Lauren Conrad's New Year's Resolutions

Obviously I'm a little behind the times here, but I've never really been big on the whole "New Year's Resolution" debacle anyway. I am, however, a huge proponent of setting overarching themes and goals for each year, so when Lauren Conrad's list of resolutions started circulating across the internet, it did cause me to stop and ponder what my answers to her fill-in-the-blanks would be. I don't think I'll be sharing my entire list of 2014 goals, but suffice to say that the exercise below certainly helped to round some of them out!

A bad habit I’m going to break: There are a few. Most importantly, I'd like to finally (FINALLY!) stop biting my nails. It's gross; it's bad for my teeth; it makes me look like a five-year-old and, most importantly, it's a seriously negative nervous habit. One of my greater goals for 2014 is to Be More Positive, and that extends to finding new ways to deal with stress in a positive manner. The other silly bad habit is staying in bed too long in the morning, and I've already started making strides there -- on New Year's Day, I woke up at 6am because I needed to take an antibiotic. I've been up and out of bed between 6-6:45am each morning since, and it's making a world of difference in my morning routine! (I generally shower at night or at the gym on my lunch break, so I would typically push waking up as far into the 7am hour as possible).

A destination I’d like to visit: Somewhere tropical! That's not likely to happen this year, as we have several weddings to attend in various parts of the country. One of them is in Florida in June though, so depending on global warming and all that, I just might get my infinity pool and pina colada in a coconut after all! We're also planning "just us" trips to NYC in March and DC in September, as well as NJ, Maine and possibly TX for weddings throughout the year.

I’m going to work harder at: As I mentioned above, my primary goal for 2014 is to Be More Positive. That's a pretty large undertaking by itself, so I've spent the last two weeks trying to figure out a list of relatively simple ways to try and make it happen. Most importantly, I am trying to work harder at re-framing my negative thoughts into positives; for example, when my first reaction is to think, "OMGIHAVENOMONEYWHATISWRONGWITHME?!", I have been pausing to take a deep breath and remind myself that I am current (if not ahead) on all of my bills and, while my checking account might look more barren than the Mojave Desert, it's because I'm being very aggressive with savings and putting money toward my student loans, two practices that will ultimately pay off in the long run (pun intended),

A project I’d like to finish: Two years ago, this would probably have been the goal that scared me most -- I've never been one to set goals, pursue them and then achieve them 100%. I get bored incredibly fast, which has lent itself to literally hundreds of started-but-not-quite-finished projects just in the past five years alone. My perception changed a bit in 2011, when I publicly announced I was going to run a half marathon and then actually did it. In the following years, it has amazed me how many times I've thought, "if I can push myself to follow a training plan religiously for x weeks, I can push myself to finish that scarf I started knitting four weeks ago!" Those sentiments have only been magnified tenfold since completing the full 26.2 in early November. This year, the project I'd like to finish is simple: I want to make our apartment look less "ramshackle chic" and more "two adults inhabit this space." Curtains will be a good start.

A class I’d like to take: We are very fortunate in that we live in The Education Capital of the World, a city with hundreds of classes happening on any given day. I've always said that if I had the means, I would become a professional student -- I love learning THAT much. That said, classes in Boston tend to run on the pricier side; even our community colleges' credit hours can cost a pretty penny. Ideally, I'd love to take a class in creative writing, since that is the one area where I would like to develop more personally; however, we're on a tight budget this year, so I'm going to be a bit more practical and say that I'd like to FINALLY get over myself and take both a strength class at my gym and one other fitness class outside of it. A wine tasting dinner wouldn't hurt, either (you know... to celebrate!).

I’d like to spend more time: Working on the areas of my life that are important to me, particularly my relationships with friends and family.

A food I want to eat more of: I know I should probably say something like "cruciferous vegetables" here, but that would be lying. I'd actually like to eat more cake, but in the interest of self-preservation and of my closet full of pants, I'm going to say fish. I want to eat more salmon, swordfish, shrimp and haddock.

I want to wear more: clothes that match. Is that a real answer?

The Injury Chronicles: Ever Onward

Warning: rampant navel-gazing ahead. Proceed at your own risk.
 
Apparently, David Ortiz of the Boston Red Sox has decided he's going to take the, "play through the pain" approach to his strained Achilles tendon, rather than having ultrasound therapy. While I'm not so sure I agree with his approach, I can certainly understand his reasoning (and it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact he has millions of dollars in an arbitration year riding on it). My sports therapist recommended ultrasound therapy for my "left peroneal tenosynovitis", which is the ultimate diagnosis we reached now that the stress reaction is healed. Coincidentally, my physical therapist pointed out that this is the same injury that caused Ortiz's teammate, Curt Schilling, to grace the world with his bloody sock.

Lucky me.

I think what's bothering me the most is that by most accounts, this is the type of injury that usually takes 6-8 weeks to heal, even at its worst non-surgical diagnosis. Yet here I am, now 15 weeks out from my last long run, and after 4 minutes of slow interval running a week ago, I still routinely feel like the outside of my ankle and foot are on fire. I'm doing everything right. I've been dutifully forking over what has now amounted to a small fortune in copays, popping Aleve like it's candy, wearing only supportive footwear and the world's ugliest compression sleeve and turning every frozen vegetable in the house into an ice bag. I do my exercises diligently, I go to physical therapy and I check in with my sports therapist whenever she tells me to. I've had all the x-rays and an MRI. I have an appointment with a stellar podiatrist on Monday, and he's really my last resort. It’s basically a given that he's going to prescribe custom orthotics, to the tune of $500. I'm doing everything I'm supposed to do and it isn’t solving anything.

It doesn’t seem fair, but that’s life. In the words of my Gramma (and some wise sage well before her), “it is what it is.”

I know a lot of people think I'm crazy, that I should just throw my hands in the air and give it up already, just accept that I'm not cut out to be a runner. Believe me, that thought has crossed my mind more than a few times over the past year. The problem is that the damage is already done. I can't walk for long periods of time, get out of the saddle in spin class, use the elliptical or the stairmaster or wear flip flops without pain. My beloved Zumba classes are out of the question. More importantly, I can’t even stand for the amount of time it takes to do the dishes without paying for it later. And so I sit here, 11 pounds heavier in body and a thousand times more in spirit.

It has never been a secret, to me or anyone else, that I have a problem prioritizing my personal goals outside of work. I always have, and that's part of the reason why I bounced back pretty quickly from my disappointment in my BAA half training and results: sure, I hadn't run the time I trained for, but I was proud that I committed to something and, four months later, saw that commitment through. It was the first time that has happened in almost as long as I can remember. I dream big, but I'm usually afraid to act.

I know that it’s time to start figuring out what other goals I can pursue outside of running. Grad school, home decorating, travel, writing, weight loss – these are all goals that I’ve vowed, time and again, to really commit myself towards achieving. A lot of the problem lies in trying to take on too much at one time, leading to burnout and episodes of anxiety that aren’t any fun for me or anyone around me.

Maybe this injury is a sign to start focusing on something else, something that can both divert my attention and give me a sense of fulfillment. Dedicated GRE study time, expanding my craft corner, an actual writing class, a website tutorial … these are all activities that I plan to ponder over the next few weeks. I’m not sure where I’ll end up, but it’s a start.

As my Gramma was also fond of saying, “Ever Onward.”

The Injury Chronicles: Part Two

This morning, the 2012 BAA Half Marathon sold out in an hour and fifteen minutes.

After a lot of thinking, hemming, hawing, whining, drinking and thinking some more, I made the decision not to enter this year. It sounds like it was a hard call, but really, it wasn't. The fact is, while there is a good chance I would be physically ready and able to run 13 miles by October 7th, mentally it could would be a disaster.

Why? Because frankly, I'm scared to start running again. I'm scared of the huffing and puffing and the snail paces on the clock. I'm scared of the blisters, the band-aids and the bloody socks. I'm scared of the ice baths, the endless energy shots and the Costco-sized gallons of Gatorade that threaten to overwhelm my (tiny) fridge.

Mostly, I'm scared of pushing too far, too fast. Of hurting myself all over again. Of running my feet, quite literally, into the ground.  

I started physical therapy last week. Despite being surrounded by medical professionals for most of my adult life, I was still really intimidated by the prospect of having a qualified professional watch my every move and then instruct me on how to fix whatever I did incorrectly. What if I was, I don't know, bad at it, thus hindering my recovery to the point of never being able to walk, let alone run, again? (You probably think I'm kidding, but Andrew will vouch that I have these kind of reactions often. I'm nothing if not consistent in my paranoia and fear of judgment and failure).

During my assessment, my PT echoed the thoughts expressed by every doctor I've seen; I have a really flat right foot and a really, really flat left. He even went a step further and said that the left arch has entirely collapsed. Like all those before him, he assured me that this is not my fault, that it would have happened in due time anyway, that running just accelerated the need for a good podiatrist and custom orthotics. Like my sports med doc, he thinks that the stress reaction itself was likely a result of severe overpronation and that  the trauma of whacking my foot was just a catalyst, the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back (or almost broke my ankle, if you will).

Thankfully, he also used the phrase, "already turning the corner" and gave me a referral to a very highly-regarded podiatrist, whom he guaranteed would not give me the one-glance-and-done routine perfected by the last pod I saw. Unfortunately, said M.D. is unavailable to see me until August 20th, which is a really long frickin' time from now. In the meantime, I've been a good little doobie, paying thrice-weekly visits for electrostim, massage, stretching, strengthening and ice. I do my little exercises three times a day (err... I try, anyway), tying my little rubber band to a desk chair and miming the alphabet under my desk. And, to the horror of most women I encounter, I have abandoned all sense of fashion and overhauled my collection of summer footwear.

Tangent: This is week 11 of wearing sneakers. Did you hear that? WEEK ELEVEN! OF SNEAKERS! I admit to a minor indiscretion involving a pair of three-inch wedges and the occasional fling with flip flops, but for the most part, I've been wearing holes in every pair of pseudo-supportive sneakers I own. And by that I mean I've been purchasing every kind of over-the-counter insoles known to womankind in the hopes that they will somehow miraculously provide the arch support my failing feet crave, thereby saving me several hundreds of dollars next month. So far, no dice. By the time I'm done I will have amassed enough CVS Extrabucks and CitySports Rewards to finance my entire apparel-shoe-sock-and-gel budget for a year, let alone pay for custom insoles. But I digress.

Today, the 2012 BAA Half Marathon sold out in an hour and fifteen minutes, without me.

And I am relieved.

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.

[Source]

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.

There is Nothing New Under the Sun

A lot of the reason behind my latest blogging hiatus stemmed from the single fact that I felt like everything that I wanted to blog about was already being blogged to death by everyone else. Thanksgiving? Oh, I'm so thankful for my family and friends! Christmas? Wow, the lead up to the holidays is so stressful but the actual day is so family oriented and I love it! New Year's Eve? Psshh, I wouldn't be caught dead out on Amateur Night; I spent a quaint evening in with good company and laughter!

This is what I looked like by the end of the holidays, too.

Rather than regaling everyone with detailed analyses of my day-to-day doings (which, truthfully, were pretty mundane the past month or so anyway), it made more sense to me to just take a break, regroup and come back fresh with my own take on events, after everyone had a chance to get their lives back in order and, with any luck, recover from the surge of reflection running rampant on the internet.

Given the flurry of 2011 recaps over the past two weeks, at first I was hesitant to go back over the 11 goals that I had set for myself during the past year. Why, I wondered, would anyone other than myself care about what I accomplished (or didn't) in the span of 365 days? What makes it worth publishing, committing it to public record?  I hemmed. I hawed. I hemmed some more. But at the end of the day, I realized that I'd be cheating my 2012 self out of an opportunity to learn if I didn't do it. Rather than bore everyone to death with one long, ridiculous post, I thought I'd just tack updates on a few of my goals at the end of other posts. I might do all 11; I might not. But I figure this way, if you don't care, you can just read the first part and skip the summary, and I get the satisfaction of reflecting on what I what I did and what I still want to do. Everyone wins!
_______________________________
And so, now that I've done exactly what I said I didn't want to do, here is an update on 2011 Goal #1:

1) Fiscal Responsibility 
One of my biggest goals in 2011 was to finally get my ass in gear with respect to not only how I spend my money, but also how I save it. After successfully clearing all debt but my current student loan payments in 2008 and 2009, 2010 was a time to kind of just relax and enjoy the fact that I no longer had to subsist on PB&J and PBR. It was nice to appreciate not cringing every single time a telephone rang or a white corner stuck out of my mailbox. For the first time since my senior year of college, I was able to live a comfortable lifestyle, within my means, without worrying about every nickle and dime that burned a hole in my wallet. It was a good feeling.

But in 2011, I wanted more. I wanted to save! I wanted to be a money maven!

To that end, I began the year with two goals: 1) pay off at least one of my student loans, and 2) end the year with a substantial sum in my savings account. All in all, I finished 50/50, saving enough of a nest egg to cover my ass should I ever need to, and falling a little bit short of paying off one of those pesky loans.

And while I didn't mange to pay off an entire loan in full, I'm ok with that -- because rather than paying off the easiest one with a fixed income rate, I decided to take on one with a higher balance and a (much, criminally) higher interest rate. I now owe substantially less towards the principle of that loan, and the balance is dropping lower every month. With respect to my little cushion account, I set a savings goal and really stuck to it, transferring a good chunk of each paycheck and never dipping into my savings save for one real, true emergency for which it is meant (my wallet was stolen and I needed to transfer cash in the event my landlord cashed our rent check the one day it took me to sort it all out with the bank). I also hoped to learn more about my work retirement accounts, which I actually found really interesting ! I learned all about my 403(b) and pension plans, and ALSO found out that I have a 401(k) loitering around due to a previous job I had. All in all, I feel at a much more comfortable place than I did a year ago, both in terms of finances and knowledge of them.  

Assessment: A. I know I only scored a 50 on the total rubric, but I really put my head into this one and made substantial progress towards my goals.


So, that's that. I have a real question, though: what is your opinion of year-end recap posts? I think they're valuable, to a point, but on the other hand, who really cares aside from the person writing them?

Race Recap: The BAA Half Marathon

I considered breaking this into two posts. Then I realized that since I don't get paid per click, there is really no reason to hold anyone in suspense (for the record, this blog isn't monetized. I give it up for free!). I also realized that I'm documenting this as much for myself and my own nostalgia as I am for everyone else. So settle in, folks... this is going to be a long run (ahahaha get it?).

That's right: I braved the record-breaking 82 degree temperature, a brutal second half, a lack of Gatorade and a blister from hell, but I did it....

I FINISHED THE B.A.A. HALF MARATHON!

The race was both the best and worst experience of my life :)

The Lead Up
There are few things that I hate more than bloggers who go ballistic with the Twitter/blog "ZOMG GUYZ I IZ RUNNIN A RACE!" updates, but to be perfectly honest, I now loathe them a little less. I was SO NERVOUS leading up to the race that it kind of took over my every waking thought. At one point, while working under a grant deadline, I found myself wanting to fling my ever-growing pile of paper in the air and scream, "WHO CARES IF PEOPLE GET PAID FOR CONDUCTING CANCER RESEARCH; I'M RUNNING A HALF MARATHON NEXT WEEKEND, DAMN IT!"

Not exactly my proudest moment.

(FTR, I did not actually do that. I love my job and I in no way consider running a road race on par with finding a cure for cancer; there is no comparison. I just have a flair for the dramatic.)

Despite my nerves, I woke up at 5am Sunday feeling remarkably calm. This could have been related to the fact that I have never seen that time from the perspective of waking up before, but I like to think it was because I felt prepared. After all, how could I not with all of this shit?!

We ate (peanut butter toast with sliced banana, half a cup of coffee and a liter of water), hopped the T to Back Bay, transferred to Forrest Hills and then finally to the shuttle to the starting line. We checked our bag, slugged back some melted popsicle Gatorade Prime and did some light dynamic stretching. Yet somehow, despite my meticulous pre-planning, we still ended up caught in a port-o-potty line 20 people deep ten minutes before gun time. With six minutes to spare, I finally decided that if all of the other people booking it back to the woods behind the pottys had no shame, neither did I.

Nothing says, "I am now a bona fide runner" like peeing in the woods with a hundred of your closest competitors.

With that little initiation complete, we headed over to the starting corral. The waaaaay back of the starting corral. Seriously, out of 5,500 runners, there were only about 100 of them behind us. After the requisite announcements about it being unseasonably warm, to seek medical attention if you were experiencing issues, the locations of the water/gato/gel stops, yadda yadda yadda, the horn finally blew and the crowd surged forward. Six minutes later, with "Ya'll Ready For This?" blaring in my ear, I crossed the mat and my journey to 13.1 began.

The Race
I've only run two other races, both 5ks, and based on those experiences I knew that my biggest hurdle was going to be maintaining a manageable pace for the first few miles of the course. I did all of my training based on this challenge, even building my walking warm-up into that first mile time. I knew I was in trouble as soon as I passed the 1-mile marker and realized I'd run it in less than 11 minutes. 11:02 was my ultimate DREAM pace going into this, and based on my training I knew it was extremely unlikely I would be able to sustain it over 13.1 miles. The course lends itself to a fast first half as it is; the first five miles are on a pretty major decline. I managed to settle in to a 13 min/mile pace somewhere around the 5k point (where I spotted Erin on the sidelines!), and despite having 90% of the runners pass me on their way to mile 6 as I jogged past mile 4 (including my totally rad coworker/running buddy, KJ), I felt pretty good through the first five miles, even hamming it up for the photographers at the official mile 5 checkpoint/turnaround.

Then came mile 6.

You see, there was a tiiiiny snafu in the week leading up to the race. In my over-cautious attempt to limit any strain on my lower legs, I wore flats every. single. day. Which would probably be fine for a normal person with normal feet, but as we all know, I, unfortunately, am/have neither. As a result of said stroke of genius and lack of proper arch support, I ended up hobbling myself with killer shin/calf pain and spent the five days leading up to the race sporting a sweet ace bandage, rotating ice packs and that classic 9-5 staple, sneakers with skirts.

I know, I know; I should probably consider making the leap to fashion blogger now.

In the end, though, the joke was on me. I ended up with no pain in my left leg during the race... but developed a sweet blister on the bottom of my foot RIGHT at mile 6, which also happened to be the beginning of a seven-mile climb to the finish. I slowed down my already slow speed for the hydration station, downing a tangerine PowerGel and grabbing an extra cup of water. As I rounded Jamaica Pond, I ran/walked at a decent pace, but definitely noticed my overall mile times drifting upward as I hit mile 7.

By mile 8, the temperature had soared to a scorching 78 degrees and the blister on the ball of my foot was becoming increasingly painful with each step. With the help of the theme from Chariots of Fire and Mama Mia, though, I powered back across the unforgiving, shadeless overpass and back into the park. I even managed to pass a few people, which is quite a feat when you're literally staying a few steps ahead of the dreaded street sweeper. By the time I crossed the mile 9 marker in 1:56:52 (GPS time, not official time), I had given up on trying to make the 2:30 "official" end of timing, but I still had a shot at finishing under 2:45.

And then all hell broke loose.

While the rational part of my brain knows it had to have been, the emotional three year old inside of me maintains that there is no way in HELL that mile 9 was only one mile. It was, without a doubt, the single hardest physical and mental event through which I have ever suffered. The pain threshold and mental toughness that my "bad" training runs were supposed to create flew right out the window when faced with the actual event. I assume it was the half version of the infamous Wall that marathoners endure around mile 20, and I have to say, if I had heaps of respect for endurance athletes before, I bow down before them now. Each step felt as though it were rattling the very fibers of my soul, and I thought that the seams holding me together might unravel at any minute.

The road wound on and on, with no sign of the vaunted 10th mile marker in sight. At that point, I had slowed considerably, walking a good majority of the way and only jogging when one of the two targets I'd set seemed to be getting too far away from me. Andrew passed me going in the opposite direction at that point and I'm happy to say that a race cop riding behind him almost fell off his bike laughing when I screamed, "THIS IS THE LONGEST F**KING MILE OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!". Some kind soul took pity on me and let me know that the mythical 10th mile was just over the next hill, which bolstered my hopes and sent me loping towards it with wild abandon. Seriously, though.... I probably looked like some kind of crazed zoo animal on the loose. Even with the heavy amount of walking going on, I crossed the 10 mile checkpoint a full 15 minutes faster than I ran that same distance the week before. I hammed it up for the official photographer, and somehow, the journey back didn't seem quite as torturous. I punched the 11-mile marker hard when I passed it.

Multiple fist-pumps, some cheering and possibly a few air punches ensued. Hey, I was basically by myself at that point, so it's not like more than a handful of people were witness to my adrenaline-induced antics. After slugging some more water, I rounded the corner to (what I thought was) the last hurdle of the course: a giant, mothereffin' hill. I wish that I had taken a picture to remember it by, but I'm not really the type to whip a camera out mid-race, even if a turtle IS passing me. Just trust me that it was one of those enormous, never-ending inclines where you can't even see the top.

As I tossed my water cup into the pile being swept away, I tried to muster up both the mental and physical strength to start running again. The Rocky theme came on my shuffle (strategically planted, actually), and I started to pick up the pace. I jogged probably a tenth of a mile before the pain under my foot became unbearable -- I was totally fine with the general discomfort in my body after 2.5 hours of strenuous exercise, but with each step, I could feel that little pocket of fluid bulge a tiny bit more. I also realized that ironically enough, my RIGHT calf/shin was starting to ache; because it hurt so much to plant my foot straight down, I was compensating by landing on the outside edge of my sneaker. I tried to correct that, but it just didn't work. I walked up the majority of the hill.

About a half mile later, my friend KJ and her family passed me going in the opposite direction. It really was a blessing; she had already finished (beating former Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi by over 5 minutes!) and came straight over to jog with me down the other side of the hill, shouting encouragement the entire way. As much as I wanted to kill her for both getting me into this mess and forcing me to run when walking was so much easier, I really appreciated having her support. Not to mention her post-race water, which she very generously donated to my cause so that I could dump it over my head. As I made the turn back into the park, she left me to go back to her family, promising I was doing great and was into the home stretch.

I think I might have been a little bit delirious, because I was SO HAPPY to see the majestic banner and balloon arch looming ahead that the fact I had never passed the 12-mile marker didn't even cross my mind. I sprinted towards the timing mat with everything I had left... only to realized that I was re-crossing the starting line on my way to mile 12.

WHAT KIND OF SICK PERVERT FORCES THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE WHO HAVE JUST RUN 11.75 MILES TO CROSS BACK OVER THE STARTING LINE?! 

In all honesty, the twelfth mile was kind of a blur. The fact that I was running through a fucking zoo notwithstanding, that last tiny push of adrenaline seemed to anesthetize the pain so that I could run again. By that point, I just wanted the mothereffing race to be over and I kind of just zoned out. I heard there was a giraffe and a zebra and some other random animals, but the only thing I remember is a camel and having the vague notion that it would be really funny if an alligator escaped and ate me during the last mile of my half marathon.

After passing through the starting line AGAIN (!!), I turned onto the path leading to White Stadium. There were adorable little signs saying stuff like, "Only 800 more meters!" but hello, I'm American and clearly don't know what the fuck that means. One lap? Two? I gave up trying to do the mental math and decided to focus on catching this girl who passed me at mile 8. She ran with a limp, so I thought that I at least had a decent shot at climbing one rung on the from-the-last ladder. Ignoring the squishy-burning feeling under my foot and sucking air as fast as my little lungs would let me, I powered on and pushed past her with the entrance to the stadium in sight. I could see the gates and the balloons and felt an overwhelming surge of relief and satisfaction. I just wanted to grab the closest passerby and hug them, squeezing their guts out and screaming "Victory is MINE!"

... until I realized that the same sick bastard who had fooled me once before had decorated mile 13 to make it LOOK like the finish, and that I still had to run halfway around the stupid track to ACTUALLY finish. Then I just wanted to kick someone's ass.

Because I'd used up my residual energy sprinting to the 13 mile marker, I power walked Grandma-style around the short side of the track, picking up into a sprint again for the straightaway. Since I was, again, ALONE, I had the announcer's attention all to myself, so it wasn't much of a surprise when, "And Caitlin will be finishing in just a few moments -- 26 years old and making allll of her dreaaammssss commmmeee trueeeeee!!!" came bellowing across the PA system.

My official time was 3:02:10.

The Aftermath
After a few puffs of my inhaler, a hug from Andrew and a quick brush with the Grim Reaper (I kid), I managed to collect myself enough to get my medal and wheeze the word, "water!". Thankfully, the BAA did a fantastic job with the post-race setup, so I was able to properly hydrate and FINALLY drink some nectar of the Gods, aka Gatorade (both of the stations on the course were out by the time I plodded through, which sucked, considering that I trained with Gato and we are now old friends). A few photos with my man and our medals (he finished in 2:47), a brief stint collapsed on the grass and the collection of our tshirts later, and we were on our way home.

Reflections
It's taken a few days to collect my thoughts and process all of the emotions that this whole experience produced. Obviously, first and foremost, I'm extremely proud of myself for completing a half marathon. I'm also a bit shocked, actually; I've always been honest here, and I don't think it's a secret that I have a history of setting goals and not following through. I'm amazed that my body, which I've had my share of battles with, did something so intense.

In the interest of full disclosure, though, I'd also be lying if I didn't admit to being a tiiiiny bit disappointed with my time. Not because I don't believe I did my best on that given day, but more because I'm annoyed that elements outside of my control prevented me from running the time I knew I had somewhere inside me. At the time, I didn't feel as though the weather had much of an impact on me, but I know that biologically it had to (and my sausage fingers proved it). I hydrated as best I could, but I have a really finicky water/salt ratio and I'm sure it had an effect. Similarly, there's nothing I could have done to prevent that blister from forming; I wore the exact same socks and shoes that I trained in with no problems at all. It might have been a function of running at such a steep downhill at the beginning, but it might have been totally random. After perusing the Runner's World forums, I know that it's something that can just happen. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

Overall, I'd say that finishing the race was one of the best accomplishments I've made in my adult life. That might sound extreme, considering that I'm a college graduate and all, but I actually feel as though running 13.1 miles was just as important as receiving my diploma -- maybe even a little bit more. School was always easy for me; running (any physical activity, really) is not. Likewise, setting a goal and achieving it is an accomplishment in and of itself, and I'm extremely proud of myself for having the guts to decide to do something hard and then to actually follow through and do it.

Most importantly, though, I am thankful. Thankful to my body, for allowing me to complete such a feat; thankful to my mind, for screaming just a little bit louder than my legs when they told me to quit; thankful to my friends and family, for offering all of the advice, encouragement and understanding that I could ever need; thankful to my boyfriend, for undertaking this journey with me, and thankful to YOU, my readers, for all of your comments, tweets, emails and general support, from the moment I posted my crazy idea straight up until after I crossed the finish line.

It truly meant the world.

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).

[Source]

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.

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.

[Source]

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?

What the French Toast Did I Get Myself Into?!

First off, I'm getting more and more annoyed with my inability to reply to comments here on Blogger -- I know I could install a third-party system or just finally make the switch to Wordpress and all, but the fact that I currently update from whatever computer I can get to, and don't want to download anything on them since they're not, you know, mine, makes that hard. Besides, can't Blogger get with the program already and get on that shit?! It's 2011, for crying out loud. (Sidenote: if there's some way to do this without downloading anything, and I'm just an idiot, kindly let me know. I'm somewhat technologically inept).

And now for the really fucking terrifying exciting news (as mentioned on Twitter).... I just spent 38 minutes going back and forth over actually going there and registering for the Boston Athletic Association Half Marathon.

[Source]

I mean, do I really want to run 13.1 miles? In just over 3 months? And essentially give up all other forms of exercise, just when I'm finally getting my head back into the game, spinning and Zumba-ing and yoga-ing my way through the week and really pushing to get my blood pressure back to a normal level? Do I really want to do that? Really?

Then I remembered Maura's post from Friday, when she wrote about how thankful she is to have her trainer and how she has been pushed to try things she didn't think were possible before. In the comments, I asked her if she ever felt intimidated or embarrassed to try new things at the gym, because I find that I have MAJOR anxiety over looking stupid and/or not knowing what I'm doing. Being the fantastic and sweet person that she is, she replied:

I feel you on the “gym shy” factor, but I bet you if you took that BodyPump class you’d be stoked because a) you’ll have tackled a fear, and b) you’ll probably sweat your ass off. Win/Win situation baby! I fought the fear to do spin and even though I’m still a little nervous, who cares. I would have missed out on a new hobby if I kept being afraid. Now go find out when the next class is and tell me how it goes

Ok, so maybe I haven't signed up for my gym's version of BodyPump yet, but I figured that this is actually something I'm even MORE scared of: a medium-term commitment, fear of failure and the bodily aches and general uncomfortableness that come whenever I run more than 2 miles at a time.

So, naturally, I put my hand on the mouse, moved it to the left of my screen and hit, "Register."

Sorry the pic is so huge but you couldn't see it unless I made it XL.

I did it.

Then I got a massive case of the, "OMG WTF DID I JUST DO?!"s because, to be honest, I am SCARED OUT OF MY MIND.

I don't do hills well -- and as Stephanie pointed out via Twitter, the course is known to be pretty hard, all downhill the first half and all uphill the second. I also haven't run more than a few miles at a time since, well... ever. I think my max, all-time, is 5.2 and it took me an hour of run/walking on a flat route to do it. Courtesy of my father's genetics, I was cursed with some of the flattest feet in the universe, so I'm constantly fighting to find the balance between the right speed, the right elevation levels and shin splints. Oh, and I can thank Dad for the asthma, too, and should probably remember to buy stock in Ventolin for the next few months.

To be frank, this challenge is going to be a real bitch.

But, as evidenced by this post (and this one), I decided back in January to take my fears into my own hands and made a list of all the things I hoped to achieve in 2011. I know that I haven't been giving my goals my all for the past few months, and I'm owning up to the fact that it's been out of a combination of sheer laziness and fear. I'm terrified of setting out to accomplish something and then failing to reach my expectations of it -- whether writing, a new gym class, or running a half-marathon is the task at hand. If I never try, then I never fail, and the dream lives on.

But it stays just that: a dream. A big, huge, "What If?"

So I'm trying. Place check marks in boxes #3 (Run a Half Marathon), #8 (Control My Reactions), #10 (Push My Limits) on your "Caitie's Kicking Ass And Taking Names in 2011" scorecards, please.

On a sidenote, I know that I'm very lucky for this opportunity. There are far scarier things in the world than being fearful that you won't be able to finish running a certain distance in a certain amount of time, and I absolutely acknowledge and own that this is kind of a WGP. Plus, I can take solace in the fact that I won't be doing this alone!

Because once I had my registration # up on the screen, I went back to the "Participant Registration" and hit it again, filling out the top part of the form, the part for "personal information", with a different name, the same address, and a different gender.

That's right! I registered Andrew, too (with his explicit permission, of course!).

So, now the two of us have each other for motivation and inspiration. I'm choosing to ignore the fact that he is a former varsity athlete who can whip 10-minute miles straight out of his ass whenever he feels like it, or that I have a bunch of other accomplished runner-friends who signed up this morning (I cheered one of them on during the Marathon in April!). I'm extremely lucky and thankful to have so much talent and wisdom to draw advice and inspiration from!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go look in to having one of those gas station-sized ice receptacles placed in my apartment...

Little Arrows of Knowledge

Last Saturday morning, as I was brushing my teeth after a very spontaneous, but admittedly beer-filled, Friday night of fun, I heard a little whisper that I haven't heard in months.

"Come find me."

Before I even realized what, exactly, it was that was calling me, a lightning show of neurons sparked in my brain.

"Don't do it."

After spitting, rinsing and wondering once again if I was possibly losing my mind, I found myself getting up, walking a few short steps to our hallway coat closet and opening that creaky door. At first, I reached up on my tippy toes, feeling around the top shelf, but my fingers only brushed the cold cotton of clean sheets and the bristly fabric of Walmart towels. But then I remembered; it wasn't up there. In a flash of well-mindedness in the middle of a brisk February day, I had opened the door and set it on the floor, tenderly, almost lovingly, under a suitcase and out of my sight. Crouching down, my hand closed down on the hard, unforgiving plastic, and I found myself staring, eye to eye, with my former best frenemy.

"Well hello there, scale. We meet again."

I stood there, wrestling with the thousand thoughts all hitting me at once. In form true to this post, I had a little inner-head MMA fight going on. Only this time, the roles were reversed; it was realistic Caitie saying, "come on now; your clothes don't fit, you're getting winded just walking up the stairs, and you've been eating and drinking enough "happy" foods lately to comfort a small nation." The other, not-so-evil-but-still-pessimistic Caitie, thought: "You're going to become a slave to it; it will ruin your entire day. Maybe you don't remember how utterly, horribly miserable you were just a scant 12 months ago?!"

Isn't there some happy medium?

I knew I only had a split second to decide before Andrew came back from taking the trash out. Normally, I would want to talk this over with him. To talk and talk and talk and voice my concerns and talk and talk some more. I would want to discuss it to death, only to resurrect it and continue analyzing its zombiefied body.

It's just what I do. I am who I am.

Alarmingly, there was none of that here; instead, there was an element of a very bad habit that I picked up over my journey through binge eating: I wanted to hide what I was doing. Just as I would wait for someone to go to the bathroom before cramming two slices of pizza into my mouth, ashamed and hungry for so much more than cheese and crust and sauce, I wanted to get on that scale, see the number, and hide it back way, without telling Andrew. I wanted to chew on whatever number it gave me, in secret, seeking some kind of satisfaction in the fact that I had finally gone above that number I swore five years ago never to see again, and just finally getting it over with.

Isn't that what I've been waiting for all along?

Back on that cold winter's day, I told myself that I was hiding the scale because, despite my past, whole-hearted efforts to take away its value, I was nervous that I was slipping back into old patterns. I thought that if I put it away, I would not be tempted to weigh the value of myself against the sum of my parts. But really, if I'm being 100% really, truly honest here....

It was an excuse.

I knew that I was gaining weight. I knew that despite that fact, I was feeling the most body-confident that I had in YEARS. I knew that if I kept weighing myself without making any changes, I was going to see a number that was rapidly inflating like a Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon. And I knew that if I saw that, I had the potential to go off the deep end, to do something drastic to stop the climb, to cut out anything that didn't fall within, "my plan", to go back to that teary, beaten, obsessive mess.

The key word there is "potential."

You see, I knew all of those things, because they've happened in the past. But I can't predict what will happen in the future, and I can't spend so much energy worrying about what possibly, might, maybe someday occur that I render myself stagnant. Or worse, put my health at risk.

Which is exactly what I was doing.

So, as I stood there in our hallway, a little artifact made of plastic, batteries and wires on the floor before me, I made a decision. I decided that whatever number came up, it would be a wake-up call. It would be a reminder not of my size, or my heart, or of the value of my person, but of the value that I place in myself, who had finally done things in the right order, who had loved herself enough to let go of the numbers, to remove the expectations, and to have a few precious months where she let it all go. Every single last digit of that number, right down the tenth-point decimal, is another little arrow of knowledge, another tool in my arsenal of tricks. I realized that I've reached a point on the mental battlefield, in which I am happy enough with who I am right now, this very second, to start letting go of the ghosts of weight-loss battles past without compromising my health for the future.

So I tapped the corner of that black plastic with my big toe, pleaded the Serenity prayer, and stepped, one foot in front of the other, on to its surface. I opened one eye, looked down and waited, breathe half bated, for the inner stirrings of anxiety to start.

Nothing.

Nada, nyet, nope, zip, zero. Not a single feeling of panic, terror, guilt, stress or sadness.

Just a feeling of relief, because I now know where I'm starting.

I'm still worth the same amount as I was five minutes ago.

Maybe even more, now.

As I tucked the scale back into the closet, safe in its cozy home under the suitcase, I whispered a little "thank you" as I stood and closed the door, because another one had swung open at that exact moment.

And as I told Andrew about my 2-minute personal epiphany, we laughed for awhile and then set out on our planned walk to the Brookline Food Festival, where we paid our $2 for each ticket to sample, savor, taste and try the very best foods that our fair neighbor has to offer. And for once, FINALLY, I ordered it the way I wanted, and meant it:

No side of guilt required.

Eleven in 2011! Or, Kicking This Year's Ass: The Update

Last night, as I was lathering my hair with Tresseme (I ALWAYS do my best thinking in the shower), a sudden thought caused me to almost drop the shampoo bottle on my foot, which would have rapidly devolved into an SNL skit.

What thought, pray tell, could have POSSIBLY caused me to nearly turn my bathroom into the set of Psycho? 

HOLY CATS! 2011 IS A QUARTER OVER!

 WHEN THE HECK DID THAT HAPPEN?!

(March 31, genius).

So, I thought it would be a fun idea to check in with my 11 Goals in 2011 and share my progress with you all. In the event that I'm not the absolute most important thing in your life, and you therefore don't remember what I pledged to do (or, if you're a newer reader, and you didn't deem me important enough to drop everything and go through my archives), here they are:

Eleven in 2011! Or, "How I Plan to Kick This Year's Ass"
Kicking 2011's Ass: Part Deux

1) Fiscal Responsibility
    I actually think I've done a fairly good job with this one. My monthly calls to my legal loan sharks student loan company to scream like a woman possessed because they never, EVER apply the right amount of money to the right loan subgroup seem to be paying off. I've not only created some epic profanities (see? I totally put the $40k English degree from a state school to good use), but I've also managed to pay down the principle balance of the highest interest rate loan (Seriously? 6.8%? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!) with the extra $50-$60 I've been throwing at the bill. It's not much, but it's something. I also take a slim satisfaction in knowing that "Jennifer" most likely quakes in her skinny jeans whenever my name comes up on the caller ID.
     In addition, my 403(b) is thriving, I understand the point of my pension and I've managed to save 5% of my gross income each month to increase my safety net account a respectable amount. BALLA!
First Quarter Assessment: A. Basically, I make it rain.

2) Travel More
     Sooo... that trip to Austin? It never happened. B couldn't get the time out of retail hell, and, after assessing our current financial situation, it was decided that while we really, REALLY wanted an excuse to go to TX to attend these nuptials, a few days' hotel stay in tandem with airline prices to Austin during SXSW (wtfg on the planning there, Bride) just wasn't realistic. I HAVE been doing my due diligence for B's Christmas present, i.e. the weekend in NYC, though. While I was ALL FOR dropping $350 to spend a night at the Waldorf with furry slippers and room service, Mr. "I've Never Been to NYC" apparently wants to EXPERIENCE the sights and (gag) smells of the city firsthand. Go figure.  So, if anyone has any sweet hotel recommendations or knows of a way to abscond with cheap Mets or Yankees tickets for the end of May, hook a sister up, will you?
     I've also been trying to figure out our October venture to Indy for my friend Meghan's wedding, which happens to coincide with my birthday weekend. More importantly, I've spent numerous hours perusing vacationoutlet.com, and have almost flown myself to Vegas for the weekend on more than one occasion. Big money! Come to Mama! (I'm just trying to be economical here; I could conceivably wipe out goals #1 AND 2 with this idea).
First Quarter Assessment: C+. Hey, at least I'm planning.

3) Run a Half Marathon
     Well, I *did* stick to a training plan for almost two months, and I ran a PR 5k in 36:00! Let's all clap for the slow kid (I jest; I had 1,000 people finish after me, and choose to ignore the fact that it was a run/walk). The bad news? I spent the next three weeks completely out of commission with these babies:

The other good news? I did my first run back yesterday, on the Dreadmill of Doom, with NO SHIN PAIN! It was only a quick run/walk interval of 16:30, but I made it 1.33 miles in that time, which isn't too bad for my first run in three weeks. I'll take it! (Editor's note: Motherlover... I just realized I left my Dr. Scholls inserts in my cross-trainers after Zumba last night. That's what I get for gellin' like a felon).

Boo-ya, 5k witchessss!

     Next up? Getting my mileage back up to 5k at a normal pace, registering and running another one, then proceeding to the 10k and registering for the half in October!
First Quarter Assessment: B. No "A for Effort" here.

4) Get My Blood Pressure Back to Normal
     As you might have gathered from this post, as well as this one (my most popular post to date), things in the weight loss department aren't going so well. Shockingly, my bp hasn't been climbing as high as you would expect, though. Since I've been so frustrated, I've been trying to work on the little goals I had set to help me achieve this one -- namely, getting back to being properly hydrated (8+ each day), cutting back on my coffee intake, getting in at least 30 minutes of cardio at least three times each week, and doing a yoga class at least once a week. Those were all pretty easy to accomplish, actually -- it's the "cut back on drinking" and "use less salt" that is killing me (literally) these days. I'd forgotten how good salt makes food like pasta taste, and it's a big adjustment going back to leaving it off of everything. Le sigh. Stress has also been creepin' on me, which isn't helping the matter.
First Quarter Assessment: C-.

5) Eat More Mindfully
     Now that I have 27 days as a vegetarian under my belt,  you would think that I have made tons of progress on this one, right? Except I really haven't. No, a mindful eater would probably put two and two together and realize that beef jerky constitutes, you know, beef, and therefore has no place in a meat-free diet. Except I didn't, and ate an entire bag of it while hungover on Sunday, gobbling my Veggie Delight and congratulating myself on 25 perfect days as a Lenten Vegetarian. Then I had the worst stomach pain of my entire life, barring the time I lost 7lbs in 6 hours via Norovirus (so not worth it; trust me here), and made the whole "beef jerky - beef" connection 4 hours later. I also ate all of this in my car, out of the wrappers, while reading blogs on my cell. Eff em el.
First Quarter Assessment: F.    

Step AWAY from the jerky!

 6) Get into Grad School
     I can explain this one, and it's actually a good excuse. In case you missed it, I am whatever the opposite of a mathlete is -- Kevin Gnapoor would never date me (aside from my lily white skin and the fact that he only dates women of color, of course). As such, I have been studying for the GRE for something like 359248 years, because while I don't need math for the degree I'm going for, I DO need a high composite score in order to get into the competition for fellowships, which is the only way I'll be able to justify taking on more student loan debt at this point of my life. The GRE is being restructured starting in August, with access to a calculator on the math section -- and while I SUCK at math in general, I am great at memorizing what buttons I need to push. (This is talent in other aspects of life, too, which is why I entertained the idea of becoming a lawyer for the first 20 years of my life). Once the GRE is done, the rest is cake!
First Quarter Assessment: B+.

7) Write More
     Duh. Winning!

     Actually, since the laptop disaster, I have a refreshed love for writing. I even wrote in my journal last night by hand -- like the Flintstones!
First Quarter Assessment: A-. Still working on the "creative writing/update blog three solid times/wk" thing.

8) "Control My Reactions"
      This is, possibly, the hardest goal I've set for myself this year -- because it's been ongoing for the past 7 years, since I finally sought therapy for my chronic social anxiety disorder and found my mantra, "I cannot control every situation, but I can control my ability to react". Forcing myself to stop obsessing over potential outcomes, particularly those that will most likely NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS come to pass, and stop second-guessing myself and my decisions is sort of like LSD; once you start doing it, it never really stops living in your spine. For now, I've just kept up with the yoga, worked on the meditation, found solace in the quiet moments (particularly in church), and reminding myself that LIFE is a marathon, not a sprint.
First Quarter Assessment: B. Solid, with room for improvement.

9) Spread the Love
     As I've mentioned before, I'm pretty active in the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. A very dear friend has a little boy with this horrible disease, and I've got quite a bone to pick with the stupid gene that is causing this poor kid so much misery. Short of becoming a geneticist, though, which is slightly above my skill set (not to mention my pay grade), all I can do is help to raise awareness and dollars to help researchers combat this horrible condition that has robbed the world of too many lives already.

Making Great Strides to Beat CF

Be on the lookout for the link to my fundraising page for the CFF Great Strides walk in May, or if you're from the Boston area and are interested in a scenic 5-mile walk on the Charles, feel free to email me at caitieexperiment [at] gmail [dot] com and I'll get you the deets! I'm also working in collaboration with the CFF on another project in October!
     I've also been researching other volunteer opportunities, as I'd love to get more involved in another charity. My sorority is extremely philanthropically active with a million foundations, so I've been perusing their many connections to see if there is anything I find appealing.
First Quarter Assessment: B.
     
10) Push My Limits
     When two of your mini-goals were to "go vegetarian once a month" and "try new recipes", and you then decide to go vegetarian for 47 days and nights (save for one, plus the beef jerky incident), I'd say it's a solid guarantee that you're going to kick that goal's ass. Luckily, a lot of the mini-goals associated with my other goals are things that are outside of my comfort zone (like, oh, "publish blog," "smile at random strangers" and "apply to grad school"), and participating in them checks off this little box, too. I'm also trying to keep this goal in mind as I approach things that I am terrified of, and do them anyway -- although if you think there is any way in motherlovin' HELL that I am going anywhere near a spider, a balloon, a cannon or a snake, you, my friend, are one sick puppy.
First Quarter Assessment: B+.


11) Be a Better (and New!) Friend and Family Member
     First off, I planned and executed a baptism, which in my family makes one a legitimate contender for the Nobel Peace Prize. It involved flying my sister and niece up here from Corpus Christi, corralling my mother's AND father's sides of the family on a single date, dragging everyone to Church and keeping the peace through the planning stages of the reception, which might or might not have involved a few screaming matches and espionage worthy of James-Frakkin'-Bond. But look at the end result!:

So worth it.

     I've also worked on cultivating new "blends" -- shout out to all of you readers -- and, in the process, have strengthened some friendships I already had, because it gives us more stuff to talk about and commiserate over. Katie and I even ran, and then blogged about, the St. Paddy's 5K together! (Here's her recap).
     Last, but not least, I've been working very hard at making -- and STAYING -- in contact with my "friends from home", aka the ones I've collected since kindergarten straight up through college, with whom I've either lost touch or simply hadn't talked to in awhile. If I didn't loathe Facebook so much, I'd be praising it right about now. :)
     Oh, and I FINALLY bought a new camera, so I've had the opportunity to take tons of pics, none of which I have uploaded to the web yet, but which I've been picking and choosing from to share with you dolls when I need them. Kisses!
First Quarter Assessment: A.

That's it in a seashell (because seriously, after this vegetarian thing, if I have to think about another nut, I'mmacutsomeone. Just sayin'.). All in all, not so bad. Final Overall Grade: B.

So, tell me: Did you make any New Year's Resolutions or goals? How are you doing with them? Have there been any surprises -- things you expected to be hard but turned out to be easier than you thought, or vice versa? Got any sweet tips for NYC hotel rooms?