Running around in the rain

Anyone who knows me, or has spent any amount of time around my father, knows I don´t like to work out. It´s no secret, and is, you could say, a sore spot for poor Dad. The sweating is really my only problem. If you look at my record, it´s all swimming and skiing. The two sports where you are so cold and wet all the time, be it from freezing pool water or a blizzrard, that it is physically impossible to sweat, or at least to notice that you are.
The other reason I dislike working out is because quite frankly I can´t. Put me on a treadmill and enjoy a comedy show involving limbs flying all over and buttons being pushed to stop but actually make it faster and, undoubtably, I will fly off the back. It just happened once. CSU was building our new rec center so there are about 33 orange girls in tiny shorts wearing pushup bras and size two month old tank tops waiting for a treadmill. Lucky for me, I got there first. Lucky for me, I had an audience to watch me fly off the back. The fact that I have started going for runs (okay so more like a jog for 5 minutes and then a 10 minute walk) here is kind of a big deal. I take my camera, so that I can show off to everyone where I get to live. I am getting a big ego about Santander. Maybe I´ll go somewhere reallly fabulous and will be humbled, but until the, I will think Santander is the most beautiful place ever. I take pictures, do yoga on little rest areas (I hope that when people stop and stare at me, it is because I look so professional doing yoga by myself on a sidewalk, but I think it is probably more "why is that poor poor girl falling over like that and making such painful faces? Should we go help her?") and run. The only problem is that I started running to work off all the flan and the excessive cookies I eat. When it is cold and dreary, when it is sunny and nice, basically just any time I am bored or in my room, I eat cookies. I go through about a roll or two a week. It´s a little impressive (or embarrassing) but above all, fattening. While I have been blessed to have the inability to gain weight and will always be asked if I am going into eight grade with every year of eight graders, I refuse to let myself consume seven cookies in ten minutes without some kind of punishment like running.

It doesn´t feel like punishment though, more like a jog that happens to be gorgeous and when I get passed by every single Spanish walker, I can almost be happy because at least it isn´t raining. That´s usually when it starts pouring.
I feel like the Spainish should start an Olympic walking team. They would take first place. Or they could start competing in all the track events. They could just walk right by everyone during the 100 meter dash.

My days right now consist of a few main parts: dragging myself out of bed for my 8am, facebook stalking through my 8am, teaching my Spanish teacher words like MILF (of which she asked if the plural was milves, like knife and knives...) then facebook stalking, watching the Harry Potter trailer repeatedly, reading and eating until class from one till three, then home for food, then a quick run, and then Modern Family and wishing my bank account would suddenly gain weight and allow me to take all the trips I sit around and plan.

Right now is one of those HP trailer watching and reading breaks, but I decided a blog post was necessary because while I sat here and wasted time, so did the school director. She was in here, hiding out in the little student´s computer lab, shopping for used baby strollers. Instead of fixing our class issues, faxing Gloria our papers that we´ve been waiting on to take to the police, you know, all those things that are really mundane compared to thirty minutes of baby stroller shopping. But who doesn´t need a little break after all the tough work she´s been doing. I certainly do... it´s called cookies.

I just wrote back to my dad this morning, and am 100% happy that technology exists. And that he is figuring out his keyboard. His first few emails looked like this:
please watch over your shoulder-bad things happen-I´ll but you a taser-carry a knife-run even if you don´t think you are fast-luv daddy

Totally love his emails, and have almost caught up to the number of times I´ve been told to look over my shoulder. Not quite though. My neck is suffering extreme over-rotation. I wonder if I can use that as an excuse for excessive amounts of massages when I get back to the States?

My mom (when you read this parents, know that it is all being said only because it is endearing and I love you and I am broke so don´t forget that either) always ends her facebook chats, texts, and emails with Love, Mom. Incase I forgot who I was talking too. The phone messages "Hey, ít´s your mom" and "I know you are in class but..." are now replaced by reminders that I have indeed been talking to my mother, and not some creepy stranger who knows my life details and snuck into my house in the afternoon and just happened to chat me on facebook. I sleep easier at night knowing that it was, in fact, my mother with whom I was talking.

I realized today how lazy I´ve gotten when it comes to getting ready in the mornings. I straightened my hair last night, and today in class my teacher asked why I looked pretty today, was it for a special occasion? I guess the glory of looking like you rolled for bed to class (which I do every day) is that when you look "normal" everyone thinks you look great. And I can´t imagine what would happen if I actually put on normal make up. They´d probably think I was going to my wedding right between classes or something. I will have to avoid giving them a shock like that and will continue with my bed to class rolling, for their own safety.

Now I am going to go read "Everything but the Squeal" which I recommend if you have ever been to Spain. You will read it and understand to a tee what he is talking about. For example, if you want to fit in, raise your voice three times the normal volume, freak out about small things, and base your entire life around your next meal. Then, I promise, you will be a true Spaniard.