Back in possibly December, I mentioned that I was applying to a graduate program at the college where I work. One of the major major perks of working at a college is, of course, free tuition! I'm pretty smart (i.e. I know some big words and don't cross the street into traffic) but I've never been much of a school person. However, I'm much older than I was during undergrad, and felt this was too good of an opportunity to pass up.
During my first year of work, I'd been deliberating over which program I wanted to pursue, and ultimately decided to go for my first choice, Publishing & Writing. This was risky on a couple levels. First off, this program is the most selective in the whole college. Of the 200+ applications they get every year, only 50 or so are admitted each year. Staff doesn't get any preferential treatment in the application process either - we are treated just like any other applicant and have to go through the same process, including recommendation letter, GRE, deposit, etc. I hit several snags in the process, including taking the GRE in a massive snowstorm, not thinking I was going to be able to get recommendation letters in on time, massive writer's block while writing my essay, and realizing via my transcripts that I failed Community Chorus sophomore year of college. Yep. I'd thought that was just some sort of bad recurring dream that I stopped going to a class and forgot to drop it. Not so much. Totally real.
Despite all of that, I managed to make it onto the waitlist in May. However, this past Tuesday I got the little ol' rejection letter. Wah wahhhhh.
I don't feel so bad about it, really. I tried, and I tried HARD. And I'll try again, I think. I can only take three graduate classes before I have to "matriculate or go home", and I've only taken one, so I've got the next year to dig in, get some As, and BFF it up with some of the professors in the department. So that's that.
I'm half going back to school, so I'm half running a marathon.
Yesterday did 4x400 @ 8:20/mile on the treadmill, then out to my friends' new house in the 'burbs to knock down some sheetrock. Which was AWESOME. Who knew I was so great at demolition?
This is why I work out/train/exercise, whatever you want to call it. So I'm the first person my friends think of when they need to knock down a wall. So that my hands are calloused enough from kettlebell swings that I can hold onto a crowbar without wincing and putting on gloves. So that I can knock down an entire wall in the time it takes both my friends to knock down half the same size wall. And so that afterwards, I can confidently walk into the Chinese restaurant down the street wearing jorts and a Doug Mirabelli t-shirt and order two scorpion bowls and still make it to work at 8am.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
This is kind of what I was afraid of...
Since Birthday Week, I haven't been quite able to get back the regularity and intensity with which I'd been exercising previously. This is a problem. I'm jittery, and I feel I've started to lose my strength. I haven't gained back all the weight I lost, but I can still feel myself getting flabby and sluggish and weak, and I don't like it.
So, I declare today, and all Mondays to come, Motivation Monday.
This article has been lambasted all over the internet, or at least maybe I just read blogs and sites that would typically lambaste it. They're better at the lambasting, and focus on the general concept and misinformation in the article, but it serves to remind me of why I started exercising regularly and how I now keep it up.
It was hard for me to get motivated to exercise at first because the general motivation for people, especially women, to workout is to lose weight, or because they don't like their bodies. I've never felt that way, so the regularly prescribed elliptical or treadmill boringness just never seemed worth it. When I really started running, it started as a very basic challenge, then eventually grew into a lifestyle. Simultaneously, I was going through a very stressful and difficult time, and realized that running really helped and refreshed me mentally and emotionally. Then, once I gained the confidence to realize I could do things I'd never thought possible (5 miles? seriously?) I branched out to find different forms of exercise that I really enjoyed and that made me feel like a total badass. Now, if I don't exercise, I feel jittery and dull and scattered and generally unpleasant.
On that note, I'm going to the gym to get in a solid kettlebell session for the first time in three weeks. You're welcome, quads.
Happy Motivation Monday! What gets you motivated?
So, I declare today, and all Mondays to come, Motivation Monday.
This article has been lambasted all over the internet, or at least maybe I just read blogs and sites that would typically lambaste it. They're better at the lambasting, and focus on the general concept and misinformation in the article, but it serves to remind me of why I started exercising regularly and how I now keep it up.
It was hard for me to get motivated to exercise at first because the general motivation for people, especially women, to workout is to lose weight, or because they don't like their bodies. I've never felt that way, so the regularly prescribed elliptical or treadmill boringness just never seemed worth it. When I really started running, it started as a very basic challenge, then eventually grew into a lifestyle. Simultaneously, I was going through a very stressful and difficult time, and realized that running really helped and refreshed me mentally and emotionally. Then, once I gained the confidence to realize I could do things I'd never thought possible (5 miles? seriously?) I branched out to find different forms of exercise that I really enjoyed and that made me feel like a total badass. Now, if I don't exercise, I feel jittery and dull and scattered and generally unpleasant.
On that note, I'm going to the gym to get in a solid kettlebell session for the first time in three weeks. You're welcome, quads.
Happy Motivation Monday! What gets you motivated?
Monday, August 10, 2009
Race report : Falmouth Road Race '09
Picture this.
It's 6 in the morning on Sunday. Meg and I are waiting for my brother PJ to come pick us up to drive to Falmouth. I've been dressed and ready since 5:15. I'm nervous - but not entirely surprised - that PJ is late and incommmunicado. I love my brother more than anything, but he can be unbelievably irresponsible, and is not a morning person. I'm cursing my good name for not somehow making the impossible possible, and finding an overnight parking spot in Southie so the driving impetus would be on me. I've called him twice. He never picks up though, nobody in my family does. We distrust cellphones and always keep the ringers off.
Finally, he calls. He's frantic, his alarm "didn't go off". He's on the road and says he'll be here in 20. We're already late. Way late. I bite my tongue, remain calm, tell him it's fine. At least he's on the road. I run down the street to the neighborhood bakery and grab coffees and breakfast sandwiches and bottles of water. When I get back, Meg mumbles from her position under the covers that the phone's ringing. It's PJ again. Now he's completely freaking out - "I've just been pulled over, this guy is threatening to put me away. He says I was speeding and I smell like beer."
Again, I bite my tongue and remind PJ that while I understand the logic of not changing one's clothes or showering before running a sunny 7-miler, that if one was out at a party the previous night and spilled beer on one's outfit, one should probably have considered changing before getting into one’s mother’s borrowed car and speeding on the Mass Pike.
I tell him to keep me posted, and hang up so I don't run to the taxi stand and make a cab take me to the general area of exit 22 so I can wring my brother's neck. My nails have left giant red marks in my palms. I go to tell Meg what's going on, but she's in the bathroom throwing up. "Come look!" she shouts "There are bugs in my vomit!"
"Why are you looking at your puke? Stop right now. Flush it."
"It's cool though! Come look!"
"Absolutely not"
PJ calls again. I pick up. He says he can't find the car's registration, and he also might have misplaced his wallet last night so he doesn't have his driver's license. He gave the overly aggressive cop his passport and is now just sitting in the car waiting, in his own mind, to be handcuffed and thrown in the slammer.
At my repeated insistence, Meg finally stops inspecting her own throw-up and flushes the toilet.
I take a deep breath.
I feel like Michael Bluth.
By some bizarre miracle, the cop lets PJ off with just a ticket, which PJ refuses to look at. He arrives to pick us up, and I notice he's wearing the race shirt from the last 5K we did. It's electric lime with the words "Will Run for BEER" printed on the front in purple comic sans. He's also wearing the Cursed Cargo Camo Shorts, which he wore the last two times he lost his wallet and also the time he ran them through the wash with his passport still in the pocket. When I mention this might have something to do with the police officer's attitude, he replies with a string of profanities.
"These shorts need to go. They have to be BURNED."
I suggest a Viking Funeral.
About halfway there, he's certain he's forgotten to bring his bag with his running clothes and shoes. By the time we get to the Bourne Bridge, he's made up his mind to run the entire 7.2 mile course barefoot, in the aforementioned "Will Run for BEER" shirt and Cursed Cargo Camo Shorts. "I have to." he says "It's for the KIDS."
We finally make it, over an hour too late. Of course, we get caught in an absolutely epic cluster-f of traffic, and opt to peel off into a parking lot and run to the meeting place. PJ checks the trunk and realizes he did in fact bring his sneakers. So that's good. Though I think it would have taught him a nice lesson to have to run barefoot. We jog to the house that was designated as a meeting spot for the Ronald McDonald House runners. One of the House volunteers drives us to the buses that drive runners to the start. We run to that too. It's the absolute last bus. The roads are closed and they let us off about a mile from the course start.
We run there too.
After all that, we make it into our starting corrals with the approximately 10,000 other runners, about 5 minutes before the starting gun sounds.
Just because this is all amazingly clutch does not make it okay.
Nor does it make it any less hilarious.
Meg hasn't been training much and has never run more than 3 or 4 miles, but insists she'll finish if she can just stay with me. I'm not sure I can handle the responsibility of being a pacer. She stops to walk at about half a mile, and I tell her she can do it, keep it up, and she starts to jog again. This trend repeats several times over the first mile until she just gives up and I lose her in the thick crowd. I stop and wait for her after mile 2, but she never shows. I get back into the crowd and hope she makes it to the end.
My race was uneventful. After the slow start, and waiting for Meg, and having to walk for a bit due to an excruciating side stitch, I lost my hope for a good time. But, I don't really care. I'm just glad we made it here. I brought my camera and just enjoy the course and the crowds and the frequent water stops and the kazoo & banjo band at mile 6 and the stunning view of the ocean. Before I know it, it's over. This year, I'm smiling instead of crying as I see the American flag fluttering from the crane over the finish line.
PJ made a great time of 1:04. Meg finished before the course closed. And together, with fewer runners than last year's 40, the Ronald McDonald House team raised over $70,000 for the Boston Ronald McDonald House, with more still coming in. This amount helps defray about 1/8 of the House's operating costs for a given year.
Sometimes, in so many ways, making it to the starting line is the greatest challenge of all.
It's 6 in the morning on Sunday. Meg and I are waiting for my brother PJ to come pick us up to drive to Falmouth. I've been dressed and ready since 5:15. I'm nervous - but not entirely surprised - that PJ is late and incommmunicado. I love my brother more than anything, but he can be unbelievably irresponsible, and is not a morning person. I'm cursing my good name for not somehow making the impossible possible, and finding an overnight parking spot in Southie so the driving impetus would be on me. I've called him twice. He never picks up though, nobody in my family does. We distrust cellphones and always keep the ringers off.
Finally, he calls. He's frantic, his alarm "didn't go off". He's on the road and says he'll be here in 20. We're already late. Way late. I bite my tongue, remain calm, tell him it's fine. At least he's on the road. I run down the street to the neighborhood bakery and grab coffees and breakfast sandwiches and bottles of water. When I get back, Meg mumbles from her position under the covers that the phone's ringing. It's PJ again. Now he's completely freaking out - "I've just been pulled over, this guy is threatening to put me away. He says I was speeding and I smell like beer."
Again, I bite my tongue and remind PJ that while I understand the logic of not changing one's clothes or showering before running a sunny 7-miler, that if one was out at a party the previous night and spilled beer on one's outfit, one should probably have considered changing before getting into one’s mother’s borrowed car and speeding on the Mass Pike.
I tell him to keep me posted, and hang up so I don't run to the taxi stand and make a cab take me to the general area of exit 22 so I can wring my brother's neck. My nails have left giant red marks in my palms. I go to tell Meg what's going on, but she's in the bathroom throwing up. "Come look!" she shouts "There are bugs in my vomit!"
"Why are you looking at your puke? Stop right now. Flush it."
"It's cool though! Come look!"
"Absolutely not"
PJ calls again. I pick up. He says he can't find the car's registration, and he also might have misplaced his wallet last night so he doesn't have his driver's license. He gave the overly aggressive cop his passport and is now just sitting in the car waiting, in his own mind, to be handcuffed and thrown in the slammer.
At my repeated insistence, Meg finally stops inspecting her own throw-up and flushes the toilet.
I take a deep breath.
I feel like Michael Bluth.
By some bizarre miracle, the cop lets PJ off with just a ticket, which PJ refuses to look at. He arrives to pick us up, and I notice he's wearing the race shirt from the last 5K we did. It's electric lime with the words "Will Run for BEER" printed on the front in purple comic sans. He's also wearing the Cursed Cargo Camo Shorts, which he wore the last two times he lost his wallet and also the time he ran them through the wash with his passport still in the pocket. When I mention this might have something to do with the police officer's attitude, he replies with a string of profanities.
"These shorts need to go. They have to be BURNED."
I suggest a Viking Funeral.
About halfway there, he's certain he's forgotten to bring his bag with his running clothes and shoes. By the time we get to the Bourne Bridge, he's made up his mind to run the entire 7.2 mile course barefoot, in the aforementioned "Will Run for BEER" shirt and Cursed Cargo Camo Shorts. "I have to." he says "It's for the KIDS."
We finally make it, over an hour too late. Of course, we get caught in an absolutely epic cluster-f of traffic, and opt to peel off into a parking lot and run to the meeting place. PJ checks the trunk and realizes he did in fact bring his sneakers. So that's good. Though I think it would have taught him a nice lesson to have to run barefoot. We jog to the house that was designated as a meeting spot for the Ronald McDonald House runners. One of the House volunteers drives us to the buses that drive runners to the start. We run to that too. It's the absolute last bus. The roads are closed and they let us off about a mile from the course start.
We run there too.
After all that, we make it into our starting corrals with the approximately 10,000 other runners, about 5 minutes before the starting gun sounds.
Just because this is all amazingly clutch does not make it okay.
Nor does it make it any less hilarious.
Meg hasn't been training much and has never run more than 3 or 4 miles, but insists she'll finish if she can just stay with me. I'm not sure I can handle the responsibility of being a pacer. She stops to walk at about half a mile, and I tell her she can do it, keep it up, and she starts to jog again. This trend repeats several times over the first mile until she just gives up and I lose her in the thick crowd. I stop and wait for her after mile 2, but she never shows. I get back into the crowd and hope she makes it to the end.
My race was uneventful. After the slow start, and waiting for Meg, and having to walk for a bit due to an excruciating side stitch, I lost my hope for a good time. But, I don't really care. I'm just glad we made it here. I brought my camera and just enjoy the course and the crowds and the frequent water stops and the kazoo & banjo band at mile 6 and the stunning view of the ocean. Before I know it, it's over. This year, I'm smiling instead of crying as I see the American flag fluttering from the crane over the finish line.
PJ made a great time of 1:04. Meg finished before the course closed. And together, with fewer runners than last year's 40, the Ronald McDonald House team raised over $70,000 for the Boston Ronald McDonald House, with more still coming in. This amount helps defray about 1/8 of the House's operating costs for a given year.
Sometimes, in so many ways, making it to the starting line is the greatest challenge of all.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Tentative half-marathon plans are off - Amy has a wedding to go to that weekend. We're discussing other possibilities, but the truth is, I'm toying with the marathon idea again. I figure, why not? I keep saying I'm going to do it. My original promise was to run a marathon if I didn't get into school, and that's looking sadly likely right now. So, I've start talking myself into catching the marathon bug.
I keep doing this every time I -
a) Haven't run consistently for a couple weeks and conveniently forget how much it really sucks sometimes
b) Realize I don't have anything in particular to challenge me right now and
c) Feel somewhat adrift
Now, in all honesty, is 12 weeks enough time to train for a marathon?
I keep doing this every time I -
a) Haven't run consistently for a couple weeks and conveniently forget how much it really sucks sometimes
b) Realize I don't have anything in particular to challenge me right now and
c) Feel somewhat adrift
Now, in all honesty, is 12 weeks enough time to train for a marathon?
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
all in good time
I have again been very remiss in blog posting, and blog reading! Thank you for the comments on my last post - they meant a lot. I've really been wanting to catch up with your blogs, but I have not had internet at home for a couple weeks and I've been trying not to blogread at work (despite the fact that it is 10am and I am most definitely blogwriting at work).
Let's keep it short & sweet & bulletpointed.
-I may be the only woman in America who loses eight pounds because the gym is closed for a week. I had to go to the doctor for something, and they put me on the scale as usual, and did not seem nearly as concerned as I was about this rapid weight drop. The assistant who weighed me, in fact, said "That's good, isn't it?" and if I hadn't been so exhausted and depressed from the previous two weeks and hearing the door open and close at 6am as my roommate D left forever, I would have given her a choice piece of my mind. It's attitudes like this that make me want to kick society in the butt really hard with pointy shoes.
-To add injury to insult, I fell down pretty hard on the sidewalk last Friday, which left me with a painful and kinda gross hand injury that pretty much prevents me from lifting weights (hence the weight loss, I'm assuming). I miss the iron. Wah. I was getting really good too - right before this happened, I was regularly lifting 60lbs over my head. Now I'm going to have to go back down to 40. This is going to be a slow healer.
-My slackage on running makes me worry if I'm going to be able to finish Falmouth this weekend. Luckily, my friend Megan is joining me and she hasn't run more that 3 miles, so I can run with her and pretend I'm being nice.
-My friend Amy has just about convinced me to run another half marathon. In 9 weeks. It might not be the best idea ever, but I may just be crazy enough to do it.
Non-fitness bulletpoints
-A long friendship ended last week, the same day my roommate left. I know it's over because I'm not necessarily as angry as I could be - just done. In a way, I'm almost glad it's over - kind of like the situation with my roommate. The relationship just wasn't healthy for me anymore. It's been sad, and a lot to deal with, but a week later and a nice 5-mile tempo last night and I'm calm as the nighttime ocean again.
-I finally got my act together and wrote an e-mail to the program director of the program I applied for last winter and was waitlisted for. No reply yet, but at least I did it. Better late than never.
-When one door closes, another completely unrelated door opens. My cousin and her awesome boyfriend just got engaged. And a close friend of mine is pregnant. Excitement and newness all around.
Let's keep it short & sweet & bulletpointed.
-I may be the only woman in America who loses eight pounds because the gym is closed for a week. I had to go to the doctor for something, and they put me on the scale as usual, and did not seem nearly as concerned as I was about this rapid weight drop. The assistant who weighed me, in fact, said "That's good, isn't it?" and if I hadn't been so exhausted and depressed from the previous two weeks and hearing the door open and close at 6am as my roommate D left forever, I would have given her a choice piece of my mind. It's attitudes like this that make me want to kick society in the butt really hard with pointy shoes.
-To add injury to insult, I fell down pretty hard on the sidewalk last Friday, which left me with a painful and kinda gross hand injury that pretty much prevents me from lifting weights (hence the weight loss, I'm assuming). I miss the iron. Wah. I was getting really good too - right before this happened, I was regularly lifting 60lbs over my head. Now I'm going to have to go back down to 40. This is going to be a slow healer.
-My slackage on running makes me worry if I'm going to be able to finish Falmouth this weekend. Luckily, my friend Megan is joining me and she hasn't run more that 3 miles, so I can run with her and pretend I'm being nice.
-My friend Amy has just about convinced me to run another half marathon. In 9 weeks. It might not be the best idea ever, but I may just be crazy enough to do it.
Non-fitness bulletpoints
-A long friendship ended last week, the same day my roommate left. I know it's over because I'm not necessarily as angry as I could be - just done. In a way, I'm almost glad it's over - kind of like the situation with my roommate. The relationship just wasn't healthy for me anymore. It's been sad, and a lot to deal with, but a week later and a nice 5-mile tempo last night and I'm calm as the nighttime ocean again.
-I finally got my act together and wrote an e-mail to the program director of the program I applied for last winter and was waitlisted for. No reply yet, but at least I did it. Better late than never.
-When one door closes, another completely unrelated door opens. My cousin and her awesome boyfriend just got engaged. And a close friend of mine is pregnant. Excitement and newness all around.
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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