Greetings and salutations for the first time in 2014!
As you might have noticed, 2013 wasn't really The Year of The Blog for me. To be truthful, there were more than several occasions where I contemplated just hitting the private button and leaving this little internet portal to my soul to collapse upon itself. Why, you ask? A combination of factors, mostly: it's a bit of a timesuck; it's a bastion of rampant narcissism; it's embarrassing to think of people I went to high school with finding it and reading about my thoughts and my weight; I maybe had a glass or two of wine one night and sent the link to some family members (like my dad, who is the actual writer in the family in that he is gainfully employed rearranging words) and, perhaps most importantly, because I had completely lost any interest in or passion for it.
Anyone with a blog knows the pressure it brings -- it's a constant battle between, "give the people what they want!" (mixed, of course, with the awareness that "the people" is a group limited to a very small group of IRL friends and strangers of the Twitter universe) and, "why would I want to put this on the internet? Who cares about it? Does it serve some kind of need aside from my own incessant need to ponder the world, and myself, to within an a hair's breadth of insanity?" These questions have been driving me nuts over the past year. I have a veritable mortuary of posts sitting in my drafts folder, some gasping their last breaths with hope that I'll eventually come back and others that made it two stellar sentences only to be declared dead on arrival. All are a mere finger-click away from disappearing into the Internet Abyss forever.
But enough of that.
As I mentioned, 2013 wasn't the Year of The Blog. It was, however, the Year of a lot of other aspects of my life. The Year of Putting My Foot Down. The Year of South Beach. The Year of Grant Proposals. The Year of My First Marathon. The Year of My Ten-Year High School Reunion. The Year of My Wisdom Teeth.
Though they might not seem like much, those were all very significant events in my life, for a variety of reasons. Essentially, it was a year of both setting and pushing boundaries, which is something I have struggled with for a very long time. I faced some of my biggest fears in 2013, which is more than I can say about 2012 and all that I can hope to continue into 2014.
With that, I bid you all a Happy New Year, and promise to check back in with some regular life updates soon!
Showing posts with label inspiration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inspiration. Show all posts
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Farewell, Golden Year
It's that time of year again!
The days are getting shorter, the air is getting colder and I am, per usual, getting fatter. I'm pretty sure I'm a bear trapped in a human's body, as I apparently feel the need to consume enough starch and sugar during months 9 and 10 to get me through a long winter of hibernation.
What, like you don't?
Anyway.
On the eve of my 27th birthday (yes, my birthday is tomorrow), I've been thinking a lot about how I am moving out of the "mid-20s" post-college set and officially joining the ranks of "late-20s" 80s spawn the world over. And you know what? I'm okay with that.
I think it's so funny how some people have this intense dread of turning 30, so the second they pass 25 they start clinging to their mid-20s like crazy. I mean, yeah, my mid-20s brought me my first job, first big promotion, first studio apartment and first shared domicile, but they also delivered my first mammoth student loan payments, the realization that if I want to pursue my dreams I actually have to WORK for them, a harder time deflating the flotation device around my mid-section and a biological clock ticking louder than Big Ben.
As I leave my "golden year" behind, I'm thinking of all of the things that I accomplished while I was 26:
- I went to the dentist 5 times and didn't die (quite a feat, if you knew me two years ago).
- I made a list of goals that I hoped to achieve in 2011 and actually followed through on a few.
- I became a Godmother.
- I took my first Zumba class and ran my first two 5ks.
- I actually posted a more creative piece of writing for the world to see.
- I trained for and ran a half marathon.
- I more or less maintained my weight (anything's better than a gain, right?).
- I met awesome fellow bloggers like Stephanie, Ashleigh, Tiffany and Erin.
- I wrote 83 blog posts, including this one.
More importantly, though, I'm looking forward to all of the goals, milestones and unplanned adventures that 27 will bring. I get to welcome two new nieces at the beginning of February, enjoy a much-anticipated vacation to Key West in March and, if all goes well, smash my BAA half-marathon PR to smithereens next October. Knowing me, I'll also manage to stumble into a life lesson or two, a few totally awkward situations and a couple of inappropriately loud conversations at the bar. All of these are things I never would have had the opportunity, guts or ability to laugh off in my earlier years. I don't hate getting older; I hate the idea of never moving forward. I mean, sure, 27 might be one step closer to 30, but it's also another year of practice for all that I hope to accomplish in my life.
But don't think for a second that my new, "mature" late-20s identity is going to stop me from wearing random tiaras at the beach or obsessively marathon-viewing Pretty Little Liars or Gossip Girl.
Because that's just crazy talk.
The days are getting shorter, the air is getting colder and I am, per usual, getting fatter. I'm pretty sure I'm a bear trapped in a human's body, as I apparently feel the need to consume enough starch and sugar during months 9 and 10 to get me through a long winter of hibernation.
What, like you don't?
Anyway.
On the eve of my 27th birthday (yes, my birthday is tomorrow), I've been thinking a lot about how I am moving out of the "mid-20s" post-college set and officially joining the ranks of "late-20s" 80s spawn the world over. And you know what? I'm okay with that.
I think it's so funny how some people have this intense dread of turning 30, so the second they pass 25 they start clinging to their mid-20s like crazy. I mean, yeah, my mid-20s brought me my first job, first big promotion, first studio apartment and first shared domicile, but they also delivered my first mammoth student loan payments, the realization that if I want to pursue my dreams I actually have to WORK for them, a harder time deflating the flotation device around my mid-section and a biological clock ticking louder than Big Ben.
As I leave my "golden year" behind, I'm thinking of all of the things that I accomplished while I was 26:
- I went to the dentist 5 times and didn't die (quite a feat, if you knew me two years ago).
- I made a list of goals that I hoped to achieve in 2011 and actually followed through on a few.
- I became a Godmother.
- I took my first Zumba class and ran my first two 5ks.
- I actually posted a more creative piece of writing for the world to see.
- I trained for and ran a half marathon.
- I more or less maintained my weight (anything's better than a gain, right?).
- I met awesome fellow bloggers like Stephanie, Ashleigh, Tiffany and Erin.
- I wrote 83 blog posts, including this one.
More importantly, though, I'm looking forward to all of the goals, milestones and unplanned adventures that 27 will bring. I get to welcome two new nieces at the beginning of February, enjoy a much-anticipated vacation to Key West in March and, if all goes well, smash my BAA half-marathon PR to smithereens next October. Knowing me, I'll also manage to stumble into a life lesson or two, a few totally awkward situations and a couple of inappropriately loud conversations at the bar. All of these are things I never would have had the opportunity, guts or ability to laugh off in my earlier years. I don't hate getting older; I hate the idea of never moving forward. I mean, sure, 27 might be one step closer to 30, but it's also another year of practice for all that I hope to accomplish in my life.
But don't think for a second that my new, "mature" late-20s identity is going to stop me from wearing random tiaras at the beach or obsessively marathon-viewing Pretty Little Liars or Gossip Girl.
Because that's just crazy talk.
Friday, October 14, 2011
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....
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 somemelted 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.
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.
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
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.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The Fun House Effect
I've always been the kind of girl who always felt a bit left out. In elementary school, I was the smart kid who had friends -- until I figured out that all they actually wanted to do was copy my homework. In junior high, there were the music kids but, as Mean Girls will show you, cliques exist even in the very depths of the popularity Inferno.
High school was better; I managed to run with a variety of crowds (we ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud. Sorry, couldn't resist!), most of whom I still maintain as casual Facebook acquaintances. I was kind of a bitch, but we'll get into that some other time. College was more of the same friendships, in that I won some, I lost some, hell, I even bought some, but suffice to say that I was never "that girl", the one for whom the crowd waits to get their parties started.
So you can see why I've become slightly insecure, now that I've noticed a trend among some of my friends.
Apparently, there was a close-out sale on Fun House mirrors, and someone forgot to invite me.
For weeks now, ever since the sun started to peek out from behind the clouds and shorts and bikinis became the weekend wardrobe of choice, I've been hearing it all over the place. "My legs look fat!"; "My nose has a weird bump!"; "Shamu had less blubber around his midsection!"; "My hips are too thin!"; "I look like a little boy!" (Sidenote: I hate how common an assumption it is in this little blog niche we have here that everyone's body issues stem from the same perceived "flaws." There are plenty of people out there with concerns that they are too thin, too short, too tall, not womanly enough, et al., so shut up and stop assuming that everyone and their mother thinks their thighs look like cottage cheese already).
It's funny. My friends apparently look at themselves in the mirror and see circus freaks; I look at them and see smart, beautiful, hilarious individuals. Some of them have hair I would kill for, others have mile splits that I'm pretty sure would leave my poor little lungs curled up in the dirt resembling the fetal version of Voldemort. A few of them who have cared to share their writing have completely blown me away with their words. The sheer talent that flows through so many of my friends' veins, whatever the arena, is something that I often find myself stopping to think about, and counting myself lucky to have them in my life.
You know what I almost never think about?
Their size.
I say "almost never" because basically, the only thing that makes me say, "HEY! So-and-so is a size X!" is because I'm secretly planning to plow through her closets like a preteen boy on a panty raid.
"What do you mean, this is your shirt?!"
If you were to go through my dresser, closet, undergarment tower and/or workout/goingout/pajama bin, you would find clothes that range from a small to an extra large. You'd find a size 18 business suit from Macy's that I wore to my first "grown up" job interviews and enough "suits of armor" (aka spanxx) to get the Klumps on the cover of Shape magazine. Loads of tshirts in every color, cut and size imaginable litter my hamper and those rolly-things that go under the bed. There are jeans in every size from 10-16, with one pair of 12s that I can't wear for fear of running the risk of plumber butt, and another in the SAME SIZE that I can't even yank up past my thighs. Somewhere, in the very depths of a box that's probably hidden in my living room closet, there is a pair of shorts in a size 7 from the summer I left for college, 130lbs and too thin for my frame.
Maybe I should just lay off this whole writing thing and consider making my claim to fame via Hoarders.
I'm definitely not a saint myself when it comes to the whole "fat day/skinny day" phenomenon, but I have noticed one thing in the past year or two: while I still suffer from negative self-talk, that second little voice in my head has, bit by bit, begun to grow bolder. When I think, "jeez, I weigh the same thing I did when I was a size X, but these feel WAY tighter on my thighs!", there's another voice that overrides that one, saying, "yeah yeah yeah, but you were totally lazy at the time and never moved; you've been running and spinning and ok, so maybe there is still some extra fluff in the lower region, but your endurance at the track and resistance on the bike don't lie." It's a slow process, but it's happening.
At the Blake Shelton/Brad Paisley concert last weekend, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't, at one point, look around at all the uber-tan, straight-haired, belly-baring ladies in cowboy boots and daisy dukes and think, "I don't belong here." But then one of those "perfect" chicks next to me ended up engaged in a bitchfight with a posse of 15 year-olds, the "what? what?" hand snap in the face and accent straight out of The Fighter included.
Then I realized that, while I might have been comparing my pasty white calves to her golden gams and wondering why I couldn't be "perfect" mere moments before, Girlfran had her own set of issues to deal with. One does not feel the need to "step up" to a group of little girls nine years her junior if she's secure with who she is.
I felt a lot better about things once I took that in to account. It reminded me how grateful I am for what I've got, both inside AND outside, and how proud I was to have made a distinction that a year ago, when I was 20lbs lighter, was so far outside the realm of reality for me that I probably would have said, "I'd rather be a size 2 and trashy than a size 14 with friends." It's crazy what a year, some therapy and a bit of perspective can do.
Anyway, not to get all Operation Beautiful on you or anything, but seriously, ladies (and gents, if you're reading): stop getting all down on yourselves because of the number inside your pants. Chances are, your friends and acquaintances don't care about whether you're a size 2, a size 12 or a size 20.
Unless, of course, they happen to be the same size, in which case, they probably just want to steal your pants.
High school was better; I managed to run with a variety of crowds (we ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud. Sorry, couldn't resist!), most of whom I still maintain as casual Facebook acquaintances. I was kind of a bitch, but we'll get into that some other time. College was more of the same friendships, in that I won some, I lost some, hell, I even bought some, but suffice to say that I was never "that girl", the one for whom the crowd waits to get their parties started.
So you can see why I've become slightly insecure, now that I've noticed a trend among some of my friends.
Apparently, there was a close-out sale on Fun House mirrors, and someone forgot to invite me.
 |
| [Source] |
For weeks now, ever since the sun started to peek out from behind the clouds and shorts and bikinis became the weekend wardrobe of choice, I've been hearing it all over the place. "My legs look fat!"; "My nose has a weird bump!"; "Shamu had less blubber around his midsection!"; "My hips are too thin!"; "I look like a little boy!" (Sidenote: I hate how common an assumption it is in this little blog niche we have here that everyone's body issues stem from the same perceived "flaws." There are plenty of people out there with concerns that they are too thin, too short, too tall, not womanly enough, et al., so shut up and stop assuming that everyone and their mother thinks their thighs look like cottage cheese already).
It's funny. My friends apparently look at themselves in the mirror and see circus freaks; I look at them and see smart, beautiful, hilarious individuals. Some of them have hair I would kill for, others have mile splits that I'm pretty sure would leave my poor little lungs curled up in the dirt resembling the fetal version of Voldemort. A few of them who have cared to share their writing have completely blown me away with their words. The sheer talent that flows through so many of my friends' veins, whatever the arena, is something that I often find myself stopping to think about, and counting myself lucky to have them in my life.
You know what I almost never think about?
Their size.
I say "almost never" because basically, the only thing that makes me say, "HEY! So-and-so is a size X!" is because I'm secretly planning to plow through her closets like a preteen boy on a panty raid.
"What do you mean, this is your shirt?!"
If you were to go through my dresser, closet, undergarment tower and/or workout/goingout/pajama bin, you would find clothes that range from a small to an extra large. You'd find a size 18 business suit from Macy's that I wore to my first "grown up" job interviews and enough "suits of armor" (aka spanxx) to get the Klumps on the cover of Shape magazine. Loads of tshirts in every color, cut and size imaginable litter my hamper and those rolly-things that go under the bed. There are jeans in every size from 10-16, with one pair of 12s that I can't wear for fear of running the risk of plumber butt, and another in the SAME SIZE that I can't even yank up past my thighs. Somewhere, in the very depths of a box that's probably hidden in my living room closet, there is a pair of shorts in a size 7 from the summer I left for college, 130lbs and too thin for my frame.
Maybe I should just lay off this whole writing thing and consider making my claim to fame via Hoarders.
I'm definitely not a saint myself when it comes to the whole "fat day/skinny day" phenomenon, but I have noticed one thing in the past year or two: while I still suffer from negative self-talk, that second little voice in my head has, bit by bit, begun to grow bolder. When I think, "jeez, I weigh the same thing I did when I was a size X, but these feel WAY tighter on my thighs!", there's another voice that overrides that one, saying, "yeah yeah yeah, but you were totally lazy at the time and never moved; you've been running and spinning and ok, so maybe there is still some extra fluff in the lower region, but your endurance at the track and resistance on the bike don't lie." It's a slow process, but it's happening.
 |
| Like a briiiiiidge overrr troubled, watterrrssss.... |
Then I realized that, while I might have been comparing my pasty white calves to her golden gams and wondering why I couldn't be "perfect" mere moments before, Girlfran had her own set of issues to deal with. One does not feel the need to "step up" to a group of little girls nine years her junior if she's secure with who she is.
I felt a lot better about things once I took that in to account. It reminded me how grateful I am for what I've got, both inside AND outside, and how proud I was to have made a distinction that a year ago, when I was 20lbs lighter, was so far outside the realm of reality for me that I probably would have said, "I'd rather be a size 2 and trashy than a size 14 with friends." It's crazy what a year, some therapy and a bit of perspective can do.
Anyway, not to get all Operation Beautiful on you or anything, but seriously, ladies (and gents, if you're reading): stop getting all down on yourselves because of the number inside your pants. Chances are, your friends and acquaintances don't care about whether you're a size 2, a size 12 or a size 20.
Unless, of course, they happen to be the same size, in which case, they probably just want to steal your pants.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
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.
"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.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Friday Confessional: I Go Back to Being F**ing Perfect
Wow, it's been awhile since my last "I Go Back..." post. I originally started writing this as a memory-related post, but as I wrote, it took on a tone of a Friday Confessional, so I decided that this week, I would change the format up a little bit and combine the two.
So, this week, I do hereby solemly confess:
If I'm being 100% honest, the reason there haven't been any "I Go Back" posts lately is because I've been way too guarded lately to let anything -- even music -- really get to me, because I was afraid that if it did, I would simply fall apart.
That simple.
Fall.
Apart.
Shattered, like the wine glasses that inevitably slip from my fingers as I wash dishes.
And then, I was driving home from dropping Andrew off at work about a week or two ago (we're a one-car family at the moment... they don't tell you this, but it ain't easy bein' green!). I don't even know what I was thinking about. Maybe I was worried about the rain clouds glowering at me as I crested each hill of Rt. 9, thinking about how amazing it must feel to have a similar view at the halfway point of the Boston Marathon, and how I've really been slacking on my running lately.
Perhaps I was going over my ever-growing "Weekend To-Do Wish List", thinking that there was no way I would ever accomplish everything I wanted to get done, and beating myself up for wanting to get home, do Ripped in 30, go for a run, shower, get dressed, run to Target, get my nails done, take a GRE practice test, make a nice, healthy lunch, read some of my book, clean the bathroom and finally tackle the (I can't believe I'm about to type this, because it's seriously f--ing disgusting) two months' worth of laundry that is currently hiding in my walk-in closet.
All before 7pm.
It might have been the feeling of time slipping away, as I creep closer to 30 and now knowing what I want to do, both professionally and on the side, but not yet finding the motivation to actually go out there and do it. That feeling of treading water, of not being present or in control of my career, my weight, my relationships, my family, my life.
I suppose I could have been agonizing over the impending reunion with my own mother, with whom I haven't had the best relationship this past decade, and who I've actually only seen 4 (yes, 4) times in the past 7 years, for a maximum of 4 days at a time each visit.
Maybe it was all of it.
Maybe it was none of it.
Who knows.
I sure as hell don't.
All I know is that as I hit the Shaw's on Rt. 9 in Brookline, P!nk's "F--ing Perfect" came on the radio and I found myself in a super market parking lot, sobbing in the manner that gives you a tension headache and basset-hound eyes for days afterward. You know what I'm talking about.
The ugly cry.
And what was worse, I just. couldn't. stop.
In high school, my friend TBB#1 and I used to drive around in her car (was it a Subaru? God, I'm old), code-naming crushes, devouring pints of Ben&Jerry's with wooden, tongue depressor-style sticks and washing them down with Snapple, and belting our lungs out to P!nk. No, it wasn't cool, even back then.
But, much like Matchbox 20, I connected with the lyrics of her songs in a way that made them applicable to my life. They spoke to me and said, "it's ok that your family is nuts". "It's ok that you aren't willing to give it up for free just to get a boyfriend." "It's totally ok that you have no idea who you are yet, and that you're scared that you might be someone different than you think you are."
That sentence makes no sense, I know.
But neither does life, really.
It's 10 years later, and I'm still scared of being someone different than I think I am, especially since every time I start to think I might have figured it out, I go and change on myself. It's like Jekyll and Hyde; I'm Caitie and Caitlin. But even Hyde had some value, because without his darkness, we never would have come to know Jekyll's light. Without the deep, questioning voice of Caitlin, I wouldn't appreciate the lilting laughter of Caitie half as much.They're I'm the same, but different. Two sides of the same coin, both equally valuable in worth.
And I find myself asking, "Is this normal, or is this schizophrenia?" Because, you know, WebMD is the best thing ever invented for over-thinking hypochondriacs.
As I wrestled with... well, with whatever "it" was -- that phantom ache in my heart that would start to bubble up, only to have me shove it as far back as I possibly could -- there was something in these words:
that didn't just break the dam -- they released the entire f--ing ocean of emotion.
Over the past few years of my life, I've been creeping, ever-so-slowly, towards self-acceptance, but it's never as easy as they make it sound in chick lit novels or in the 90-minutes of a RomCom. There are too many facets of any single person to be everything, to everyone, or even to themselves. But I'm trying. And I think from now on, there will be a note stuck on my bathroom mirror that simply states the following:
"You're F--ing Perfect to Me"
So thanks, P!nk, for not only getting me through high school, but for reminding me that I don't have to know exactly who I am yet. More importantly, thank you for writing songs that manage to speak to me, saying the exact right thing at the exact right time. That's pretty f--in' perfect if you ask me.
Plus, those Boston stereotypes aren't entirely made up --- I try not to curse a lot on the blog, but IRL I swear like a sailor and truly love me a well-placed F-bomb! Also, you know I slightly teared up when Kirstie came out with it queued up on the finale of DWTS. I couldn't help it!
So, this week, I do hereby solemly confess:
If I'm being 100% honest, the reason there haven't been any "I Go Back" posts lately is because I've been way too guarded lately to let anything -- even music -- really get to me, because I was afraid that if it did, I would simply fall apart.
That simple.
Fall.
Apart.
Shattered, like the wine glasses that inevitably slip from my fingers as I wash dishes.
And then, I was driving home from dropping Andrew off at work about a week or two ago (we're a one-car family at the moment... they don't tell you this, but it ain't easy bein' green!). I don't even know what I was thinking about. Maybe I was worried about the rain clouds glowering at me as I crested each hill of Rt. 9, thinking about how amazing it must feel to have a similar view at the halfway point of the Boston Marathon, and how I've really been slacking on my running lately.
Perhaps I was going over my ever-growing "Weekend To-Do Wish List", thinking that there was no way I would ever accomplish everything I wanted to get done, and beating myself up for wanting to get home, do Ripped in 30, go for a run, shower, get dressed, run to Target, get my nails done, take a GRE practice test, make a nice, healthy lunch, read some of my book, clean the bathroom and finally tackle the (I can't believe I'm about to type this, because it's seriously f--ing disgusting) two months' worth of laundry that is currently hiding in my walk-in closet.
All before 7pm.
It might have been the feeling of time slipping away, as I creep closer to 30 and now knowing what I want to do, both professionally and on the side, but not yet finding the motivation to actually go out there and do it. That feeling of treading water, of not being present or in control of my career, my weight, my relationships, my family, my life.
I suppose I could have been agonizing over the impending reunion with my own mother, with whom I haven't had the best relationship this past decade, and who I've actually only seen 4 (yes, 4) times in the past 7 years, for a maximum of 4 days at a time each visit.
Maybe it was all of it.
Maybe it was none of it.
Who knows.
I sure as hell don't.
All I know is that as I hit the Shaw's on Rt. 9 in Brookline, P!nk's "F--ing Perfect" came on the radio and I found myself in a super market parking lot, sobbing in the manner that gives you a tension headache and basset-hound eyes for days afterward. You know what I'm talking about.
The ugly cry.
And what was worse, I just. couldn't. stop.
In high school, my friend TBB#1 and I used to drive around in her car (was it a Subaru? God, I'm old), code-naming crushes, devouring pints of Ben&Jerry's with wooden, tongue depressor-style sticks and washing them down with Snapple, and belting our lungs out to P!nk. No, it wasn't cool, even back then.
But, much like Matchbox 20, I connected with the lyrics of her songs in a way that made them applicable to my life. They spoke to me and said, "it's ok that your family is nuts". "It's ok that you aren't willing to give it up for free just to get a boyfriend." "It's totally ok that you have no idea who you are yet, and that you're scared that you might be someone different than you think you are."
That sentence makes no sense, I know.
But neither does life, really.
It's 10 years later, and I'm still scared of being someone different than I think I am, especially since every time I start to think I might have figured it out, I go and change on myself. It's like Jekyll and Hyde; I'm Caitie and Caitlin. But even Hyde had some value, because without his darkness, we never would have come to know Jekyll's light. Without the deep, questioning voice of Caitlin, I wouldn't appreciate the lilting laughter of Caitie half as much.
And I find myself asking, "Is this normal, or is this schizophrenia?" Because, you know, WebMD is the best thing ever invented for over-thinking hypochondriacs.
As I wrestled with... well, with whatever "it" was -- that phantom ache in my heart that would start to bubble up, only to have me shove it as far back as I possibly could -- there was something in these words:
You're so mean when you talk about yourself; you were wrong.
Change the voices in your head; make them like you instead.
So complicated, look happy, you'll make it
Filled with so much hatred, such a tired game.
It's enough; I've done all I can think of,
Chased down all my demons, I've seen you do the same
that didn't just break the dam -- they released the entire f--ing ocean of emotion.
Over the past few years of my life, I've been creeping, ever-so-slowly, towards self-acceptance, but it's never as easy as they make it sound in chick lit novels or in the 90-minutes of a RomCom. There are too many facets of any single person to be everything, to everyone, or even to themselves. But I'm trying. And I think from now on, there will be a note stuck on my bathroom mirror that simply states the following:
"You're F--ing Perfect to Me"
So thanks, P!nk, for not only getting me through high school, but for reminding me that I don't have to know exactly who I am yet. More importantly, thank you for writing songs that manage to speak to me, saying the exact right thing at the exact right time. That's pretty f--in' perfect if you ask me.
Plus, those Boston stereotypes aren't entirely made up --- I try not to curse a lot on the blog, but IRL I swear like a sailor and truly love me a well-placed F-bomb! Also, you know I slightly teared up when Kirstie came out with it queued up on the finale of DWTS. I couldn't help it!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
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 today 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:
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.
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
"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.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
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 myobsession 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.
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).
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).
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).
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:
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.
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!!!
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:
Gotta start somewhere, right?!
*****
As you may or may not have heard, yesterday was the 115th running of the Boston Marathon. It's possible to have missed my
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] |
 |
| The only Jets you ever want to see at Gillette (Pats Home Opener 2010) |
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. |
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! |
 |
| Neck-and-neck until the finish -- a mere 2 seconds separated them! |
 |
| 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?!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)