As Long As They Ask

You know, this whole half marathon experience has definitely been humbling. I'm not the type of person who likes to admit that I'm not good at something, or that I don't know what I'm doing. In school, I tended to focus on the things I was actually good at (textual analysis, communication, music, parsing arguments, biological sciences etc.) and did just enough to get by in the areas where I was weak (physical sciences, sports, economics, math of all kinds). Gym class was my worst nightmare come true -- I didn't lose  weight (the first time) until my junior year, so those fall semesters that I was forced to engage in physical activity with my peers were spent being picked last for team sports and taking the elective classes that would minimize my wiggly bits. I'd like to thank Walking for Fitness and Line Dancing for saving both my humility and my classmates' eyes.

Thinking back, even with all the bitching, backstabbing and bullying that accompanied those years (and I don't mean of the, "OoooMG, you guyz, sum biddy totes called mah purple ankle jeanz ugly, yo" variety), one of the worst memories I have is of running The Mile (it warrants capitalization).

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Apparently, most high schools only make you do it once a semester during the Presidential Fitness Thingie, but not mine. No, we had to run the mile EVERY. SINGLE. FRIDAY. for half of the semester, and if we didn't cut our time by a certain goal, we got a zero for the day. I only took gym the fall semester of my freshman and sophomore years, so as I wheezed my way around a park three and a quarter times, I was on the heftier side. Twice, I didn't even finish; I collapsed on the ground next to Coach Beiste and cried about my blood-soaked socks. At the time, I was unaware that Keds are not really the best sneakers for running (or, you know, for a millenial high schooler to be wearing, period. But we'll get into my total social ineptitude and utter fashion misfortune some other time).

To make matters even worse, I happened to have a gym class full of those harpies from hell, the "athletic" girls. Sure, they weren't as morally corrupt as the other bastions of high school hierarchy, the cheerleaders; they were a hundred times worse. These girls were smart. They were skinny and gorgeous. Perhaps worst of all, they were NICE. "C'mon, you can do it!!!" they'd chant, clapping and throwing out encouragement as I puffed along the sidewalk a solid ten minutes after they'd finished their final lap. And then, when I was finally done, they'd make these ridiculous saccharine statements about how, "when I first started running, it took me twenty minutes to run a mile, too!".

Bitch, please. It's not quite the same when you're seven.

I've been called a lot of mean things in my life, but few of them ever made me feel more embarrassed than feeling like some kind of charity mission for those more athletically gifted than I. Sure, I knew they meant well, but in the end all that their "you go, girl!"s did was make me even more aware of the fact that OTHER people were aware of my struggles. While I appreciated the sentiment, I really wished they would've just let me run my tortoisely slow mile in peace, sans comment. Or maybe actually invited me to their parties, rather than just commenting on my weaknesses, then completely ignoring my existence when I saw them in my own element.

In my element a few years later.

I really haven't changed much. When I go to the gym, I still don't like when people watch me or make it a point to say they've noticed whatever I'm doing. If they want to strike up a conversation about something else, that's totally fine; I'm more likely to cultivate a friendship or feel comfortable in a new class if they start out by cracking a joke about the decrepit state of the spin bikes or the spastic Zumba instructor rather than making some asinine comment like, "oh wow, you must be new at this!". I also try to keep this in mind before I open my mouth to dispense my own workout encouragement and advice.

Because while it might take me 2.5 hours to run 9 miles, I can shake my ass like Shakira. A secret which I am happy to share with anyone.

As long as they ask.

The Yellow Line

Yesterday, as I sat at my decrepit old desktop contemplating such important matters as, "if I could have dated one star from the 80s, who would it have been?" and "don't people have anything better to do with their time than engage in frivolous legal matters?", I was sidetracked yet again by the folder of my old college papers. Clicking randomly at documents I don't even remember writing, I realized two things:

1) There is a direct correlation between the decline in the quality of my writing and the advent of my 21st birthday,

and

2) I really like writing about mice.

Odd, considering that when my first apartment had a vermin problem, I called every one of my scientist friends and offered them a free under-the-table supply of specimens if they could get the damn things out of my house. Sadly, there were no takers.

In addition to the Tale of the Chuck, I found two more stories prominently featuring animals of the rodent variety. Here's one of them.

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“Whatever you do, never stand on or over the yellow line. I mean it. Don’t do it, ever!"

As I stand on the platform at the Park Street T stop, waiting for the Red Line to come whisk me away to my aunt and uncle’s house, the words my mother uttered over 20 years ago echo around me as if they are embedded in the walls. There are hundreds of people milling around the underground terminal, but as those words echo in my head, it’s as if I am completely oblivious to their presence. This is, after all, where I first heard that singular golden rule of public transportation in Boston; it’s also where I first chose to ignore it.

I must have been around six years old when it happened, because I remember how happy I was to be back in the city after moving to New Hampshire a few month before. Due to the fact that we had been “such good helpers” during the move, Mom and Dad had surprised my brothers, sister and me by getting tickets to see Disney on Ice at the Boston Garden. We had enjoyed the parade of ice skating characters, shrieking and giggling each time the villain was beaten, and afterwards the four of us examined our souvenirs as we waited for the train to take us back to our car.

The infant twins looked adorable with tiny mouse ears perched on their heads, held in place by stretchy straps of elastic under their chins. My three-year-old sister, Kelly, had picked out a light-up snow globe on a stick from a traveling salesman at the train stop and was flinging it precariously close to other passengers’ heads as she tried to make it illuminate. I was sitting at my father’s feet, leafing carefully through the shiny program that he had finally bought for me after a lot of begging and pleading on my part. A budding figure skater myself, I was content to look at the pictures and dream of one day performing in the show. Content, that is, until I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye and decided to investigate.

Luckily, one of the twins woke up from his nap and started crying at that exact moment, so no one noticed as I tiptoed closer to the platform’s edge to see what was down there. I watched for a few seconds, patiently waiting for whatever it was to move again. I had often come to this station with my parents and grandparents when I lived in the city, and knew that in the dank depths below, there was a tiny creature who liked to scurry across the tracks. In my naivete, I didn’t realize that the little guy was actually one of many rodents in the station, and I held my breath until I saw something run out from under a rock.

There he was! The Park Street mouse!

Of course, as the platform started trembling at that instant, I looked to the end of the track to confirm my suspicion as to the cause. A pinprick of white light had appeared in the blackness of the tunnel, and the red caution light had switched on. The train barreled towards the station, and in my five-year-old brain I realized that if I didn’t do something, my furry little friend was going to be run over.

The warning my mother had given me as soon as I was old enough to understand it rang through my ears: never, ever step on or over the yellow line at a T stop; the train conductor probably won’t see you and, if he does, he won’t be able to stop in time. “Oh well, I’ll be really quick,” I thought and, never taking my eyes off the mouse, took a step off the platform.

I realize now how lucky it was that my dad noticed I had left his feet. He caught me just in time, grabbing me by the arm and yelling at me to get the hell away from the edge just as the train roared into the station. I cried as he and my mom yelled at me for being stupid and not listening to their instructions not because I was embarrassed, but because I thought the mouse was dead. It was a really traumatic event for a child, to first be scared half to death by her father nearly dislocating her shoulder and then to realize that her furry ally had been squished into oblivion by a 30-ton train. Even though my parents later explained to me that the mouse was fine, and that he was used to the trains coming through his house and knew to get off the tracks when the vibrations started, I don’t think I ever fully recovered from what has become known in the family as “The Park Street Mouse Incident.”

The telltale vibration of the floor beneath my feet brings the station back into focus. I am abruptly shaken from my reverie, becoming aware of the other travelers in the station as the sound of my mother’s words sinks back into the walls once more. I look first toward the tunnel, and see the white light of the Red Line train hurtling towards the station. I then look down at my feet, and a slight smile plays across my lips as I observe the entire foot-and-a-half of space that I have placed between myself and the yellow line. A movement on the track catches the corner of my eye, and I imagine that the small mouse scurrying off of the track looks up and remembers me and my misguided attempt to save his life.

The train rolls in to the station, a long blur that stops with a screech in front of me. Laughing silently, I cross the yellow line and step into the car.
******************************************************

Fun fact: I still look for a mouse on the tracks every time I go to Park Street.

A Quick Musical Survey

A few weeks ago, Caitlin over and Done and Done did a link-up with 10 Questions that were based on your musical tastes. I, of course, filled out the questions and then promptly forgot to turn it in to a post. Since I am currently busy ripping my hair out over a deadline, I thought I'd  post the answers anyway for your reading pleasure.

1. Do you listen to the radio in your car?  If so, what type of station do you like?
Absolutely. My pre-sets are: Kiss 108 (though I routinely want to bitchslap Matty in the Morning, so it's off-limits until noon), Jamn 94.5 (Ramiro has a really hot voice), 98.5 The Sports Hub (Toucher and Rich on SWOOOOOOLE!), Country 102.5 (NH hick, remember?), Magic 106.7 (It's like a box of chocolates, seriously) and Oldies 103.3 (which is, sadly, edging ever-closer to being renamed, "Music of My Youth".)

2. What is the best concert you have ever attended?
I've been to a LOT of concerts, and I think my fave is a tie between Justin Timberlake with Timbaland and P!nk (swoon), Brad Paisley (dude. can. SHRED on that guitar) and Elton John/Billy Joel at Gillette Stadium (LEGENDARY!).

3. What is the most embarrassing concert you have ever attended?
I think that would have to be another toss up... 3 Below/No Authority and LFO are both up there. I'm also embarrassed to admit that I've seen Dave Matthews 4 (or 5?) times, because it's such a high school/college cliche that I grew out of as soon as I turned 21.

4. If you could have the singing voice of anyone in the world, who would it be?
Josh Turner. I kid; I kid. Carrie Underwood, hands down. Young Mariah Carey would be a close second, though girlfriend can STILL rock it, as evidenced by last year's Christmas Special.

5. You’re auditioning for American Idol.  What song do you sing?
"Somethin' to Talk About" by Bonnie Raitt OR "Maybe This Time" from Cabaret, although I would obviously NEVER attempt to either get on AI or take on Liza if I did. I can't even imagine the hate mail that would induce. I'd have to get a killer security system.

6. If your previous weekend had its own soundtrack, what would be a few of the songs?
Hahahaha this past weekend was a bit on the ridiculous side... "Out Last Night" by Kenny Chesney, "Alcohol" by Brad Paisley, "We Are the Champions" by Queen and possibly "Happy Birthday," even though it was no one's birthday.

7. Most annoying television show theme song ever:
If the theme to "Elmo's World" doesn't make you want to kick daisies, and you are over the age of 3, I don't think I want to be your friend, as you are of questionable moral judgment and annoyance level. 

8. Are you and your significant other music-compatible?
Yes, in the fact that we both have very eclectic tastes in music. He, however, has a fondness for rock (is AC/DC, etc. considered rock?) that I do not share, and he in turn tolerates my ability to sing every lyric to every boy band song ever produced.

9. A song that brings me back to middle school:
Pshhh -- I went to junior high, not middle school, and "Country Grammar" by Nelly and, of course, "Truly, Madly, Deeply" by Savage Garden. 

10. A song that brings me back to high school:
Anything by Matchbox 20 or Dave Matthews Band.

11. A guilty pleasure song (or three):
"Baby" by The Biebs is my Power Song on my long runs. I wish I were lying.
"I'm Too Sexy" -- the Chipmunk Dance Remix.
"Crazy Bitch" by Buck Cherry isn't really a guilty pleasure, but it doesn't really match up with what most people have come to expect of my musical tastes!

Bonus: Andrew's are "I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman" by Britney Spears, "Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson, and his #1 favorite song of all time is "All I Want for Christmas is You" by Mariah Carey, which he will jam out to if you put it on in July.

Pick a question (or two!) and answer it in the comments! 

Also, now that Katie has finished reading it, I'm hoping to get my review of The Hunger Games trilogy up at some point this week. :)

Letters from a Mid-20s Blogger to the Universe at Large

WTF?! Letters of the Day:

To the World:
WHY didn't anyone tell me that Pretty Little Liars is like Gossip Girl on steroids?! I spent all summer with a severe lack of pretty, entitled teens getting hammered, boning inappropriate people and stabbing each other in the back. Jersey Shore doesn't count because they're too old.
WTF?!
Team Alison,
C

To the Creepy Man on the B Line Giggling to Himself:
WHAT WAS YOUR DEAL?! I don't know what was so funny, but hiding your face in your hands and laughing hysterically at random intervals makes you a prime candidate for "Serial Killer of the Day". I'll keep an eye out for you on next week's installment of To Catch a Predator.
WTF?!
I don't want to end up in your basement,
C

To My Right Contact Lens:
Did the barometric pressure eff around with the pH balance in your little chamber last night? Stabbing me in the eye repeatedly throughout the morning is not the best way to get my attention. Or maybe it is, since I'm writing a note to an inanimate object currently resting on my eyeball.
Still, WTF?!
Only Jen Lancaster and I are allowed to feel stabby,
C

To The Literate Universe:
It's SUPPOSED to, not suppose to; it's USED to, not use to; it's 'TIL not till; it's OF COURSE, not course; it's COULDN'T CARE LESS, not could care less, and for the love of holy oatmeal (yes, I went there), figure out when to use "and I" and "and me".
Again, I ask you: WTF?!
An ED isn't bad when it's tacked on the end of a verb,
C

To Self:
White sweater + White tank - Coat + Torrential downpour =
WTF?!
Transparently Yours,
C

To All the Bloggers Whining About Positivity:
If you all harnessed the energy being devoted to writing about how the h8ers gon' h8, you could probably fuel a wind turbine or some other eco-friendly device. Just sayin'.
WTF?!
It's my blog and I'll bitch if I want to,
C

To the Jorts-Wearing Hipster on the Bus:
No. Just.... no.
For the last time, WTF?!
You'll thank me later,
C

And now some Love Letters:

To Steph:
Thank you so much for the shout-out on your blog yesterday! That was seriously one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about my writing/this blog. I can't wait for pumpkin beer!
No WTF,
C

To All My Readers:
Not be confused with All My Children. Thanks for being awesome. You all rock.
No WTF,
C

And none for Gretchen Wieners. 

Loyal Sons

As a born and bred New England girl, there are some elements of my person that aren't very surprising. When I'm under stress (read: exhausted or inebriated), my speech pattern resembles that of Amy Adams in The Fighter. I suffer the famous "Irish Whisper" (also known as, "sometimes I yell when I talk"), a gift that I blame on competing with my four younger siblings to get our parents' attention (She who screams loudest gets answer -- ancient Irish proverb). In high school, I smoothed my very wavy hair with an actual iron so it would lie flat against my head (still have the scars), and the amount of F-bombs I can drop in a single sentence could stun even a well-seasoned sailor (I try to restrain myself on the ol' blog for my readers' sakes).

We New Englanders take a lot of pride in our Pro sports teams. I could name the starting lineup for the Red Sox beginning at the ripe old age of five. I don't really care about basketball, but I know most of the rules and the major players for the Celtics and once, in the fourth grade, I forever sacrificed my pinky finger's range of mobility in an effort to show the boys that yes, girls can TOO play (and thus ended my illustrious basketball career). I followed the Bruins BEFORE they made their run for the Stanley Cup, and in a region where college hockey might as well be pro, I went to a university that lives, breathes and bleeds Hockey East glory (NCAA titles, on the other hand....not so much. GO WILDCATS!).

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As for the Patriots? The vaunted, love-em-or-hate-em, did-they-or-didn't-they? enigma that is the New England Patriots? I love them, too, and spend every Sunday next to Andrew in jeans and a Brady jersey, cheering and screaming and sometimes swearing louder than he does (see above). Our neighbors probably hate us, but tough shit -- if you want to fit in 'round these parts, you learn that In Bill We Trust and how to live the Patriot Way. Or else.

The thing is, while I do love the Pats and lust after our shagadelic quarterback (though the entire world knows that physically, I'd take Matt Cassel), I harbor a dark little secret. One that a lot of my northeastern-bred friends just don't understand.

Because while it's true that I learned to love football growing up, the Pros had nothing to do with it.

My pigskin loyalties were bred with the other kind, the BEST kind, of football:  

COLLEGE football.

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The loyal son of a proud Rutgers alumnus, my Dad grew up in Nawth Jerzey in the same town where The Sopranos was filmed, screaming, "Up stream, Red Team!", eating hoagies and sporting a sweet Donny Osmond haircut. At 18, he packed up his belongings and set out for the only other acceptable football mecca in the northeast, Boston College.

Those were the pre-Flutie years but needless to say, once a hundred whispered Hail Marys were answered and that famous football arched through the sky and landed safely in the endzone, college football exploded in these parts for the first time. The day after I was born, Dad barely made it back because he was busy cheering on his alma mater at the BC-Notre Dame game. I spent my childhood Saturdays eating chicken fingers and real NJ hoagies, screamin' for the Eagles and swearing never to attend no stinkin' Syracuse. In our world, Saturdays were for football; Sundays were for Church.

One of my favorite traditions was the annual BC/Rutgers game, an event that included either a 5-hour pilgrimage to Gramma and Pa's or the invitation to join them at their hotel here in Boston, depending on who had home field advantage. Once a year, my mom, dad, brothers, sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and I were all together, sitting in a parking lot, eating a meticulously packed tailgate and laughing over beverages (beer for the grownups; soda for us kids). Though one of my Aunts had followed my Grandpa's footsteps to Rutgers, the BC crowd always had the advantage; I always suspected the reason Dad had so many kids was so that he could create a miniature army swathed in maroon and gold, destined to dominate on GameDay. We stayed until the end, no matter the score, because as Pa would say, "you never desert your team" and you ALWAYS stay to listen to the marching band play "Loyal Sons", regardless of who won.

The man responsible for my refusal to EVER leave before the end!

It was at these games, college games, that I learned the rules of a game that would some day, over a series of Sundays, impress Andrew enough that he asked me to dinner.

Back in those days, Dad had season tickets. He kept them straight up until BC deserted the BigEast and our favorite foes, opting instead to funnel their dollars into the pockets of the ACC. At that point, he gave his tickets up in protest, because he didn't want to watch his team play a bunch of far-away schools with big-name talent. If he didn't have to explain to his kids what the eff a Hokie was (a big orange loser, that's what!), he wanted no part of it. It also didn't help BC's cause that when I received my lifetime-awaited envelope from them eight years ago, it was of the small, thin "We had an impressive pool of applicants..." variety rather than the big, fat, "Welcome to the Class of 2007!" kind.

We He might still be bitter.

Between that, attending a college where hockey games sell out in minutes but football is a forgotten afterthought and dating a man who seriously would have cried if the NFL lockout didn't end in time for the season to start, I've drifted away from my collegiate football roots. Andrew has never been a fan, and "just can't understand the appeal of rooting for a team of a school you didn't even go to", and most of my friends either went to private colleges within a 5-hour drive or attended the same hockey-centric public university that I did. I know that I could watch on my own, but 90% of the fun of college football is sharing it with your fellow fans. Plus, I just don't have the time anymore.

Now, Saturdays are for long runs and errands; Sundays (and Mondays, and sometimes Thursdays) are for football.

My good friend, Katie from Once a Southern Belle, Always a Southern Belle, is a born-and-bred Texan. As such, she is the epitome of all that is right about college football: gameday snacks, cute outfits in coordinating colors with diehard loyalties and friendly rivalries shared amongst family and friends. Her excitement and enthusiasm for last weekend's NCAA kick-off weekend, as well as that of all the other fab Southern-school bloggers she has gotten me hooked on, was palpable.

And on Saturday, as I was scouring the internet for two tickets under $300 for next Sunday's Patriots home opener (an anniversary present for Andrew), my Twitter feed filled at an impressive rate with #GoBigSchool!, rankings and Heisman predictions. The streets of Boston and the T were full of obnoxious Northwestern students and drunken SuperFans stumbling home from BC's home opener. And in the midst of all this, three words crossed my mind.

Color me jealous.

Punting the Ball

If you've been reading for the past month or so, you know that I'm kind of in the middle of a major endeavor.

A large part of the reason I haven't been doing the typical "check out my half-marathon progress!" posts are because, to be completely honest, the majority of times that I stumble upon those training recaps on other blogs, they make me squirm. Reading posts about blonder, thinner, more spritely ladies saying how they, "are so out of shape and haven't run in forever!" who then turn around and post about how they busted out an "easy" 5-miler at a sub-10mile might be inspiring to some, but to me, they make me feel like an utter, utter failure (and that's why I've stopped reading them).

And while it's true that I have no problem throwing some snark out there, the last thing I want is to make OTHER people feel like shit. Although if I'm being honest, I sincerely doubt that would happen.

Because for the most part (up until the last week or so, since I'm being honest), training for a half marathon has been, in a word, HELL.

I've said this before and I've never won any friends out of it, but to the people who say that "anyone can be a great/fast/distance runner if they work hard enough!", I call BULLSHIT. Running is like writing, or any other hobby; anyone can learn to do it, but I truly believe it takes a certain amount of natural talent in order to excel. That's why there are millions of blogs and books and only a comparatively small list  of NYT best-sellers, and why 27,000 runners cross one line in Hopkinton but only a handful cross Copley in under 3 hours.

We can't ALL be good at EVERYTHING.

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But as the thousands of people who don't list, "Published Author" as part of their Twitter bio and all those individuals huffing and puffing their way around the track at 5:30am can tell you, that doesn't have to stop us from trying new things, from setting new goals, from pushing ourselves to the brink.

Sure, I might not have the "natural" body type for a runner -- my flat feet, disproportionately large calves, wide hips and the extra 50lbs I'm currently hauling around my waist are proof enough of that. Even my good runs, some times, are bad runs; aches, pains, foot spasms and asthma attacks all coalesce into one epically unsatisfying experience, each mile slower than the last.

Let me put it this way: on the second 5-miler of my training plan, I got lapped by a man who wasn't a day under 80.

Twice.

At I watched that old man's grey ponytail disappear further and further over the horizon, quitting as an option became more and more real. During those same 5 agonizing miles, I envisioned my bloody, blistered self in the middle of a battlefield, white flag waving frenetically in one hand and a single, sweat-soaked towel being hurled "in" -- wherever "in" was -- with as much strength as my defeated body could muster.

I didn't, though. Instead, I dry-heaved my lunch, cursed myself for not drinking enough water beforehand and continued to put one foot in front of the other. Mostly because I was in Cambridge with no money for a cab, bus or measly T ticket home, but also because I remembered all of the dreams I've had and all of the goals I've set, without ever following through because I'm petrified of failure, of not being good enough, of coming in last.

The student newspaper.

The double-major in Classics.

The graduate degree, from law to publishing to law again, and finally to health communications (so about that GRE...).

And then, when all the pictures of the things I was too afraid to try were done with their slideshow, came the words. Oh, the words.

Slow.

Fat.

Failure.

Those are the images and words that sometimes float through MY head, as I'm slogging up the Mem Drive side of the Charles River, 2-miles into a 5-mile long run half-blinded by sweat, calves and shins beating their omnipresent drum of ache with massive blisters burrowing ever-deeper into the insoles of my feet.

Sometimes, I quit. More often, though, I let those thoughts and feelings fester, until I can feel my blood boiling just below the surface of my skull. I get angry at all the times in my life I've let petty excuses, circumstances and plain old laziness get in the way of what I've wanted. I get so angry, in fact, that before I know what has happened, my legs have picked up speed and I'm barreling down the river, one foot in front of the other until suddenly, I've fulfilled my mileage and I can collapse on the ground, spent in more ways than one.

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I know that there's a prevailing idea that we're all supposed to be Susie Can-Do in this ol' blog world. That we're supposed to surround ourselves with positive energy, tack inspirational quotations all over the place, tell ourselves "YES WE CAN!" and to be the ball.

But sometimes? I find it much more effective to let those nasty thoughts creep in, to scream, "NO, I CAN'T!", and to punt the mothereffing ball as far away from myself as humanly possible.

So to answer the question that keeps popping up in my inbox, yes, I am still training for the BAA Half Marathon on Columbus Day weekend.  It hasn't been easy, it hasn't been pretty and it sure as shit hasn't been fast. At this point, I've pretty much come to terms with the fact that in all likelihood, at the end of the 2:30:00 official deadline to cross that finish line, there will be a big ol' DNF next to my name. My barely 12:30 minute miles and I have come to peace with it. But in the meantime, we keep swearing and sweating and screaming and -- yes -- sometimes punting.

But most of all, we keep running.

[Source]

Because really, what's the point of having the ball if you don't have to punt and run to catch it?