In which I am stupid.

Happy birthday to me! Yup, after roughly 364 days of anticipation, I turned 28 today and celebrated as only I do. Mainly, by being incredibly, monumentally and epically stupid.

How? Well, er, I kind of signed up for a triathlon today. Yeah. My 200+ pound self thought it was a good idea to huff-and-puff my way through a half-mile swim, 12 mile bike ride, and 3.2 mile run. On, wait for it, July 12.

If any of you are all athletic (or can read a calendar), you know that July 12 is really, really freaking soon. Which means I should have started training, oh, I don't know ... two months ago. Ooops.

I spent a decade growing up as a competitive swimmer (ah, back in the skinny-and-in-shape days of yore) and can pound out a 12 mile bike ride no problem right now. So I'm not worried _ too much, anyway _ about those legs. It's the run that has me absolutely, positively scared shitless. See... I don't run. Like, ever. Not even if I'm being chased. I'm fairly sure if someone tried to attack me on the street and my options were to run away or sit down and take a breather, I'd park my butt on a bench and be all, "excuse me, can I help you with something??"

You think I exaggerate, but it's true. In high school, at the pinnacle of my in-shape-and-athletic-days, I thought it'd be better to be the goalie on the field hockey team than to have to spend hours of practice every day running up, down and around the field. I was perfectly content to strap on 20 pounds of sweaty, heavy gear and let girls in kilts hurl hard balls at me than to have to spend 90 minutes a day running and doing sprints and drills.

So as part two of my present to myself, I bought myself these cool-ass kicks.


Now, before you go roll your eyes at the fact that I bought pink and white sneakers ("How obvious, Noodles...") you should know I went to a real, honest-to-goodness running store and got fitted by a very nice runner type who determined these were best for my weird feet.

And after my friend Tina convinced me that it would be a good idea to do this, I also put in an order for a tri-suit. Which, by the way, are possibly the most hideous things on the planet, aside from those crazy "modesty swimsuits" the Duggars wear on TV.


Please note, this model looks significantly better in this get-up than I ever will.

And finally, because I am a huge nerd who believes in research, research, research, I'm FINALLY reading the book I picked up a few years ago when I first got this crazy idea in my head.


It's actually great. Jayne is funny and snarky and I feel certain we would get along splendidly while shopping for god knows what together before getting martinis.

So, yes. That was my birthday. Well, there was that, and the fabulous and lovely gifts, calls, messages, cards, voicemails, text messages and other loveliness that my friends and family showered on me. Even the mutt got in on the act, but letting me sleep in until 8 a.m. All in all, pretty splendid.

So, let's just hope that this triathlon doesn't kill me so I can survive another 364 days to bask in birthday love next year.

Maytastic! Except at the dermatologist.

Leaves are returning to trees, flowers are blooming and my poor friend Emily has scarred retinas after catching an overly hairy dude with stretch marks jogging shirtless on a 60-degree day.

Yep, it's springtime here in Chicago, that lovely almost-temperate time when Chicagoans start ditching clothing at inappropriate temperatures and find really bad excuses to end meetings early so they can make it to an afternoon game at Wrigley. (There is, after all, a reason why Ferris Bueller was from Chicago ... I'm just saying. No one parties that much in warm weather unless the winter really, really, really, really, really sucks balls.)

But, as usual, I digress.

In addition to it actually _ typically _ finally beginning to feel like spring, May kicks ass because it's my birthday. (May 17, in case you've forgotten to mark your calendar...) I'm a consummate only child and so I don't believe a birthday should be restricted to an actual, you know, day. And even a birthday week is kind of lame. Nope. I believe in a BIRTHDAY MONTH.

The revelry got off to an early start, since I got my first birthday present, from Currer Bell, two weeks ago in the mail. But, because I am an idiot, I foolishly swore not to open it until my birthday and also swore on the Mutt Dog that I wouldn't Google the return address, either. So it's sitting, untouched, still in the box. Mocking me.

But my excitement got a swift shin-kick today when I opened my mailbox and got my first birthday card of the season. Sure, it's from the dermatologist. But hey, anyone is welcome on the Noodles Birthday Bandwagon. So, I tore open the envelope, honest to God, nearly choked.

"As our loyal patient, please accept this birthday gift of a reduced-price skin treatment ....Your glycolic treatment for $40 can help you achieve brighter, more youthful looking skin. This treatment, normally $105, improves clarity and may provide a more even skin tone."

Excuse me? Brighter, more youthful looking skin? YOUTHFUL? Are you jerkfaces serious?! I'm 28! I refuse to accept the fact that there will be gravity and wrinkles and grayness in my future. Nope. This peaches-and-cream Irish complexion is perfectly happy WITHOUT your stupid rejuvenating treatment _ 62 percent discount or not.

So there! Assholes.