A Perfect Body

I've got a perfect body, but sometimes I forget
I've got a perfect body, cause my eyelashes catch my sweat
- Regina Spektor

I've been having a hard time with my body lately. I've been trying to lose about 10lbs ever since the holidays, and I haven't been having much luck. Technically, I've already lost these 10lbs about 3 times in as many years, which makes their repeated return even more frustrating. In any case, losing them again has been difficult because the cold weather has destroyed my willingness to leave the house for exercise, and also I have a moral obligation to eat all of the chocolate in North Carolina.

I blame my dissatisfaction with my body on the fact that it's currently 10lbs larger than my arbitrary ideal, but in fact wasn't happy with my body even at my thinnest. My "thinnest" wasn't particularly slim, of course, but it was a perfectly average, acceptable weight, and probably fully 20lbs less than what I weigh now. But at the time I lamented my full hips, my thick thighs, and strong calves. I wasn't petite and top-heavy, and I considered it a serious injustice. (This was in high school, when most things were injustices.) When I look at photos from that time, I want to slap that girl. At this point in my life I don't even aspire to be that thin again, because I think it would be too difficult to maintain. That was probably a major high point in my physical history, and I wasted it. I should have been enjoying myself! I should have worn a bikini everywhere! I should have been taking nude photos every day and showing them to strangers!

Obviously, the irony is that a woman in her mid-30s, or 40s, or 50s, or anyone whose just had her first child, or really any number of people, could look at me now and think how ridiculous it is for a childless woman in her late-20s with a perfectly average body type to be lamenting "the good old days." They have a point. Sometimes when I'm standing in front of a mirror, scrutinizing the line between my eyebrows that comes from constantly judging stupid people, I try to imagine what I'll look like when I'm 80, and remind myself that some day I'll look back fondly on the time when I only had one slight wrinkle.

I also try to remind myself to stop making this face so much.

Likewise, I recently read a piece that was written by a gorgeous woman who had suffered a medical event that left her face substantially changed. She's beautiful in a different way now, but were I in her position I assume there would be days when I would miss the way I once looked, or the ways I used to express myself with my face. (Yes, even that hateful expression up there is something for which to be thankful.) It seems silly to nitpick over superficial things like acne and laugh lines when could suddenly find yourself faced with a much more deeply frustrating situation. And barring a medical catastrophe, that's what happens gradually as we age, anyway.

It's not just a matter of how much worse it could be. It's true that I could weigh 400lbs, or be 80 years old, or have a debilitating disease. It's also true that, regardless of your point of comparison, I have so much to be thankful for and excited about. Yesterday, I ran outside for the first time since early January. I always feel beautiful after I've been running. Not "pretty," not even necessarily "attractive," given that my face is usually beet-red, my hair sweat-soaked and in disarray, and my scent decidedly rustic. Nevertheless, I feel beautiful. The ache in my legs reminds me of their strength, and the rhythm of my lungs and heart are evidence of my vim and vigor, I suppose.

It's good to remember that I can run. I can jump. I can eat spicy food and chew gum. I can wear mascara, and put my hair in a pony tail. I can stand on my tiptoes and reach objects on high shelves. I can crochet, and paint bookshelves. There's a lot of joy to be had with almost any body, if we really look at what we've got and stop comparing it to some past or future ideal self.

Well, would you look at that. I've talked myself into a state of inspiration. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go put on a bikini and run through town. Locals, you have 20 minutes to don your sunglasses.

Momentary Joys

I have a weird relationship with writing. Actually, I have a weird relationship with most of the things I love to do. Writing, running, playing music. Almost every day, I feel inspired to do these things. I read Black Hockey Jesus, who is an amazing writer (and a runner, come to think of it), or Alice Bradley's blog about writing, and I think to myself, I'll write something! I'll realize my potential! I'll do what I've always loved to do!

I drive down the road and pass what seems like a Macy's-sponsored parade of runners, decked out in spandex and energetic ponytails, their cheeks and noses pink with enthusiasm, and I feel a vicarious elation. I resolve to start running again, right away.

But before I have even opened a Word document or pulled on my shoes, I've talked myself out of it. I've gone so long without blogging, I reason, no one would read it anyway. I've never finished a story that wasn't an assignment for a 6th grade English class. I haven't run regularly since November, so I probably wouldn't even make it 2 miles. What's the point in starting if I won't finish? What's the point in doing it if I can't do it well? Shouldn't I be spending that time doing schoolwork anyway? I've yet to find a scrap of joy that I can't fashion into a straitjacket.

Instead of doing things I love, I beat myself up about not doing them, or not doing them well enough. I tell myself I'm a failure for letting my blog sit stale for 7 months. I'm lazy and gross because I stopped running and gained 7 lbs over Christmas. I have no ambition, no talent, no perseverance.

Of course, the simple answer is, Girl, you crazy.

It's our choice how we spend our time, obviously. There is no authoritative maniac running up to strangers on the street, yelling, "Why aren't you learning to play the clarinet, you worthless piece of shit?!?" We have no responsibility to please anyone but ourselves. I'm not unhappy because I'm not living up to a street maniac's standards, I'm unhappy because I'm not doing the things I know I enjoy, because as soon as I start doing them, I worry about the street maniac's standards. Does that make sense? Of course not. I know. Girl, you crazy.

I think the answer is to live in the moment. At any given moment, you're either doing something that satisfies you, or you're not. Right now I'm writing, and I'm enjoying it. Sometime in the future someone may read it, or they may not. Hopefully, at some moment in the future, I'll be running and enjoying it, and it won't matter how far I go, or whether I ran the day before, or will run the day after. Instead of coming up with reasons that my passions are a waste of time, I would probably be better off asking myself, "Would it make me feel awesome to do this right now?" Because while my writing and running and generally living may not please the judgmental street maniac, I suspect that coming up with new ways to call myself a failure isn't what he had in mind, either.

I Probably Should Have Just Taken a Nap Instead

Well it looks like I owe you all another apology, since I failed to post again yesterday. I waited until late in the evening to try to write something, and the electricity chose that time to start going in and out. Lee was worried about the computer getting hurt by all the excitement, so we shut it down. Good for the computer, bad for my commitment to non-stop blog domination. Oh well. Here we are today, and we all survived my absence, it seems.

Between not writing a post last night and the fact that I accomplished very little "work" today, I'm feeling kind of like a useless bum. It doesn't help that I haven't run since my doomed attempt Sunday night. Last week, I ran several times on the treadmill in the little fitness center here in Lee's apartment complex. I was working on being speedier, and it seemed to be going well, except for the part where I think I pulled my right hamstring. It was sort of bothering me over the weekend, and then when I tried to run on Sunday it was really more of a shambling jog. Granted, a shambling jog isn't that unusual for me during the end of a long run, but this was happening during the first mile, when I usually feel like a cheetah, soooo... probably not a good sign. Just FYI, here are few other things I had working against me on Sunday night:

1) It's July in Houston.
2) Even at 7pm, it was in the mid-90s
3) ... with almost 80% humidity.
4) The sidewalks around here, even in Lee's relatively nice neighborhood, are poorly maintained and pretty wonky. Sometimes you're running at a weird angle, and sometimes you're jumping over deep puddles that see to come out of nowhere, and pretty much all the time you're hopping and skipping and trying not to trip over the places where the concrete squares don't line up.
5) I had maybe only eaten two pop tarts and some nachos that day.
6) ... ok, I can't think of a number 6, but don't you think that's enough reasons?

I was trying to run 7 miles, and I'm pretty sure it would have been the first time I've run that far since I ran the half last year. The reason I was trying to run 7 miles was because I'm training to run the same race again this year. Did I tell you that? No? Well it's true. Anyway, because of all the forces (OF EVIL) working against me, I made it about 2.5 miles before I gave up and walked back home. Lame.

Since I compiled a list of ways in which Houston has sabotaged my running, I feel obligated to make a list of good things about running in Houston. (Because I am a force for justice and fairness in the world.) Here is my list:

1) There is usually a breeze, which is nice.
2) There are very few hills.
3) ... that's pretty much it. Check with me again in December and I'll see if I have more nice things to say.

I guess I'll try for 7 miles again next weekend, since I have to keep training or else I'll never win first place at the big race. Who knows? If I'm really lucky, maybe I'll drop dead of heat stroke!

Fourth on the Floor

Today I had a hectic day riding around Texas with Lee on some work errands. It was actually pretty enjoyable if you don't count the part where we had to get up at 4:30 in the morning. 4:30 in the morning is not generally a time of day I enjoy, as you might imagine, but I'm a trooper so I got through it ok. All that is to say, even though it's late I haven't forgotten about you, and if you're good boys and girls I might even have some pictures of Texas to show you later.

But that's not what we're here to talk about! Instead I want to tell you about my Fourth of July. My main goal for this year's Fourth was to make it as much fun as last year's, which featured a 4 mile race in the morning and a picnic and fireworks in the evening. The first half of that equation was definitely a success. H, the friend I ran with last year, decided not to run it with me this year, so I was a little worried beforehand that I wouldn't have anyone to stand around and talk to before and after the race. Getting up and dressed at 6:45 that morning was kind of lonely, but once I got to the actual race I ran into a girl from work, and some other people I knew from the training program I was doing before I hurt my foot. I really shouldn't have been surprised - it's not like I live in a huge city, so of course I would know at least some of the other runners at a popular local race. But like I always say, if you can't assume the worst, you're not trying hard enough.

The actual running part of the race was fun, although I forgot that the last mile is mostly uphill. The weather was really nice, in the 70s. Since I usually sleep as late as possible and do my running in the evenings, I forget how nice and cool it is in the mornings. Every time I run an early morning race I think I should start running first thing in the morning, but then later I remember how much that sucks, so I don't. I ran a little faster this year, cutting 2 minutes off my total time. My only goal for the race was "run it faster than last time", so I was pleased. That being said, I did the math and I'm pretty sure I still would have had to cut 16 minutes off my time in order to place third in my age group. I totally could have taken the 60-65 age group, though. If I keep running and getting faster and the playing field keeps leveling as I age, I figure I should hit a sweet spot when I'm about 50. So check in 25-ish years from now, when I'll be a real contender. Even though I didn't technically win anything, all the runners got sweet pint glasses with the Four on the Fourth logo on them. (I took a picture of mine, but then my laptop stopped cooperating, and I didn't bring my camera cord with me to Lee's.)

After the race I desperately wanted a nap, but instead I had to run a bunch of errands. Last year's picnic-and-fireworks deal was mostly orchestrated by my friend H, who did all the planning and cooking and driving and et cetera. This year, I was the one who really wanted to go, so I felt like it was my responsibility to make sure we had everything we needed. My friend E and I had figured out ahead of time what we were going to make, and split up the duties. I was to make a pasta salad and buy more juice-box wine, and E was going to get us some delicious North Carolina barbecue and make cookies. So, instead of a nap I went grocery shopping and made up a pasta salad recipe on the fly.

(Here is where I would insert the beautiful pictures I took of the food, if it were possible for me to download them. Sad trombone.)

The pasta salad turned out to be pretty delicious, if I do say so myself, and I should really post the recipe on here sometime. After my success in the kitchen, though, things started to kind of go downhill. First, one of my friends changed her mind and said she wasn't going to be able to come along to the fireworks after all. Oh, and also that she couldn't give me the ride to the airport she had promised me. So I drove, discouraged but not defeated, to pick up my friend E from her place. Unfortunately, when I got there she told me she hadn't put the cookies in the oven yet, so we'd have to wait at least 20 minutes, but probably more because her boyfriend was going to join us and he was driving from a neighboring city. While I sat waiting, worrying about how I was going to get to the airport the next day, and how we were going to find parking at the fireworks, I heard the first thunderclap. Ten minutes later, there was a full-on downpour happening outside.

I was pretty bummed to see my dreams of a lovely explosive-lit outdoor meal slipping away, but I guess at that point I already begun to see the writing on the wall. Besides, trying to recreate the magic of last year's festivities had been a fool's game anyway. E's boyfriend arrived about the time I made my peace with the death of my fantasy Fourth, and at that point we came up with plan B: eat our picnic on the living room floor, drink a lot of wine, and play cards. It wasn't what I'd planned, but of course it turned out to be delightful.

Even though it rained and I didn't get to see anything blow up, the Fourth of July has been pretty good to me for 2 years running now. I've never thought of it as a top-10 event, but depending on how next year goes, it just might become my third-favorite holiday (after Christmas and Halloween, obviously).

Next Week: Pictures of T-Shirts I'm Giving to Goodwill

Until I'm sure my formerly sprained toe is back to it's old self, I'm having to run in my old running shoes. The ones that don't make me look like Girlfriend of Swamp Thing.

Unlike these, which totally *do* make me look like an Amphibi-lady.

I've mentioned before that every running shoe I've ever tried (except the Nessie Feet) have given me terrible blood blisters, but I have stopped short of ever actually posting photos of my feet in this state because despite what you might think, I actually have a little bit of class and decorum. UNTIL TODAY.

Just kidding, I'm not going to post pictures of my maimed feet. I will, however, post photos of my socks following Monday night's run, and let you draw your own conclusions.


You may not be able to see that well, what the fact that my socks are filthy and also have an adorable pink stripe down the side. How bout we zoom on in?


There you are. Here you can see where I have helpfully added two sloppily drawn dueling suns, in order to call your attention to the areas of interest. Those dark reddish spots there? Oh, that's just where my blood blisters burst open while I was running and made a big painful mess.

I know, right? Pretty punk rock. But here's the best part. Guess how far I had to run over the past 7 days in order to make my feet self-destruct? Go on, guess.

Only six miles. Over the course of a week. To be specific, three separate runs, each totaling less than 2 miles, is all it takes to make my feet literally EXPLODE BLOOD EVERYWHERE.

So I've got a slightly trainwreck-y spine and exploding feet, and yet I soldier on. And to think, I was worried that people would think I wasn't hardcore enough.

(By the way, I promise not to let this turn into the All Running All the Time Blog, but I think we can all agree that you'd be sad if you hadn't gotten to see photos of my dirty socks. Right? Right.)

In Which I Compare My Vertebrae to Irresponsible Teen Drivers

The 10-mile race I was so excited to run was Saturday. And I wasn't in it.

Let's back up. I've been having progressively worse back pain over the past few years, basically ever since I graduated from college and started spending a lot of time sitting in front of a computer. I'm not handicapped or anything like that, but my shoulders and lower back get really tight and sore. Also, I have had some off-and-on pain in my hip after running that someone once told me might have something to do with my hips being out of whack. (I'm pretty sure that's the medical jargon for it.) Although my Mom swears by her chiropractor, I've always been pretty skeptical of them, what with them being uneducated witch doctors and all. (Kidding!) Nevertheless, when I got a coupon for a free exam and x-rays from a chiropractor who was recommended by some people in my running group, I figured I'd give it a shot.

The week after I got the !GREAT NEWS! from the Sports Medicine doctor that I would be OK to jump back on the wagon and finish training for the race, I went to see the chiropractor for the second time. We were going to follow-up on the x-rays and talk about his recommendations. He sat me down and showed me the x-rays of my back alongside someone else's x-rays. The other person's x-rays were meant to serve as an example of a 'good,' well-behaved spine. It curved in all the right places and had spacious, well-defined gaps between each vertebrae. It was a nice spine.

My spine, on the other hand, was slightly less admirable. It was mostly alright, really, until you got to my lower back and then things started to look a little off. Imagine for a moment that my spine is a highway and my vertebrae are cars. The x-ray looked a little like what would happen if the drivers of my bottom two vertebrae got distracted while driving (probably sexting or applying makeup, as young women are wont to do), and then when they looked up, the vertebra in front of them had stopped short and OOPS they bumped into them. Not real hard, just enough that the flow of traffic is all jacked up. So now my vertebrae cars are jammed and the spine highway isn't all curved and pretty like the one in the other exemplary x-ray, and suddenly I'm in a chiropractor's office feeling jealous of another woman whose skin I've never even seen.

The chiropractor's explanation for this was that either I was born with my vertebrae like that OR I injured my back at some point in the past and it healed that way. In either case, he said that there's nothing that can be done to change the fact that they're jammed together, but that he should be able to help get things better aligned and take some of the strain off my nerves and muscles. Doing so would take at least 4 weeks, and oh by the way, I shouldn't run during those 4 weeks because it would make treatment less effective.

So. After receiving all of this news I was... quite upset. Understandably. I was terrified that there might be something permanently wrong with my back, I was confused that he claimed I'd suffered an injury that I didn't remember having, I was pissed that he hadn't been more delicate and compassionate when he explained all this to me, and I was devastated that the possibility of running the race was slipping away again just when I thought everything was going to work out.

What's embarrassing is that of all these concerns, the thing I was most upset about was the possibility of not being able to run the race. Specifically, I was worried about what the people in the running group would think of me. On some level I was OK with the idea of giving up on the race, since I had just taken a month off training and I only had 3 weeks to get ready, but the idea that people would KNOW I had signed up for a race and then dropped out made me feel like a failure. When I signed up for the training group, I felt excited and proud that I was finally declaring myself a 'runner' who was comfortable associating with other runners. When I hurt myself and had to stop running, I consoled myself by thinking that I'd be healed up and back to training in no time. When everyone saw me return to training and then later run across the finish line, they would know that I was serious and not just a quitter.

But if I couldn't run the race after all, they wouldn't know how serious and determined I was. I'd just be some strange girl who had dropped out of training after 2 months and was never seen again. A quitter, and a failure, and a wanna-be. The idea of 'real' runners thinking those things about me was devastating, as embarrassing as that is.

Unfortunately, once I admitted to myself that the reason I was having a nervous breakdown over this whole thing was because I was afraid people would think bad things about me (and not, say, because I have TRAFFIC JAM SPINE), I had no choice but to do the rational thing and let go of the race. I emailed the handful of people from the running group that I had become friends with to let them know that I wouldn't be coming back to training after all, and whaddaya know, they were all really nice about it. Because of course they were. Because most people are mostly kind and good (I think), and this whole thing was really just about the Asshole Voice in my Head messing with me.

So I didn't get to run the race, and I was sorely disappointed, but I just keep reminding myself that I have a lifetime of races ahead of me if I want to run them, and this isn't the end of the world. As far as my back goes, I'm still a little skeptical of the chiropractor's explanations for why it's messed up, but there's no denying that those x-rays looked shady, and also no denying that my back pain has improved a lot in the past few weeks. I wouldn't say I'm a convert, exactly, but I'm less... openly dismissive, shall we say? At the end of this week he's supposed to take another round of x-rays, and if I don't like what he has to say then I SHALL SEEK A SECOND OPINION. From a real doctor, this time. Meanwhile, I've been cleared to ease back into running again (again), so I'll be working on that. Hooray! Thanks for checking in.

There's Got to Be Easier Ways to Be Validated, But I'll Take What I Can Get

Say you're a totally amazing runner, known the world over for your excellence and badassitude. Perhaps you have been intensely training for a race, while wearing an outfit that looks exactly like this:

(Or maybe you're more into hot pink. Whatever, I don't mind.)

Now imagine you find your intense training interrupted by an unthinkable injury, the likes of which only a true athlete would ever face. What do you imagine that injury would be?

You are probably imagining yourself wearing a full body cast, which is the only thing keeping your bones organized ever since you ran so fast that you broke the sound barrier and all of your skin melted off. That is truly an awesome injury you've envisioned, reader. But I can do you one better.

Torn ligaments.

Where, you ask? Well, the injury is localized in a small area at the end of my leg, slightly below the ankle.

Well, more like below and in front of my ankle.

I suppose it would more properly be called my foot.

Really, we're talking about the... frontish part.... I guess...

OK FINE I SPRAINED MY DAMN TOE, OK?!? GOD!!

...But it's my big toe, which is very important, you know.

What had happened was this. Back in January I joined that running group I told you about, the one training for a 10 mile race in April. At that time I switched from normal running shoes which had always given me terrible AWFUL blood blisters, to these newfangled Aqua Sock-lookin things.

OH YES I DID. Because aside from being sick of those blisters, I just felt like I looked a little too dignified when I was running, you know? I thought, "How can I bring running, a typically athletic endeavor, down to my usual comfort level of intense dorkiness?" And the heavens opened and took a bunch of my money and then these shoes dropped into my lap.

At any rate, things were going swimmingly and I was blister-free and running faster and making friends and looking just as dorky as I like to. The only issue was that the sidewalks around here are kind of uneven and when I get tired I start to kind of drag my feet (and let's face it, even on a good day I can be a little clumsy), so toe-stubbing was a bit of an issue. The mostly innocuous toe-stubbing reached its climax in an epic week at the end of February that began when I stubbed my toe, fell, skinned my arm and knee, and scratched my ipod.

Even though falling and getting skinned up was painful and made me feel kind of stupid, it was also kind of exhilarating. I stood up all dirty and bloody and it felt like that time when I was 10 and I wrecked my bike and had to walk it all the way home like a warrior. Except this time I wasn't loudly sobbing.

Two days later, proud of my perseverance and confident that my toe-stubbing days were behind me, I joined the group for a 6 mile run. It was tired and having a bad run, and finally around mile 5.8 I stubbed my toe REALLY HARD on an uneven place in the sidewalk. Just whacked it real good against the concrete. This time I didn't fall and when my friend asked if I could keep running I said, "Yeah, I think so." Six steps later it was clear that the stabbing pain in my toe was not going to allow continued running, so I stopped and slowly hobbled on as everyone else sprinted past. It was a dark tenth of a mile back to the car, during which I contemplated the possibility of a broken toe, and the idea that I might not be able to finish training or run the race. Once again I was reminded of that time when I was 10 and I wrecked my bike, except this time it was the despair and the weeping I was thinking of. (But I DIDN'T cry, so there.)

When I finally got back to my car, I worriedly rushed home to take off my shoes and behold my surely monstrously damaged toe. But when I finally got a look at it, it looked mostly normal, except maybe a little more red and swollen than usual. What the hell, toe?!? I was honestly a little pissed at my digit for not looking as awful as it felt. After aggressively icing my foot, I considered going to the doctor, but everyone I talked to told me a doctor would just charge me for an x-ray and tell me to rest, so best to save the money and just not run for awhile.

Thus began an unreasonably stressful 3-week period during which my thoughts consisted mostly of "I should be running I'm getting out of shape what if I miss the race?!? But if I run my toe won't heal and I'll never walk properly again! But if I DON'T run I'll miss the race and be a failure forever... ow my toe, I think I'll eat some cookies." I ran once after I thought I was almost healed, but the pain in my toe came back, so finally I decided that I was willing to pay the price of a doctor's visit just to have someone tell me in an authoritative voice WHAT I OUGHT TO DO.

I made an appointment with the Sports Medicine department of Campus Health. I had intended to check with the receptionist to make sure my special case belonged in Sports Medicine (and not say, the Clumsy Spaz department), but she was all brisk on the phone and I didn't get a chance to explain to her that I wasn't a Real Athlete involved in Real Sports.

During the days leading up to my appointment, I became irrationally convinced that the Sports Medicine doctor was going to turn out to be my middle school gym teacher, and that he would remind me of that time I had to sit out the Presidential Fitness Test because my "ankle was sprained." (It really was, by the way. It's just that I didn't like using crutches, and plus that guy was a jerk.) As I sat in the Sports Medicine waiting room watching football players come and go, I became even more convinced that I'd be seeing Dr. Overweight Gym Teacher, MD only to receive a prescription of heckling and mockery.

But guess what, guys! Turns out, the doctor was a lady! And a very nice one, at that. And she showed me how to "buddy tape" my big toe to my second toe (so it can provide moral support, I assume), and gave me permission to take criminal amounts of ibuprofen. AND she did not laugh in my face when I told her I was training for a race. In fact, she told me that if I tape my toes together and wear normal shoes for the time being (welcome back, blisters!), I should still be able to run the race. Hooray!!

So, the moral of the story is this: Gym teachers seldom have the time or money to attend medical school.

No, wait. The moral is: I'm a real athlete, so suck it, Former Gym Teacher!!

No. Ok, it's probably this: If you think you've seriously injured yourself, just go to the doctor and get it checked out, even if your friend who's broken 8 out of 10 toes tries to tell you it's a waste of time. You shouldn't be taking medical advice from someone who's broken that many bones, anyway.

Self-Doubt, Happy Ending, Blahdy Blah

As part of my recently declared effort to say YES! to my whims, I woke up at 7am on Saturday, got dressed in cold-weather running gear (it was TWENTY-NINE DEGREES outside, I live in the South for a REASON so get it together, North Carolina), and went to my local running store to go for a run with a group of strangers.

There are several reasons this decision was insane. For one, I am not a "morning person" or an "early riser." I do not particularly like cold weather. Meeting new people makes me anxious. I am not secure enough in my identity as a "runner" to just come out and claim to be one in public. I worried that I'd look a little too Rubenesque in my running tights. I fretted that I'd be the heaviest or slowest runner. I was concerned that when I talked to people they'd think I was weird (which... fair enough, I suppose).

Of course, we all know how it turned out. I sucked it up, I said YES!, I went. I met a lot of very lovely people. I wasn't the slowest or the heaviest or the goofiest. I ran with a really nice girl who seemed inordinately impressed with the fact that I had run a half marathon, so I spent much of the 3-mile run trying to lower her expectations of my skillz. Afterward most of us went to get brunch together. It was a lot of fun.

Honestly, I ought to type up a template for these blog posts:
"Today, I was afraid to do [Thing X]. I was afraid because [Irrational Reasons 1, 2, and 3]. Eventually, I sucked it up and did [Thing X], and it turned out to be pretty fun. Shocking! [Self-deprecating joke.] [Non sequitur.] [Abrupt ending.]

Anyway, the run was fun, and was the first meeting of a formal group training program that will last 12 weeks. I had held off officially committing to the program because I wasn't sure if I could devote that much time to something non-school-related right now. But I think it would be an awesome way for me to hang out with people that aren't my classmates, and do something other than homework and worrying about homework. Also, it will hopefully keep me from giving up running during the colder months. So I think I'm going to sign up. Feel free to remind me of this optimistic post two months from now when I'm freaking out because I have some kind of leg injury and I'm behind in my schoolwork.

Consider This the Christmas Newsletter I'll Never Send

The problem with not posting on your blog for months on end is that once you want to post again, it's hard to decide what to do. Should you post excuses for your absence? Updates about what everyone's missed? Or just something unrelated but really interesting, in the hope that no one noticed you were gone in the first place? Well friends, as a consummate overachiever, I've decided to provide you with a combination of all three.

First up, excuses. So of course there was school work, and several trips out of town. Then there were the holidays, and more travel. I've also been a little depressed, which makes it harder for me to write. Plus, the longer I went without writing, the more I debated what to write. As you can see, I have PLENTY of excuses.

Secondly, updates. Since I last posted, I've run two races: a 10k (6 miles) in October and an 8k (5 miles) on Thanksgiving. The Thanksgiving race resulted in the fastest per-mile pace I've ever had in a race, around 11:30. To celebrate, I spent the next 4 weeks not running, so now I'm trying to get back on track, slowly but surely.

I finished the Fall semester without having a nervous breakdown, which was my primary goal. I also accomplished my secondary goal, which was to get decent grades in all of my classes. In addition, I attended two professional conferences, met a bunch of people I admire, and didn't embarrass myself. (I wore a pencil skirt, and if that doesn't automatically make me competent and professional, then I've been lied to by women's magazines for years.)

I visited Lee in TX for a couple weeks, which was AWESOME. I ate at three different Mexican restaurants (one of them twice) in a span of 11 days, so I think it was a pretty successful trip. I'm just sad that I have to wait another 3 months before I can see him again. I spent Christmas with my family, which was nice because they're my family, but stressful because they're my family.

Both of my pet gerbils died, one in his sleep and one due to some kind of gerbil cancer. I cried over both of them, which was unexpected and traumatic. But now, my heart is beginning to heal and I'm considering getting a Betta fish (which is essentially a step down, to Remedial Pet Ownership).

I bought a new car, which means now I have to get rid of my beloved Miata, but ultimately I think it's for the best. Now I have a back seat and a larger trunk, the better to haul illicit cargo. Also, if I ever get my pet-owning shit together and get that dog I've always wanted, I'll have room in my car for him/her to go on adventures with me. It's all about the 10-year plan, people.

Most recently, I spent New Year's Eve with my pal MB. We had Ethiopian food and spent a few hours at a bar, and then came back to my place and played Pandemic, which is a board game she got for Christmas. Basically, all the players work together as employees of the Imaginary CDC to battle infectious diseases all over the globe. We beat the diseases twice in a row, so I imagine we'll both be getting calls from the Actual CDC in the next few days. I can't think of a better way to ring in the New Year.

Currently! I'm gearing up to head back to work at my research assistantship starting tomorrow, and back to classes starting a week from now. I'm also painting a bookcase and ignoring the work that I'm supposed to be doing to prepare for tomorrow. Finally, I'm thinking about how much I love everyone reading this right now.

Now that we're all back up to speed, I want to leave you with a video. This is a TED talk that's been linked on a few blogs I read. It's a woman with a PhD in Social Work talking about embracing vulnerability, so I kind of felt like she was speaking directly to me. I really enjoyed it, and I hope you do too.

And Four Months Ago, I Thought It Was Impossible

Considering it's been a week since I ran the half marathon (and 17 years since I last posted), I reckon it's about time I debriefed the troops.

(Which is you guys. You're my troops, didn't I tell you?)

Alright! So. This is going to be a long one, better settle in. The half I ran was the Rock 'n' Roll Virginia Beach half marathon, which took place on September 5th. I, my co-runner H, and our Official Spectator E all made a weekend of it, going down on Friday afternoon and returning on Monday. When we got there Friday night we took a trip down to the beachfront (our hotel was actually about 20 min inland) to get dinner and drinks and check out the sights. Virgina Beach has an awesome boardwalk that I greatly enjoyed, and which makes up the last mile of the race. Friday night there was a concert near the boardwalk and some booths nearby where people were selling things. We had a delightful conversation with some young men who were selling hot dogs and pickles "that will change your life." Unfortunately (?), no part of that last sentence was a euphemism. We also found a tent where some people were selling air-brushed tattoos. My friend E wanted one, so I took the opportunity to get something intimidating air-brushed on me for good luck.


The hirsute arm to the left is mine, and my tat is (naturally) a hot pink T-Rex. I'm not sure if you can tell, but there's also glitter on it. One of the girls gave it a name, but I can't remember what it was, so let's just assume it was Clancy. Clancy graciously stuck around through Sunday, and I did indeed look to him for inspiration at some point late in the race.

Saturday morning we got up and went to the Health & Fitness Expo. Apparently, most big races have Expos beforehand where the runners can go pick up their bibs, timing chips, and free t-shirts. There's also, of course, a bunch of booths set up selling running paraphernalia. I didn't end up buying anything, but that's really only because I wanted one of EVERYTHING and I couldn't decide what to spend my money on. (This is how most shopping trips go for me, actually.) Walking into the Expo, I had to fight back tears, and I still can't really explain why. Maybe it's because of the cheerleaders they had lined up to cheer for everyone as they walked in (!!), or because it was the first time the whole thing felt really real to me, or maybe it's just because I was walking around with this gigantic, diverse group of people and they were all Runners and I was a Runner too, as far as they were all concerned. Whatever the reason, I got a little emotional, like I do. But once the tears dried, I could more clearly see all the sweet perks. Free granola bars! A card for 10% off at P.F. Chang's, good for a year! Temporary tattoos from Dodge, for some reason! (They were a race sponsor, not that that really explains the tattoos.) My favorite piece of (not free) merchandise at the Expo was a car magnet that said, "In my dreams, I am a Kenyan." That pretty much sums it up, right there.

Sometime Saturday night was when I started panicking about the race. I wasn't ready, I didn't have my stuff together, I couldn't remember how to run. We were going to get lost on our way there, or be late, and miss the start. It all seemed very serious. I picked a fight with my race partner and everyone went to bed in an uneasy mood.

When race day dawned, however, we were all so excited (and punch-drunk from lack of sleep) that we forgot our anxiety in favor of stumbling around in the dark and laughing at things that weren't particularly funny. We got up at about 4:45 and suited up, and then there were bananas and bagels to eat and coffee to drink and who knows what else. Because our hotel was so far away from the beachfront, we had to drive to the amphitheater to park and catch shuttles to the start line. The shuttle ride itself was 20 minutes, and we were (I was) worried about getting to the start line by the time the gun went off at 7. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, until we got within a mile of the amphitheater, at which point it became apparent that everyone in Virgina Beach was there, as well as some people from neighboring counties who came out JUST TO GET IN MY WAY. Even once we had finally parked, there was a long line for the shuttles, where we had to wait for about 15 minutes while I vibrated with anxiety.

When we finally arrived at the start line, we still had to use the porta-potties, which of course had lines of their own. The first waves of people were already taking off as H and I sprinted to get in line to pee. Luckily, however, there were about 20,000 people running the race that day and they were arranged in corrals in order of their projected finish time. Which is to say that even though the race "started" at 7am, H's and my corral didn't cross the start line til more like 7:30. Here's some of those 20,000 people:

And here's the start line!!:

When we first started, I honestly wondered if I'd be able to remember how to run. I hadn't run since Thursday (3 days before), and I was so anxiously hyper-aware of my body that everything felt weird. Did my ankle always bend in that way? Did my foot always hit the ground at that funny angle? And what is it I'm supposed to do with my hands, again? After about a mile, though, everything sort of evened out. The Rock 'n' Roll races have bands and cheer squads set up every few miles, and right before the first turn there was a band playing Flight of the Conchords' "Business Time," except they had changed it to "Running Time." It was definitely one of the highlights of the race, and it was stuck in my head for days.

Going into the race, my friend H and I had tried to figure out a strategy that would balance my misguided NEED FOR SPEED with her bum hip which had been bothering her for the past month. We decided that we'd try to confine our walk breaks to the water stations (which were set up about every 1.5 miles). In training, I had usually only walked a minute a two for each mile, so I thought it was do-able. For the first few miles we were zooming along at a pace a little faster than our goal pace, but we had to run up a hill early on that apparently made H's hips flare up, and after that things got rough for awhile. We had a goal of finishing in less than 3 hours, but H started stopping for walk breaks more and more often, and sometime during the 6th mile I realized that there was no way we were going to make our goal at the rate we were going. I explained the situation to H and she tried to rally, but it wasn't going to happen. She kept telling me to go on without her, but I didn't want to because I was afraid she was going to give up. Finally, I made her promise to at least run some if she could, and then we hugged and high-fived and I took off to try to make up some time.

During miles 7 and 8, I was running at a pace much faster than I had planned, trying to get back on track. I felt OK though, so I didn't let up until I had 8 miles behind me and I was sure that I could finish on time. After that, I took a break to walk and eat the free packet of Gu some volunteers had handed me about half a mile back. During the race I carried a little bottle of water to drink from between water stations, so at each station I would drink a small cup or two of water and then take another cup or two to refill my bottle. Apparently at some point during my snack break, juggling the water bottle and the Gu packet and keeping my feet moving became too much for me, because about 10 min later I looked down and there was sticky blackberry-flavored gel dripped all across the front of my running shorts. Sexy! Something about running by myself, covered in Gu, while my friend struggled along somewhere behind me struck me as both hilarious and sad, all at once.

Of course the bright side is that when you're running for hours on end, the scenery is always changing, so I didn't have a lot of time to dwell on my berry-scented shorts. Overall, the route was really pleasant, as were the bands and the cheering crowds. The only part that dragged a little was the few miles in the middle that went through the naval base. At that point, there weren't a lot of trees for shade, and there weren't a lot of spectators either, so you were sort of on your own for motivation. As the race went on and I started to get tired, though, everything sort of faded into the background. After 10 miles, every step I took was officially The Farthest I Had Ever Run. From mile 10 to mile 11.5 or so, all I could think about was making it to the water station that was supposedly set up around mile 11.3. I say supposedly because it was definitely about a quarter-mile farther down the road than that, and at that point in the race a quarter mile was about 2 miles too far. I finally gave up and started walking early, only to see it in the distance about 30 seconds later. I ran again to mile 12, where I walked for a minute or two and gave myself a pep talk. It went something along the lines of, "You have to run now, and you have to run for a mile, and you can't stop until you're on the other side of the finish line. Don't be a loser, OK ready set go!" And then I ran.


The last mile is along the boardwalk, which you turn onto just past the 12-mile marker. As soon as I was by the beach there was a nice strong breeze in my face, which I think really helped sustain me through the end. My feet were so beaten up at that point that they were just kind of numb, and it felt like they were coated with concrete. I had that all-over tingly feeling that I get when I've pushed myself to the limits of my endurance, and even though my stomach wasn't exactly growling I had the distinct impression that food would be necessary soon. I was running as hard as I thought I could (and still maintain it for another mile), but I felt so worn out I was sure I must be going incredibly slowly. And yet... I looked at my watch and I was going a full minute per mile faster than my goal pace! All of the myths about race day adrenaline were true! After I got done being excited about how quickly I was going, I realized I was going to have to maintain that pace until the end and I became a little alarmed. Although it felt like the loooooongest mile of my life, I persevered, mostly because I started mentally listing people I was running "for." When I ran out of people to dedicate the last mile to, I moved on to abstract concepts, like social justice and H's hips. THEN I started listing things I wouldn't stop running for, as a way to convince myself that I was more dedicated to finishing the race than I was to money and happiness. Things that wouldn't have made me stop running included: a free PhD, a billion dollars, a brand-new dream home, a bear covered in razor wire, a threat on my family's life, and who knows what else. Finally, 8 years later, I crossed the finish line, arms over my head, a determined look welded to my face.

Time: 2:52:30ish. Under my goal by 8 minutes. And I'm confident I would have been faster if it weren't for the rocky start.

After that, it's all kind of a blur. There was free beer on the beach, and cooling our feet in the ocean, and naps and showers and dinner at P.F. Chang's (10% off!). And of course, celebratory booze. And then the next morning, we got up and returned to the scene of our recent glory for bike riding along boardwalk and a little lounging by the ocean. It was the best Labor Day weekend ever.


Postscript about my running buddy: She finished about 15 min after me, sprinting across the finish line like a champ, and then we dragged her to the medical tent to ice her hip. She went to the doctor today and they told her she might have a stress fracture, so now she has to be on crutches until they can take a picture of her bones. Basically, if you haven't run 13 miles on a broken hip lately, you can't touch my girl H. ;)

Four on the Fourth Race Report

So, that whole "posting the whole month of June" thing kinda fell apart at the end there, huh? I hope you can forgive me. I got wrapped up in traveling and visiting people and then June was just over. If it's any comfort, I have a race to tell you about now!

I've been reading a lot of The Athena Diaries, which is a blog written by an Athena runner and triathlete. 'Athena,' I've come to learn, is a competition category for women who weigh more than 150 lbs. They don't have it in every race, though, and in fact I've yet to find a race in my area that does have it. Anyway Misty, the author of the blog, usually writes 'race reports' after she does a race, and it seems to be, like, a thing that runners do. And since I have recently declared myself a runner, I too shall write a race report.

There's a series of three summer-to-fall races put on by a running club out here, and the first one is a 4-mile race on the 4th of July. It is the aptly named 'Four on the Fourth.' Because my running buddy H and I long ago hit the 4-mile mark in our training, and because we're trying to gain experience at running races in general, we signed up for this one. (Also, I hear if you do all three races - including a 10k in October and an 8k in November - you get a jacket!)

The night before the race H stayed at my place, since I live really close to the course. Unfortunately, we were both up pretty late because she had to babysit until around midnight and I had to wait up for her. Our 6:30 wake-up call came really early, which reminds me that I need to start practicing getting up and running in the early morning. The half marathon does start at 7am, after all. Temperatures in the week preceding the holiday weekend had been inching toward infernal, so imagine my delight when I checked weather.com and found out that it was a refreshing 65 degrees outside! It appears that there is a Santa Claus, and he's in the business of granting 4th-of-July wishes you didn't even realize you'd made.

I ate most of an English muffin and gave H the good news about the weather, and then we headed over to the race. When we got there, there were Runners, with a capital 'R,' doing freaking warm-up drills and shit. My mind was blown. To cope, I started trying to pick out normal-looking people that I thought I could take. They were mostly people over 40. I made the mistake of mentioning this to H and she made me feel guilty about it, but what was I supposed to do? There were 80-pound bird-people running sprints within my field of vision, and I needed to maintain a winner's outlook.

Unlike the Susan G. Komen race, this one was much smaller and a little more informal. The course was a mostly flat and shady loop around town that started and ended at a middle school and stayed in residential areas. The first tenth of a mile was on a major-ish road which apparently could only be blocked off for a short period of time, so all the runners had to wait until the last minute before lining up on the starting line. About 10 minutes before the start, we all herded from the school parking lot down to the starting line, and H and I dutifully took our places at the back of the pack. While she was setting up her ipod and I was nervously babbling about something-or-other, we suddenly heard the loud POP! of the starting gun. "Oh shit, was that it??" "I guess so, let's go!" We half-jogged across the start and for the first few yards while H got everything situated. (Someone later told me that they heard the guy yell "15 seconds!" before shooting off the gun, but I guess we were too far away back in Slowburg to hear him. He couldn't have rented a megaphone? I ask you.)

I'm still not used to racing, but I know enough to know that adrenaline can get the better of you and cause you to accidentally run way too fast at the beginning and wear yourself out, so I kept my eye on my fancypants watch to make sure we weren't going too quickly. I also wanted to help H pace herself because she was really disappointed with how she did at the Komen race and I hoped this would be a better experience for her. As a result, the first mile or so was a continuous loop of this conversation: "How fast are we going?" "Too fast, we've got to slow down." "Ok." It just felt so good outside and it was so pretty and there were so many people moving around us that it was hard not to get carried away.

As we tried to rein it in to a reasonable pace, I reassured H that all the people ahead of us were the fools that would have to stop and walk later, allowing us to pass them and be the ultimate champions. She looked over her shoulder and reported that there were only a handful of people behind us. We were passed by a man and his 6-year-old son. But no matter! We didn't come to beat anyone but ourselves.

H tends to take more walk breaks than I do, and also doesn't have a great time with hills, so when we got halfway up our second hill (at about mile 1.3), she stopped to walk and waved me on. And so I was off on my own. I maintained a pretty consistent pace (about 12:00, which was faster than I expected) throughout the race, trying to balance my desire to let loose and go flying down the course, and my fear that at any moment I would hit a wall and have to stop and walk. Ultimately, I felt good enough at the end that I think I probably could have done it a bit faster, but I figure it was better to be safe than sorry, and I'm glad I ended in good shape.

Although I don't consider myself to be particularly competitive, I found that I could not stop myself from passing people. It's just that there were a lot of people, going about the same pace as me, spread out every few feet in front of me. I'd be coming up on one and think, "oh, I can definitely pass her, and after that, I'll slow down a little." But as soon as I passed that person I'd be within range to pass another. It went on like that from the time I left H to about the 2.5 mile mark, at which point I had passed everyone that was easily passable. The next closest people were a pair of women about 50 feet ahead of me, and I was too afraid of wearing myself out to risk speeding up and going after them. When I realized I had passed everyone I could, I thought with some satisfaction, "This is it. I am officially the fastest of the slowest." My place as President and Benevolent Dictator of the Slow Motion Running Club has been validated. Stick with me, kids, and you too can be marginally faster than the slowest 10% of runners out there.

I'd like to pause here for a word about pace. If you are not a runner, you may not have much perspective on this, so I thought I'd fill you in. People who consider themselves to be Runners with a capital 'R' (the ones inexplicably doing the warm-up sprints before the race) would probably tell you that a 7:00 (that's minutes per mile) pace is respectable. At my fastest, I probably manage about a 10:00 pace, although I hope to get a bit faster in the future. For the half marathon, I'm thinking that the best-case scenario will be about a 13:00 pace, which is where I had set the bar for Four on the Fourth (and which is admittedly a pretty low bar, but that's how I like it). Thus, I was quite satisfied that I ran the race with a consistent 12:00 pace, but it's worth noting that in the Wide World of Sports this is really pretty slow. You'll see what I mean when I get to the part about the awards ceremony.

Anyway, back to the race! The best part about passing all of those people and assuming my rightful place as Queen of Slowburg was that there was one last decent-sized hill to climb as we closed in on the final mile, and eventually I was even able to pass the two women that had previously seemed untouchable. Take that, MediumPaceVille! Slowburg is out to annex you!

The end of the race was three-quarters of a lap around the school's track, which was just awesome. Almost as awesome as running into the school's parking lot and passing a volunteer who said, "Good job, you're almost there! Great stride!" He probably says that to all of the sweaty and disheveled novice runners, but he sounded like he really meant it when he said it to me. I was going to stop and hug him, but you know; I was running a race, and all. Once you get to the track, you have no choice but to continue running, because who stops and walks on the track?? No. You must come into the finish like you mean it, which I did. And then I gratefully stopped and guzzled some water.

My finish, however, was nothing compared to my pal H's. I was anxiously awaiting her arrival, concerned about whether her race had gone well this time, or if it had been as painful as the Komen race. A few minutes after I finished, though, I saw her come breezing onto the track. When she reached the straightaway leading up to the finish line, homegirl started SPRINTING. It was beautiful. I yelled her name as she streaked across the finish line, and then she collapsed onto the grass and didn't speak for awhile.

In the end, I finished in about 48:00, right on track with my steady pace. H finished around 53:00, I think. My enthusiasm over having beaten my goal faded a bit when the awards ceremony started and I realized that I would have to quite literally cut my time in half if I ever want to win anything. Well, that's not entirely true. I think the winner of the female 70+ age group finished in about 46:00. So it's either cut my time in half, or continue training for the next 50 years and bide my time until my competitors slow down enough that I can overtake them. I don't mind, I'm patient. In this decade, though, I placed 638 out of 686 overall (in your face, 50 people slower than me) (except you, H, sorry) and 40 out of 51 in females ages 25-29. And I'm pretty damn pleased about it.

In addition to the glory of being the fastest of the slow, we also got these commemorative race socks:


And then we (H and I and our biggest cheerleader E) went to see fireworks and eat a picnic dinner and drink juicebox wine.

Grumbling

Even though I'm not supposed to work on Fridays, I had to go to work today because the people who foolishly hired me to be an integral part of their research team are currently scrambling to get a grant proposal finished.

Then I came home and immediately had to go out and run 6 miles. I wisely chose to run a new route so that I wouldn't be bored by the tedium inherent in running the same old trail for an hour. I didn't really assess the route before I started it, but I guess you could say it was quite pleasant, as long as you don't count the part at the end of the route where it suddenly turned into TWO STRAIGHT MILES OF NONSTOP MISERY HILLS. In other words, I didn't break any records today. Unless there are records for "Most Sweat-Soaked Shirt" or "Slowest Limp Up a Mountain" or "Running Face That Looks Most Like a Stroke In Progress." Or how about "Most Labored Breathing While Walking"?

I could come up with these for days, people.

AND THEN I got home and the whole apartment smelled like the hot wet litter box of Satan's own cat-beast, who is probably named "Buttsplosion," after his digestive problems. The reason the apartment smelled like that because Charlie, who I've recently renamed "Feces Factory" because I want everyone to be put off their meals just as I am every day, actually does have a litter box that sits in our dining room, the smell of which somehow expands to fill every inch of space in our unfortunately quite open floor plan. Since something had to be done to make the smell stop I pulled out the litter box liner and its contents, but then somehow the smell impossibly got EVEN WORSE, for reasons that are too disgusting to explain. And then I valiantly struggled my way out the door and across the parking lot with the Bag of Olfactory Nightmares, because it was WAY too heavy because someone - who is not me - put too much litter in it when they cleaned the box last time. So I, breathing through my mouth the entire time (and still tired from running 6 miles up and down the hills of woe and sadness), had to take a few steps, set the bag down, take a few steps, and set the bag down, all the way to the dumpster which obviously already has it in for me. And then I had to heave the bag in through that terrible small shoulder-level hole and pray with all my heart that it would go IN and not somehow tumble OUT and on to me, forcing me to burn myself alive just to be free of the smell.

Which thankfully did not happen. But the threat was very real.

In conclusion, it's been an exhausting day, so I could not possibly write you a blog post. Please forgive me.

Data Whore

Ever the dedicated social scientist, I've found that one of the most rewarding parts of running is the sweet, sweet data it produces. I have a fancy-pants sports watch that lets me keep track of my pace and my time and my time for each mile, and more than once I have managed to work up the motivation to get out the door and run simply by thinking about the satisfaction I'd feel when I got home and entered the data into my spreadsheet.

It's OK, I'll wait while you chuckle at my insanity. Is my spreadsheet any less ridiculous if I say that I only keep track of the ones that are over 5 miles? No? Alright then.

This is the kind of illness that could hypothetically lead someone to make an Excel spreadsheet to track how they're spending their time at work, in order to determine how guilty they ought to feel about their shameless internet addiction. (The answer, hypothetically? Very guilty.) (Also, if someone has a problem with procrastination at work, maybe their first response shouldn't be to make a completely un-work-related spreadsheet. But I digress.)

My compulsion to analyze everything for patterns and meaning extends to just about everything, to the extent that I often find myself mentally composing poetic meditations on the similarities between autumn leaves and adolescence, or whatever. Sometimes the "meaning" behind things is obvious to the point of being cliche, while on the other hand sometimes a thing just is what it is. But what really drives me crazy is when something seems like it must hold a deeper meaning that I just can't put into words.

For instance. I've been running off and on for a long time, and usually when I start back up again I get really bad blood blisters, which are gross and I'm sorry I brought it up. But blisters, when left alone, heal up and turn into calluses over time, and eventually my feet don't hurt nearly as much because they're protected by the calluses. Of course, after awhile the calluses start to wear away and then eventually I'm back down to unblemished, unprotected, youthful skin. And generally the cycle starts again. Since today was the day that I reached that point - the clean skin starting-over point - and I was scheduled to run 5 miles, I thought about this blister-callus-recovery cycle all day long. I really feel like it must be a metaphor for something, but I can't figure out what, and it's driving me a little crazy, like a word on the tip of my tongue, or a familiar fact abruptly forgotten. And then this afternoon, a new wrinkle: I finished my run and I gingerly removed my socks to find... no new blisters. Skin that was sore and red, and a little blistery in places, but not nearly the disaster I expected.

So I just don't know. I feel like I should be able to spin this pattern into a great metaphor for some aspect of life, but it's not coming to me. Either I'm losing my touch, or sometimes a foot is just a foot, even for an analytical Excel wizard.

And This is What You Hum, You Hum...

Since my last post about running music garnered some positive feedback (in real life) (shut up, yes it did), I thought I would post some more stuff that gets me pumped when I run. These are both on the album Keasbey Nights, which I have listened to for a many a run.

(Note: If loud and fast isn't your taste, you might want to skip this one and go read a book instead.)





Speaking of many a run, my current music is getting a little stale. If anyone has any recommendations for power songs, let me know. You can tell it's a good song if
a) it would work as the soundtrack to an 80s sports movie training montage, or
b) it might inspire a music video about misfits stickin it to the man.

OW MY LEGS, Plus Deep Thoughts

I know you're probably sick of hearing about running, but I just ran 6 miles (for the first time ever!) and it's the most impressive thing I've accomplished today, so I have no choice but to tell you about it. Although I don't exactly recommend it, it wasn't nearly as miserable as it could have been. On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being "merely exhausted" and 10 being "this is a fate worse than death," I finished up at about a 6.5, which is roughly equivalent to "I'd like to sit down now and never stand up again, please."

I generally do my longer runs on this really nice flat, paved trail not too far away. The trail is about 6 miles long (supposedly, I haven't covered it all yet) and it's marked every quarter-mile so you get the satisfaction of seeing your distance tick by as you go. The best part about the trail, in my opinion, is that when I reach the marker for one quarter-mile from the finish line, I can actually SEE the next marker, the one where I get to stop and walk and never run again, amen. I cannot overemphasize the rush I get from being able to see the finish while I run that last miserable quarter-mile. It's like the difference between lifting a car because a guy in a bar dared you to, and lifting a car because your baby IS TRAPPED UNDER THE REAR WHEEL OMG SAVE HIM NOW!

Even though I didn't drop dead this time, I really needed that extra push today, because things started to get kind of hazy during the last mile and a half. I could tell I was really getting tired when I realized that in addition to being sore and out of breath, even my thoughts were incoherent. It was like the kind of stuff you think about right before you fall asleep, like you're riding a camel backward through the desert while reading an old copy of Esquire when suddenly a flamingo flags you down and asks for a ride and zzzzzz..... Except I didn't have the pleasure of falling asleep, I just waited to see whether my feet would keep moving even if I happened to completely lose touch with reality. The good news is that life started making sense again when I finally stopped.

I think the best thing I've gotten from this whole experience so far is a much broader idea of what I can withstand. I stopped and walked a couple times today, for 3 or 4 minutes at a time, and if I had given myself the choice I probably would have walked the last mile or two. But every time I forced my feet to start again, and found that somehow I had the ability to keep going for a little while longer. When I put it that way, it makes it sound kind of like I have some kind of amazing willpower, but I really don't. Anyone who's ever seen my behavior in the presence of Oreos knows this.

In reality, I think it's just one example of what any person can do, and it applies to much more than running. In almost any situation where we think we're at our limit, we can make the decision to bear it for one more step, one more moment, one more breath. And if we make it through that one, we can do it again.

There's this thing that happens occasionally where I think I'm as tired as I can possibly be but I keep running anyway, and then suddenly my whole body starts to tingle. The feeling itself isn't really pleasant or unpleasant, and the first time it happened I was vaguely unsettled, waiting to see if a light were about to appear to guide me home. I have no idea what the scientific explanation for it is; in all likelihood it's the feeling of three years being taken off the end of my life. Nevertheless, I like to think of it as my brain just throwing up its hands and resolving to just stop registering pain altogether, since I seem to be hellbent on ignoring it anyway. I'm beginning to believe that you can short-circuit your brain like that in any situation that seems unbearable. Maybe by choosing to accept it and keep going anyway, you adapt, and suddenly your mind justs stop protesting.

So. In your face, brain! Now who's in charge??

Damn Ladies, You Awesome

Although it would make a much better story, I didn't throw up or cry or drop dead at the race this morning. As a matter of fact, I think it went quite well. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night because I stayed with my running buddy H (who is also running the half marathon with me) and at least two of her neighbors decided to have loud, outdoor parties to mark the occasion. I would have been tired this morning anyway because we had to get up at 6am, but I don't think the less than 4 hours of sleep I got helped the situation any.

Once we got out to race site, though, excitement took over and I perked up. If you're not aware, the Susan G. Komen races raise money for breast cancer research and prevention. There were women everywhere wearing fancy pink shirts that said things like "The Cureinators: Hasta la Vista, Cancer!" and women who had written "ta" on the back of each calf so that when they ran it flashed "ta-ta" over and over again. Breast cancer survivors got to wear special hot pink shirts, and whenever one crossed the finish line her name would be announced. It was fantastic.

There were three separate 5k runs this morning, and we ran in the women's-only recreational race, thinking it would be empowering to our inner Wonder Women. It totally was, and I got choked up countless times. From the personalized shirts, to the "In memory of" and "In celebration of" placards that people were wearing, to the volunteers on the sidelines holding signs saying things like "Fight like a girl" and "You're almost, almost there." One lady who lived along the route was on her porch with a stereo blaring "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" and dancing along. There were several churches along the route, too, and outside one of them was a whole damn ladies' choir singing "We Are Family." Every time we passed people cheering for us I would pick up the pace (even if it was just briefly), so that they'd know they weren't cheering in vain. I didn't stop running once, even though coming up the hill toward the end I seriously wanted to. I highly recommend the experience to any one, even if you just walk. It was the best thing I've done with a Saturday morning in months.

Once we were all done (and had a nap), we went out to lunch and window-shopped around town a little bit. We visited the running store because we were high on our accomplishment and we wanted to show people what real champions look like. To celebrate my new life as someone who does nothing but run and spend money, I bought this:


That, in case you can't tell, is a hot pink, skull-and-crossbones-themed headband. It symbolizes that I am both fashionable and the finest slow-motion runner on the high seas.

So, to wrap up: Remember your breast health, ladies! Monthly self-exams, yearly exams by your doctor, and regular mammograms starting when you're 40 years old. Engage in these preventative measures, and I promise that tomorrow I'll do my best to talk about something other than running.

This Life of Mine is Getting Out of Hand

So far I've managed to watch 5 episodes of True Blood Season 2, and I just have one question: Am I the only person that wants to punch herself in the face every time Sookie and Bill have a conversation? I just can't stop thinking about the picture Sweetney posted on her site awhile back. (Seriously, follow that link, it makes me giggle so much.)

At any rate, I was up late last night watching so much vampire smut that I slept in... um... quite a lot today. And now I have to head over to stay at my friend's house so we can get up early in the morning and run in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. I've never run in a legit race before, so this is a test. It's only a 5k so it's not a real big deal, but if I have a panic attack and fall to the ground in the fetal position due to all the excitement, there's still time to drop out of the half marathon!

I'll let you know how it goes.

A Japanese Vampire Party, Just As God Intended

This evening, I ran farther than I've ever run in my life! Five miles! I'm sure that sometime during the next 3 months of training the novelty of setting new records will wear off, but for now I think it's cause for celebration.

How am I celebrating? Well I'm glad you asked!



So to recap: run 5 miles, spend $50. I think maybe after I finish running the race, I'll buy a car.

Fat and Fitness, Love and Hate

You know how sometimes you stumble upon something interesting on the internet, and it links to something else interesting, which links to something else... and then 2 hours later you come to your senses and now you're an expert on some completely unexpected topic? Of course you do. And as one of the distinguished few who holds a black belt in Time-Wasting, it happens to me all the time. The most recent journey I took along the well-worn side paths of the internet is one I been thinking about a lot, so I wanted to share it with you.

It all started with a post by Black Hockey Jesus, who has run at least a mile every day since January 1st of this year. At the risk of oversimplifying, the gist of his post was that if a person is overweight or obese, they shouldn't waste their time trying to achieve "fat acceptance." Instead, he or she should muster the "courage to change," because no one will ever be proud to weigh 300 lbs, nor should they be. BHJ believes that his disgust with himself is what motivated him to change his life, and his post seemed to suggest that others should also try to harness the energy of their self-hate and use it to power an ambitious fitness regimen.

While I don't fully agree with that standpoint, I found that in the comments on the post, many people did. Some even commended him for having the courage to state the unpleasant truth. Someone speculated that if a woman had written the same post, it would have resulted in a much more vitriolic free-for-all. BHJ agreed and referred to this post, which was written by a female fitness blogger named Kristen, who I had never read before. That post (the second stop on my tour of the internet) didn't say quite the same thing as BHJ's. Kristen did say, however, that she didn't buy the argument that anyone was genetically predisposed to being a certain size. She seems to feel that anyone can be fit provided they put in the work, and anyone that isn't putting in the work is just making excuses not to do something that they unquestionably ought to be doing.

From that post I bounced to this one by Swistle (who was also new to me), in which she "came out" as a plus-size woman. Swistle's post itself was, in my opinion, kind of uplifting. But once someone in the comments started criticizing Sundry (perhaps my favorite blogger) for joining the "religion of fitness," it all devolved into the same old genetics versus laziness debate.

Finally, at the end of my journey, I found Shapely Prose, which is a very well-written blog about feminism and fat acceptance, among other things. The stance at SP is that genetics do play a part in determining a person's size, that diets don't work, that exercise (not weight) determines one's health and fitness level, and that people should practice an approach to diet and exercise that emphasizes Health at Every Size.

So, now that you know what I know (and have been subjected to more links than you could possibly get through in a month), allow me to share my take on all this. From where I'm sitting, the subtext of a lot of this back and forth is that the people on the side of fat acceptance are saying, "This is just who I am" while the people on the side of concentrated fitness efforts are saying "It's hard, but I did it and so can you. If you're not fit it's because you don't want it badly enough to work as hard as I do." The fitness people are offended that fat people are discounting all of their hard work and chalking the results up to genetics; the fat people are offended that the fitness people judge them as lazy and unambitious. As far as I can tell, people on both sides are pissed because they feel as though they're being judged by people who really don't know anything about them.

What's interesting is that a lot of these arguments, when not read carefully, can lead the reader to think in terms of a false dichotomy, wherein you either a) love yourself and accept your imperfections and are therefore doomed to languish in mediocrity and obesity, or b) hate yourself for your imperfections and use that self-hate as motivation to work really REALLY hard for self-improvement.

I simply don't believe that these are our only options. For instance, the worst case scenarios are the people who truly do hate themselves because of their alleged faults, but don't find this hate to be a source of motivation for self-improvement. For some, self-hate isn't motivating at all; it's a reason to give up entirely. On the other hand, it's also possible to truly love yourself while simultaneously working to better yourself. I think that ultimately, the sincere belief that you are a valuable person who deserves good things in life can be a far more powerful impetus for change than any amount of self-loathing.

I want to point out, too, that when I say "better yourself," I'm not necessarily talking about losing weight. In my opinion, this isn't just about fat or fitness or obesity or health or however you choose to refer to it. In fact, it almost seems laughable that so many people are yelling at each other on the internet about calories and exercise, when the ways of thinking I've outlined here are really related to everything we do.

Instead of focusing exclusively on fat acceptance, as if the only people that need to worry about acceptance are fat people who've tried everything else, I think it would be far more useful if everyone focused on simple acceptance, period. Acceptance of ourselves as we are, and acceptance of others as they are. I think that rather than dooming you to mediocrity, self-acceptance makes it possible for you to work with what you've been given and make something beautiful from it. If you love yourself for who you are now, you're working for happiness now, as opposed to working tirelessly toward some abstract future in which you'll be thin/successful/awesome enough to deserve love.

And as for accepting others? I think it's really our only option. After all, is there any way you could ever truly understand the factors contributing to someone else's decisions? And whether someone chooses to work out 7 days a week or weigh 300lbs or live somewhere in between, do their personal choices really affect you at all?

My Happy Moment Last Week

Hit play.



Now imagine with me, if you will...

It's dusk on a warm summer night. Your legs are pumping nearly effortlessly beneath you, carrying you downhill through a shady neighborhood as the sun sets and day eases into twilight. It feels like floating.

An hour ago you were reluctant and lethargic. In 20 minutes you'll be sweaty and exhausted. But for these few, juicy moments, your soul outstrips your body and rises into the sky.

Now that's some good shit.