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By Dennis Hong, November 7, 2011 6:00 am

"It's over, man. Let her go."

I don’t do running.

That is to say, I don’t do running when running is the only thing being done. Running in flag football, floor hockey, or settling of drunken bets? That, I can do.

But… just running? Like, the ancient Greek death sentence known as a marathon? Crap, no. I’m decent at sports that require quick bursts of speed, but pretty much fail at anything that requires endurance. Marathons and I go together like marriages and Kim Kardashian.

Every so often, though, I do decide to improve my endurance. So, I start hitting the treadmill at the gym. And every single time, my utter lack of endurance starts taunting me at around the ten-minute mark. Fortunately, I’ve learned to take that seething frustration and wad it up into a tiny burst of determination to keep me going.

But then, I traveled to Taiwan last month, and I found out that I have a Dutch great-great-grandmother, from whom I inherited a genetic disease called thalassemia minor. Even though it’s not deadly, the condition causes my red blood cells to produce abnormally low levels of hemoglobin, the protein that transports oxygen. What this means is that my blood cells can’t provide my body with adequate oxygen, especially during heavy exercise.

Now, I could be melodramatic and say that my world came crashing down when I found this out. But that’s not what happened. My world didn’t collapse. It was more like my world cloudied up and started drizzling (but in a permanent state of gloominess, like Seattle). There wasn’t even any one moment when I felt the big epiphany.

I actually found out that I had thalassemia almost two years ago. However, my doctor was so nonchalant when he diagnosed me that I promptly forgot all about it. I didn’t even make the connection when my dad gave me the news. And it wasn’t until I was at the doctor’s office a few weeks ago that I caught the word “thalassemia” on my medical record and remembered my previous diagnosis.

Continue reading 'Losing My Motivation'»

Comments (68)

By Dennis Hong, December 6, 2010 6:00 am

Image by minifig via Flickr

I have no problem with the Friend Zone. The Friend Box. Friendship Island. The Vortex of Platonic Optimism….

Whatever you want to call it, I think opposite-sex friends are splendid. They can be an arsenal of insight when we need help understanding, well, the opposite sex.

What’s not so splendid is the opposite-sex friend who desperately wants to be more than friends. Especially when the opposite-sex friend who desperately wants to be more than friends is….

Me.

Oh, how I hate Me when Me gets Myself into that rut.

Years ago, I had a classmate, “Holly.” She had just moved to Southern California, and I was one of the first friends she made here. I think she gravitated towards me because I was already familiar with the city. That, and I also threw parties. Lots of them. If friends were crack, then my apartment was her pipe, and she’d show up at my place whenever her social life needed a fix.

One night, a group of us set aside our rampant partying and went out clubbing instead. Late in the evening, Holly and I found ourselves separated from everyone else. In a fit of drunkenness, we somehow started making out.

Over the next few days, I realized that I wanted to be more than just friends with Holly. So, I did what any rational non-eunuch would do: I asked her out.

Unfortunately, she confessed that while she enjoyed our impromptu kissing session, she wasn’t interested in dating me. Pretty brutal rejection, right?

Still….

Continue reading 'Wasting Away In The Friend Zone'»