It seems ironic to quit a blog that's about not quitting...but it might be time to move to different pastures. I'm still thinking about it. I'd like to start a new blog, about all the things I like, and record the exciting and fun things that are coming into my life. But my focus is just all over the place, and the personal blog seems dead.
Yesterday, I tried going for a run. It didn't turn out well. I made it maybe half a mile before the foot started to act up. I turned around and went to an amazing coffee shop and got a "bucket" of "Special". This morning, I did 30 minutes on the bike and another 10 on the ArcTrainer. I've been concentrating on heavy lifting lately, and I love it, but I need cardio or I'll go crazy.
My foot is killing me now. Ace bandaging probably does nothing two months post-injury, huh?
Oh, and I got into grad school. :-)
Showing posts with label blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blog. Show all posts
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Just because you don't want to be a quitter doesn't mean you have to be an idiot.
File this one under "lessons learned"
For the past two years I've been taking graduate classes at the college where I also work full-time. I've taken the courses as non-credit, while applying to the Master's program, with the assumption that, due to the quality of my writing samples, resume, and high GRE scores, I would one day get in to this incredibly competitive program.
Last week, after staying up too late too many nights to finish a presentation, I was sitting home with tonsillitis working on a 20-page paper, and I got a rejection letter. Another one. My second.
Surrounded with books and index cards and storylines, and Chloraseptic spray and salt water, and tea, I will admit, I cried a little bit, and I will not even be ashamed of it. And fever tears hurt.
However, there was a nice handwritten note on my rejection letter from the Director of Grad Admissions. The purple felt pen invited me to come by and see her if I wanted to discuss. So, all cured up on Monday, that's what I did. And so started the kind of day that, when all was said and done, felt like a neatly tied up sitcom ending.
I realized, after talking to her, that I had been pursuing the entirely wrong things for me. It was astounding how off the mark I'd been, and how swayed by the low acceptance rate that looked to me like a big red bullfighting flag with the world "challenge!" on it. That's all. All that reading and writing made me miserable. Stressed. Completely unable to write here, or in my other journal. While I absolutely loved my classes and the things I was able to learn, writing & publishing was not my track, not my passion. Re-ve-lation.
The Director relayed that while my GRE scores were "off the charts" (which, technically, is an impossibility) and all my recommendations were "nothing but glowing" that the committee shared the opinion I was now coming to. I was just not a fit for such a specific program. Then, she handed me an outline of another program she and the committee did think I was a fit for. And it was perfect. I'd already been considering it, before she mentioned it. Because writing, just for writing, isn't my passion, but commuication is. Revelation numbero dos.
I talked to a current student in the program, and that only confirmed that this was something I should at least seriously explore. By that afternoon, I'd gone from panicked to excited.
There was still the matter of my paper. I went and visited my professor in his office before the last class of the semester, and told him my situation. While I loved the class, and everything I had learned, the idea of writing a 20-page research paper "just for fun" was extremely daunting, and depressing. And amazingly, he understood. I'd been agonizing over this particular issue since I recieved the letter. I didn't, obviously, want to be a quitter, the person who dropped a class on the last day of classes. But, just because you don't want to be a quitter, doesn't mean you have to be an idiot. And I am pretty sure idiot gluttons for punishment (a category I fall into more than occasionally) are the only ones who would write a 20-page paper for nothing.
My professor, after a spot of being righteously indignant that I didn't get into the program after two tries, said that based on my work thus far and his knowledge of me as a student (I'd taken two classes with him) he would feel comfortable giving me a B without the paper. He said, quite simply, he didn't believe I would learn anything from the exercise, and would possibly leave the course overwhelmed, stressed out, and bitter. That wasn't his intention when he designed the class. And it just made so much sense. I am now totally okay with not doing the paper.
And all's well that ends well. We chatted about my research, which I actually found quite interesting, so it was like a mini book report, in a way. Then I went to the last class of all, and four hours flew by like nothing.
So, I've shifted my goals significantly, and I'm actually much more excited about my education and career than I was when I was relentlessly pursuing this particular goal. It's like a lot of things. I realize that in my running, I kept relentlessly pursuing the marathon goal, because it was the "holy grail" of running, but kept getting injured and sidetracked. I don't think I will ever run a marathon; it's not for me. And even when I say that now, I still feel a twinge of disappointment. But I realize that my goals reflect just as much about who I am than my accomplishments, and just because a goal is an impressive rite of passage that features on myriad Bucket Lists, doesn't mean it should be mine.
I'll be porting my application over to the other program, and should see, hopefully in a few weeks, if I get in.
Anyway.
On the running front, well, nothing. I re-hurt my ankle last night putting on pants, which either means I need to go to the doctor or just stop putting on pants. Today, I went to the gym for the first time since the tonsillitis, and did my usual "back to the gym" routine of 45 or so squats, which will, as it always does, render me completely incapable of walking tomorrow.
But boy, did it feel good today.
I'm still trying to think of what I want this blog to be, what direction I want it to go in. Obviously, it's not really a running blog anymore, and I'm afraid it will continue not to be. I'm too afraid to go to the doctor in case she tells me to stay off my foot, or that I have to have surgery. Without going, I'm not running, because it feels like all the tiny bones on the top of my feet are crunching together a bit. But, I can bike and I can lift and I can do other things, and without this kind of movement, I go crazy. So it's worth it, for now, to continue moving and forget about running.
But, there are so many other things I'd like to write about. It seems that the personal blog has gone by the wayside, and most folks post about one or two things. I don't want to just write a fitness blog or a grad student blog or even a beer blog, but I'd like to combine these things and other interests in a cohesive way that presents a sort of designed energy. I'll have to think on that one for a bit.
For the past two years I've been taking graduate classes at the college where I also work full-time. I've taken the courses as non-credit, while applying to the Master's program, with the assumption that, due to the quality of my writing samples, resume, and high GRE scores, I would one day get in to this incredibly competitive program.
Last week, after staying up too late too many nights to finish a presentation, I was sitting home with tonsillitis working on a 20-page paper, and I got a rejection letter. Another one. My second.
Surrounded with books and index cards and storylines, and Chloraseptic spray and salt water, and tea, I will admit, I cried a little bit, and I will not even be ashamed of it. And fever tears hurt.
However, there was a nice handwritten note on my rejection letter from the Director of Grad Admissions. The purple felt pen invited me to come by and see her if I wanted to discuss. So, all cured up on Monday, that's what I did. And so started the kind of day that, when all was said and done, felt like a neatly tied up sitcom ending.
I realized, after talking to her, that I had been pursuing the entirely wrong things for me. It was astounding how off the mark I'd been, and how swayed by the low acceptance rate that looked to me like a big red bullfighting flag with the world "challenge!" on it. That's all. All that reading and writing made me miserable. Stressed. Completely unable to write here, or in my other journal. While I absolutely loved my classes and the things I was able to learn, writing & publishing was not my track, not my passion. Re-ve-lation.
The Director relayed that while my GRE scores were "off the charts" (which, technically, is an impossibility) and all my recommendations were "nothing but glowing" that the committee shared the opinion I was now coming to. I was just not a fit for such a specific program. Then, she handed me an outline of another program she and the committee did think I was a fit for. And it was perfect. I'd already been considering it, before she mentioned it. Because writing, just for writing, isn't my passion, but commuication is. Revelation numbero dos.
I talked to a current student in the program, and that only confirmed that this was something I should at least seriously explore. By that afternoon, I'd gone from panicked to excited.
There was still the matter of my paper. I went and visited my professor in his office before the last class of the semester, and told him my situation. While I loved the class, and everything I had learned, the idea of writing a 20-page research paper "just for fun" was extremely daunting, and depressing. And amazingly, he understood. I'd been agonizing over this particular issue since I recieved the letter. I didn't, obviously, want to be a quitter, the person who dropped a class on the last day of classes. But, just because you don't want to be a quitter, doesn't mean you have to be an idiot. And I am pretty sure idiot gluttons for punishment (a category I fall into more than occasionally) are the only ones who would write a 20-page paper for nothing.
My professor, after a spot of being righteously indignant that I didn't get into the program after two tries, said that based on my work thus far and his knowledge of me as a student (I'd taken two classes with him) he would feel comfortable giving me a B without the paper. He said, quite simply, he didn't believe I would learn anything from the exercise, and would possibly leave the course overwhelmed, stressed out, and bitter. That wasn't his intention when he designed the class. And it just made so much sense. I am now totally okay with not doing the paper.
And all's well that ends well. We chatted about my research, which I actually found quite interesting, so it was like a mini book report, in a way. Then I went to the last class of all, and four hours flew by like nothing.
So, I've shifted my goals significantly, and I'm actually much more excited about my education and career than I was when I was relentlessly pursuing this particular goal. It's like a lot of things. I realize that in my running, I kept relentlessly pursuing the marathon goal, because it was the "holy grail" of running, but kept getting injured and sidetracked. I don't think I will ever run a marathon; it's not for me. And even when I say that now, I still feel a twinge of disappointment. But I realize that my goals reflect just as much about who I am than my accomplishments, and just because a goal is an impressive rite of passage that features on myriad Bucket Lists, doesn't mean it should be mine.
I'll be porting my application over to the other program, and should see, hopefully in a few weeks, if I get in.
Anyway.
On the running front, well, nothing. I re-hurt my ankle last night putting on pants, which either means I need to go to the doctor or just stop putting on pants. Today, I went to the gym for the first time since the tonsillitis, and did my usual "back to the gym" routine of 45 or so squats, which will, as it always does, render me completely incapable of walking tomorrow.
But boy, did it feel good today.
I'm still trying to think of what I want this blog to be, what direction I want it to go in. Obviously, it's not really a running blog anymore, and I'm afraid it will continue not to be. I'm too afraid to go to the doctor in case she tells me to stay off my foot, or that I have to have surgery. Without going, I'm not running, because it feels like all the tiny bones on the top of my feet are crunching together a bit. But, I can bike and I can lift and I can do other things, and without this kind of movement, I go crazy. So it's worth it, for now, to continue moving and forget about running.
But, there are so many other things I'd like to write about. It seems that the personal blog has gone by the wayside, and most folks post about one or two things. I don't want to just write a fitness blog or a grad student blog or even a beer blog, but I'd like to combine these things and other interests in a cohesive way that presents a sort of designed energy. I'll have to think on that one for a bit.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
confessional
It's been awhile since I've felt compelled to write here, or maybe moreso known what I wanted to write about. When I started this blog over a year ago, it was out of a desire to keep myself accountable as I began this seemingly impossibly running adventure; an adventure that I'd attempted to begin time and time again with no success. It started as somewhat of a running log for me, but the knowledge that it was public and could be read by anyone somehow kept me on track and accountable. And it really worked. I like to remind myself from time to time that I once struggled to run half a mile and now I feel weird if I run less than five.
I've been online journaling for years now, since before it was cool. I have a Livejournal (yes, a Livejournal) that I've written in for close to TEN YEARS. Back when I started that, it was more acceptable to write in diaryform, to be more confessional and angsty (and at 19, I'm pretty sure we were all confessional and angsty), and today that same Livejournal still serves the same function, with a dash of maturity and wisdom. But just a dash. I enjoy being able to "lock" my entries and know who is going to be able to read what I write. And knowing SOMEONE is going to read it makes me more conscious of the way I write, forcing me to weave a more compelling story with fewer details. I consider myself a private person, yet I throw handfuls of details about my life out into cyberspace for all to see. Maybe it's not so much privacy that compels me, but control - the desire to project a certain image of myself.
There's been a lot of topsy-turvyness in my life lately, most of it not so bad, but I've been leaning mainly on the Livejournal as my outlet, and let this blog slide. Back when I started the LJing, the targeted blog wasn't so popular as it is now. Now, everyone has a "running blog" or a "cooking blog" or a "photography blog", and even the personal blogs are so well-written and controlled and targeted, from what I've seen. And me? I'm all over the place. I say I want to be a writer - and am waitlisted to the best professional writing & publishing graduate program in the country right now - yet I can't seem to force myself to write a coherent and interesting bunch of sentences.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that lately I've been having trouble deciding where I want this blog to go - what do I want it to be? What does IT want to be? What do I want to say, and to whom?
In tandem with that, lately I've been a bit burnt out with the running. I've had what feels like it might be a stress fracture, and it's been bothering me for months. I never seem to get any faster, I keep stopping and walking, I sweat too much, my nose runs, and I KNOW it's not supposed to be easy but keep feeling like some day I'll just tie up my shoes and FLY. So as I dabble in other areas of fitness, I wonder if I'll eventually give up running. If the numbers I've collected on my wall will someday just be enough; if this is just one of my myriad infatuations and that I will just tire of it eventually. And that thought made me sad. It made me profoundly sad. I want this to be part of who I am. And still, like any chronic quitter, there is a part of me that is terrified that one day I will just STOP all of this, and not be able to start up again, because now I know how truly hard it really is.
The gym is closed all week. And it's birthdayweek - I'm 29 years old today - so since last Friday, everyone wants to buy me food and drinkies and cakes and candies. And if I don't exercise, I just don't have the appetite to eat all those things, and it seems like such a waste. Not to mention my mind is all over the place, I'm both jittery and exhausted, and I feel like a slug.
Last night after dinner with a good friend, I took the train home, stuffed full of delicious pumpkin pancake and sangria. I came home to the empty apartment that I share with two boys who were strangers less than a year ago, one of whom is moving across the country in a week and who I am already missing much more than I thought I would. I came home to this home, this lovely home I kind of never want to leave, and I lay down on the floor in the living room and watched the ceiling fan spin, and wanted to do nothing but lay there and stare and let my pumpkin pancake settle.
But somehow, I found myself getting up, tying up my Nikes, and heading out into the dark.
On the eve of my 29th birthday, I flew. I flew along the shore, where the water was flat as glass, the boats barely bobbing, the dark sky collecting up light from the skyscrapers and spreading it out, dimly, between the clouds. I ran by the water, on the most beautiful night this summer has seen, and I didn't stop. I wiped my face on my shirt and blew my nose on my sleeve and I didn't care, and I kept on flying. The night fishermen I passed on the causeway were silent, but they watched me, curious and benign. The city skyline lit up and I turned and breathed it in as I rounded the back of the island. And as I finished those three miles and slowed into a brisk walk, taking off my shoes and jumping the short fence to the sandy beach, I realized : This is really part of me now. This is who I am.
I've been online journaling for years now, since before it was cool. I have a Livejournal (yes, a Livejournal) that I've written in for close to TEN YEARS. Back when I started that, it was more acceptable to write in diaryform, to be more confessional and angsty (and at 19, I'm pretty sure we were all confessional and angsty), and today that same Livejournal still serves the same function, with a dash of maturity and wisdom. But just a dash. I enjoy being able to "lock" my entries and know who is going to be able to read what I write. And knowing SOMEONE is going to read it makes me more conscious of the way I write, forcing me to weave a more compelling story with fewer details. I consider myself a private person, yet I throw handfuls of details about my life out into cyberspace for all to see. Maybe it's not so much privacy that compels me, but control - the desire to project a certain image of myself.
There's been a lot of topsy-turvyness in my life lately, most of it not so bad, but I've been leaning mainly on the Livejournal as my outlet, and let this blog slide. Back when I started the LJing, the targeted blog wasn't so popular as it is now. Now, everyone has a "running blog" or a "cooking blog" or a "photography blog", and even the personal blogs are so well-written and controlled and targeted, from what I've seen. And me? I'm all over the place. I say I want to be a writer - and am waitlisted to the best professional writing & publishing graduate program in the country right now - yet I can't seem to force myself to write a coherent and interesting bunch of sentences.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that lately I've been having trouble deciding where I want this blog to go - what do I want it to be? What does IT want to be? What do I want to say, and to whom?
In tandem with that, lately I've been a bit burnt out with the running. I've had what feels like it might be a stress fracture, and it's been bothering me for months. I never seem to get any faster, I keep stopping and walking, I sweat too much, my nose runs, and I KNOW it's not supposed to be easy but keep feeling like some day I'll just tie up my shoes and FLY. So as I dabble in other areas of fitness, I wonder if I'll eventually give up running. If the numbers I've collected on my wall will someday just be enough; if this is just one of my myriad infatuations and that I will just tire of it eventually. And that thought made me sad. It made me profoundly sad. I want this to be part of who I am. And still, like any chronic quitter, there is a part of me that is terrified that one day I will just STOP all of this, and not be able to start up again, because now I know how truly hard it really is.
The gym is closed all week. And it's birthdayweek - I'm 29 years old today - so since last Friday, everyone wants to buy me food and drinkies and cakes and candies. And if I don't exercise, I just don't have the appetite to eat all those things, and it seems like such a waste. Not to mention my mind is all over the place, I'm both jittery and exhausted, and I feel like a slug.
Last night after dinner with a good friend, I took the train home, stuffed full of delicious pumpkin pancake and sangria. I came home to the empty apartment that I share with two boys who were strangers less than a year ago, one of whom is moving across the country in a week and who I am already missing much more than I thought I would. I came home to this home, this lovely home I kind of never want to leave, and I lay down on the floor in the living room and watched the ceiling fan spin, and wanted to do nothing but lay there and stare and let my pumpkin pancake settle.
But somehow, I found myself getting up, tying up my Nikes, and heading out into the dark.
On the eve of my 29th birthday, I flew. I flew along the shore, where the water was flat as glass, the boats barely bobbing, the dark sky collecting up light from the skyscrapers and spreading it out, dimly, between the clouds. I ran by the water, on the most beautiful night this summer has seen, and I didn't stop. I wiped my face on my shirt and blew my nose on my sleeve and I didn't care, and I kept on flying. The night fishermen I passed on the causeway were silent, but they watched me, curious and benign. The city skyline lit up and I turned and breathed it in as I rounded the back of the island. And as I finished those three miles and slowed into a brisk walk, taking off my shoes and jumping the short fence to the sandy beach, I realized : This is really part of me now. This is who I am.
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