Spinach: Painfully inspirational.

I had a different post ready for today, but then it was brought to my attention that a new record has been broken - namely, that a marathon (which is 26.2 miles for those of you who haven’t seen the window decals) has been run in under two hours for the first time in recorded history.

Congratulations, Mr. Kipchoge.

This has been touted as inspiring, as in, “Look! We humans! See what we do! What we accomplish next? There no limits! Ooga ooga!” But you know what else was supposed to inspire us? The moon landing! And look how that turned out - now there is astronaut poop on the moon and people STILL believe it was a hoax.

No, what is inspiring is this: An 88 year old lady running the 50 meter dash in under 10 minutes. That’s beautiful! That makes you want to go out and run the 50 meter dash way, way, way faster just to prove you’re better at something than somebody. That makes you want to accomplish, accomplish, accomplish, all while thinking in adorable terms of the 88 year old gramma.

On the other hand, hearing that someone has run a sub two hour marathon makes you want to slump into a vacuous heap of jello that doesn’t even bother wiping its nose, because there are probably people who can wipe their noses in under two hours, too, and why even bother anymore.

So forget about world records and super hero, super human accomplishments: There never really has been an inspiring world record or an inspiring super hero.

Just remember Agatha, tottering along in her little shorts from the 60s and her striped socks and a headband round her perm, and discover the will to live.

And excuse me while I glory in being a subpar human and dig up some inspiration of my own.

Comments

Welcome to Weirdness!

Hi, world, and welcome to “The Password’s Lasagna”! One day I’ll share where that name came from - for now, just revel in the wonderful idioticity of the word “Lasagna”. Say it over and over again. Let it flip off your tongue in all its gleeful lasagnaness. Say it until it means nothing, say it ‘til it means everything. Lasagna. It’s a word with many layers. Moving on quickly now... I have to wonder if, in a year, I will regret this first post. I’ll think “what kind of imbecilic idiot was I, to think starting a blog would be a good idea?” As if there aren’t more constructive things to do. Like...fishing. Or hunter-gathering (which is the sport of gathering as many hunters as possible in one weekend and stuffing them all in the back of a closed pickup, preferably with a limb or so hanging out and dripping blood). Or making clay...things. Useful things. Mugs and the like. Or I could be chilling with friends...engaging in meaningful conversations over cups of coffee.

Noodles: Just, noodles.

I realized on Thursday that I have no idea who I am. It was very disconcerting, particularly as it happened moments after I’d stood up suddenly, not realizing there was a heavy plank shelf directly over my head. It was also after two or three hours of inhaling the stale remnants of ten years of uninhibited mouse parties, and an entire bottle of environmentally caring cleaning fluid. Anyway, this isn’t exactly humorous (unless you get a kick out of existential crises), but it made me wonder if anyone else feels the same way. So, readers, tell me this - do you feel as if you know who you are? Or are you just pretending to know? Or are you, at this moment, simultaneously reading this on your phone and telling a complete stranger all the ways that you feel isolated from the rest of the human race? Let me know. “I” am interested in your answer. PS Anticipating zero comments, because the majority of my readership is too intellectual to stoop to the paltry pract

Noodles: It’s autumn, all of you.

Hi world. It’s me, your favorite super sheltered, extremely Scandinavian, strangely endearing pile of soggy, tomato-drenched crinkly noodles! Otherwise known as Baby Swedish Lasagna under an Inadequate Tent. The reason I bring up my origins is this: I grew up without hearing anyone say “y’all”. I believe the contraction never crossed my path outside of a book until middle school, when it became trendy among my equally sheltered, pale-skinned friends. I started saying it often, with little understanding of its pronunciation, spelling, or proper usage. At some point, perhaps in a fit of cultural sensitivity, maybe after the madness of middle school had seeped out of my neurons, I stopped using it. Except in emails. Yes, my friends, I am an email y’aller. It just works for the already-awkward group conversations. There’s honestly no equivalent in northern dialect. Check it out. “You guys.” Offensive to feminists. “You girls.” Offensive to mature women. “You ladies.”

The Password’s Lasagna.

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