My Inner Flaming Feminist

Sitting quietly in the chair next to my mother, I turned the pages of my favorite book: The House the Biff Built. Lover of all things Jim Henson, I could spend days with these books. Pointing out Big Bird, Ernie, and Cookie Monster, giggling at Oscar and Grover.

I was two years old, and I had accompanied my mother to her monthly exam with the OBGYN who would soon deliver a new bundle of joy to the family. In an effort to include me in on the discussion of the family's upcoming expansion, the doctor liked to ask me questions. "Are you excited to be a big sister? Are you excited to have a baby brother or sister? Are you going to help your mommy with the baby?" Etcetera, etcetera, and so forth.

Honestly, I don't recall feeling overwhelmingly strong in either direction about the situation. I don't think I enjoyed talking to the doctor too much, to be honest. But on this day, as I sat reading about Biff and blueprints, as well as cement and lumber, the doctor decided to not ask me about my pending siblinghood. Instead, he asked, "Do you want to be a 'builder' when you grow up?"

And at two years old I retorted, "No. I want to be an architecht."

So you can imagine my parents' surprise later that year, when in a similar situation, my response to, "Do you want to be a doctor when you grow up?" was NOT, "No. I want to be a neurosurgeon." Instead, it was, "No. Women can't be doctors. I want to be a nurse. "

Where the HELL did that come from? I certainly wasn't raised to think that only men could grow up to be doctors. And obviously, in graduating from college with a Bachelor of Science in Systems Engineering, I luckily managed to grow out of those crazy sexist notions. Well, most of them, anyway.

I still think men should take out the garbage. And up until tonight, I thought - or perhaps I simply always allowed - men to handle all aspects grilling. Charcoals. Fires. Steaks.

Spring is over a week old, I know. But today was the first day it really felt like spring. In a city without seasons, one needs activities to differentiate the end of 60 degree winters and the start of 60 degree summers. Today's activities included wearing flip flops, standing in line for concert tickets, scoring FREE tickets to a baseball game, and of course, dining on hot dogs and beers at said baseball game. What better way to end this day than to grill a steak?

And so I did. I cleaned out the grill. I lit the charcoals. Then I called my dad. And after that, I added paper to the pile of coals. Then I REALLY lit the charcoal. I marinated the steaks. I plopped them on the grill. Then I went back to the more "girly" of the tasks - chopping the vegetables, sauteeing the spinach, and browning some onions.

It was a fine meal. And a great kick-off to what is going to be the most difficult week of my training to date. (Pics)

• Monday: 7 miles (With speed intervals)
  
• Tuesday: 3 miles (Easy)
  
• Wednesday: 10 miles (With at least 7 miles at tempo pace)
• Thurdsday: OFF
  
• Friday: 5 miles (Easy/Hill repeats)
  
• Saturday: 20 miles (LSD)
• Sunday: OFF

Are you kidding me? 45 miles? I might die. These workouts don't even include time on the bench lifting, or my plans to make it to yoga three times. Dude, I am so going to die. But at least, on my day of rest before this ridiculous week begins, I scored tickets to Beck, drank a beer at the ballgame, and feasted on a lovely steak dinner.

Now, since I do not cohabitate with a male, I must take out the trash. And finally, to bed. My inner flaming feminist is spent.