Were it not for that damn laminated poster......

I just returned home from yet another trip to Puerto Rico, my second in 2010. When T and I decided we wanted to migrate south for some Vitamin D therapy over the holiday season, we interviewed several other candidates. Grenada (do you know how much flights to Grenada cost? Think mortgage payments. That’s with an “s”, as in plural, more than one payment.), Florida (unpredictable temperatures this time of year), Mexico (meh....), to name a few.

Puerto Rico kept winning out, despite my reluctance. After all, I’d just been there this past spring, not to mention there is (apparently) a case of wine floating around somewhere down there for which I never received so much as a “Thanks, see you in hell, jerk.” However, my previous life as a business traveler has left me with scores of airline miles and hotel points that worked well with a Vieques/San Juan itinerary, and we found other suitable accommodations that kept the destination within our post-pharmaceutical-industry-heyday- double-dip-recession- hey-we-really-should-pay-our-teachers-more budget. Plus, we’re both avid* swimmers, and one of the highlights of my first trip to Vieques was all the glorious open water swimming I was able to do. Every day brought a different beach, each ideal for long swims in calm, clear, warm, mostly relatively shallow water. Perfect for a closeted open water wimp like me, who were it not for the funds already invested and the people waiting at the other end would likely chicken out of every open water race I’ve ever put myself through. And so because this was a known entity about Vieques, and because this is something we both sought as a major priority in our final destination, the deal was sealed. Tickets were booked, arrangements made. Puerto Rico or bust.

Meanwhile, and in fact long before all this vacation planning ever took place, I had kinda gotten a little hooked on this motivational program at the pool. Last January some non-swimmer gym employee had launched a “Swim 100 Miles in 100 Days” thing with the intent of luring folks into a social contract to essentially swim from Baltimore to Philadelphia in a pretty tight time frame in exchange for a t-shirt. The program was super legit with a binder that held everyone’s records and a laminated poster where you could mark your milage for all to see. Good times!

I think three, maybe four, people actually made it to Philly by Day 100. T may have been one of them. Gym Motivational Program Original Intention: Fail.

After the 100 days passed, however, many people, myself included, continued to track their milage. And as the year started to round third base, Thanksgiving coming and going, I, Khop, lover of round numbers, neat edges and right angles, realized that while I came nowhere close to 100 miles in 100 days, I just might be able to finish 2010 with 200 miles.

Oh my was the thought intoxicating. Two hundred. Such a lovely round number, so full of zeros and divisibles. How satisfying would it be to see the entire second row next to my name on the laminated poster filled with marker?

Sigh.

At this juncture I was near the 180-mile mark and thus would have to pick it up quite a bit. The only point in the year when my monthly milage was at or above twenty was whilst training for this, and I am currently in love with and putting significant time into this. But with some effort and motivation, I felt it was well within my grasp. Especially as yet again, I have found myself in December with plenty of time on my hands.

In thinking this through, counting how many days in December I would be in town and assessing how attainable this round number actually was, I came to one distinct conclusion, which was that I did not want to leave a significant portion of this milage to do during my much-awaited trip to paradise. Sure, I wanted to swim while I was there, but I didn’t want to have to swim, to feel obligated to some internal, unimportant-to-every-other-person-and-thing-on-the-planet goal. After all, the words “obligated” and “vacation” are completely irrelevant to one another, and should rarely, if ever, find themselves in the same sentence. No problem, as I am older, I am wiser, and I have found it possible, on occasion, to make a deadline without bringing it right down to the very last nanosecond.

I’ve totally got this.

Or so I thought, until over the next 24 days the angel of motivation and the devil of my TV remote waged a war, and I found myself boarding the plane to Vieques with only twelve miles swam and eight yet to go.

Weak, khop. So pitifully weak.

Well, I reasoned, I am spending four days in Vieques with Mr. Swim, himself. This is exactly what I did not want to do to myself, but two miles per day isn’t entirely out of the question. We’ll see what happens; all is not lost.

Unfortunately, over the course of those four days daylight, weather, a touch of vacation laziness and a healthy dose of the aforementioned open water wimpiness mixed up a cocktail that led to a pathetic performance. Allow me to recount:

Day One: Mosquito Pier - gorgeous two mile round trip swim full of starfish, sea turtles and easy sighting on the pier on one side, land on the other. We left it too late in the day and only had time to clock 1.5 miles. No problem, three days left.

Day Two: Blue Beach. Utter vacation laziness. Zero energy due to a bender someone had with a few locals the night before. Moderate depression upon getting tricked into reading The Worst Vacation Book, no scratch that, Generally Speaking The Worst Book Ever Written. Zero miles clocked. Uh oh.

Day Three: Horrific rainy weather. Just terrible. Investigated Mosquito Pier, surf deemed rough. Sun Bay, sand churned up, water gross. Green beach, 0.5 nervous miles clocked. Crap.

Day Four: Beautiful weather. Awoke with insane ambitions of nonstop swimming - 6 miles, no problemo! Except, problem. Sand and seaweed still churned up and unpleasant at Mosquito Pier. Underwater visibility, nil. T officially declares avid hatred for the words “Mosquito” and Pier”. It is dead to him, he mutters. Similar findings in Sun Bay. Cannot be bothered to trudge around rest of island to inspect other beaches in pursuit of now unattainable, bullshit goal. Full mental release from said goal and accompanying euphoria. Sunset swim to and from the island off the coast of Esperanza, 0.5 miles clocked.

Overall, four days in paradise, 2.5 dismal miles swam.

Meh.... whatcha gonna do?

T, also disappointed with the odometer reading, got to clicking away on the interwebs to see what possibilities, if any, existed for our time in San Juan. I don’t think either of us expected to find much, and sure enough, the surf’s too rough for anything open water. But a viable option surfaced - the world-class, internationally renowned San Juan Natatorium.

Ooh la la!

Luckily my travel companion was one who also gets pretty geeked at the thought of taking a lap or two in what the folks over at Wikipedia site as "the most advanced natatorium in the Caribbean and 4th in the entire world", and I was suddenly back in business with a chance at hitting the big two - oh - oh.

And thus, over the next two days, whilst sharing the pool with these fine gentlemen, I got several hours of my Puerto Rican vitamin D whilst ticking off the remaining 5.5 miles. 195.... 196.....197..... and finally, with roughly 13 hours left in the year.... 200!

Hit that goal with time to spare. Time to spare I tell you!

Truthfully, besides keeping count, many of those laps were spent wondering why I do these things to myself. After all, this scenario is not new. How many times have I set a goal and then neglected to steadily work on it while the stakes are low? When time is plentiful, motivation is not. Love of TV and sleep and the creation of fake Facebook accounts take much higher priority, and instead of being the Little Engine That Could, chugging steadily up the mountain, I take inspiration from my obese cat.

That is, until the deadline is eminent. Suddenly, attaining said goal has everything to do with my own self-worth, and the thought of missing the mark fills my head with terms like "washed up", "failure", "post-peek" and similar. I recall past achievements and worry that the drive and resolve that did it for me then is forever gone. No matter how insignificant the goal at hand, suddenly failure to achieve it symbolizes a permanent slide into mediocrity.

And your 30's is just too damn early to suck, you know?

Here's how this typically turns out: a herculean push, a flood of activity, a veritable fire drill - and more often then not, a goal attained. Happy ending, hit-me-in-the-face-with-a-frying-pan-ugly process.

January 2nd is a perfect time for goal-setting. I have to think that in 2011 I can do a little better. Not by taking the 200 up to 300, but by needlessly stressing fewer years of my life away. For once. Over the course of the next 365 days, I promise myself and my loved ones at least one less fire drill. Now that is daunting.

Crossing my fingers and diving in,

khop

* allow me to clarify the term “avid”. I love it, but am slow as the day is long. T loves it and is good at it.

Every time I think I've got an ounce of maturity....

.... I go ahead and prove myself wrong. Oh so wrong.

Care to hear how?

When I was a wee lass, boy did I love me some Barbie. For serious, she was my homegirl. Between Rocker Barbie, Prom Barbie, Lifeguard Barbie, not to mention the piles of Barbies inherited from my two older sisters, our house had no shortage of six inch-tall plastic dolls. The clothes I had for my Barbies outnumber the clothes I have for myself now, and the accessories didn't stop there. Barbie owned a tricked-out convertible and a sweet vacation camper, not to mention a dream house with a pony tied up out back.

Yep, Barbie had everything money could buy.....but sadly no one to share it with, as I could never convince my parents to let me introduce Ken into the mix. My powers of persuasion having not yet matured into what they are today were no match for what I now realize must have been their fear of walking into the playroom and finding this or similar:

(btw, a Google Images search for "Barbie and Ken bad" is not for the faint of heart. Just sayin', people out there are gross.)

Anyway, years of my childhood were spent in our basement playroom, fixing Barbie's hair and changing her clothes. Rearranging furniture in the dream house or going for a ride on the Barbie pony. Putting in long hours at the office and then coming home and cooking up a feast. As the sacred aria goes, I truly was a Barbie girl, living in a Barbie world.

And aside from the Career Barbie I still have* packed away in a shoebox in my office closet, I thought I had put that phase of life behind me. After all, I am in my thirties. I am a home owner and a triathlete. I do things like vote and pay taxes and wax poetic about wine. I routinely monitor my stock portfolio and 401(k). For God's sake, I host an annual Soup Swap. Clearly, I have matured.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Unfortunately, there is oftentimes ample evidence to the contrary. Case in point:

Last Sunday found Tim** and I sitting on my sofa, leisurely puttering away on individual tasks, Sunday football playing in the background. At one point the scene going down on my laptop caught Tim's eye, and he asked what I was doing. I warned him that what I was about to share would be slightly horrifying and then let him know that I was creating a new Google email account to pair up with the new fake Facebook account I was about to make. See, there's been a friendly little wager going on over here in Charm City, and I needed something of a Trojan Horse to gather potential evidence of a victory. I was quick to defend myself by pointing out that someone who is willing to accept a friend request on Facebook from a complete stranger clearly does not value his or her privacy very much.

I had no additional defense, aside from my sheer shamelessness.

As promised, Tim was horrified.........at first.

I proceeded to let him know that there was room for him in this covert operation. After all, my new alter-ego (let's call him Ken to protect the integrity of the bit) needed to look legit, and for that to happen, he needed a few friends to kick things off. Cut to Tim, typing away, creating his Barbie's entire elaborate life story, including how she went from growing up in Illinois to landing spinning instructor-by-day, Appleby's hostess-by night gigs in Fayetteville, NC. She also quickly "liked" the fact that my Ken was listed as single.

Dr. Shazam, easily accessible via gChat, was also dispatched, and within hours another Ken doll showed up to play. With an impressive opening bid, too, commenting on my Ken's wall, "ur pecs are killin it bro. I gotta amp up my bench press lol".

In subsequent days, my Ken doll has made several additional friends, a mixture of real people I actually know, seeking to spectate this amusement first hand, and utter strangers belonging to this vast parallel society where befriending and allowing someone you've never met have access to a whole lotta personal information is considered completely normal. Preferable, actually, as this is a crowd with a higher than average per capita of fake boobs, fake tans, fake hair color and fake muscles, and I suppose the rationale is that if I'm gonna spend all this money to look like an actual Barbie doll, I'd like as many people as possible to see me. The two targets of the original wager fall firmly into the latter category.

The creepy origins of this endeavor have quickly become a fringe benefit to what has largely become an indulgent game of make-believe, very reminiscent of my games of Barbie, all those months years ago. I get to make up everything about my virtual Ken doll, where he's from, what he does, "what's on his mind" and how he interacts with the others. With a quick search on Google Images, I can even change his appearance. The sky is the limit.

Thus far I've pinpointed two reasons why I've found playing with Facebook Ken a particularly addictive pass time. First, unlike fantasy role-playing type games like Sims or Dungeons and Dragons, this is playing make-believe in the real world. With people who aren't always in on the joke. And whether I'm interacting with them or others who are in the know, that fact makes this all highly amusing. And to be honest I'm not entirely sure why.

Second, in order for the original scam to work, this particular Trojan Horse needed to resemble these guys as much as possible. Therefore, there is a huge amount of misbehaving that I now get to do on Facebook that I would never in a million years do under my own name, like speaking exclusively in "text", purposefully misspelling, and grossly overusing "lol" and "lmao". Of course, Dr. Shazam has me beat at every single turn, consistently taking it up a notch with status updates such as, "t minus 2 days until miley cyrus turns 18. happy thanksgiving to me lol"

Go ahead. Snigger. Pass judgement. I'm secure enough not to be bothered. Plus, I know you want to join in. I know you do.....

Wondering what Ken's up to,

Khop

* Um, btw, Career Barbie is legit. She talks and has a laptop and a monogrammed travel coffee mug and a briefcase full of money and her suit skirt flips inside out to a party skirt. I think. But I really can't remember since it's been so long....

** The reason why I have been devoid of internet dating writing material, in case you were wondering.... great for me, but devastating for the blog. Meh, screw the blog.