Summer Reading List: Part the First

I've been on another insane reading kick lately, to the point that I hadn't even touched a television remote for DAYS before I went away on vacation. Since then, I've only used it to click over to Lego Harry Potter on the Wii (don't judge), and the only time I see it happening in the foreseeable future is when I tune in for the Olympics (because I am a total junkie who only gets a hit every two years, so I plan to drink all of it in while I can). 

Since most of my friends are compiling their list of summer books, and I know that you're all just champing at the bit to find out what has been piquing my interest lately, without further ado, here are my current reads:
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- Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

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If someone had given me a penny for every time I declared my hatred of this book in high school, I would have been one rich lady. And if they'd taken away a penny for every time that I have declared my undying love for this book since, I would be on literary-induced welfare. About a month ago, I blew $45 over the span of a week by devouring trashy teen paranormal romance novels by the day. I loved them because they were cheap, easy and full of flashy moments. But rereading Wuthering Heights makes me feel like the mom in Bridget Jones -- after a momentary lapse in judgement involving the fancy infomercial guy, I've realized that flash and availability are no match for the substance and foundation on which my personal history is built. Plus, I would pick Heathcliff and Cathy over Christian and Ana in a cagematch, hands down.   

- Therese Raquin by Emile Zola

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My seventy-seven year old co-worker brought this in and insisted that I absolutely had to read it. At first, I put it off because really, didn't I put enough time into old European classics in college? Then she kept asking me about it, so I figured at 300 pages, it was worth a shot. Thank the Sorceress that I did, because this one is like an old-timey literary soap opera -- sex, intrigue, murder and uptight Parisians (my favorite kind!). I'm sure my fellow beach-goers on the Vineyard were impressed by the tattered paper copy of a 135-year old novel, too, so bonus smug bitch points for that.

- This Year You Write Your Novel by Walter Mosley

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I was first introduced to Walter Mosley's work during my junior year of college, when I took a course in Contemporary American Mystery Novels. At the time, I tended to equate anything termed "contemporary" with "beach read**", so I have to admit that Devil in a Blue Dress caught me completely by surprise. I found myself not only identifying with, but rooting for, protagonist Easy Rawlins, despite having virtually nothing in common with him besides our shared humanity. The ability to do this is, to me, the sign of a great author, and as such, I snatched up Mosley's short guide to fiction the moment I saw it. Jammed full of tidbits such as (and I am paraphrasing here), "don't be afraid to insult people; no one is reading this but you, and if you ever do get published, screw them if they aren't happy for you", it has yet to disappoint. 

- Writing Fiction: The Practical Guide from New York's Acclaimed Writing School by The Gotham Writers' Workshop

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If you live in a big city, chances are that you have seen those gaudy yellow "Writing Classes dot com" bins located on street corners next to your local neighborhood news. I'll admit, at the time I bought this book three years ago, I did not equate the two in any way. This actually worked to the book's advantage, because I'm pretty sure that I would not have picked it up had I known its authors were hawking their wares to every Tom, Dick and Harry on the corner. HOWEVER, I can admit when I'm being a judgmental jackass, and this is one of those times. This handy guide is a fabulous resource for those who want to break into writing fiction, but are overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the endeavor and are seeking a place to start. Reminiscent of an intro-level college creative writing class, covering both fiction theory and construct, each chapter also has prompts to get you started and to help translate your thoughts to the page.
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For now, that's it. I'm almost finished with both Wuthering Heights and Therese Raquin, and while I have a strong urge to re-read some other classics (most of which are free on e-readers), there are a number of other, more contemporary reads currently waiting for me on my Nook. In particular, I'm looking forward to Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffen and American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld, per my Twitter followers' suggestions, and I swear one of these days I'm going to get back into Game of Thrones (I've been on page 150 of A Clash of Kings for the past three months).

In the meantime, if you've read anything good lately, feel free to leave it in the comments so that everyone can rack up their book budget for the summer!

**Despite this comment, I don't want anyone to get the idea that I'm some kind of book snob in any way. As I've said before, I am actually a big fan of fiction of all varieties, including, but not limited to, so-called "chick lit" and mass-market paperback mysteries. I've read and enjoyed everything from the Shopaholic Series to the Fifty trilogy to Twilight (ok, maybe when I say "enjoyed" the latter I mean, "enjoyed ridiculing", but that's irrelevant). I'm a proponent of the idea that reading is reading, no matter the source material, and that is something that I very strongly promote. So, if you have any recommendations for must-read books that might or might not be considered, "beach trash", send 'em my way!

Lemoning

Despite my enthusiasm for my brand new toy, I chose to use the down time on my vacation to do really important things, like this:
 
And this:

Seriously, though, I always hate when people complain about needing a vacation from their vacation. It makes me want to give them a lecture on how fortunate they are to have a job from which to take a vacation, let alone be in a financial position to do so.

But this time, I sort of understand how they feel.

For the past two months, I just haven't felt right. Thoughts swirl around in my brain on an endless loop, combing over a laundry list of things I'd like to do. Things I want to do. Things I have to do. Laundry itself is climbing damn near the top of the latter, but I just can't find the time to do it. I'm waking up in the middle of the night to the alarming sound of blood rushing through my ears. The creepy chest pain that was popping up earlier this year is back, which is apparently normal for whatever fancy-pants name they applied to "benign chest wall pain" in my chart. I'm sluggish, snappy, and annoyed by everything and almost everyone. It certainly doesn't appear to have gone unnoticed, either, as most people are making it a point to ask if everything is ok, which I actually do appreciate. Then there are the jackasses who throw out the ever-inspiring, "you don't look so great, are you getting sick?" on the three days I've actually put an effort into my beauty routine. To which I nonchalantly reply, "Go screw."

The fact that this latest bout of "whatever" dovetails perfectly with my ankle injury has not escaped my attention. Elle Woods was really on to something with the whole, "Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy! And happy people just don't shoot their husbands!" thing. When I was training for the half, I was one endorphin way from channeling Kenneth on 30 Rock. People were going out of their way to comment on my good mood which is, for me, unheard of. And then, with the crack of an ankle, I began a slow journey to crankyville. I Lemoned.


I can't even begin to describe how much I needed last week off, just to get out of the city, my apartment, my work and, to some degree, my own head. I had big plans to lay on a beach, read a few books, drink a few beers and finally make like Stella and get after my groove. I was truly exhausted, both mentally and physically.

And despite my best efforts to rejuvenate my spirits through a week of rest and, well, spirits, I would be lying if I said that I was feeling much better than I did before I left.
Some of that, of course, is just post-vacation blues talking. I get that. But I still can’t shake the feeling that I am somehow spiraling out of control, even though I can’t pinpoint exactly why. It reminds me of how I felt in college, when I ended up so anxious that I couldn’t leave my dorm room without having a legitimate panic attack. That’s unnerving.
With that in mind, I have decided to start really pushing myself to actively participate in my own life, rather than just sit around and let my anxiety run amok. It’s a technique that I learned while going through cognitive behavioral therapy, and I’ve found that re-focusing my nervous energy and channeling it towards positive goals seems to really help my stress level. Running and exercise did that for awhile, but since that isn’t an option at the moment, it’s time to set new goals. 

And on that note, I’m off to scale a veritable mountain of laundry.

The Injury Chronicles: A Run To Remember or, That Time I Booted

As I alluded in my grand re-entry to blogging, I've been rocking some really fancy new footwear off-and-on for the past month or so.

I've also been on a bit of an emotional roller coaster, as the only effective stress reliever I'd found that didn't result in a pounding headache was cruelly ripped out from beneath me. Granted, it's not like I lost a limb or anything, and in the grand scheme of my life it's just a blip on the radar. Basically, I'm going to take the opportunity to prattle on simply because I can (and all of my other friends and family are sick of hearing about it). So, if reading about running or my privileged problems isn't your bag, feel free to skip this one. I'll understand.  

And now, my pathetic tale of woe.

I know at least some of you were reading a year ago, when I started training for the BAA Half Marathon. A few more were reading when I actually ran it in October (and by ran, I mean shuffled).

I was proud. I was defeated.

A week after the race, I went hiking with a few of my friends that are also recreational runners. At one point, while discussing my crash-and-burn the week before, my friend mentioned that Boston's other big half, the Run to Remember, is touted as being a bit easier than the BAA, while still holding the elusive challenge of 13.1.

Those who aren't local or aren't into running might not know that the "new" BAA course is known for its psychological brutality; apparently somewhere along the line the race organizers said, "Hey, you know what?! We're known for running one of the world's most notoriously tricky marathons, let's make our half match!" As such, they designed the course to be 4 miles of mostly downhill on Suicide Alley, aka the Jamaicaway, followed by 5 miles of gradual incline past Jamaica Pond, which you can't see because of a wall of trees. A brutal cross-back over the sweltering hot bridge with a view of Forest Hills brings you back to Franklin Park and the 9-mile mark, where you get to endure 2 miles of flat loop on a sketchy golf course, a mile of steepish incline on a transit road, a mile through a God-forsaken zoo, and, just as you see the banners and balloons and think to yourself, "OH THANK GOD! THE PROMISED LAND!", you realize that some asshole decorated the 13 mile marker and you still have to run .1 around a track while an overcaffeinated announcer bellows your name.

In contrast, the R2R course is comprised of rolling hills, but it's Boston, so anyone that runs here regularly is used to that. It starts at the World Trade Center in the beautiful Boston seaport, runs through the shiny buildings of the Financial District, over by the historic Garden, over the river into Cambridge, then runs basically flat (minus a few bridges) for five miles in a loop along the iconic Charles River. Loop back over the bridge, run around the Common in full bloom, cut through the Downtown Crossing area back to Southie and you finish back at the World Trade Center, collecting your medal against the backdrop of the gorgeous Boston Harbor.

Rough view, no?

Not that I'd know, or anything.  

That's because on a gloomy Saturday morning back in the beginning of April, I bounded out of bed at 7am, stoked to go on a nine mile run. Obviously, there was something already wrong, because 1) I don't bound. Anywhere; 2) Least of all at 7am; 3) And definitely not for nine miles' worth of torture. I'm actually pretty sure that I had a mild hangover, if we're being honest, but for whatever reason, I was STOKED to start my run. And therein lay the problem.

In my haste, and by that I mean in my laziness to reach my arm approximately 12 inches to put on my glasses, I terribly misjudged my bounce. And then all I remember is an explosion of pain. Ankle, meet iron bed frame. HOLY. HEAVENS. I haven't felt such agony since the time I stood up too fast on a tour bus and hit my head so hard I literally saw stars. I stood there for a few minutes as tears stung the back of my eyelids and bile rose in my throat. Faster than I thought possible after an episode like that, though, the pain began to dissipate and I decided to wait a few hours, ice it and see if any bruising or swelling happened. 

It never did.

So, three hours later, off I went on my nine-miler which, coincidentally, turned into a 10-miler because I'm a math idiot and miscalculated the distance it would take for me to get home. I was happy with my time and over all, I felt good. I did my usual post-long run stretch, ice bath, shower routine, got in the car, and drove up to NH to spend Easter with Andrew's family. No harm, no foul.

As the week went on, I started noticing a bit of stiffness happening in my left ankle after short runs, but didn't really think anything of it. It was a drop-back week anyway, so the furthest I went was five miles. I knew I was pushing my shoes, the very same ones that caused so much drama in the BAA half, to their limit as far as wear and tear -- and by that, I mean the foam on the back of the left one had completely worn out. So, I started with what any runner does when leg pain starts: I bought new shoes.

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In a brand spankin' new pair of Brooks Ravenna 3s, I did a few shorties, an 11-miler ending at the finish line the day before the Boston Marathon, PR'ed a 5-mile race, and did a leisurely 9-mile run with Andrew. Unfortunately, I had to take more and more time off between them to recover. The crazy thing was, it didn't hurt AT ALL while I was running, save for the occasional twinge of discomfort and, well, what one would expect while running 11 miles. It was only afterwards, typically the next morning, that I would get a dull but persistent ache right above my outer left ankle bone. RICE became my best friend. The only cause I could think of was the new shoes; I honestly forgot that I had ever whacked it three weeks before.

And then, one day on a 2-mile treadmill jaunt, the area right above my ankle bone started to sting. Obviously, this paranoid hypochondriac had been WebMDing and Runner's World Forum-ing every twitch and tingle, so I immediately got off the damned machine and stretched my lower leg out. It felt a bit better, and I had no pain at all as I walked out of the gym. The next morning, however, was another story; I could barely put any weight on it and couldn't make it two feet without wincing from pain shooting up the outside of my leg. At that point, I called the doctor and made an appointment for the next day.

With four weeks to go until my big "Revenge Race," I went to a GP at my office's urgent care, who ordered x-rays and a walking boot. The x-rays were negative but the pain persisted, so I scheduled an appointment with a Nurse Practitioner specializing in Sports Medicine and non-operative injuries. After feeling along the bone and realizing it was an extremely localized pain, she diagnosed a stress reaction (fancy name for "bone bruise"), but would not rule out the possibility of a fracture. I'm planning to do a follow-up post on this stuff, but I was blown away by the care I received -- I walked in there expecting to be told to quit running for months and scrap the race, but instead I found support and a solid plan: 7-10 days in a walking boot, a short test run, a follow-up appointment, another test run -- all with the hope of being able to not only start, but finish, my 13.1.

Boot, Elevation, Ice... check!

As you might have surmised, it didn't work. I did a short run the week before the race and while it felt amazing mentally to be pounding the pavement, my ankle still ached enough afterward that both my NP and I weren't convinced there was not a small stress fracture lurking deep in the bone. With that in mind, I made the incredibly hard decision to skip the Run to Remember to let it heal. My Memorial Day weekend was bittersweet; Andrew made sure to get me out of the city and down the Cape, but I still shed more than a few tears over the lost opportunity of seeing all of my hard work and training finally pay off.

I'm actually still in the walking boot as I type this -- when the ache didn't fully go away, I called my NP back and we scheduled an MRI. Thankfully, it turned out that her original diagnosis was right on the money: a lateral tibial stress reaction, rather than a stress fracture. For obvious reasons, that is great, but there is a down side... bone bruises can oftentimes take twice as long to heal as actual fractures. There is also a bit of fluid in the area, and the MRI indicated mild tendonitis, although we aren't sure if that is secondary due to the primary trauma or because my gait has been whacked out since I got hurt. Today is Day 14 in little Bootsykins, although I am going to keep it on for a few extra days because I was a bit, err... lax with it on vacation last week (Like there was ever a chance in hell I was going to wear it to the beach. Right.). I actually have to call and make an appointment for physical therapy later this afternoon, as well as a follow-up with my NP. She thinks that, with any luck, I should be back to running again in about five weeks.

To be honest, at this point, I'd be happy just to walk. But I have big plans once this thing is gone:

I want to go to there.

Revenge Run: Double or Nothing.

It Is Upon Us

No, not the zombie apocalypse.

Something much, much better.

Or worse, depending on your opinion of me.

That's right.

After a year of being frugal, I finally pulled the trigger and did it.

Now coming to you live, wherever I can get Wifi.