Race Recap: The BAA Half Marathon

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

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

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

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

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

Not exactly my proudest moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came mile 6.

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

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

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

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

And then all hell broke loose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My official time was 3:02:10.

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

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

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

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

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

It truly meant the world.

As Long As They Ask

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

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

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

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

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

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

In my element a few years later.

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

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

As long as they ask.

The 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. 

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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....

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.

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.

Friday Confessional: Shake That

Ok, let's cut to the chase. It's Friday. On Fridays, we wear pink confess our deepest, darkest, most embarrassing thoughts, obsessions and musings. 
 
So, without further ado, I do hereby confess:

 I've been shakin' it

Shake it, sh-shake it...

EVERY SINGLE YEAR I make the same vow to myself: I will 100%, absolutely, no way in hell, become involved with any reality TV competition shows. This year, I finally managed to tear myself out of my dysfunctional relationship with The Biggest Loser.... only to wind up sucked in to not only American Idol, but also Dancing With the Stars.

I was once involved in a passionate affair with AI -- I religiously tuned in and voted from seasons Ruben-David Cook. Then I broke up with it the next season, out of the blue, because it just wasn't working for me anymore. It was a whole, "it's not you; it's me" scenario, and by "it's me" I totally meant, "It's Kara DioGuardi".

Despite being in its 12th season, though, DWTS was never on my radar. Perhaps it was because my 87-year old grandfather thought it was the second-best show on television, right after CatholicTV, but I just never had any interest in it. And then, one fateful Monday night late last fall, I came home from a class around 9:30 and tuned into ABC, patiently waiting for Castle to come on.

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One waltz later, I was hooked. And, despite my vehement declaration that I wouldn't be, I'm hooked again this season. #Damn.

Last year, I didn't really give a rat's heiny who won -- but this year, I have a definite favorite, and I don't care whether or not they're actually the best dancers; I love the star for reasons that reach far beyond the dance floor. Kirstie and Maks were two of the first people I started following on Twitter. Not just because Maks is rather droolworthy with abs of steel, but because as a kid, I was desperately on a mission to obtain Kirstie's fab head o' hair. I probably funded half of Pantene's stock options solely with the amount of their product I used to lather all over my head.

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Kirstie is, in short, my girl. But her hair isn't the only reason I admire her.

I'm talking, of course, about the issue of her weight, which I never really thought of as "an issue," but, judging by some of the vicious comments that are being made on comment forums and tv shows around the world, it has become one. Apparently some of the American public and some stupid late-night comedians think it's just totally ok to malign a woman for not being ashamed of herself for her extra fluff, and not letting them stop her from participating in something fun and good for her, and oh, btw, might even cause her to drop a couple pounds.

Because, you know, if you're overweight, you obviously deserve to be hidden away in a back room somewhere, and God forbid you do something enjoyable. Because you're barely human and don't deserve to feel alive, or good about yourself, or participate in anything that thinner people do. Heavens, no.

Seriously. Grow up.

Note to all you asshats out there pouncing on Kirstie's weight and using it in your jokes: YOU ARE THE REASON that people who want to get in shape are afraid to hit the gym/streets, and YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES far more than they should be.

As a self-conscious, overweight woman, I can tell you that a large part of the reason I gained so much weight in college was because I was embarrassed that I had let myself get to that point, and I was terrified that if I went to the gym, or even went for a run on the street, people would make fun of me. Or worse, they would pity me; "Poor fat girl", they'd say to their companions, a hint of sympathy and concern in their voices, "honey, if you'd only put the cheeseburgers down and exercise some self-restraint, you wouldn't be red-faced and ready to die after two blocks at 4 mph."

I voiced my concerns and insecurities to a few close, trusted people, and I almost inevitably received the stock answer: "It's all in your head; no one is looking at you." I WANTED to believe them, but my eyes and ears were telling me otherwise -- people whom I thought of as "friends" would comment on overweight joggers; "OMG, if I were that huge, I'd NEVER be out running on the street; I'd kill myself!" is a real direct quote from someone I used to count among my friends. "Wow, should that lady REALLY be eating that donut? Maybe she should try a salad" was a frequent refrain. Not to mention, of course, the barrage of insults and fat jokes that are made every day in the media; George Lopez is not the first, nor will he be the last, to hurl them.

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Oddly enough, though, those people's voices always sounded suspiciously like my own, echoing throughout my head to the point that they were all I heard. So, instead of hitting the gym, or going for a simple walk, I would hide myself under baggy clothes, break out the Double Stuf Oreos and settle into my dark dorm room and a marathon of Law and Order: SVU. Wasn't that what a fat girl was supposed to do?

When her phone call came, Kirstie could have taken the same road. She easily could have said, "Oh, you know, I'd love to do Dancing With the Stars -- and as soon as I lose 25 lbs, I'll do it, but right now I just can't...people might make fun of me." Because she's a strong woman, though, she didn't; she told her naysayers to eff off, decided NOT to wait for some arbitrary day when she's "good enough" and to LIVE HER LIFE RIGHT NOW.

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And because she did, I found the confidence to go and, for the first time, really let go at Zumba on Tuesday night. Honestly? I probably was one of the biggest girls there. Yet when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I didn't see the lithe, tight-bodied former dance team members around me.

I saw a girl having a fabulous time, burning over 550 calories in 45 minutes and shaking her size 14 ass like Shakira.

A-ooooooo!!!!

Thanks, Kirstie.