What I learned from TMIs (in a good way)

Today is the end of the TMI Thursday era. It had a good run and, frankly, I was impressed with those who managed to pull out a story every.single.week. I lasted for a little over 6 months until I was grasping at straws. Not to say that I’ve exhausted all my embarrassing stories, but something changed along the way. As recently as December, I was trying to participate in Lilu’s TMI Thursday: Post Secret edition, but I just couldn’t do it – not even anonymously.

I had the perfect photo and the words to go with it. I was logged on to the account and everything…but I couldn’t hit send.

Now, I don’t know how much TMI Thursday was ever intended to be a learning experience, per se, but for me it was. It made me realize that I still have some boundaries. That there are still some stories that I’m not willing to share – not necessarily because they’re too gross or embarrassing, but because there’s some aspect that’s just too personal.

And as much as I love blogging, and putting it all out there, I still need to keep a piece of me for me.

That said, even without it being a regular feature, I’m sure I’ll have some TMIs up here from time to time. I mean, racing season is starting up again, so I’m bound to be throwing up in public at inopportune times. And what kind of blogger would I be if I didn’t share that with you all?

So, though I don’t have a new one to report, I leave you with the TMI that was probably the hardest to write and own up to. Most likely because I kept it a secret shame for oh-so-long.

And, along with that (Why Jack and I are not friends), I offer you these words of (fairly common sensical) wisdom:

ALWAYS Exercise Caution When Drinking Jack Daniels

(Oh, and maybe make sure someone has an extra set of your keys – and an extra pair of shorts. Just in case. For emergencies.)

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The TMI that could have been

Keeping with this running theme I’ve got going on right now, I thought I’d share a little story from a race that took place nearly a year ago. Last April I was running the GW Parkway 10-Miler on what turned out to be one of the first really warm days of the season. As in, the temperature reached about 80 degrees by 11:00am.

I’d eaten a CLIF bar before starting out, deviating from my normal routine, but I figured I could use the energy. Around mile 3 I remembered just why I don’t usually eat before a race.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried running while clenching, but it’s not fun. And it’s not easy. There weren’t very many bathrooms along the way (I remember only one, there may have been another) so, had I stopped, there still would have been a line of people to contend with. And seeing as I was still in my competitive “maybe I can beat my last 10 mile time” mode, I didn’t want to stop.

But, good lord, 7 miles feels like forever when nature’s calling.

Can you tell? I'm concentrating so hard on just making it to the end.

Now, take into account that I was getting dehydrated and the heat was making me loopy, and you’ll understand why I was a mess when I finally crossed the finish line. I was standing in front of the porta-potties, just staring at them, white as a sheet, when one of the friends I’d run with (the now-boyfriend) found me and asked what I was doing.

I whispered, “I have to poop. I’ve had to poop since mile 3!” He looked at me like I was crazy (fair) and gestured to the mostly empty porta-potties, that I’d just been staring at, blankly. “So…go.”

Basically what I looked like when he found me...except I was even more out of it then.

Afterward, and after I restored my energy levels a bit, I admitted to him: “The whole time I was running I kept thinking, if I actually poop my pants, do I have the guts to blog about it?“

Yeah. I don’t think so.

So here’s hoping that something similar doesn’t happen on Saturday (2 days!). Because mile 3 out of 26.2 is MUCH worse than 3 out of 10.

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Let’s play doctor

Note: Sadly, this is not a fun “playing doctor” story. I’ll just throw that out there now, so I don’t promote any false expectations. (That’s not to say there won’t ever be a fun story of that ilk, though, if I get my way…)

But this, this is a story about vomiting (so I guess it maybe counts as TMI?), and a request for advice.

You may not remember, but this past summer I had an unfortunate end-of-race incident, where I proceeded to puke just as I crossed the finish line. That was my ninth race, but it was the first time I’d ever been truly nauseous.

Sadly, it was not the last time.

My body seems to have made this a habit. It’s like a sick game of Duck, Duck, Goose: Run, Run, Vomit – but only during races.

About a month ago, I wrote about the Philly half-marathon, and how I had such a great time. And that was true. The part I left out was where, upon crossing the finish line, I promptly made it over to the medical tent and said, “Excuse me, I’m going to throw up – is there a trash can I could use?” But of course, when there was a receptacle at the ready, I managed to reel it in, and not need it.

Oh no, I managed to wait until we pulled into the restaurant where my parents were taking us for brunch.

And then I left my insides on the parking lot pavement, simultaneously holding my hair back and holding my medal away from my face to avoid splatter on the prize. (Priorities, you know.)

Most recently, at the Marine Corps 10k, I made it past the finish line only to book it to the sideline, squeeze myself between two people who were already there, and throw up over the barrier. (Note: to my knowledge, I did not get anything on them. They did, however, quickly leave.)

And that was the last straw. I finally made a doctor’s appointment. Then I had another with specialist. And now I have another lined up for tomorrow. The verdict so far?

“Just stop running races.“

Well, call it stubborn if you must, but I refuse to stop. There has to be another way.

And that’s where you guys come in: you’re all smart cookies – what in the hell could this possibly be? Anything you can think of: suggestions, questions that could trigger a revelation, personal experiences (though, I hope for your sakes those are few and far between), anything at all.

If you crack the case, I may even find you this hat:

And if that’s not incentive, I don’t know what is.

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TMI Thursday: The one in which I run my heart, or rather, my guts, out

Via Lilu: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

Remember when I said that I was done with TMI Thursdays for a little while? Well, I was. Then this happened.

The other weekend, I participated in the Rockville Rotary Twilighter 8K. A long name for a race in which you’re actually just running five miles at night (trying not to trip), with the neighborhood cheering for you, while waiting for their streets to not be blocked off anymore.

In an effort to be properly fueled, we went to dinner beforehand. Nothing too heavy – just some dinner salads. No biggie. I should have known something was off when I couldn’t finish my meal. Since when have I not been able to finish a salad? And then the nausea started while on the metro out to Rockville. (It probably didn’t help that it took forEVER to get out there – stupid red line delays.) But I was determined.

Fresh air helped a bit, once we finally arrived. And there was no way I was sitting out while everyone else ran. (Way to go, pride. Thanks for that one.) And actually, I felt surprisingly good for the first half of the race.

Around the 2.5 mile mark, though, I felt it again.

Around the 3 mile mark, I promptly threw up a little bit in my mouth.

You’d think, after that, I would stop. You’d also be wrong.

I continued to spit my way through the course and chug water at each station. And finally, finally, I could see the bright lights at the finish line. So I sprinted. I was flying and it felt fantastic.

Right up until I crossed the finish line and booted on the pavement.

There were so many people that I couldn’t even get off to the side for the first round of vomiting. The volunteer firefighters who were on call for emergencies just stared at me, as I purged my dinner (and probably my lunch), as they took a tiny step back to avoid the splatter effect.

For round two, I successfully made it around the fencing, and into a trash can, and was finally given a bottle of water and some Gatorade – as well as concerned looks, and offers to lie down in the medical tent.

But, the worst part of the entire ordeal was this: I made a point of crossing the finish line before I really let go and let my stomach do its thing – and the sensors didn’t even pick up my time! According to the results page, it’s like I wasn’t even there!

What a load of crap.

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Revisiting TMIs past

Just for the record, I’m not retiring from TMI Thursdays. At least not yet. There’s something surprisingly enjoyable about reliving my most embarrassing and cringe-worthy moments for the entertainment of the blogosphere. However, as I’ve said before, I think I’m running out of stories. I have a few that are bouncing around in my head, refusing to come out. And I have a few more that I know I’ll never write – which is a pleasant reminder that I still have some boundaries.

That said, perhaps this is a good time for a little TMI break – time to let the stories pile up. Or to let them be recalled from wherever they’ve been repressed to. Either way.

So, today, I leave you with some repeats. Arguably my four favorites (limited to my own moments – because I actually cringe the most with this one), that still make my face redden when I recount them. Even here.

Ah, well, in no particular order, enjoy:

1) Look Ma! No hands!

- A lovely, heartwarming tale about a girl and her running experiences.

2) First time for everything

- Not mine, but his.

3) Anything but clothes

- The lengths one will go to, to stick with the theme.

4) Why Jack and I are not friends

- Sometimes I feel like it’s still too soon for this one.

And, as always, visit Lilu (at her new home, no less!) for your daily dose of gross. Consider this the warning.

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Protected: TMI Thursday: Tastes like low standards

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Protected: TMI Thursday: Rounding the bases

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Protected: TMI Thursday: A different kind of balloon animal

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TMI Thursday: NOT a floatie

Via Lilu: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

When I was in eighth grade, I still had a very limited experience with tampons. (What? Did you need a warning? It’s Thursday after all.) And even those were relegated to those Junior Playtex – with the applicator. Duh.

Also, considering that a) I was still rather new at this whole women-bleed-every-month thing and b) I wasn’t on the pill yet, when my monthly gift would come was kind of a crap shoot.

So, because Mother Nature likes to fuck with me, she brought my gift during Thanksgiving break. When we were at my grandparents’ house. And visiting other family who were staying at a hotel. With a pool.

Blast.

While changing into my bathing suit (please, sitting out was not an option), I realized that the only tampons on hand were those little o.b. ones. Gentlemen, if you’re not familiar, they do not have an applicator – or, in guy terms, a little plastic thingy that easily slides right up in there. Which meant that I would awkwardly have to stick my finger up my hoo-ha to maneuver make sure it was all the way in. Eek!

I tried. I really did. And it’s not that I’m squeamish; it’s that I hate to fail. At anything. So when I couldn’t get the little bugger up there after the first couple tries, I got frustrated. And of course my mom was knocking on the door, asking how it was going, to which I could only reply, “Fine! Leave me alone! I’ll be out in a minute!“

The minute stretched and stretched, until finally I just gave up and admitted defeat to the tampon. But I found another option. An option that probably wouldn’t have worked as well if those two-piece boy-short bathing suits hadn’t been so popular at the time.

I wore a pad into the pool. And was uncomfortable the entire time. Particularly when I had to get out, and felt that water-logged insert weighing down my shorts. And when I realized that my mom knew, and was whisper-explaining to the rest of the adults why I was waddling like that.

Moral of the story? Applicators are your friend. Especially come pool-time.

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TMI Thursday: Mother Nature strikes again

Via Lilu: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

A few summers ago, I was interning in D.C., and trying to catch the eye of the cute British intern (who, I found out later, had a girlfriend – story of my life).

One day, he caught up with me just minutes after I’d been in the bathroom. After chatting, and as we were going our separate ways, he kindly pointed out, “Liebchen, I think you’ve got something on your pants.“

I looked, trying to crane my neck, as he explained, “No, it’s more on the back.“

I tried to nonchalantly brush it off, “Oh yeah, I must’ve sat it something. I’ll be right back.“

He was gentleman enough to not question me, but we both knew I didn’t sit in anything. The “something” in question was closer to the waistband of my light-colored pants, and just above my ass.

My situation was NOT this bad. But this *is* what came up when I searched "period stain" - how could I resist?

You see, my period was particularly heavy that day (thanks Mother Nature), and my tampon was slacking off on the job. When I’d been in the bathroom before, I thought I’d taken care of it, and caught any drips in the process.

I was wrong.

Several little droplets of period blood (see Lilu for more creative descriptions) had escaped, unbeknownst to me, dripping onto the pants that were then around my ankles.

Awesome.

Upon my return to the bathroom, I scrubbed furiously, but soap and water only go so far. The end result was a lighter spot, surrounded by a damp patch, and me deciding to untuck the shirt I was wearing, to cover the offending mark.

The Brit never said anything.

But that may have also been because I avoided his eyes for quite some time after.

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