Victory Enough

On the heels of my last post about how I spent this year's Boston Marathon, and after Friday's confession about embracing our body images, I wanted to  write a quick post about something I realized on Monday, a sort of "wall-bustage" during my own personal life-marathon.

As I was walking home from spectating, the cheers of the crowd still faintly reaching my ears, I got a text from my friend Leah (aka "Boyfriend"). I had invited her down earlier in the week to day drink spectate with me, as she's a lot of fun and, really, I didn't want to do it alone. She wanted to let me know that she was so sorry she hadn't gotten back to me before the marathon, but that she'd had a really rough weekend. I told her I was sorry to hear about her troubles, and to please not worry, because I went by myself and had a fabulous time cheering on the runners anyway. Her response came a few minutes later:

"That's great, I can't believe your change since you moved down there!"

It stopped me, quite literally, in my tracks. I thought about the implications of her words. And then, staring at 11 simple words on my cell phone, a grin that could have rivaled the ones crossing the finish line at Copley spread across my face. Then I fist-pumped the sky.

Honestly, there was once a time in the not-so-distant past when I NEVER would have even considered spectating by myself. It might seem insane to some readers (and I know it seems nuts to people I know in person, particularly my colleagues), as I've been told I tend to come across as a self-assured, outgoing individual, but I am actually extremely shy. At times, debilitatingly so.

I've always been this way; I used to dread going to Church not because I didn't want to sit still for an hour, but because the thought of turning to my pew neighbors, shaking their hands and mumbling, "peace be with you," literally made me break out into a cold sweat (I still have to psyche myself up for it, to this day). "Stranger Danger" takes on an entirely new meaning when doing ANYTHING involving the unfamiliar, ranging from a simple phone call or handshake to participating in a new experience in which you might look "imperfect" or non-conformist, causes you to have nightmares, dry mouth and panic attacks.

I should probably note that the basis of this problem all started before I ever had a conscious inkling about image perception, bodily or otherwise, but I'd be lying through my teeth if I didn't admit that it became infinitely worse in college when, after spending a year thinking I had a great set of friends with whom I was thick as thieves, they dropped me from their social circle for no apparent reason, the night before room draw our freshman year.

That hurt, and the implications of wondering what had gone wrong to make me deserve to be on the receiving end of such a mean act did a real number on my psyche. Was it something I'd said? Something I'd done? Was I too fat? Too clingy? Too something? Whatever it was, trying to pinpoint it sent me into the tailspin that ended in the best way possible: a ton of therapy, a good set of friends and a new appreciation for the only person who will always be there to stick up for me: myself.

I still slip sometimes. In my heart or hearts, I know that those first years here in Boston, it wasn't just that I "didn't want to deal with the hassle" of going down to the race course. It was because I was so self-conscious about my body that I convinced myself that among this sea of accomplished athletes, I would stick out as a poser -- the girl who wanted to run but couldn't even manage a mile, even if she tried, whose body and mind literally seized up at the prospect of all those people watching her, judging her -- and thus had no right standing in the presence of such greatness and ambition.

The funny part is, two years ago, I was using the c25k while running regularly, and a good 20lbs lighter than I am right now.

Yet this week, I took myself on a field trip on a huge stage. I screamed for people I didn't know with abandon. I chatted with the constant parade of people next to me, helping them spot their friends and relatives among the sea of champions. I now have the honor of saying I ran on Beacon during the Boston Marathon (ok, I was on the wrong side of the street to get home, and a nice policeman let me race across the street during a small gap of runners, but running on the street is still running on the street).

Maybe someday, I will have the honor of saying I ran it all.

In the meantime, I'll take just being there as victory enough.

One if By Land, Two if By Sea

Thanks so much for all of your sweet comments, tweets and emails about Friday's confession -- I'm so glad that there are other people out there that feel the same way I do about taking a stand against what is, it seems, a totally accepted form of bullying. I'm happy to say that I made "The Kirstie Factor" a mantra throughout my weekend, not just for weight-related anxieties (which only plague me occasionally), but any time that I needed that extra boost of confidence and daring and "Don't like it? Tough sh*t!". (I'll be writing about that tomorrow!). So again, I say, thanks, Kirstie!

*****

As you may or may not have heard, yesterday was the 115th running of the Boston Marathon. It's possible to have missed my obsession with  love of this event, but what may surprise you is that I have actually only attended the race twice: this year and last year.

Growing up north of the border (Live Free of Sales Tax or Die!), I obviously never got school off on Patriots' Day. Actually, like the majority of the country, I didn't even know it was a real holiday -- just that my cousins, etc. that still lived in Boston got it off, and that the Boston Marathon was the same day. My dad, a proud BC alum, kept promising to let all five of us skip school to come down and cheer from Heartbreak Hill, but between the divorce and a bit of an attendance problem with my other siblings, we never did get to go.

[Source]

My first two years here in Boston, despite living within "hear the crowd roar" distance of BC and Cleveland Circle, I opted to skip the festivities. Most of my friends lived in Somerville and didn't get the whole "trek into the city to watch a bunch of people run" thing, and I didn't want to deal with the hassle. The first year, I just stayed home by myself in pajamas. All. Day. Long. The second, I actually FORGOT about the Marathon, until I ran outside and duck-and-covered under our patio table because 4 fighter jets flew so low over my apartment towards downtown that I was convinced we were under attack (You should be in my office during a ceremonial flyover -- they literally pass our windows. It's insane and awesome).

The only Jets you ever want to see at Gillette (Pats Home Opener 2010)

Last year, however, Andrew decided that enough was enough, and it was time that I finally experienced the legendary Boston Marathon properly. We went to the Sox game, and through his connections, we ended up upgraded to the Monster, which is always a treat. Everyone always says, "Oh, I wouldn't want to be up there, since you can't really see any left field plays." I know, because I used to be one of them, and I'm here to tell you it's total BS. The Monster is the Monster, and once you're up there, you're thanking the baseball Gods for the experience. Or taking photos of the Patriots in full regalia, and spying on the marathon at Kenmore through the chain-link fence between plays.

After the game, we headed down to Kenmore to meet up with some friends at the One-Mile To Go marker. Since we went to the game, we caught the middle of the pack. Talk about inspirational -- I remember turning to Andrew and saying, "Seriously, if I took off running RIGHT NOW for the finish line, I'm 99% sure these people, who have already run 25.2 miles, would beat me to Copley."

Of course, it might have been the 7-11 cups and the bag of Fraaaanzia (whoever named box o'wine with such an elegant name deserves a medal) in our friend's purse talking. Or the lubrication that comes with an 11:00am Red Sox game. Either way, it was then that I vowed to run my first 5k by year's end (which I did, on December 4th!). But I can say with certainty that I would have teared up at the soldiers who make the trek with their rucksacks without it (I was screaming, "THANK YOU!!" between choking back sobs this year, too, and I was 100% adult-soda free).

A true Patriot, indeed.

After the pack thinned out, we joined our friends on an impromptu pub crawl of the Fenway. We went to the Cantina for lunch, where we eventually got kicked out because we were on the patio afterward and, apparently, there's a law that you have to have food in front of you to be on the patio while drinking. We moved the party to Jerry Remy's, more beer was consumed, hilarious stories were told, new friends were made.

Then, after leaving there, one of our pals, who is about 6'5 (I might be exaggerating) and very openly gay, suggested we hit up the Machine, a gay bar across the street. As the straight male of the group, everyone turned to Andrew, who yelled, "BUCKET LIST!" while fist-pumping, and we therefore made our way over and had a fabulous time sipping cosmos (our friend wanted us to get the "stereotypical full-effect"; it was awesome. Just wanted to clarify in case anyone was offended or anything). I had my picture taken in the unisex bathroom with an Adam Lambert look-a-like, and found out that hair cement really is JUST like it sounds (I wish I had the picture).

[Source]

Funny story -- somewhere along the pub crawl, I realized that I kept getting all these high-fives from people, and that I kept getting handed beers along with those high-fives. It wasn't until I was in that bathroom that I caught sight of myself in a mirror, and remembered that at the Cantina, I had found a Marathon number discarded on the floor and pinned it to my Sox shirt. My free beer was a direct result of the level of BadAss everyone thought I was for partying like a rock star after running 26.2. (Hello, my name is Caitie, and my ongoing shin splint problems are probably punishment from the running Gods for my blasphemy).

So yeah, that was last year.

THIS year, I've apparently matured as a person, because after watching the beginning of the BM coverage at home (am I the only one who was pissed off that WBZ chose the middle of THE NATIONAL ANTHEM to interview Ryan Hall? Seriously. It's America on Patriots' Day, people. Have some respect), I set out to meet up with Katie in Kenmore Square (the scene of last year's crime) right when the elite women hit the half-mark. Honestly, we timed it perfectly -- about 25 minutes after we got our spot (right on the fence), this came onto the horizon:

2:16:19 -- you can see it on the regular-sized photo!

We went nuts -- at the time, we still didn't know that Kim Smith had pulled out with calf cramps, so we were expecting her to be first. I got this awesome photo of the neck-and-neck race for first between Caroline Kilel and Desiree Davida.

Neck-and-neck until the finish -- a mere 2 seconds separated them!

And you better believe I screamed "GO KARA!!!" as loud as I could when Kara Goucher ran RIGHT PAST US. She heard me and smiled!!!

Can we discuss how this woman had a baby a few months ago?!

My camera memory card filled up right after that, and I ironically missed taking photos of the men, and Ryan Hall, because I was busy deleting off the photos of the 5k Katie and I ran back in March. Somehow, it seemed slightly trivial when these ridiculous runners were pounding out world records and completing a full Mary in the time it takes most of us to run a half! We also saw the famous Joan Benoit Samuelson, which was amazing. Then Katie left to catch her train, and I stayed to cheer on more of the runners.

Once my friend CC's cousin-in-law passed me at Kenmore, I decided to head back towards BC because a friend of mine had just passed the half mark. She was in the third wave, so I knew I could catch her if I hit the D line to Cleveland Circle. I made it, and though I didn't manage to spot her in the sea of runners, I know she DID indeed pass me while I was there, and I had a great time watching drunken buffoons getting wrestled by cops when they managed to jump the barriers and get onto the course.

All in all, I spent a good 3 hours alone, cheering for random strangers, calling out the names of those who looked like they were struggling and high-fiving runners with massive grins on their faces.

But more on that tomorrow.

With that said, CONGRATULATIONS to all of the runners yesterday -- you're all winners, and not in a Charlie Sheen kind-of-way. And to those of you across the country still riding the high of this acclaimed athletic event and, like me, are wondering if you've got what it takes to do it , I have two words:

BAA Half.

Gotta start somewhere, right?!

The British are Leaving! The British are Leaving!

In all of the hubbub surrounding that OTHER holiday, what with all the facebook statuses (stati?) popping up at 8am displaying half-downed pints of Guinness and jackasses who wouldn't know a shamrock from a four-leaf clover, I wanted to make sure to wish everyone the best on ANOTHER holiday:

 

Happy Evacuation Day!

I always forget how much I love living in a city that literally just makes up municipal holidays in order to give everyone an opportunity to cut work and day drink. As B drove me to work this morning, I was amazed at how the neighborhood I work in, which is one of the busiest in the city, seemed empty, and joked about how it must be because it's gorgeous out (almost 50!!) and St. Paddy's Day. B then reminded me:

"It's also Evacuation Day!"

[Source]

For those of you not from this bastion of Irish pride known as Boston, you're probably wondering what the hell Evacuation Day is and why we can pahk ah cahs* without fear of retribution from the evil, evil Transit Police/Meter Maids/Men. According to Wikipedia: 

March 17 is Evacuation Day, a holiday observed in Suffolk County (which includes the city of Boston) and also by the public schools in Cambridge and Somerville, Massachusetts.The holiday commemorates the evacuation of British forces from the city of Boston following the Siege of Boston, early in the American Revolutionary War. Schools and government offices (including some Massachusetts state government offices located in Suffolk County) are closed. If March 17 falls on a weekend, schools and government offices are closed on the following Monday in observance. It is the same day as Saint Patrick's Day, a coincidence that played a role in the establishment of the holiday.

Basically, 110 years ago, a bunch of old dudes up on Beacon Hill were tired of debating the merit of cobblestone vs. dirt roads and really wanted to go join their peeps celebrating the the wearing o' the green with a pint at the local pub. Rather than using the non-secular St. Patrick's Day as a reason to skip out and go party, they found an obscure historical event that fell on the same day and gave everyone the day off. Want proof? The document signing the holiday into law was signed not only in black, but green ink. 

Other made-up Bostonian holidays:
- Truck Day (in which we go to Fenway Park to celebrate the equipment [not the players] leaving for Ft. Meyers).
- Opening Day (in which we mob the bars outside of Fenway and curse the Yankees, no matter who the Sox are playing)
- Patriots' Day (My personal favorite, in which we line the streets with solo cups in our hands and Franzia in our purse and high-five fit, responsible people as they run 26.2 miles. The ideal places to do so are Heartbreak Hill at Boston College and Kenmore Sq. at the 1 mile to go marker.)

- Bunker Hill Day (in which we yell, "Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes!" at one another)

Sadly, last May, the Legislature bowed to public opinion and de-certified both Evacuation Day and Bunker Hill Day, citing concerns about "wasted tax dollars" and "big government excess." Personally, I'd rather pay a little extra in tax to be able to park my car on the street for longer than two hours at a time in a part of town in which I do not reside, but no one seems to take my opinion into account in these matters.

Now that that's out of the way, before I forget:

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

*Sidenote: Despite what my Boston brethren might want you to believe, that accent isn't solely made up for movies like The Fighter, The Town and The Departed... I don't know where those people decrying "we don't sound like that!" hang out, but they've clearly never met anyone from Charlestown, Dorchester or parts of Southie [or Fall River for that matter, but that's another issue]. No one, however, who has ever called this city home would be caught referring to it as "Beantown," unless they wanted to be caught dead.

Winter Warmer

Unless you're in a foreign country (holler at mah peeps all over the world!), and even if you are, there's a slim chance that you've heard about this ridiculous weather that the entire United States has been experiencing. As evidenced by this post, I have been jubilant. I do love me some snow. However, when it starts to look like this:

 

and the snowbanks are over your head (please note the SUV behind me, and please excuse the terrible lighting. I busted my point-and-shoot and have been making do with my cell-cam all year!), and you can't even make a Target run for fear that someone will swipe the parking spot you've spent HOURS digging out every Wednesday, even I start to draw the line. Seriously, the snow is becoming a danger, and I would prefer to go to work each day knowing that there was only a slim likelihood that I will return home to find my ceiling caved in. Which did actually happen, last year, in my bathroom, but that's another story for another day.

Anywho, like the rest of the Northeast, I spent my weekend dodging snow bullets and reveling in the glory of 40 degree temperatures and precipitation that didn't freeze on impact. I had a fab happy hour Friday night with some of my more socially-minded co-workers which, if you remember my post on 11 ways to kick 2011's ass, is a big step for me. Checks on #10 and #11, thankyouverymuch.

I also took the rainy, dreary weather and used it to my advantage, taking the opportunity to take the 10 loads of laundry that we've been hoarding and visit with my friend, Juan Benito, at the laundromat. How two childless, working adults have enough clothing to encompass 10 loads of laundry (and I was SERIOUSLY squishing a few loads), I will never know. But I definitely felt like a baller when I folded the first half.

Yes, ladies and gents, those are shorts. Shorts that I had asked Blaine to wash back in, oh, I don't know, July, yet somehow found them stuffed in the back of a closer. (Sidenote: after my ode to junior high post a few days ago, Dear Boyfriend informed me that henceforth, he wants to be known as Andrew McCarthy. Nice try, darling. You're lucky I'm not calling you Ducky, aka "the wimpy one from Two and a Half Men". I did not become a master of code names in high school for nothing.). 

Being a LUNATIC football fanatic, and after having had a month to lick his wounds following the Pats' epic demise at the hands of the Dirty Jets, Blaine obviously had big plans for us to watch the Superbowl at his parents' house. I LOVE sports, especially football (and baseball. And hockey. Basketball is just ehhhh), and I LOVE free steak, so it seemed like a win-win. Since I didn't care about the outcome save for that Big Ben lost, I was pulling for GB and was psyched when they won.

As mentioned, I wasn't exactly in top form yesterday; I was overtired and mildly hungover. I mean, really now, who DOESN'T think it's a good idea to stay up after the Super Bowl, utilizing the in-law's cable package to catch up on DVRed episodes of Jersey Shore while simultaneously trying to kill a 12 of Harpoon Winter Warmer and carry on a conversation with this guy?

Overachievers, that's who. (An art project gone awry, Theodore, or Theo as I have come to know him, chills in the bathroom in the in-law's basement and, after a rocky start in which I screamed at first sight, I have come to love him, in a freaky, clay-head kind of way. Is that weird?)

Hurtin' for certain, I did what any professional does. I manned up, popped a few Advil, drank my weight in coffee and did a stellar job on a project. Then I went home, slipped into pjs, ate half a wheel of smoked gouda on sourdough and caught up on Gilmore Girls: Season 5. After screaming at Rory for being such an insipid prat and bemoaning the urge to hibernate until May, I hit the sack with a hint of a smile on my lips. I knew that this morning would bring the one completely made-up Boston holiday that can snap all of us out of our winter funk...

TRUCK DAY!

Source: Boston.com

  

Only in this Mecca of American Baseball do we allow ourselves to create not one, not two, but THREE holidays around annual sporting events: Truck Day, Opening Day and Patriot's Day (aka Marathon Monday). My glee at opening the Globe this morning was eclipsed only by the knowledge that soon, we shall go from this:

 
 To this:

 And this:

Bring it, winter!