"Give 'em Hell and Don't Trip"

Don't you love my final blog title? It is not really my final blog. It is just my final blog under this name. Soon, very soon! I will be changing the title of my blog. Stay tuned...




I will make this very short and sweet because I have to pack, do one last sprint session on the bike, tan, shower, blah, blah, blah, and head my tired and hungry butt down to San Antonio to strut my stuff. The title came to me from a friend I knew at Texas A&M (can I get a whoop!?!) and Cadence pretty much summed it up in a perfectly eloquent little Facebook comment...




"I would say good luck with your competition but you don't need 'luck' when you've literally worked your ass off. Luck isn't for you. :) So I'll just say give 'em hell and don't trip."

Damn. Words could not be truer. She really summed it up. It is hard to wish someone luck when luck has nothing to do with this. I have put in countless hours of hard work and endless dedication. I have sweat. I have cried. I have RAGED! If I come home with a trophy, so be it. I have my trophies. I have my body that I have worked so hard for and I have the OVERWHELMING support of family and friends that leaves me awestruck. 






This has been an amazing journey and a tough one, too! I would not have it any other way. I am stronger and a lot more confident. I have truly worked my ass off and the one I have now looks pretty damn good.




So...nothing more to say...






















Time to go give 'em some hell.










"Focus on the journey, not the destination. Joy is found not in finishing an activity but in doing it." 

I am Chunking More Change Than a Blue-Hair on Nickle Slot Night

Okay. My rant. Are you used to this yet?


I have sweated. I have lifted. I have measured out 6 oz. portions of chicken breast so often that I can tell the butcher at the grocery store how to handle his business. I've done my fasted cardio and my training sessions. I have posed and I have stretched. I have cooked and I have packed. Ate my tuna and ate my tilapia. Gagged over the red bell peppers and looked forward to my daily peach which seems so long ago. What I haven't done seems to wrap it all up...






I haven't married a rich husband or become an investment banker to pay for me to actually get my ass on stage.

Gosh! This crap is so expensive! You think it might just be entry fees and the suit but read the fine print, ladies. There are hidden fees. I feel like a bride with an unruly wedding planner who has full access to my debit card only it is me doing the damage. Put the plastic away, Brandi. Nobody cares if your $18 emerald green eye liner matches your $650 blinged-out posing suit if your ass still jiggles when you walk, right?

You think this would settle me? Yeah. Okay. Logic works really well with a card-depleted, frantic harpy like myself. Nice try, moron.

Seriously, though. There are the necessities: Hotel. Registration fees. Gas to get to the city of said contest. The TAN. This product called Bikini Bite which is basically booty glue and sticks your suit to your butt. Nice. What happens after the show? Huh? Didn't see anything on the label about that. Am I stuck wearing my suit for the next three to four weeks? Is there a 1-800 number on the back in tiny print I am not seeing or something?

Anyways, it all adds up. Expensive! I have chunked more change in the last week than my grandma spends at the nickle slot night in Reno and believe me, it ain't pretty to watch.

Oh, well. No big deal. I'll manage. I just will not pay the electric bill this month. I will buy my $50 bottle of foundation that I will only use once or twice per year and come home to eat my tuna by candlelight. Besides, it will make my $3.00 plastic trophy that I win look that much better with shadows dancing all around it.

 

This pretty much sums it up ;)

I love this...

"Beware of the little expenses; a small leak will sink a great ship." ~ Benjamin Franklin

"Just Wake Me When the Waiter Brings the Bread Basket"

The end is close. So very close. I can see it. I can smell it. Wait. No, that is the smell of my Asics running shoes all the way downstairs. Dear lord. Did I pack my tuna in them and then leave them outside for three days? Goodness!

Anyways, less than two weeks to go. Homestretch and 4th quarter.

Everyone keeps asking me how I feel. "How are you today, Sweetie?" and "You doing okay, champ?" They ask me in person with a sympathetic little head-tilt and I just KNOW what they are thinking...


She looks like shit.

I know this. I do. I have bags under my eyes. My nails have not had a manicure since my shoes have last had a proper odor which, I admit, was a while ago. My hair does not have that glowing sheen it once had from being stuffed into a sweaty baseball hat up to three times daily. My body is getting leaner and harder while my mind feels slower and my tongue much sharper. I own all of this. I am EXHAUSTED and HUNGRY and GRUMPY. I .........



Oh. Sorry. Fell asleep there. It happens.



So, people keep asking me where I find the time to run a company and work a full-time job and lift six days a week while doing 90 minutes to two hours of cardio a day. It is so very simple:

I don't sleep.

Technically, this is untrue. I sleep. Last night, I went to bed at 11pm after doing 30 minutes of recumbent bike only to wake at 6:30am to gulp back a carafe of coffee and hop back on the elliptical for 60 minutes of what my coach calls fasted cardio and "I want this shit done hard". No big deal. Then, as I made my oatmeal around 7:45am, I think I took a quick little nap in my kitchen while standing up. See? I am so darn resourceful! I also steal cat-naps while sitting in traffic on Mopac between 4pm and 6pm so if you see a little black number in the left hand lane and the driver has her head on the steering wheel, a friendly little honk oughta do the trick. Thanks so much for waking me and I will return the favor by shooting you the finger and slinging a limp asparagus spear on your car's windshield. Jerk.



So that about covers it. I was a complete bitch. Now I am too tired to be very cantankerous at all. I mostly have lost all will to care. Auto-pilot, baby. I am cooking, cardio-ing (Yes. It is a verb, dammit) and I am counting. Counting the days. Twelve more days and then point me to a waiter holding a bread basket and take me out of this low-carb hell. I want one day of doing NOTHING.

Well, maybe I will wash those god-awful shoes. 



"It is not about the finish line. It is about the race." ~ Me