A long post about how much donkeys suck.

I was going to write some inspirational story about how I conquered the Grand Canyon and found strength inside myself that I never knew was there, but that would require thinking and forming coherent sentences. Verbs? I ain't got time for no stinkin' verbs!

Thus, I present to you a photo essay entitled "Rain and Donkeys: How I Made It Out of the Grand Canyon Without Having A Stroke and/or Stepping In Donkey Poo."

Mother Nature must have known I was coming to get my vengence on her because the morning of our hike, it was raining. Raining tears of fear! Hey-o! High fives? No? Okay, moving on.

These two guys, Austin and Red, were my hiking partners for the day. Or, as I like to call it, the only people I could convince to come with me.





We got to the rim and were scoping out our trail, Bright Angel Trail. I had originally wanted to hike all the way down to this place called Indian Gardens, which I thought was 1.9 miles. Yeah, 1.9 miles from the 3 MILE POINT. It would've been a ten-mile round trip and we were kinda short on time. So, we picked the three mile house, which, as evidenced by this picture, was REALLY FUCKING FAR.



So, we gathered lots of water bottles and Rice Krispy treats (because only the super experienced hikers take Rice Krispies) and started down. It was a pretty nice trip down. It was drizzly and misty and generally kind of eerie. At one point, Red looked up into the mist and said, "I feel like we're in the pterodactyl cage in 'Jurassic Park'."


It was agreed that there was a very real possibility that dinosaurs may come out of the mist, so I tried to blend in.

"Rawr! Seriously, guys, I'm one of you. Please don't eat me."


The rain and mist was awesome compared to the new bane of my existance: canyon mules.

Let me tell you something about mules that you may not know: they're assholes. They smell like hobos and they poo everywhere. I expected to see mules and maybe even get stuck behind them once or twice. What I did not expect was to see fresh piles of donkey presents every two steps. Here's a little equation for you: donkey presents + dirt + rain water = a poo cocktail you want no part of. We had to do some tricky footwork to avoid the Grand Canyon's hommemade mule surprise stew. Blech.


After a few miles of successfully avoiding mule droppings, we made it to our 3 mile mark.

That face? That is the face of a girl who is 3 miles into a canyon. The face of a girl who hasn't quite registered the reality that in order to get out of said canyon, she'll have to walk another 3 miles uphill. One could call it the face of ignorance. Or maybe denial. Either way it was short lived.


The trek back up was pretty much to be expected.

The trail is pretty maintained, but it's still a constant incline. The first mile and a half I hit a good stride. Red and Austin were in front of me the entire time, but for the most part we were able to stay together. The last mile and a half, well, that part kicked my ass. I don't have any pictures of it because my main focus was on staying alive. I know, I'm such a selfish asshole. My bad, everyone.

Red and Austin were pretty good about setting and keeping a consistent pace. However, after a while I declared my ascent back up to the rim pace free and took a lot more breaks than I actually needed. Even in the Grand Canyon I can't escape my laziness.

We had all agreed that we wanted to be out of the Canyon and back onto the rim by 2 p.m. By the time I caught up to Red and Austin it was 1:45. We were close to the rim, a mere 10 minutes away, when what did we find?

Donkeys. Everywhere. It was a clusterfuck of donkeys. We had to wait for the tour guide to finish his schpeil before we could pass them. We were determined though; there was no way we weren't making our 2 o'clock goal.

After the donkey congregation dispersed, we hauled ass up the last bit of the trail and finally made it out at 2:02 p.m., four and a half hours after we'd started.

We. Looked. Good.

Some ice cream, iced tea and a couple waters later, we were sore and ready to nap. But not before showing the Bright Angel Trail what we really thought.



Austin didn't have feelings towards the trail one way or another, I think he was just psyched to get some pizza...and Rice Krispy treats...and a sandwich.

All in all, it was a good experience. My exact words upon emerging from the Canyon and seeing my family waiting for me were, "Holy shit, I can't believe I just did that." I was so psyched that I accomplished something I set out to do and so overwhelmed by the Grand Canyon's natural beauty, that I decided to bury the hatchet between the GC and myself. No more fueds with Mother Nature, I told myself.

That is, until I saw the parting gift the Arizona Sun had left me.

A v-neck shaped sun burn?!

It's on.

Re-match, bitch.

My senior year in high school, I went to the Grand Canyon. I'd been plenty of times before (after all, you can't live in the "Grand Canyon State" without going at least once), but this time was going to be different. We were going to be hiking into the canyon.

I was pretty unhealthy in high school and generally unaware of the outdoors world. But, my friends were going so I talked my way onto the trip.

"Are you sure you want to go?" one of my teachers asked me. He was concerned that someone of my, er, caliber might have a hard time hiking downhill for 2 miles and coming back on a steeper incline for another 2 miles.

"I can do it," I said. I flashed a smile, dropped some witty banter and I was in.

We got to the Grand Canyon in a group. I was nervous because the only exercise I ever got was walking from the main building in the high school to the carne asada stand in the back parking lot. More so than being nervous, however, I was cocky. I compared myself to the people I saw hiking into the canyon.

"Alright," I thought. "If that guy over there can do it, I can do it."

I started at the same pace as my classmates but after a quarter mile, my pace slowed considerably. My knees weren't prepared for two miles of downhill and grew shaky. One of my friends and a teacher, Ms. U, stayed behind to walk with me while the rest of the group practically ran down the trail. We stopped every ten minutes because I needed a break. I'd sit on a rock to take a break and watch as kids, teenagers and grandparents passed by me, smiling and laughing. I didn't understand how someone could be smiling while walking down. Good Christ, I could barely convince my mouth to open wide enough to breathe let alone smile.

We were a mile and a half down when another teacher, Mr. M, came trekking up the trail to meet us. The same Mr. M who I convinced to let me come on the trip was now informing me that he didn't think there was enough time for me to go all the way down to our intended meeting spot.

"It's just that it gets pretty steep up here," he said. "Everyone else is already almost down there and there's still another half mile to go from here."

I stared at him, out of breath. My friend who had been walking with me looked at me, then Mr. M, then down at the ground.

"I just want you to remember that for every bit you go down, you have to go back up," Mr. M said.

I nodded. "I'll just start walking back up then. I'll meet you guys at the rim."

Mr. M nodded and my friend gave me a wave. I was humiliated. I wasn't embarrassed at what Mr. M had said to me; he was just trying to look out for myself and the rest of the group. I was mortified that I overestimated my ability to keep up with my peers. I'd always had the mentality that if I thought I could do it, I could do it without any practice or preperation. When it came down to the wire, I convinced myself, I could do any physical task that was demanded of me. It was bad that I didn't realize my philosphy wasn't true before I made the journey down a giant canyon face, but it was even worse that something so obvious had to be pointed out to me in front of my friend. The more horrifying thing, however, was that I was more than a mile into the Grand Canyon and I had no idea how I was going to get out. I was stuck.

So, I started walking. I slowly trudged up and put on a good face as donkeys and senior citizen groups passed me. I made jokes and laughed when my classmates, done with their lunch near a drop off that I never got to see, caught up to me and proceeded to pass me yet again.

"We're trying to beat Mr. M up to the rim!" they shouted to me.

"We'll see how that goes," Mr. M said trotting up a few steps behind them. Those bitches. I could barely breathe and they were having a race up the Canyon.

I was exhausted and defeated in more ways than I could imagine. My toes were numb and the walking sticks that carried my shaky legs down the canyon were now just another source of excess weight. I was just about to give up and try to hitch a ride on a donkey when Mr. M came lumbering down the Canyon.

"I thought you could use the company," he said. It was the first time in my life that I remember feeling overwhelming gratitude towards someone. I would have punched a donkey down the canyon at that point if he had asked me to. A little while later, Ms. U joined in our trek up to the rim. After 8 grueling hours in that bastard Canyon, I made it to the rim. My classmates welcomed me when I got back to our camp and everyone did me a favor by ignoring the elephant in the room (or the campground).

The Grand Canyon kicked my ass that day. I had never in my life felt so defeated. We came home and my ego mostly recovered, but there has always been a scar on it that just can't quite fade away.

Well, this weekend, I'm looking to tackle that scar. I'm looking for a re-match with the Grand Canyon. I've got broken in hiking boots, lots of sunscreen and a healthier self to bring to the table.

This weekend, I'm coming for you, Grand Canyon. I am going to stomp your ass with my gianormous hiking boots and then I am going to eat an ice cream cone and marvel at your ridiculous natural beauty.

This weekend is our re-match. It's on.

Hold the Elevator

Remember the MTV show Daria?



There was an episode once where Daria and her pal Jane are going door to door selling chocolates. They stop at a house and knock on the door. They hear distant footsteps and some banging about. When the owner of the house finally opens the door, it's a large, sweaty woman in a moo-moo who is breathing rather heavily.

"Sorry girls," she says in a deep, mannish voice in between gasps of air. "I just came up from the basement."

Daria and Jane exchange looks and then offer her a chocolate bar. Because she's a hefty and, one can only assume, hungry woman, she agrees.

I don't remember the rest of the episode, but I'll always remember the way the big lady in the flowered moo-moo talked. My brothers and I cracked up at that and years later it still swims around in my head.

Today at work I was in the basement filling my water bottle. I usually make a bee-line to the elevator, but today I decided that I would spice up my morning routine and take the stairs. My office is on the 6th floor and each floor contains 2 flights of stairs. Including the stairs to get to the first floor, that's 14 flights of stairs.

Since I'm a masochist, I dropped a mental f-bomb to the stairs and started to climb.

2nd floor rolls around and I'm thinking, This isn't too bad. Not breathing too heavy and I can feel my heart rate climbing a little.

3rd floor comes into view and I'm thinking, Maybe I can bail here and take the elevator.

4th floor and I'm thinking, Shit! This was a bad idea. I haven't even broken in these shoes yet!

5th floor and I'm thinking, If I die in the stairwell, I wonder how long it'll be until someone finds my body. Is this why everyone in early America was fuckin' ripped, because they had no choice but to take stairs? No wonder they went and got themselves polio.

Finally, the 6th and final floor and I've never felt such sweet relief. I drag myself to my desk and make a mental note to burn down the stairwell.

"You alright?" my co-worker asks, amused.

"Sorry," I say between some heavy breathing. "I just came up from the basement."

Oh shit. At least I wasn't wearing a moo-moo.

Sweat Fueled Revelation

Tonight I got home and did what I normally do: I ate dinner. Chicken and chili stew, it was everything a dinner should be. Hot, tasty and homemade, it frolicked in my mouth and danced down my throat. I had a large bowl and then sat around wondering what I could do to burn off all the calories I'd just eaten. That's all that my mind thinks about these days.

If I eat that, how much would I have to do to clean the slate again? To be on even keel?

It's incredibly tiring and most of the time, takes the joy out of eating. Tonight I took Simon for a walk. I chatted on the phone with an old friend for a long time. I missed talking to my friend and before I knew it, half an hour had passed. We said our goodbyes and Simon and me headed home.

I got home and plopped into the kitchen chair. "Great," I thought. "I'm done now. I can shower and not worry about calories for the rest of the night."

I looked down at my lower body and knew that wasn't going to be the case. Some nights, I'm proud of what I've accomplished and the parts of me I've lost. Other nights, I am disappointed in myself. I'm angry that I haven't accomplished more. But tonight, I felt selfish. I had left the girl I used to be behind. Physically, I don't remember who that girl was. I see photos of her and I don't recognize her. I feel sorry for her. But I forget sometimes that I was her. That I used to laugh in her body. That I had friends who cared for me no matter what I looked like on the outside. For all the times I was insecure or angry in her body, I was also happy. I told jokes and stories and had really great times. I loved and was loved in her body.

I rolled my mini-trampoline (the min-tramp) into my bedroom, put on some music and jumped on. The music was upbeat but I didn't really hear any of it. My body was moving but my mind was still thinking about the girl I used to be. A while back, I put up an old Polaroid of that girl on the wall for inspiration.

"So I'll know I can never go back," I thought as I tacked it up. It caught my eye as I was bouncing. Suddenly I heard the words of a song I'd heard a thousand times before.

I'm going on, the song said. I looked at the Polaroid. "Well, I guess that's true," I thought. I bounced more and listened to the words. It was like hearing them for the first time.

But every once in a while, I think about her and smile, one of the few things I do miss, it said. "Good Christ," I thought. "That's exactly right."

But baby I got to know, baby I've got to show, baby I've got to prove it. And I'll see you when I get there.

I was completely consumed. My legs were aching and my chest was tight, but I couldn't stop. I felt weightless. I am not leaving her behind. I'm ditching the bad parts and taking the rest of her along with me. Sure, I'm terrified. I've been terrified since the beginning. The fear of failure and regression tug at me every day. It probably will forever. But looking at that photo and listening to those words, suddenly everything made sense. There is no going back, ever. There is no failure, not with this. There is nothing but what I choose to do.

And I promise I'll be waiting for you. Goddamn right.

Magnus Samuelsson ain't got nothin' on me

I joined a gym today. I had previously been a member of particular lady gym that shall remain nameless (but not lame-less). I was kind of unhappy there and the ladies who worked there were bitches. I already had kind of crappy self-esteem so I don't really need Nazi work-out ladies riding my ass while I was trying to tone that exact same ass.

So after putting in a year at the lady gym, one of my friends suggested I join the gym he was going to. I'm all for breaking a sweat with friends (nothing strengthens the bond between friends like sweating profusely and grunting excessively*) so I agreed.

I'd been a member of this gym before when I was younger so I wasn't too nervous about going back. When I was a member of LA Fitness, I had to give myself a half hour pep talk and drink three Red Bulls before I could even step foot inside. And even then I could only spend twenty minutes on a machine before the voice in my head that said "HOLYSHITEVERYONEISLOOKINGATMECAUSEI'MSWEATINGTOOMUCH" took over and I became two breaths away from being the gym's resident crazy lady. It was a bad scene.

But this gym is more laid back. Nobody cares what you're doing and I like that. I feel good about this change. I've lost a good amount on my own just kind of half-assing it, so now that I'm thinking about maybe possibly putting in a solid effort maybe the rest of what I want to lose will come off easier and/or quicker. Plus I get really hyped up on the endorphins and by the time I leave there I'm relatively positive I could bench press a Volkswagon Beetle if I needed to. In fact, today when I left, I gave a fellow gym goer a high five and accidentally launched him across the parking lot.** Guess I don't know my own strength, which can happen when you look like this:


This is me. Actual size too. Jealous?


* That's what she said.
** This may or may not have happened.

Guess who does have buns of steel...?

Just got back from seeing Burn After Reading. That movie is great fun, although I'm still not 100% on what it's actually about. But Uncle Malkovich was in it. And do you know what Uncle Malkovich was doing in the movie? Guess. Go ahead, I'll give you a moment.

GILAD!! Uncle Malkovich had scenes where he was exercising to my favorite 90s workout guru. There's one scene (in the background but it still counts) where he is doing MY EXACT SAME WORKOUT TAPE. I almost peed. I highly recommend that everyone see this because a.) The Coen Brothers are involved so you're guaranteed to say "what the eff?!" at least a few times and b.) You can see the wonder that is Gilad in action.

So, in conclusion: Uncle Malkovich cemented my love for him and even the Coen Brothers recognize the big ball of spandex that is Gilad. $6 well spent, my friends, $6 well spent.

My buns, they don't feel nothin' like steel

I've been trying to spruce up my workout routine. In addition to ocassional jog or the many walks I take (read: gossiping and just so happening to be walking), I've tried to add in some DVDs to mix it up. Sometimes it's just way too hot to exercise outside. So far, I've done step aerobics and a yoga/pilates DVD that beat my ass to a pulp. So, you know, all in all good stuff. Call me a masochist, but if I'm not sweating and a Lotus position away from death, then it doesn't feel like I'm working out hard enough.

So a few weeks ago while searching through my family's movie collection, I came upon this:



Now I know what you're thinking. KV, that's a grown man wearing white spandex. I know, I know. But look how buff he is in that white spandex! His name is Gilad and he's ridiculous. I'm afraid that if I don't complete all the sets on the VHS (oh yeah, it's a VHS) that he'll use his toned arms to reach through my TV screen and inflict maximum damage.

Gilad is whipping my ass into shape! Which just goes to show you that just because a workout tape is horrendously outdated doesn't mean it can't make you ache in places you don't care to mention on a blog.