the meaning of love, nicki minaj moments, and the trauma of having your most irrational fear realized

This past weekend, James Bond and I celebrated our two year anniversary by driving down to San Diego, getting up at 5:45am, and running a 15K race.

Well, actually, our real anniversary is on Tuesday and I’m the only one who ran the 15K race, but I did manage to convince him to a) come with me, b) wake up in the pitch black dark, c) run the 5K race that was happening that same morning, and d) do it all in the name of an “anniversary celebration.”

I WIN. Or, wait, maybe he wins because he’s the one doing the nice-y nice things for me while I’m the asshole who’s all, “LET’S DRIVE 120 MILES TO PAY SOMEONE TO TIME US WHILE WE RUN AROUND AT THE CRACK OF DAWN WITH A BUNCH OF PEOPLE WE DON’T EVEN KNOW. YEAH!!! HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BABY!”

The race was fucking awesome though. I mean, the race itself wasn’t anything special, but I had this crazy out-of-body moment around mile 8 where I was all, “holy shit, LOOK WHAT MY BODY CAN DO” and it made me remember what Gretchen brilliantly dubbed the “Nicki Minaj moment,” which is basically any real life version of that line in Nicki Minaj’s song that goes “Yes I did, yes I did, somebody please tell him who the eff I is” that in my mind loosely translates to, “YOU BEST BELIEVE I’M DOING THIS CRAZY ASS THING. BAM!” Which is why you’ll see Gretchen and I occasionally yelling “NICKI MINAJ” at each other on Facebook and Twitter as a new go-to mantra for things we maybe don’t think we can do but are totally going to do anyway because bitch please.

So yeah, I ran 9.3 miles (NICKI MINAJ!!) and am now desperately in need of a Thai massage – even though I’m pretty sure getting a massage when I’m this sore could KILL ME DEAD. God, will you listen to me and my first world problems? “How soon is too soon to pay someone to rub my sore muscles after finishing my expensive and equally first world recreational activity?”

Yeah. THAT.

So, no massage for me. Instead, I got to come home from San Diego and have one of my biggest and most irrational fears realized, and honestly, I almost don’t want to tell you about it because there’s absolutely no way you can say that you’re not judging me and also that you’re not a liar in the same sentence and have both of those things be accurate. Seriously, even I judge me for this one.

Here’s the deal. I’m scared of alarm clocks. Actually, no, that’s not quite right. I’m not scared of alarm clocks, what I’m scared of is the possibility that something horribly annoying, like an alarm going off, will start and then just never stop. It’s why I hate when people say the same thing over and over again, like “Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole” if they’re trying to get my attention, or why I freak out when people repeatedly tap me on the shoulder or something, because WHAT IF IT NEVER STOPS? Think about it. What if your alarm went off in the morning and then it just NEVER STOPPED. EVER. EVERRRRR!!!

I’ve always known that this is an irrational fear, which is the only thing that’s kept it in check. I mean, of course the car alarm and the radio static and the blinking lights are going to stop, right? WRONG. Last night, James Bond put a pizza in the oven and set a timer on his iPhone for when to take it out. Then, just before the timer went off, the screen froze – we couldn’t click anywhere, couldn’t turn it off, couldn’t do anything – and then, of course, the timer went off. Loud, incessant, beeping, vibrating, with NO WAY TO TURN IT OFF. It just kept going off and going off and going off and I thought, “Oh my god, this is it. I’m going to have to listen to this sound FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE,” because that’s totally how I feel when repetitive noises get started. That’s where the fear comes from, the brain-eating belief that, no matter what, I’ll be subjected to whatever the thing is from now until the end of time forever and ever amen.

So there we were, trying to turn the phone off, trying to unfreeze it, plugging it into the wall, plugging it into the computer, pushing every button, smacking the screen, EVERYTHING, but it wouldn’t stop. Cue mild hysteria that ended with me burying the phone under a pillow to muffle the sound, closing the bedroom door, and hiding in the living room until it died or faded or gave up or did whatever the hell iPhone alarms do when they realize you’re not paying attention to them anymore because you’re LOSING YOUR MOTHER EFFING MIND OVER HERE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Damn it. Why am I telling you about this?! It’s bad enough that James Bond has had to put up with me and my quirky shenanigans for the past two years (HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BABY!), but now I’m voluntarily sharing it with everyone on the entire internet? SMOOTH, WOMAN.

Although, really, I don’t think the alarm clock thing is my point here. I think my point is that even though I’m out of my mind at least 96% of the time, James Bond still loves me and never even threatens to abandon me in a warehouse filled with blaring car alarms and smoke detectors, even though I’m sure that sometimes I totally deserve it.

That’s what love is, I think. Finding someone who looks at you when you’re at your craziest and says, “Fuck it, I’m in.”

(HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BABY!!)

Posted in: day to day shenanigans, james bond, love & naked stuff, run, baby, run