong side of their patient’s brain, the most recent incident occurring on Friday. In two cases, surgeons said patients were OK. But for the third, the mistake proved fatal.

Mixing up left and right as a child is embarrassing; mixing up left and right as an adult with an MD and a knife cutting into someone’s skull—nightmarish.

Even if the neurosurgeon did have a momentary brain lapse, what about the other 200 people that always seem to be in the OR during surgery? (I watch Grey’s Anatomy) Where were they when Dr. Dyslexic started to operate?

Perhaps the confrontation seemed too awkward. OK, there’s some truth to that.

Dr.: “What do you have for me today, Meredith?”
Eager-to-please intern: Left-side brain surgery, doctor.
Dr.: Right-oh
Intern: Uh, your other left doctor.

Whatever went wrong, the Department of Health fined the hospital $50,000 and is looking for ways to prevent a fourth mishap. Perhaps adding the L trick to the MCAT would be beneficial.

Regardless, there’s a lesson here greater than the difference between left and right: Don’t get brain surgery in Rhode Island.

Bark worth biting

2007-11-16T08:54:00.000-08:00

We have miscellaneous snack basket in our kitchen, a jumble of foods of all ages and tastes. Earlier this week, I fished out an unidentified Ziploc baggy of pita chips—a near-fatal mistake.

The moment I opened the little plastic bag, a poignant garlicky odor erupted that would have stopped a vampire dead in his tracks. I consider myself warned. I also consider myself idiotic, because I started munching anyways. I could have been chewing on a clove of garlic. My roommate, sitting about 10 feet away, swiveled in her chair to look at me with a crinkled nose. I kept on. The garlic bombs were surprisingly tasty. My breath, however—deadly.

About 10 minutes after snacking, the garlic lingered. I searched for a piece of gum to no avail and then turned to other tactics. I nibbled on a piece of bread. Tasted like garlic bread. I tried Wheat Thins. Garlic Thins? I drank a glass of soda, no good. I drank a class of cranberry juice cocktail. Garlic and cranberries—definitely no good. I chomped on some nerds, a tootsie roll pop and other assorted Halloween leftovers. Taste o’ garlic remained. I ate an entire burrito for dinner, came home and brushed my teeth, twice. The garlic prevailed.

I might as well have chewed in a piece of bark.

No, really.

According to researchers at Wm. Wrigley Jr. Co., bark from Magnolia trees can wipe out bad breath by killing odor-causing bacteria. The article explains that most bad breath results from bacteria that break down proteins in our mouth.

In preliminary tests of nine Wrigley employees, the tree bark showed promising potential. Mints with the bark extract killed 61 percent of malodorous bacteria. Regular mints only kill about 3.6 percent of bacteria in that time. Gum with the bark extract also showed increased breath-fighting powers, killing 43 percent of bacteria in 40 minutes compared to the 18 percent kill rate of regular gum.

Despite these hopeful results, scientists said it will be a while before any Magnolia bark gums are commercially available. Fear not any fellow UF students. Magnolia trees are closer than you might think. Those tall, shady trees in the Plaza of the Americas—jackpot. And as an extra bonus, with all the organic-living, vegan-eating individuals that seem to conglomerate in this area, no one will even think twice if you break off some bark for an after-lunch palette cleanser.

No Power Rangers, no Rugrats, no fun for toddlers

2007-11-13T20:49:00.000-08:00

As a child, I secretly dreamed of becoming the pink Power Ranger. We had a lot in common. Her name was Kimberly, and she fought off evil clad in a pink pleather jumpsuit. I liked pink. When she wasn’t fighting crime, Kimberly practiced and perfected complicated gymnastic tricks. I, too, was a gymnast, a level four out of something like 12 levels total. I never made it to level five. Clearly, pink pleather was my destiny. I could envision my face flashing across the TV screen to the theme song, “Go, go Power Rangers!”

Despite my fond childhood memories of Kimberly, a recent study concluded that my superhero idol is not fit for young children. University of Washington researchers found that children age 3 and under who watch violent TV shows like Power Rangers are more likely to have attention problems in the future. The study defined violence as fighting, hitting, threats or other violence central to the plot or main character.

Along this line of thought, the Power Rangers aren’t the only heroes who researchers say must go, go. Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you? Banished. Same with Simba and the rest of his Lion King gang. Hakuna matata? Not if you’re 3.

The study doesn’t stop there. Researchers advise parents not to let toddlers watch any show that isn’t explicitly educational. Goodbye Rugrats, so long Flinstones, hello…Barney?

Yes, that’s right. Researchers said the big purple dinosaur who wants to give everyone a “great big hug and a kiss from me to you,” is a better influence than kick-butt Kimberly. Sure, the squeezable dinosaur can sing. Sure, he isn’t afraid to hold hands or show his true feelings. But the real question that I think researchers neglected—can Barney fight off villains in skin-tight pink pleather? I think not.

Never too old for a fieldtrip!

2007-11-09T20:30:00.000-08:00

Fieldtrips are a pain in the butt—and I don’t mean figuratively—I mean my butt actually hurts.

My health and fitness writing class (shout out!) traveled to IMG Academies yesterday, which is basically an athlete boarding school in Sarasota. From the moment our 20ish-person class boarded a monster 56-passenger charter bus instead of the mini bus we requested (we all had our own row), I knew it was going to be an awesome trip. Our bus driver, also known as Vin Diesel, told us to “Holla” at him if we needed anything. Right on.

Like any good fieldtrip, we popped in a DVD, Love Actually, and half the class promptly fell asleep. Time flies when you’re sleeping, that and when your gigantic bus is weaving through traffic like a souped-up Mustang GT in the Fast and Furious. We made good time for a car—a little over two hours. For a charter bus—we flew.

After getting lost for about half an hour (another hallmark of a true fieldtrip), we rolled up to IMGA and piled out in our sweats in tennis shoes as if, just maybe, we were athletes and not journalists. If anyone made this mistake at first, we definitely straightened them out later.

IMGA is one a complete alternate world. This place breeds super athletes. From age 12 to graduating high school senior, students live on the resort-like campus, and their life seemingly has two focuses: First (and I do mean first priority), their sport. Second, school.

When students aren’t in class at one of the four schools on campus, they are on the tennis court, the soccer field, IMGA’s impressive gym, or wherever else their specific sport may demand. IMGA specializes in tennis, basketball, baseball, soccer and golf. Aside from being coached by some of the best in their individual sports, these student-athletes receive other training. They hone mental skills and concentration with special exercises to condition the mind. They take acting and improve classes to learn communication skills—critical to athletes often interviewed by the press. They have an individualized eating regimen and sometimes report their daily diet to a nutritionist for evaluation.

Athletic excellence is almost down to a science at IMGA, one that cranks out powerful results. The number of college-bound IMGA graduates that leave with an athletic scholarship—85 percent.

Perhaps I too could have been a collegiate athlete had I attended IMGA, I thought. Then our class got the chance to participate in an IMGA warm-up. Never before have I felt so out of shape and uncoordinated. The 36-year-old (could have been 25-year-old) trainer with blond highlights and curly surfer-bum hair lined our class along a strip of rubber track and directed us in various hopping, lunging, and arm-waving exercises. He even threw in some ballet moves. Hence the butt pain. Then Mr. Athletic told us to skip. This is when I realized that I may very well have been an IMGA dropout. I cannot skip, at least without looking like I’m having a seizure while running. Where would my IMGA class standing be—the bottom 15 percent.

Forgetting is Forgiven

2007-11-07T20:04:00.000-08:00

For my fifth grade science project, I attempted to prove the grade-school girl mantra: Girls rule, boys drool. How? A battle of short-term memories.

After actually going to the library (gasp!) and checking out several books on short-term memory, I devised a test to score my classmates’ memories. The exam consisted of several exercises which tested their ability to recall long numbers, pictures and other random information shown to them briefly. All in all, this was a step-up from the previous years’ science project: Which brand of popcorn pops the most kernels? I ate a lot of popcorn that year. And for those wondering, Orville Redenbacher is your man.

Despite my scientific aspirations, the project didn’t win any awards (My best friend, however, won first place. She tested which brand of nail polish stayed on her fingers the longest without chipping—riveting). I don’t remember my specific results, although instinct and 21 years of interaction with boys lead me to believe that girls won.

Regardless, an article in the October issue of the American Scientist suggests that the winners of my fifth grade project might actually be the losers. According to two recent studies, forgetting is a good thing.

First—forgetting conserves energy. A study of students at Sanford showed that students who forgot irrelevant facts needed less effort to remember information that actually mattered. Efficient or just lazy?

Second—forgetting improves short-term memory of important details. For this finding, researchers impaired the long-term memory of mice and tossed them in a maze (If PETA only knew). They found that mice with weakened long-term memory had exceptional short-term memory and better chances of finding their way out of the maze. When one type of memory shut down, the other excelled.

In humans, the article equated this concept to forgetting someone’s name. Blanking on this long-term memory fact simply makes room for a more vital short-term memory fact, like where you left your car keys. This is great, unless maybe you’re on a date. Wait—I take that back—the scenario is actually perfect. As soon as you do mix up your date’s name with another girl, you might need those car keys for a quick getaway.

So there you have it. Someone actually came up with a scientifically based excuse for being absent-minded. Maybe it’s the fifth grader in me, but I have a sneaking suspicion these studies were authored by men. The good news—two can play this game. Oh, you don’t like romantic comedies? Must have slipped my mind.

Feel the burn! Or maybe not...

2007-10-29T22:46:00.000-07:00

At the mention of chili peppers, several images/fragmented thoughts flash into my mind.

I see red.
I see a group of long haired guys with guitars singing “Hey Oh” They want me to listen to what they say oh.
I see little dancing peppers with faces singing about baby back ribs…and barbeque sauce (In my mind, this last line is sung in deep bass)
I see flames erupting from my mouth. Water makes it worse. Must eat bread.
I see doctors and nurses in a hospital about to perform knee replacement surgery.

OK, so I lied about that last image. I’ve never associated chili peppers with hospitals, unless maybe I’m there to treat third-degree burns on my tongue. But according to an AP article, doctors are experimenting with these spicy specimens as possible painkillers in agonizing surgeries like knee replacements. Doctors drip the fiery chemical in chili peppers, called capsaicin, directly into a patient’s open wound. What do I say-oh to that? Ouch.

If salt in an open wound is cliché for intensifying pain, instincts tell me that chili-pepper juice on broken flesh is cruel and unusual. Disclaimer for reader at home wanting to test this theory—don’t. Doctors use an ultra-purified form of capsaicin in their experiments. In a controlled environment, doctors suggest that drenching exposed nerves with chili-pepper serum provides a numbing effect similar to the sensation in your mouth after the initial burning of biting a chili pepper wears off. The benefit of this alternative pain reliever—patients would need less of the effective yet dangerously addictive narcotic painkillers.

Despite my hesitations to treating wounds with the same vegetable that cooks are advised to handle with gloves, early studies suggest that these doctors are on to something. In a study of people undergoing knee replacement surgery, the half treated with capsaicin used less morphine in the 48 hours after surgery and experienced less pain for two weeks after the surgery. Chili peppers the new Valium? Wouldn’t be the first time my instincts lost to a PhD.

Put your spices to the test!

2007-10-28T22:54:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I took the McCormick Spice Check Challenge. Nutmeg, cinnamon, cumin, ginger, bay leaves, chili powder—I put it all on the line. Their challenger: Father Time.

If you’re like me, you didn’t know that spices expired. Ground spices last for two or three years, but whole spices and extracts can last up to four years. I always assumed spices were like wine, better with age. Perhaps this is because at my home in Melbourne, there’s a cupboard stocked with spices I distinctly remember using as a child. I just turned 21, but I’ve been cooking since I was too little to see over the counter. I’d drag a chair across our tile floors (which produced a sound similar to fingernails on chalkboard), and stand on it to cook.

But the McCormick Spice Check Challenge isn’t just for the ignorant. Even the spice savvy probably have a few senior citizen spices lurking in the cabinet. Here’s how you can tell. If your spice was made in Baltimore, Maryland, it’s at least 15 years old (a.k.a. - expired). Spices in tin containers, expect black pepper, are at least 15 as well. Still no luck—check for a “Best by” date on the bottom of the container (Duh). Sometimes, instead of a date, there is a code. Fear not. A Fresh Tester on McCormick’s Web site lets you search for spice age by code also.

As for my challenge results, I was 5 and 1. A perfect record thwarted by a 2002 bottle of ground cumin. Of course, this tested my spice supply in Gainesville, which consists mostly of Publix-brand spices (Publix=cheaper than McCormick). As for the Melbourne pantry, spices are definitely the underdog.

Airborne's reputation may be decieving...

2007-10-26T22:59:00.000-07:00

Some little girls ask Santa for Barbie dolls. Me? I wanted the Dr. Dreadful Freaky Food Lab. Commercials on TV had me hooked. Kids in white lab coats mixed bubbling green concoctions in beakers and drank out of skull-head cups. Forget Easy Bake Ovens, with Dr. Dreadful’s lab I could make slimy gummy spiders and a goop called monster skin.

On Christmas morning, Santa came through, but I can’t say the same for the wild, white-haired Dr. Dreadful. “Looks gross tastes great!” he promised. Never trust a mad scientist. My homemade sludge look gross alright—tasted worse.

Airborne, a popular supplement and supposed immune system booster, reminds me of my Freaky Food Lab. Maybe it’s the way the tablet fizzes and bubbles in water as if some complicated chemical reaction is going on. Or maybe it’s the sour expression that involuntary comes over my face as I choke down the potent liquid. Lemon-lime, zesty orange—don’t let these tutti-frutti flavors fool you. I suspect the second-grade school teacher that created Airborne shares Dr. Dreadful’s definition for “tastes great.”

But perhaps the most striking similarity between the trendy cold medicine and my childhood food lab are the empty promises. Despite Airborne’s reputation as the miracle-cold reliever, a little research uncovers a surprising lack of scientific support.

As a dietary supplement and not a drug, Airborne is not regulated by the FDA. True, Airborne gives a detailed ingredient list (which is better than some supplements), but the accuracy of these numbers and the safety of the ingredients overall is not regulated by any governing body.

This may be forgivable if I was confident in the integrity of the company. Here’s the real roadblock. Airborne endorsed a bogus study by GNG Pharmaceutical Services to make their product look better. According to Airborne, GNG conducted a professional, double-blind placebo-controlled study on Airborne. Their findings—Airborne works. The catch—turns out GNG is actually a two-man operation (one without a college degree) created solely for the purposed of the study. There were no tests, clinics, etc., just good old-fashioned lies.

If this isn’t enough to make you think twice about Airborne, consider the extreme dosages of vitamins. Airborne is packed with Vitamins C and A—both vital to a healthy human—but too much of a good thing can be dangerous. Excess Vitamin C can cause nausea and diarrhea, and an overload of Vitamin A could lead to Hypervitaminosis A, a condition with side effects including, birth defects, liver abnormalities, reduced bone mineral density (putting women at risk for osteoporosis) and central nervous system disorders. Get rid of the sniffles or continue to have dense bones. Not a tough one in my book.

To be fair, one dose of Airborne does not exceed the Vitamin C and A levels per day. However, if taken once every 3 hours and up to 3 times a day as directed on the box, you could easily triple the daily values. The maximum Vitamin A a person should ingest in one day is 10,000 IUs. There are 5,000 IU of Vitamin A in one caplet of Airborne alone. As for Vitamin C, it’s safe to intake about 2,000 mg a day. The amount of Vitamin C in one Airborne caplet—1,000 mg.

And even if you were willing to risk bogus studies and ODing on vitamins, there’s still no proof that Airborne actually works. No legitimate studies back this claim up, and many doctors are indifferent or even negative toward the product.

As for me, my personal testimony on the supplement disproves arguments on both sides. Last week when fighting a cold, I averaged about four doses a day of an Airborne-copycat (a generic CVS brand of the same supplement that costs less!). In one weekend, I polished off an entire tube of the supplement. The results—I still had a stuffy nose and headache even after my Airborne binge. Has my liver become abnormal, my bones more frail or my central nervous system compromised? Not that I’m aware.

One thing I do know. The experience of zesty orange liquid burning down my throat—dreadful.

12 places that make you wish you were bubble boy

2007-10-24T19:00:00.000-07:00

Antibacterial gels out. Disinfectant wipes ready. Germ-a-phobes beware. We’re about to tackle the 12 grimiest places in our daily lives and needless to say, it could get dirty.

At No. 12 on the list and weighing in at a whopping .04 killograms—the hotel room remote. Not only is this little device the portal to mind-numbing entertainment, but turns out it’s haunted by the ghosts of hotel guests past—sickly hotel guests that left their virus germs behind.

No. 11: Your office phone. That receiver tucked between your cheek and chin is packed with 25,000 germs per square inch.

No. 10: Your bath tub. Need a bubble bath after a long day of work—try bacteria bath. A typical tub is festering with 100,000 bacteria per square inch.

No. 9: Mats and machines at the gym. Shed a few pounds, catch a few germs. At least they don’t weigh much.

No. 8: Playgrounds. Large groups of small children + running, climbing, swinging, chasing, touching, poking, tickling, fighting, etc. = play day for germs.

No. 7: Your purse, especially the bottom. OK, I can vogue for this one. My bags have seen better days. Guys—you’re off the hook. Or are you? Man-purse?

No. 6: ATM machine buttons. Transferring funds and germs! Sadly, the number of germs on an ATM button most likely one-ups your checking balance. These keypads are grimier than most public bathroom doorknobs.

No. 5: Shopping cart handles. Think of all the children that sit in carts while Mom shops, and this one makes a lot of since. Where children are, filth follows.

No. 4: Drinking fountains, especially at schools. These instant thirst-quenchers are also bacteria spigots, some covered with 62,000 to 27 million bacteria.

No. 3: A load of wet laundry. Don’t be fooled by the mountain fresh scent, many soaked loads are tinged with dirty underwear cooties, a.k.a. E. coli.

No. 2: Airplane bathrooms. Not extremely surprising, although the article does mention that the “volcanic flush” in these bathrooms often leads to an eruption of bacteria and germs.

And now, drum roll please…

The No. 1 most disgusting place you encounter on a daily basis…your kitchen sink. Perfect. The place where we wash food before ingesting and dishes before eating. Mmm. The number of bacteria on the drain alone—500,000.

Sleep: How much is too much?

2007-10-19T00:56:00.000-07:00

Good morning, I guess. I’m not sure the proper greeting protocol at 3:30 in the morning, which contrary to this Web site’s recorded post time (which is always wrong), is the time at my writing of this post. Why, might you ask, would anyone be blogging at 3:30 in the morning? Technically, I just woke up from a nap. An 11-hour nap.

Of course, when I laid down for a nap at 4:30 p.m. yesterday, I only intended for a 2-hour snooze. I didn’t have a busy evening ahead, but there were some things I wanted to do. Write a blog for my health and fitness writing class (check!). Eat dinner. Go to the weekly Campus Crusade for Christ meeting. Brush my teeth before bed.

But instead, I slept. Apparently, with my cell phone clutched in hand. At least, that’s how I woke up this morning (?). Two interesting observations: first, I must have deliriously disabled the alarm that went off at 6:30 p.m. yesterday. Second, there are at least 50+ friends that I usually see at Cru meetings (I’m not popular, the meetings are huge, usually 400+ people). My point—no calls.

At least I will feel rested, right? Well, not if I’ve overslept. According to Dr. Russell Rosenberg from Northside Hospital Sleep Medicine Institute, if I increase my sleep-time by more than 40 to 50 percent in one night, I’ll feel groggy. This week, I averaged 4 hours of sleep a night. By Rosenberg’s standards, anything over 6 hours is lethargic. But since 4 hours is an extreme case, I’ll adjust my calculations with the more reasonable average of 7 hours a night. Acceptable sleep-in time: 10 ½ hours. Darn.

Maniac on a Magna (a.k.a.- My Bike)

2007-10-17T19:01:00.000-07:00

Today I biked 13 miles on accident, 12.95 miles to be exact. I know because MapMyRun.com told me so. I use this Web site often, which allows you to plot and save courses in online maps around the world. Sometimes I use the map system to find and measure new running routes in my neighborhood. Today, I wanted validation for the ridiculously sweaty state that I found myself in after my biking extravaganza. Exhausted after 5-mile bike—embarrassing. Drenched after 13-mile all-out sprint on wheels—alright.

What ended as a half-marathon length bike, started as my typical 3.29-mile bike to school (distance, again, courtesy of MapMyRun.com). At about 7:55 this morning, I groggily slid on my bicycle and set out for a leisurely ride. Factoring in a handful of hills, stoplights, my lack of shape and still-sleepy state, the morning ride usually takes about 20 to 25 minutes.

About 20 minutes in, two panicked thoughts suddenly came to mind. I had forgotten my cell phone, and I didn’t take the trash out. Long story short, I needed the cell phone. As for the trash—it’s my week. Right now, I’ve got about a 4-4 chore record. It could use some sprucing

Hence the unexpected biking. Class got out at 10 a.m., and I needed to be back in Weimer by 10:40. That left me a 40-minute window. Needless to say, I biked my heart out. My butt went numb, my legs ached and my hair was matted to my head underneath my shiny blue helmet. I pedaled right through the pain. My chest heaved in great gasps for air. I kept on. I challenged the monster hill on 8th Avenue and for the first time ever, I won. For the first time in my biking history, I didn’t have to get off my bike and walk up that dreaded hill. I was a pedaling maniac and nothing could stop me. Not even my shoe, which flew off at one point, perhaps due to my voracious pedaling, and caused my foot to slip and become impaled by my own pedal. Blood gushed, but I grabbed the shoe and pushed forward. Every minute counted.

Breathless and clocking in at 15 minutes on the first leg, I reached the house, threw my bike aside and ran in the front door, helmet still buckled to my head. I quickly sutured my wounds, grabbed my cell phone, realized that in fact, it wasn’t trash day after all and promptly jumped back on my bike for another hail-Mary run to campus.

Gulping air and clothes clinging to skin, I rolled into my classroom at a triumphant 10:45. Not bad.

Salmonella - it's what's for dinner!

2007-10-11T19:34:00.000-07:00

Somehow, I’ve made it through 21 years of life without once trying a chicken pot pie. I’ve unintentionally denied my taste buds the experience of this dish always pictured on frozen-dinner boxes as a flaky crust exploding with chicken morsels, green peas, carrots and some unidentified gooey filling. Chicken pot pie could be my future favorite meal. It could also trigger my gag reflex. Either way, I’m not planning on exploring my body’s reaction to this cousin of casserole any time soon, at least not the frozen dinner version by ConAgra Foods Inc.

On Wednesday, the company asked stores nation-wide to take their Banquet brand chicken pot pies off the frozen-food shelves. It seems an extra surprise in these pies gave some customers more of a chicken-pot-pie explosion than they bargained for. The secret ingredient—salmonella.

Salmonella is bacteria that, when ingested, can cause nausea, vomiting, abdominal cramps, diarrhea, fever and chills. As of Wednesday, the frozen dinners had been linked to 152 cases of salmonella in 31 states, including 20 hospitalizations.

Although 152 select people throughout the U.S. might disagree, I find my own apathy to the news more disturbing than the actual outbreak. Salmonella—so what? Last month it was Topps Meat Co. and 21.7 million pounds of E. coli-infested hamburger meat. Before that, salmonella scares recalled spinach, cantaloupe, peanut butter (also a ConAgra Food Inc. product) and a supposedly-popular snack called Veggie Booty. Yawn. Even our pets have had their fair share of contamination with the recall of Bravo! cat and dog food for, you guessed it, salmonella.

So, what’s the deal? Why the seemingly constant influx of contaminated foods? Isn’t that why we have organizations like the FDA and the USDA?

In February, when Peter Pan peanut butter was banned to never-never land, I remember actually caring. My roommates and I checked the serial numbers on our two unopened jars and found matches (Publix had just had a two for one special on Peter Pan brands. Impeccable timing or just suspicious?). We didn’t throw the peanut butter out right away, don’t ask me why, but I remember making a point not to eat it.

Today, if my freezer was erupting (sorry, I can’t help it) with the red boxes of Banquet’s chicken pot pies, I might have decided to take my chances against salmonella. I might have regretted it later, but all the same, something is wrong when a warning for food poisoning is old news.

Triathlon=hardcore

2007-10-09T21:08:00.000-07:00

This weekend, my sister, Katie, attained a new level of hardcore. Sure, she’s cried with my mom and me at the Tour de Pain. Sure, she’s competed in cross-country races and finished a marathon (26.2 miles). But this weekend, she tackled another beast entirely: a triathlon.

On the eve of the much-anticipated race, I helped my sister prepare. We carefully packed an extensive checklist of provisions: goggles, towel, running shoes, biking shoes, bike, race number, spare tire, helmet, etc. Even two helium balloons made the cut. Once everything was accounted for, we unpacked and checked again. Then we made a triple check just to be safe. A few more checks ensued, although how many is hard to tell.

At one point, my sister paused from her OCD to try on her swimming cap and goggles. The swimming caps were color-coded by race start time, and my sister was in the hot pink group. She was thrilled. She looked like a hot pink-headed, goggle-wearing zombie, and I couldn’t help but laugh. However, there’s something about a swim cap that screams intense, thus—hardcore factor No. 1.

By 8 a.m. on Saturday, those of us without circulation-constricting caps were in the minority. My sister waded in the choppy, smelly river water with hundreds of other triathletes (including several UF Tri-Gators) and prepared for a quarter-mile swim. This swim was no lap in the pool. This was a swim-for-survival against 50-mile-per-hour winds. This was a fight to stay afloat despite the occasional foot in the face of another swimmer close by. Drowning, I realized, was a real possibility—hardcore factor No.2.

My sister emerged from the water looking relieved but still with two legs of her sprint triathlon to go. Leg two—a 16-mile bike ride over two causeways. Factor in windshield and spontaneous rainstorm for another potentially life-threatening situation. Leg three—a 5k (3.1 miles) over and back over the still gusty causeway. Needless to say, here we have hardcore factors No. 3 and 4.

After just under two hours of non-stop movement over land and sea, my sister crossed the finish line slightly wind-blown but victorious. She wore a red finisher’s medal and a somewhat delirious smile. Finishing alive—hardcore factor No. 5.

My role in this whole operation—photographer. I took pictures from the sidelines (not super hardcore, although out-of-control bikers did pose imminent threat to spectators). Perhaps one day I’ll join my sister’s danger-laden sport, but for now, I’m content experiencing the thrill of triathlons vicariously. Truth be told, I was exhausted pretending.

It's my workout, I can cry if i want to

2007-10-06T09:02:00.000-07:00

Every time my family runs the Tour de Pain, a series of three road-races in 24 hours, you can count on two things: One—somewhere between finishing the 4-mile beach run on Friday night and waking up for a 5K at o’dark hundred on Saturday morning, we are wondering if it’s two late to refund our entry fee and abort fitness mission. And two—before the weekend ends, at least one of us will cry.

We’ve all cried once, me, my mom and my older sister. My breakdown was about 2-miles deep into the dreaded beach run, and there were several factors that, at the time, warranted a good cry. First of all, we were running slanted. For some reason, the beach was on a sharp incline instead of its normal flatness. Also, we were running an out-and-back course, meaning we ran 2 miles in one direction, about faced and ran back. Meaning, super-fast runners are coming back long before I’m even approaching the half-way mark. Meaning, I’m running in loose sand to make room for these ultra-athletes.

Thirty-degree tilt and quicksand for footing not enough to shed a few tears? Mile marker two—enter high tide and soggy shoes. Running shoes, by the way, need a disclaimer, something to the effect of, “Warning: These shoes become bricks when wet.”

So, at this point, I did what anyone does when they are running through 3-inch deep water with sand sticking to every inch of bare skin, 10-pound cinderblock shoes and 2 miles still remaining. I sobbed. My chest heaved from shortness of breathe and sheer exasperation. I cried like a baby for its mom. Then my mom passed me, so I cried a little harder.

According to an MSNBC.com article, “Moved to tears: Workouts and waterworks,” tears and sweat go hand in hand. However, unlike my miserable breakdown, the article referred to tears of joy or release.

The article explained that when we stress or experience something negative, we often physically tense up our bodies to block out the emotion. The motion of exercise can cause these pent-up emotions to resurface. Often this happens in exercises like yoga or Pilates.

Although I’ve never witnessed any sudden outbursts in yoga class (though I’ve only been to a handful), the potential for exercise to release emotions doesn’t surprise me. I often rely on runs to relieve stress or anxiety, so why not sadness? On The Franklin Institute Web site, the article about the human brain and stress gives several methods to do away with anxiety. Two methods they mentioned are exercising and crying. Combining the two just seems more efficient.

So do I see any sob-fests on my runs in the near future? Not likely. But if you see me jogging down 16th Avenue with tears streaming down my face, know that they are tears of joy. But just to be safe, you may want to stop and offer me a lift.

Sick of exercising sick!

2007-10-03T22:38:00.000-07:00

I’m intimidated by gyms, I’ll admit it. Maybe it’s the machines that all look alike, but all have very specific and different purposes. Sure, I could read the instructions, but then I might as well paint a sign on my forehead that says, “I don’t belong here.” Maybe it’s the body builders lifting their 40-pound dumbbells while I struggle with my 5-pounders (8 on a good day). Maybe it’s the full-length mirrors, my fear of falling off a treadmill or the full-fledged stakeout for a machine at some gyms like Southwest Recreation Center on campus. In the case of Gainesville Health and Fitness Center, it could be the sheer size of the parking lot that unnerves me. A person could get lost in a parking lot like that.

But last week I went to the GHFC with my health and fitness writing class, and there’s something to be said for confidence in numbers. Two trainers at the gym spoke to our class about functional exercising, exercising based on movements instead of muscles, and the importance of exercising in the aging population. Then we had the opportunity to ask questions of our own.

A combination of awkward silence and newfound confidence in this unfamiliar environment prompted me to raise my hand.

“Is it true that exercising when you’re sick can help you recover,” I asked.

One look at the trainer’s face, and I knew my cover was blown. I felt the words “I don’t belong here,” searing into my forehead.

No, it turns out, was the obvious answer

While part of me instantly regretted asking the token “stupid question,” another part of me found the rest of the trainers’ response enlightening and helpful.

One trainer explained that sickness is like an injury to the body, so our workout schedule should be adapted accordingly. Both of the trainers suggested taking time off until the body recovered, and at the very least, they insisted that exercisers modify workouts to make them easier on sick days. An article on CNN.com, although a year old (hence I may be behind the times), outlined a similar position on exercising when sick.

So now I know; running when I’m feeling feverish will probably make me feel more feverish. Common sense—1. Strange and illogical myth that I believed for many years—0.

Soccer better than running? Say it isn't so...

2007-09-26T21:02:00.000-07:00

I have bad news for runners. We apparently chose the wrong sport. Our tennis shoes and breezy shorts were yesterday’s uniform of fitness. Today, it seems shin guards and cleats are all the rage. At least they should be, according to a recent study.

Danish scientists conducted a study of 37 men and found that a “friendly” soccer game burned off more fat and calories than about an hour-long jog. Over the 12-week period of the study, the percentage body fat for soccer players dropped by 3.7 percent compared to only about 2 percent for joggers.

The AP article about the study also noted that soccer players had more fun and felt less tired after a game. Joggers on the other hand “consistently thought their runs were exhausting.”

So, who’s up for a run? Anyone? I admit that this has not been my most motivating of blogs, but I will share my reactions and possibly a seed of inspiration for those of you who proudly call yourself a runner.

First off, the Danish are downers and clearly not runners (just kidding, mostly). Second, I’m not going to let the results of a mere 37 men deter me from logging my miles. They are not even a multiple of 10 (How hard would it have been to round up three extra guys for a sample size 40?). I run for many reasons, and fitness is certainly a big one. But there’s more to running than staying in shape.

I run because it’s convenient. I don’t need to convince three or more friends to run with me because I am my own team. Out on the road, it is my body verses my mind and that means I always win. I run because it relieves stress in a way that playing soccer or any other sport that combines coordination and competition simply cannot (see my Frantic Frisbee post). I run because I enjoy road races and the camaraderie of other runners. I run for the T-shirts and the free bagels and cookies after races. And contrary to the findings of said study, I run for fun.

Sleeping position and personality could be connected

2007-09-22T15:54:00.000-07:00

Are you a sympathetic starfish or perhaps a laid-back log? Maybe a striving soldier?

According to British sleep expert Chris Idzikowski, a person’s sleeping position and personality are correlated. He studied sleeping habits of 1,000 men and women and found the six most common positions, the fetal position, the starfish, the soldier, the log, the free faller and the yearner (My favorite of the six where the sleeper dreams with arms outstretched as if begging for a hug or an oversized teddy-bear. These individuals are said to have an open nature). You can check your sleeping identity by watching a video on the WebMD Web site that illustrates the six different positions and corresponding personality traits.

As for me, my sleeping personality was somewhat difficult isolate. I’m a multi-surface sleeper. In addition to my knack for snoozing through alarms and natural disasters, I have an uncanny ability to sleep anywhere. My roommates can vouge. They’ve found me conked out, face-down and spread eagle on our cement living room floor. They have also caught me napping outdoors while balancing on a bench swing with metal bars digging into my back. What can I say—I have a gift, one that borders narcolepsy and is triggered by textbook reading.

So clearly, deciphering one sleeping personality was difficult. But it was either that or conceding that I have multiple personalities. So in favor of sanity, I settled on being a free-faller. I lay facedown with my arms bent beside my head as if I am skydiver frozen in mid descent, and if you read my last post, you already know that I fall hard. Apparently, this reveals that I’m gregarious, brash, thin-skinned and hypersensitive to criticism. Ouch. Multiple personalities may be the way to go.

Don't be a sleepy head

2007-09-19T19:14:00.000-07:00

I reluctantly lifted my eyelids this morning only to see the daunting, red digital numbers of my clock come into focus: 8:58 a.m. Instantly, every nerve in my body lurched to attention as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold spiders all over me. I was frantic, I was horrified and I was precisely 28 minutes late for my photojournalism lab where we were turning in our first of only seven graded lab assignments for the semester.

This happens a lot. I sleep through the trumpet chime on my cell phone, through blaring music on my clock radio, and on some mornings, when I’ve deliriously slid the dials on my clock in a blind attempt to smash it into tiny noiseless peices, I sleep through static. Once I even slept through a near-tornado (meaning said tornado didn’t actually appear). My family, who was huddled in a closet underneath a mattress, wanted me to get my rest, so they said.

With a little research and mostly common sense, I discovered that I don’t sleep nearly enough. According an article on WebMD, most adults need between 7-9 hours of sleep a night. Over the last week, my average has been closer to 5 or 6.

As I read on, I found out that zeros on lab assignments are the least of my worries if I keep skimping on sleep. Sleep deprivation can lead to memory loss, depression, weakened immune system and an increased perception of pain. Researchers are also studying possible links between lack of sleep and obesity.

So, my theory: “You snooze, you lose,” is a sadly mistaken phrase. But that’s all for me, it’s past my bedtime.

If you're happy and you know it, wash your hands!

2007-09-18T21:22:00.000-07:00

For all of you who thought this was just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill week in September, get ready to celebrate. This week is National Clean Hands Week. Yippee! Hooray! Start your faucets, soak in some suds and break out the antibacterial lotion- it’s time to party. Just don’t expect everyone to join in the festivities, especially not men.

According to an Associated Press article on the CNN Web site, a recent survey by the American Society for Microbiology found that one-third of men skip the sink after using the restroom. In comparison, only 12 percent of women neglect to wash their hands.

The excellence of women in the field of personal hygiene wasn’t surprising to the ASM, who first discovered the trend in a similar study on hand washing behavior in public restrooms in 2005. However, the latest survey did show the dirty-handed population is growing. The number of men who skipped hand washing rose from 25 percent in 2005 to about 33 percent now. Women have also started lathering less, with the number of women non-washers rising from 10 percent to 12 percent.

What’s wrong with using your shirt or shorts as a substitute for water and soap? First, other people may be forced touch, shake, high-five or hold your hand. Have pity on them. Second, dirty hands spread germs and cause infections. Wash your hands and feel better.

So take the recommended 20 seconds before leaving the restroom and give your hands a bath. Just in case you’ve forgotten how, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) outlines hand washing in five simple steps. They even suggest singing "Happy Birthday" twice as a self-timer. Whether you chose to sing or wash in silence, have a happy National Clean Hands Week!

Frantic Frisbee

2007-09-12T20:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I forget why I’m a runner. I wonder what motivates me to jump out of bed in the still-dark hours and hit the ground running. Or why I willingly choose an exercise that other sports reserve for punishment. Then I do something like attempt to play a game of ultimate Frisbee, and it all comes rushing back.

Usually, going on a run is a great chance to clear my head or relieve stress. Ultimate Frisbee does the opposite. There is no such thing as a friendly game of ultimate Frisbee, at least not that I have found.

The moment I join the field, the tension starts. I immediately regret subjecting my teammates to my inferior Frisbee skills. Hand-eye coordination- not a requirement for running. Across the field, a Frisbee is catapulted into the air. Bodies on all sides launch into motion like heat-seeking missiles.

So what do I do? I revert back to what I know. I run. I run to one side of the field and then to the other. I chase that Frisbee like I’m a golden retriever and this is my livelihood. Sometimes I even wave my hands menacingly in front of Frisbee-holders. When I’m feeling really daring, I’ll even call out, “I’m open!” just for fun. I’m always open. No one bothers to cover me. They just know. They must sense it.

But sometimes, things go wrong. I proclaim my openness, and someone actually responds. They make eye contact as if to say, “Here goes nothing.” Time freezes. The thrower poises the Frisbee delicately in his hands, preparing to release. My heart slows as I realize the gravity of this one throw. Everything rides on my performance now. Fumble the Frisbee, and it’s over. No more chances, not for this game anyways. Immediately I’m overwhelmed by the urge to wave my arms in an X in front of me, to convince him to choose someone else, anyone else or to simply melt into the grass and disappear.

Too late. The Frisbee is careening toward me.

Needless to say, I’ll stick to running.

Genetically modified foods: Come out, come out wherever you are!

2007-09-09T22:06:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, I raided the fridge. This wasn’t just your everyday, need-a-quick-snack raid. No, this was an investigation. Wanted: genetically modified foods.

Last week in my health and fitness writing class, Dr. Lisa House gave a presentation on genetically modified (GM) foods, a subject I knew virtually nothing about. I like to think I’m not alone in my ignorance, so here’s a quick genetically-engineered food run-down. For the science-savvy and super informed, bear with me.

GM foods are foods whose genes have been combined with genes of other plants, animals or bacteria. Case in point: Sweet corn crossed with a gene in bacteria that kills some insects. The result: not so sweet corn if you’re the wormy-looking European Corn Borer that feeds on corn crops.

According to the Human Genome Project Information Web site, GM crops offer many benefits. Not only can some GM crops pulverize pests, but they also tend to taste better, ripen faster and provide more nutritional value than natural foods.

Of course, not everyone trusts these new technologically enhanced foods. Many skeptics bash “Frankenfoods” as potentially hazardous to health and warn that GM crops could start spreading and intermingling with natural crops.

As for the United States’ position on the issue, our side of the fence is teeming with super-natural fruits and veggies. About 70 % of food in US grocery stores is genetically modified according to The Campaign, a grassroots organization against GM foods. Manufacturers are not required to label these GM products.

Europe, however, is on the other side of the fence completely. Most of Europe rejects GM foods and at the very least, requires that GM products are clearly marked.

As for me, I’m a straddler. I’m torn between the inherent skepticism of the unknown and exhilarating possibility of a no-tears onion genetically engineered so that I can chop it without sobbing.

Hence, my refrigerator raid. I wanted answers. Are GM foods overtaking my fridge, or can I do without them? (Note: if chocolate chips are genetically modified, I’m in)

I started my search with baby carrots, moved to pickles and worked my way up to hummus. Label after label went by with no mention of GM whatsoever. Then I saw the Silk soymilk carton. Gold. My roommates are always cringing at my beloved milk-impostor. If there was anything unnatural in our fridge, the white soybean liquid would be it. I began scanning the fine print on the back of the box with ferocity. Sure enough, my eyes rested on this sentence, “This soymilk is made from soybeans that were not genetically engineered.” Blast! My efforts were futile. Until I get more information on the contents of my fridge, I’ll keep my uncomfortable perch on top of the fence.

Put the Pedal to the Pavement!

2007-09-05T21:09:00.000-07:00

Today, I tested fate. I biked to school, something I hadn't done for almost a year.

This may seem like an awfully brash statement, an exaggeration or some dramatic attempt to catch your attention, but my track record speaks for itself.

On my second day ever of biking to school last year, I was hit by a car (Some maintain that in reality, I hit the car with my bike. Technically, they are right). Upon impact, my instincts took over, arms flailed, and I clung to the car's back window in a desperate attempt to save myself from plummeting to the ground. It worked for a few seconds, but then the car kept moving. My body slowly peeled off the back of the car, and I crumbled to the ground underneath my bike. Luckily, there was no physical bruising to report, just a crooked set of handlebars and slightly damaged pride.

Over the next week or so, my biking curse only worsened. One sunny afternoon, I started biking home from school only to become stuck in a sudden torrential downpour (thunderstorm plus metal bike equals cursed). A few days later, I accidentally biked through a mud puddle (leftover from the flash flood earlier in the week) and was thoroughly covered in a spray of brown muddy muck. Then came the last straw. The back wheel of my bike fell apart, as in the rubber tread completely disconnected from the rim...while I was riding my bike...while I was riding my bike across an intersection.

In other words, I'm an accident waiting to happen on my bike. So why did I chance death this morning? I don't like to give up without a fight. I recently invested in a helmet (a requirement for my roommates' permission to get back on my bike), and I know how to use it. Also, biking has its perks:

First, it's faster. I'm always eager for an excuse to sleep longer, and biking saves time. There is no searching for a parking spot or waiting for an often-late bus.

Second, i get exercise without even noticing. According to the SELF.com calorie burning calculator, I burn almost 250 calories by leisurely biking to and from school.

Third, it saves me gas money. David Fiedler, bike enthusiast and former AP writer, said that driving costs about 20 to 30 cents per mile. After a year of consistent biking, the cents add up. Fiedler saves more than $400 a year for biking 32 miles a week in place of driving.

Lastly, biking helps the environment. The fewer the gas fumes, the happier the o-zone.

So for all you non-bikers, I challenge you to give biking a chance. I'm still biking, so you have no excuse. And as an ending word of encouragement, I'm proud to say that I biked home today relatively unscathed. Sadly, I cannot say the same for one unfortunate trash can that jumped in front my handlebars. Rest in peace.

Caffeine: Love it or hate it?

2007-09-01T17:34:00.000-07:00

When road races approach, my diet goes haywire. I've overeaten on spaghetti dinners, skipped breakfast only to starve later and even resorted to chomping on cardboard-flavored energy bars. But in my search for some secret formula to running success, some magical remedy to cancel out the eight-mile long run that I neglected to do, there was always at least one known and trusted factor- hydration. And that meant drinking water, not tea, coffee and definitely not soda. At least that's what I thought.

I read an MSNBC article today that changed my conceptions about caffeine. According to Lawrence Armstrong, a professor of exercise physiology at the Human Performance Laboratory at the University of Connecticut, caffeine doesn't dehydrate athletes. If consumed in moderation, about 500 milligrams or the equivalent of about three cups of coffee a day, caffeine can even help athletes work out longer.

I was so startled by this information that I did a little investigating about caffeine. What I found just startled me more. When in plant form, caffeine is a natural pesticide. It paralyzes and kills insects trying to feed on the plant. My immediate reaction, I can't believe we willingly ingest this stuff. On second thought, coffee- perhaps an alternative insect repellent?

So exercisers, runners and all caffeine drinkers, these are the facts. Pick your poison.

Introduction

2007-08-28T07:54:00.000-07:00

Hello bloggers, readers and Web surfers who are terribly lost. As my first health and fitness-focused blog, I’ll start with introductions. Generally, I rank somewhere in the normal category on first impressions. I’m a converted Gator fan studying at the University of Florida—check. I’m an avid story teller who is majoring in journalism—check. I’m a girl who enjoys shopping, lounging on the beach and all kinds of chocolate—check, check, check. Then slowly the normalcy wears off. It starts when my passion for running is mentioned.

Running itself isn’t the abnormality as any passerby on a college campus could attest. That super-sweaty guy or girl zigzagging their way through crowds of students is easy to spot any time of day at UF. No, it’s my confession that I actually enjoy running that really causes the foreheads to wrinkle. The truth that the 30 or more minutes a day of feet pounding pavement is more than just a trade-off for my midnight snack of double-fudge brownies seems too far-fetched for most to grasp. And as I continue explaining about cross country in high school, marathons (and not the kind that come in a sweet chocolate-coated rectangular bar), fun runs and family vacations that revolve around road-races called the Tour de Pain, the wrinkles just keep getting deeper.

So now the secret’s out. Foreheads please relax. I am strange. I am an exercise enthusiast who perhaps has had one too many runner’s highs. So it’s nice to meet you. I look forward to more rants about running and other health-related issues.