the Plunger and the Uncooked Steak

I feel I should explain myself. I'm a triathlete by trade, and by that I mean one who will trade my time, my hard earned gas money, my very Gatorade mix for a chance to compete in a Triathlon. But I have been stricken with a newbie's over zest for training and have sprung a leak in my Achilles tendon. Nothing that can be seen is leaking forth, simply my hopes and dreams for this past season's spectaculars.
Last season was my first full one in the sport. I raced 6 Triathlons, ratcheting down my Olympic time (favorite distance incidentally) from 2:35 to 2:02. That distance suits my ADD approach to the sport. I get bored of doing the event...and right about then it's time for the next leg/event to take over my focused mind.
The focus is what drives me crazy. Actually it does the reverse. I've always been able to ease into a haze which has been called the "flow" by some sports psychologists (never in direct reference to me, just things I've read). This flow is what I would call my "Happy Place."
It's doesn't seem normal to have as one's happy place a spot which regards the world from a glazed-eye perspective; but I revel it the vivid images and feelings I remember when I think back on being in that ecstatic haze...Athletes pushing themselves: those with flat tires wondering to toss the towel or to fix the flat and pedal on; those waiting for the memory chip from the previous member on their relay team; those walking; those sprinting to the finish; those crying; those beaming; those having two glints, both teeth and finishing medals around their necks; those hanging heads; those pulling in the water; those shouting encouragement; everyone...The sun, clouds, road, sweat, colours...
However much I enjoy watching these things from my haze, it doesn't mean that I don't "come to" often enough and have to lie to myself, push myself, argue with myself to calm the beast back to it's perch on pride rock. I have no stake in the race as far as finishing times or places go. No, my pride is wrapped up in finishing the thing. Bad day or good. Mrs Tri-oomph would say I'm extremely self-critical after most races. But there's not one race I don't learn something from!
It's for these reasons that I've developed into the hardcore rehabilitator that I am. I'm actually not completely sure that it's the tendon giving me problems, could be a sheath, or a bone spur problem. Either way it takes me away from my definition: running.
Today I took that into account and rehabbed with an aqua run. It was gently mind-numbing to go 15 yards back and forth in the deep end for 45 minutes. But there were two beautiful young children splashing with their father which provided many comedic moments/reprieves from the monotony. Furthermore, I encountered Aqua-newbie and Thing One and Thing Two who are in the same boat as Aqua-newbie. Then Simoan walked in as I was hopping out, and we exchanged "sup's."
There was this other dude I encountered, Tri-firsty, who is doing just that this weekend in Panama City. It's a sprint distance, and I could barely hold back my excitement for what I can only hope will turn into a lifelong memory for him: the first triathlon.
After a quick study session, it was off to McClin's Steak House for their namesake with some friends, not to mention Ketchup and a salad. I've never had a complaint with their service until tonight. But if I were to file it in an archive, I'd actually place it not in the Complaint File, but in the Rather-too-Novel-to-Get-Annoyed-About File (just behind the Polish Invention file). I received two lovely slices of Sirloin as the stories and laughs began to flow like the Iced Tea. There were an even five of us: 2 lovely ladies, 2 hansom gentlemen and myself.
I bring numbers into this because it seemed to escape the chef's notice when I sent back two undercooked steaks to be "Medium Welled, not Rared, please." The turning point in this story came when the waiter walked in with a newly clean plate and asked me to cut into the beef to ensure it was to my liking. Note: I sliced smoothly into one steak. And here was my fatal error for the night: I neglected the other.
When I finished the piece I cut-checked for cook-ed-ness, I bore down into the second and was amazed to see it rare in preparation! I couldn't believe that the cook had not noticed that there were two steaks on the plate. So I did the first thing that came to mind: I hailed the waiter cordially and asked him to take it back and "Have it seriously killed this time. No more mooing, please." He apologized, managed the deed, and I finished a 3 course meal: the first in which I found the steaks' hidden secret of rareness; the second in which I devoured one steak and noticed the others clandestine efforts to make it between my bicuspids still mooing; and the third in which I munched happily on the second piece and finished (I don't consider salad a course, just some roughage).
I needed to recuperate from the merriment and therefore drove to Wal-mart to shop. Mr Clean was there buying water bottles and a filter which would both filter and fumigate his apartment's air with an aroma suiting his nasal passages. Wine was also there with her neat list arranged just so in her small green book. At times I wish I were that organized. Then I remember that I had considered this list thing before leaving the apartment but couldn't find a pen with which to scribe my wishes on a shopping list, and gave up in favour of the longer shopping method: the Perusal Meanderings of a man who has nothing left in the world but to consider what will fit into his cupboard. None of this surgical shopping. I'm the shotgun, she's the 22.
I later happened upon Wine and saw she was in close proximity to a fabulous implement: a plunger. I seized the opportunity, swiped the implement from its perch, and clandestinely slid it into her basket. She said "Oh, excuse me," then realized it was me and smiled. I beamed back with the knowledge that she'd been...well...plungered!
Knowing me (apparently) too well, she noticed my dumb silence and looked instinctively at the basket, noticing the plunger among her goods. A laugh and a mock swipe at my head lead to a chuckled "I'd be soooo embarrassed if that was in there when I checked out. What would I say? 'Hard night. Hadda come in for a plunger.'" I took the implement back and replaced it to its noble slanted pose. Tootles to Wine and I headed about my business.
It was then that around the isle corner came a cart full of nothing but Jack-o-Lanterns. I gazed, and then politely inquired. The woman pushing it explained that she was handing them out at her work, and I told her "how nice of you. I've never seen such a cart." She told me next time she comes back, since the candy wouldn't fit this time through, she'd fill her "buggy" with the tasty treats and chocolaty delights. She said it caused people to look at her funny, at which I mentioned she should tell them it was the new rage diet, undertaken by all the movie stars. We had a mutual chuckle and I checked out and walked my own "buggy" to the car.
Removing the plastic reflecting shiny crap that adorns many things at this time in history, I put a brand new collar on each of my kitties.