I did it!

I am proud to be a finisher of the 112th Boston Marathon! I knew I could do it, but I never really thought I would get to the end—have you ever felt that way about something? I wonder if that’s what pregnancy is like? Probably not, huh? Normally things don’t sneak up on me, being the intelligent, quick, and observant lady that I am. Because I started to plan for it five months ago, it certainly seems like I would have been wary of the exact date and time of the race, crossing off squares of a calendar each morning, writing “x hours and minutes to go!” (who does that?) as a motivational note. But I wasn’t. Partly it was, I think, because I hurt my stupid IT band and had to totally revamp my training. Partly it was because I knew I could finish the race (remember, there’s no shame in crawling) since I had done one before. And partly it was because I didn’t have co-workers and nearby friends also training who could remind me every second about it (this is a good thing). Minus my pre-race jitters and inability to finish breakfast, I really never felt it coming. Maybe that’s like a psychological defense mechanism though…

Even when I was running today it didn’t hit me until about mile 8 that I was actually doing it. It was so exciting and interesting that I barely noticed my legs hurting at mile 16 (I noticed pretty soon thereafter, though). There were so many people; I highly recommend the people watching at a busy marathon. Quite entertaining really. I mean, I passed a hugely obese man, dragging his overlapping belly down the course—don’t tell me you can’t run a marathon if this guy can. There were people in full nun costumes, which must have sucked in the 70 degree blazing sunshine. Obviously there were the scary-skinny people who you would expect to finish in two hours, but mostly there were just normal, everyday looking average Joes and Josephines plodding along. Some people were miserable, some people were smiling, some people were singing and yelling, some people were listening to music, and some people were talking to anyone who came near. I would say it was even better than watching people at an airport, if you can believe it. So that helped pass the time too, anyway.

Here We Go

Have you ever thrown up because you were so nervous? I haven’t, but I know some people who do it all the time and I almost joined their ranks this morning. My friend PE used to sprint through the snow in ski boots to go secretly hurl in the woods behind the starting shack before every ski race, and while I never have had that kind of butterflies in my stomach, I could not get that peanut butter and bananaed bagel down my gullet. I choked down as much as I could, feeling each bulge of [normally delicious] crunchy peanut chunk as it scraped down my shrinking esophagus, and trying not to think about how dry my throat was even though I was on my third Nalgene of the morning. I finally gave up on breakfast, giving a pretty big chunk of it to the mutt in the back of the car and hoping I didn’t look as pale and pathetic as I felt. Luckily for them, I don’t think dogs get nervous when food is involved, and luckily for me, I have a pretty good tan most of the time.

Anyway, this anxiety thing really sneaked up on me. I packed my marathon bag, laid out my clothes, set two alarm clocks, drank a ton of water, and relaxed the night before the race. I stretched a bunch of times, took some preventative anti-inflammatory drugs, and checked everything about six times. I didn’t wake up in a cold sweat, lie awake picturing myself tripping over another runner and breaking both our legs, or dream about other improbable and ridiculous events. But when I woke up, gee whiz was I nervous. There was nothing I could do about it though, because, as I said, I obsessively checked everything and made sure my day was planned and totally prepared for. I guess it never really hit me I would finally run the race; four and a half months of training is a long time to think about a lot of other stuff besides a marathon. Well, maybe I have some ADHD issues, but that’s not important. What is important is that I ate enough breakfast, caught the bus to the start, used the bathroom in time, and met my charity team right when and where I was supposed to. Did that make me less nervous? No. But making it to the starting line is probably half the battle for some people, don’t you think?

Bib Pick-Up

Let me sum it up for you: absolute mayhem. Where did all these people come from? How can there be this many people in the world who think running a marathon is a good idea? How many freakin’ flavors of “energy gel” do you need to show me before you realize I think they are all disgusting?

My running buddy and I met up at the marathon exposition, which took up an entire floor of a giant conference center building in downtown Boston and was basically set up like a maze they didn’t want you to ever get out of. Well, that’s good business I suppose, but really, I started to get a little claustrophobic and nervous at the end of my visit. There were literally people bumping into each other everywhere I looked; a shirtless man, attached to all these machines, was in a bubble, running on a treadmill, in the middle of the show; someone was on a loudspeaker, yelling some running mumbo-jumbo I didn’t understand every three seconds; there were at least fifteen sneaker stores, eighteen energy bar stations, and twenty-eight energy drink stands set up in among the socks, sports bras, shorts, movies, posters, commemorative gear and other running paraphernalia people do not need to buy the weekend before the marathon. We couldn’t even tell where the exit was because each corner of the room was set up just as all the others, so we wandered around, probably seeing everything twice, maybe three times, and just made sure to get at least one of every free sample because we paid our race entry fee, dammit.

We made it out without any nervous breakdowns and without buying anything, which I think is pretty key considering a) I don’t have any money and b) everything in there cost about three times as much as it should. I figure the finisher’s medal will have the logo on it and that’s good enough for me—added motivation in case something happens and I don’t think I’m gonna make it. So, at least I got my bib, which is necessary, and the cool long-sleeve running shirt that came with it. I also got a tummy-ache from all the hippy junk I was eating just because it was there. Who eats organic, cruelty-free fruit roll ups anyway? I did. Yes I did.

Seven Days

In seven days, God created the Earth. I don’t remember much from Sunday School, but I’m pretty sure that’s right. Unless…did he create everything in six days and then rest on the seventh? Or did he create the seventh day so everyone else could rest on it? Damn, I should know this.

In seven days, I will create a marathon finish. I will walk, run, crawl, pull over, restart, drink water, drink Gatorade, eat some snacks, use the port-o-let, and otherwise make my way from the start to the finish. It ain’t no Big Bang or Creation Story, but it sure is somethin’.

I think the best part of what I will do in seven days is what I have done leading up to the race. Every time I had to write an e-mail, begging for money to sponsor MetroLacrosse, I knew I was doing something good for others. Every time I untied my shoes after a long run, I felt like I was doing some good for myself. Sure, the idea of needing to come up with $5000 when I could barely afford to by my own-self some new sneakers was a bit daunting, and I was definitely pissed when the money I was raising didn’t even go toward my $200 entry fee (selfish, I know). Sure, the weather was horrible some days and I hated the actual event of running, and when I got home I cursed the skies and blasphemed everything in sight. But, overall, the training experience has given me: a goal to work toward in my post-school pre-real-job boredom, a release for some everyday frustrations (most often work-related, am I right?), an appreciation for how the heck non-profits can afford to pay even one single employee, the realization that I'm getting (a tad) older and need to pay more attention to my body, and a healthy plan to follow so I don’t sit inside watching E! television and reading crap magazines in my “down-time”.

Plus, I get a cool fluorescent orange team jersey and a medal. And I guess I also get to feel good about helping inner-city kids stay off the streets and learn sports and health and good stuff like that…that’s not bad either.

Pure Hatred

To each his own, I guess, but here is the only thing I have to say today: you are absolutely dumb if you think running indoors counts ever as acceptable training.

I just hate it. Detest, abhor, etc., etc.. It’s boring, it hurts, it’s sweaty, it has no semblance whatsoever of “real” running, and it means you have to see, hear, and witness other people in the gym which means you have to put up with their loud music/annoying tv show/teeth-grittingly bad lifting form/cell-phone conversation/mirror-viewing-faces and don’t even get any fresh air. Maybe, just maybe, if I had a personal room (with several locks on the door) with just one cushy, comfortable treadmill and my own big tv (for which I do not need headphones) with a big, open window and a fan blowing in then, maybe then, I would run on a treadmill and not want to kill myself. Even if this opportunity came up and it was slightly raining and/or cold I would still run outside. I get a p-shiver just thinking about the treadmill. Yuck.

And also, if you need to get your dog a treadmill you are a bad, bad parent.

Two Weeks to Go

There are exactly 14 days until the marathon. I have been planning for this day for a good five months now, and it feels surreal that the day is actually coming. Among applying to run for charity, raising money for said charity, doing workouts with this charity, buying new shoes ($$), stalking the official website, and actually logging the miles, I haven’t even really thought about the marathon being a real day that would some time arrive. That’s pretty stupid of course, but I also think maybe it’s a good thing. I haven’t been too worried about it, and that can’t be all bad.

Unless…
What if on Sunday I forget the race is on Monday and I:
Don’t set my alarm clock?
Cut my toenails and they become too short and ingrown?
Go out and get totally hammered? Go on a long, relaxing-but-tiring-and-definitely-not-on-the-training-plan run?
Eat spicy Mexican?
Go skiing and break a leg?
Have a Red Bull and stay up too late, pacing the apartment with a heart rate of 170?

These are just a few things that could potentially happen to someone who hasn’t yet realized the marathon is a real race on a real day that will really happen. Out of the 20,000+ people running this marathon, I wonder if a single one will encounter one of the potential, and totally realistic, hazards. Luckily for me, I only marginally like Red Bull (the diet one), won’t go skiing, just cut my toenails, and it’s a good thing I don’t worry. Ever. About anything.

Fresh Air and Sunshine

I know my feelings for this marathon have wavered greatly over the past few months, but it is dang hard to complain when the snow has melted, the sun shines everyday, and I can finally exercise without multiple layers, a hat, and gloves. Not only is it nice to get some Vitamin D up in this piece, it is also wonderful to stay away from the inevitable sticky stench of cold-sweat that builds up so quickly in running clothes when they are layered on top of a body confused about whether to be hot or cold. I’m all for doing what it takes to run outside, but I’m not much of a laundry-doer, per se. If I can’t smell it from its folded place in the drawer, then it’s not too stinky to wear again. I sure don’t miss having almost-frozen snot dribbling down my chin, (even if I can never feel it because when it’s that cold, my face is numb anyway), I don’t miss freezing my tootsies off and having them be borderline-frostbitten for hours after I come back inside (even though twelve years in racer’s ski boots definitely prepped them for cramped and frozen conditions), and I absolutely don’t miss waking up in the dark, looking out into the cold, gray, miserable weather and knowing I have to force myself to get outside for an hour or two (lest I wish to endure the wrath of the treadmill). No, I don’t miss these things at all.

If I could train for a marathon whenever I wanted, it would be in the spring. It’s not too hot yet, it gets light early and stays light pretty late, the sun is out at least five days a week (I’ve been counting), and everyone is in a great mood. You get lots of waves and smiles from people walking or driving by (except that old man this morning who told Law School BF to “f%^ing wait for the light you a%$wipe!” even though there is actually no crosswalk light. Moron). You don’t have to cram a puny run into the two minutes of daylight you barely have before or after you get out of work. It smells like fresh earth, or what I picture fresh earth to smell like, and if you have a doggy friend, he loves to smell and dig and paw every old pile of leaves, bundle of pine needles, blade of new grass, and generally wag his tail at how great the springtime is, making you feel like the best mistress in the world (which, naturally, you are anyway).

Here’s what you can do in the spring if you have a thick, black, possibly-from-a-husky fur coat on: go swimming. Bruschi the Mutt doesn’t swim in the typical four-feet off the ground, floating around panting and paddling kind of way. He just plops in the shallow end, rolls around a little on his haunches, laps up a few licks, does a circle, and he’s ready to go. This is especially grand if the swimming “pool” is more like a half-inch deep pile of old leaves and new mud. It’s even better for dog-swimming if it can take place between the last clean-water opportunity and home so one does not have to be stripped of the cooling mud/leaf combo. Needless to say, we have more than one skanky old towel hanging right inside our entry way.

Ahh, springtime!

The Question

When you send “update” e-mails to thousands of people, you better expect about that many people to ask you how training is going. Well hi-dee, I guess I can’t remember every person on that list because I was taken totally off guard yesterday at our first, and only, lacrosse scrimmage. Of all places, I consider the lacrosse field—my one actual place of current work—somewhere I can get away from my worries, eh? Since I do nothing all day but wait for lacrosse practice, I may or may not dwell upon the fact I haven’t been training at full tilt and have no idea how Marathon Monday is going to pan out and wonder what I will do if I start hurting at Mile 2 and then have to humiliatingly walk the rest of the 26.2 miles. So, it’s nice to think practice will help me forget these things. Well, not so. And I had to consider how to answer “The Question” on my toes, without any forewarning, to someone I didn’t even know had been following my progress. Good to know people are listening though!

“The Question” is, of course, benign, simple, direct, and probably offered as a polite conversation starter: “How’s training?” The problem with this question is there are at least twelve possible angles of attacking the answer. Do you mean the running part? The stretching? The hydration? The nutrition? The equipment? The weather? The program? The motivation? The time? If I had any idea about where to start, I guess the answer would come more easily. But I think I took ten seconds to even look my friend in the eye to start considering what to say. Do I talk about my injury (how boring and pathetic)? Do I just lie and say it’s all going to plan? Does she really want to know? Because this question was the last one I expected, I just blurted out a mix of answers and promptly changed the subject.

Some people, and I even know a few of “these” people, know how to answer the Question at any given time. But cripes, I don’t even know if I would consider what I am currently doing training anyway. I am sort of biding my time, resting my legs, icing them, stretching them, and wondering if (read: praying and hoping) they will make it through the race. I really want that finisher’s medal though, so I’ll probably just crawl if I have to. I'll be the girl the police drag on to the sidewalk because I'm taking so long to finish they have to open the roads again. That would definitely be on tv. But I will get that medal, dammit.

Possible Variables

I was never much of a scientist, but I do consider myself a semi-trained and fully-interested psychologist. I analyze everyone, let me tell you. And if I feel badly about it, which is rarely, I just remind myself that it’s in my nature. So when I hurt my knee, I started thinking about dependent and independent variables of the injury and if there was any way to pinpoint the one most idiotic decision that led to my injury. I am bothered to say that I’m not quite sure what happened; it does not suit me to not know something, but I’m working on coming to terms with the idea that it might be several idiotic decisions rather than just the one.

1. Yoga—or really, lack thereof. I’m no tattooed, patchoulied, vegan, 1% body fat yogi, but I did enjoy weekly lessons in the art of stretching, relaxing, breathing, and peace that yoga classes offer. When I thought I would be finding a day-job, I quit yoga because the best teachers only worked during the day and the other classes were during the time I actually was working. Well, too bad for me. I can now barely touch my toes (and I’m really flexible) and my upper back gets sore after I go to the gym, even if I don’t lift any weights requiring the use of said muscles. I’m sure yoga would have helped prevent my injury—why did I have to be so cheap and egotistical?
2. Skiing—not only does the act of skiing require massive amounts of squatting and otherwise rubbing of the IT band across leg bones, it also took me out of my training schedule and “forced” me to forgo stretching for a good ten days. When you ski all day on big mountains in fresh, clean air and bright sunshine, you are way too tired to hold any stretching poses, no matter how much your muscles are screaming for help and how good for yourself you know it would be. I also was way too dehydrated and far too set on finding the perfect belt-buckle to worry about my training plan. Did I mention the Mexican food (and margaritas)? Or Whiskey Wednesday? So that week and a half of western debauchery could be the cause…
3. Doing a Crap Job on Following the Training Plan—this may or may not have a huge, irreplaceable part in my injury. I didn’t exactly start the plan on time, or maybe I did, but I wish I had left a couple weeks of “mess-up” time in there. I did that for my last (and first) marathon training and that was cake. Yes, cake is the word. Anyway, the ski trip, which made me miss a 16 mile run, came the week after I was sick, which made me miss a 15 mile run, and then I promptly hurt myself and haven’t run that long since. I got back up to 11 and then 12 miles before hurting myself again; but I don’t imagine the 18 and 20 mile runs on the training program are going to get done anytime soon…
4. Weakness—since I stopped going to the university twice a week—oh how I wish I still was—I also stopped going to the really good gym and giving my legs a good workout. Sure, running is supposed to be good for your stems, but what I need, and my not-so-tight little bum now desperately needs, is a good weight lifting session. Normally I have some pretty hot legs, but now I’m not too keen on showing them off. Anyway, regardless of my level of leg self-esteem, extensive research has shown me that weak hip flexors, gluteals, hamstrings, and quads lead to IT band injury. Considering it’s been five months since I did a real squat with any kind of weight, I consider this a legitimate reason for being injured. Dammit!

I feel as if I had many more epiphanies than the above four, but in the end really I guess that’s it. Those are enough excuses; I don’t really need to dwell on the myriad other things I probably did wrong this time around. As you know, I am basically jobless, spending hours every day begging for something to do to keep my brain from rotting and spilling out my ears (didn’t your Grammy tell you that’s what happens when you watch too much telly?), so I really don’t have a good reason to be injured in the first place. I should have been stretching, going to yoga, lifting weights, and following the God-forsaken oracle of a training plan because what the hell else have I been doing?!

The Joy of the Job Search

If you can’t tell I’m in the middle of a fruitless, tedious, pathetic job search, that’s because I never talk about it. It’s so boring, and so lame, and so unbelievable in its hideous results (none) even I know not to bring it up to other people. What would be the point really? I would just be confessing a) how many times I’ve been rejected and b) how nobody around here thinks I’m smart enough to teach their kids. “Hey, I finished my Master’s degree six months ago, and I haven’t been able to get a job, even though the greater Boston area has over 200 private schools and countless public ones, and despite the fact that there is a major teacher deficit in America. What’s new with you?” Pathetic.

I mean, maybe it’s my fault. Possibly. But really it’s definitely not my fault at all. I have literally e-mailed every school or school district within 30 miles of here, regardless of their current or expected job openings. I write a mean cover letter, let me tell you. I have talked to friends, relatives, friends’ relatives, and pretty much every coworker I have (hint, hint: give me more to do around here and I’ll stay!) The thing that really kills me is, as everyone knows, I’m a great catch. No really! I’m like a triple threat celebrity who can dance, sing, and act—think Beyonce, minus the acting, and Britney, minus the singing. And acting I guess. Only I have more skills and I can actually do a good job on them. I teach, I coach, I babysit the dorms, I tutor, I proctor SATs, I cover the front desk phones, I decorate the dances, I drive vans—I do it all. So why won’t anyone hire me? It’s certainly not my ego, is it?

This marathon training thing has been a nice distraction from the abysmal annoyance of job-hunting, but since I’m injured I can’t even rely on that to take up an hour or two of my day. I suppose I’ve been stretching and icing more than usual, but I can do that while watching tv or reading a book, so it doesn’t exactly feel like I am challenging myself intellectually and getting anything out of the $36,879 advanced degree diploma I have in my care. I have to find a job. I can’t live in this stinky, squeaky old house full of high school boys again if I don’t find at least four hours more of work a day. And no, sorting files and opening envelopes does not count as work for me. I can only sit on my ass for so long before I get restless leg syndrome and start to wig out. I can only plan lacrosse practice for so long before I make it into a novel that will last an entire school day to complete and I begin obsessing over game plans and offensive plays that continue to follow me into my dreams. I can only take the dog on so many walks, cook so many meals, do so many crossword puzzles, and watch so much E! television before I go crazy and start begging anyone and everyone on the street for work.

Let’s hope it doesn’t get to that. As I have mentioned, I would not be a good panhandler.

Fundraising- The Point of this Madness!

So, I haven’t been saying much about fundraising, and, even though it’s pretty boring, I think it’s about time. It will help me consider the progress I’ve made and definitely help me appreciate how many wonderful supporters I have. Maybe it will feel like Thanksgiving or something! Mmmmm, Thanksgiving. I like squash and mashed potatoes the best. Gravy is delicious, of course. And dessert. Pecan pie, apple pie, la la la.

But yes, fundraising. In order to run this crazy marathon I have to raise money for a charity. This, if you recall, is because I would not enjoy attempting to qualify—by running another marathon (why would anyone do that, you say?)—and would much enjoy just raising money instead. Turns out “just raising money” isn’t all that easy. Maybe if my friends were a) not just out of college, b) not cheapskates, or c) not teachers/other good people who don’t make enough money as it is and do enough good things for the world as it is, then it would be easier. But, I’m trying. I have had some “events”, an NCAA March Madness pool, and lots and lots of e-mail harassment disguised as ”training updates.” Example: One month to go! Hurt my knee. Have you donated? Think about the children. I don’t know what I would have done without sports. It is such a great organization. Here are 18 different ways to give MetroLacrosse money…

I have e-mailed, on several occasions, everyone I played lacrosse with in college, all my friends, all my relatives, all my acquaintances, and all the random people in my address book, plus all other random people I think even remotely like sports, kids, or helping the youth of America. I posted stuff on websites, hoping anyone and everyone would see my plea and donate money. I spoke in person with businesspeople on Main Street. I spoke in person with lots of people I had already e-mailed. I bothered everyone I work with. I was/am annoying.

It is an interesting feeling, to have to raise money. I am certainly not cut out for it in “real life”. It feels so awkward, but at the same time I know it shouldn’t. People don’t have to say yes (they just have to live with extreme and gnawing guilt if they don’t), and it’s not like it takes that long to listen to my story, and I know the result is that a really great organization gets some urgently needed moolah. But somehow it still just feels wrong. Another profession I couldn’t summon the guts to do: panhandling. Scratch that off my list.

Ruined profession aside, I am doing alright. I’ve got 3.7/5ths of my goal amount, which, by the way, is a totally arbitrary number I copied off the example fundraising sheet they gave me in the “starter kit”. How the heck do I know how much is a good goal? I do know that good goals are attainable…but I don’t know how much money people want to pay to get annoying “update” e-mails from me about how my running is going. And I hate failing so I couldn’t exactly overshoot my goal by too much unless I wanted to become depressed and pathetic about it; obviously I didn’t, and still don’t, so I shot fairly low. I aimed higher than the mandatory amount, just to feel like I was trying, but not too much higher (see aforementioned competitive nature). I have reached said mandatory amount but not my goal. I am in the middle, and I am pretty proud of it. I still have a month to the race, and they accept donations far past that, so I think I can do it.

If you get an update e-mail, sorry. But definitely donate anyway.

http://metrolacrosse.kintera.org/faf/home/default.asp?ievent=253234&lis=1&kntae253234=1E4988660E54426DB9B6A0F2C28BD304

High School Hormones

Obviously I hurt my knee again after the team workout. Of course, right? I am so mad at myself for not just giving up and skipping the damn training session, as I really would have liked to do. There are times when I like my go-get-‘em attitude and sometimes it gets me in so much trouble! In researching the “IT Band” some more, to find out what the heck I need to do in order to be able to run this marathon in a month, it all became clear why I hurt myself in the first place—or the second place, if you are counting the actual first time I hurt it a month ago. PS. Why did it get better only to fool me and get worse again? Well, there could actually be several reasons for this IT pain, but the one I believe is that the IT band pain comes from super tight leg muscles, especially the gluteals (ass) that then get overworked and drag the IT across the knee joint and femur creating this friction aka misery pain. In my case, the crazy-intense team workout followed by three days of muscle soreness and an immediate attempt at a 15 mile run wasn’t the best of ideas. But my knee didn’t hurt at the time! Of course I wouldn’t have even tried if I thought it wasn’t magically better. So anyway, back to square one on the resting, icing, and stretching. So utterly boring.

Here’s what is anything but boring: chaperoning a high school girls’ lacrosse trip to Florida. Maybe tedious at times, maybe hot and sunburny at times, but never boring. Especially when boys’ baseball teams start showing up at the hotel. Somehow, the girls didn’t get in trouble until the last night of the trip. Ever so smartly, they were loudly commingling right outside our balcony—of all the places on the property, I mean really. We heard a boy yell one of our girls’ names across the entire hotel; we saw some of them walking off on the beach with boys we had never seen before; we saw them exchanging phone numbers; we heard them conspiring to go back out to meet the boys after they had checked in with us. For kids who are supposedly so smart, they sure can make some surprisingly inane choices. And of course, even though we saw and heard all of the above with our own eyes and ears, the group blames it all on the one girl we actually called out because we saw her going off alone with a boy. I sure don’t care if you gals hang out with some boys but golly can you not creep alone down a dark alley with someone you don’t know? The number one rule was “stick together”, so of course we had to bust her. I guess that’s not too bad for six nights though.

Anyway, it was too hot to run in Florida (even though I saw, several times, people of various shapes and sizes running around lunchtime of all hours—near the highway of all places) so I took the week off. This does not bode well for the “training” I am supposed to be doing, but maybe will help with my annoying perpetual injury. The girls did get a lot better at lacrosse though. And I have a nice tan, naturally.

Team Workout aka Persisting Pain

Well, sh%$. I am still sore from a workout four days ago and it ain’t lookin’ like its going to feel better anytime soon. Can someone tell me why I went through this torture? I will tell you why. My charity team gets together once a month for a cross-training session. Cross-training in this definition means: “squats, lunges, jumps, and other things that make your legs extremely sore”. I wasn’t here last month so I couldn’t go to the last one, and I have extreme guilt about not being a good teammate if I don’t do these group activities, so I had to go this time. I had already done a big run that day, was tired from something else I don’t even remember, and knew it would be a tough workout but the guilt just ate away at me until I finally just got in the car and went.

Now, I’m the kind of athlete who thrives on someone else telling me what to do in a workout; that’s what happened from age 8 to 22 for me so I have plenty of practice taking orders. I can run by myself but not really do sprints (why would I if someone wasn’t making me?); I can lift weights but not really get stronger by doing anything intense (again, why?); I’m pretty healthy but I’m certainly not “cut” or “ripped” or losing pounds by any means. I think this group workout is good for me for many reasons, among them that I would never do the exercises on my own. That’s the problem, though. Because I never do “flying jump squats with a twenty pound dumbbell” or “side lunges with hops, skips and pushups” or “sprints” or some such nonsense, I get mad (read: super) sore when I do. Which, at this point, is once a month or less for the past four months and, um, never in the past five years. After this workout, I feel muscles in my groin and hips I can’t even find in a physiology textbook. Things not connected to anything we worked out start to hurt the next day—I think my armpit muscle was trying to get some attention. I hobble up and down stairs at the rate of a slug for days; I must look like someone who just went through an assault or child-birth or something else scary and painful.

However, it feels good. The group part of it is pretty nice: there’s always someone slower and weaker than I am, which is important if you are me. The coach part of it is very nice: I don’t have to plan anything or hold myself to anything so there’s little to no thinking involved. The actual workout itself is superbly nice: it can’t possibly be boring because I have no idea what’s next and I know it’s good for me because I sweat through two shirts, drink two Nalgenes’ worth of water, and fall asleep before 9pm. If this workout wasn’t $25 a session I would sign up for some on my own, seriously. I would be jacked if I did this sort of thing once a week. Alas, I will not pay for anything like this and, doubly alas, I will not plan or make myself do anything like this on my own. Therefore, I resign myself to a week of sore muscles and limited mobility for the sake of not feeling like I am letting down my team (even though about six of 35 people actually show up each time).

Bonus: the charity gives out prizes to those who attend these sessions and I just won a signed 2004 World Series baseball! Cha-ching! Too bad I am too sore to even pick it up to examine its legitimacy…

Relaxation

I have to say that running is a great relaxer. You may not agree, but I’ve heard and read that opinion several times and I certainly concur. That might not really make sense, considering what some people look like when they are running. Have you ever seen a marathon on tv? They, of course, only show the people in the lead, who, of course are torturing themselves, slobbering while somehow at the same time bleeding from their chapped and dried out lips, they are totally dehydrated but half of them have peed (or worse) their shorts, and they are skinny, wiry, and crazy-looking, wincing with every step but pushing themselves so hard to maintain that intense pace and probably crying. No offense—they do great things, things of which I am not capable, but even they must know they don’t make running look relaxing. Someone, let’s say an alien, who had never seen a runner would take one look at a marathon competitor and deduce that running is the most painful exercise on Earth and not worth one bit of anyone’s time or energy.

Pain isn’t just for the racers though. Do you ever see people in your town who look as if their morning jog is hell in sneakers? I hate those people. If you detest running so much, do something else. I have no sympathy for you, pal. Kudos to you for working out and all but let’s be honest, how many times can you go for a run and hate every second before you just up and quit, never to run again? All the experts know and suggest that people pick exercise that interests them, not makes them miserable. And everyone normal knows this idea is a big “duh”. However, some people, I guess, and I don’t know why, ascribe to the “no pain, no gain” school of thought. Ha!

Anyway, back to my vision of a misery-runner: I believe this person is most often a middle-aged man who usually has somewhat of a pot-belly and (hopefully) is wearing some kind of old-school thick and wide headband from the 70s' NBA era. He shuffles along the sidewalk, squinting in the sunlight like it’s giving him a migraine; his shoes are totally scuffed out in certain areas which makes his gait look even more uncomfortable and wobbly; his sweat stains droop on his cut-off sweatshirt (Bill Belichick style, especially in New England) from his armpits to his hips and cover his lower back; often he looks like he won’t make it one more step. But I’ll tell you one thing: this guy is the king of the world when he finishes his run, even if it was two miles in two hours. I would love to see one of these people at the end of a jog. I picture a cross between Jack Dawson on the bow of the great Titanic (the movie version, not real life) and Rocky after he defeats Drago in the best of the series (Rocky IV, if you don’t know); fist-pumps, smiles, and sweat galore.

However, and again, this may not be true for you or for some people you know, I feel totally at ease running. I was once running somewhere and some random guy walking by commented on how he had never seen anyone smile while running before. I thought a) that’s weird to just start talking to someone running by, b) I must actually have a big smile on for anyone to notice at all, and c) perv. This attitude of mine may be attributed to my non-racing pace, negative desire to get my heart rate above 140, happy running dog partner/distracter, and the fact that I have been an outdoorsy, athletic person for pretty much all of my 26 years so it feels weird not to be active. That’s part of it.

The other part has to do with all the daydreaming and problem solving involved. Do you ever talk to yourself? I do. All the time. In accents sometimes too (I’m pretty good at Australian). Is that weird? When I run I try not to actually talk out loud to myself, but I definitely have conversations and monologues in a voice in my head; I think it’s my voice, anyway. When Bruschi the Mutt is having a great time and I wish he had a doggy friend to have this great time with, I daydream about when and where I will be able to get his said friend and what this lady-mutt will be like. This often leads to daydreaming about getting a full-time job I want, which is taking a lot longer than it should right now, moving out West which I really want (to do, ASAP), and other random things that go along with a life that is conducive to having two dogs and running with them in the glorious, free outdoors. This sort of thinking could leave me depressed I suppose, but it actually makes me feel great. That could also be that fresh air is my magical life elixir and sitting still for even one full day just doesn’t feel right.

There are also those scientifically proven endorphin thingies I suppose.

What Goes Up Must Come Down

Remember how great I felt running the other day? I felt equally as horrible yesterday. I think I was being punished for writing about how wonderful and amazing and super my run was; somebody of a higher power didn’t care for me to enjoy such an activity as much as I did and flaunt my happy feelings. I should have known it couldn’t be true: “Training for a marathon? Not supposed to be fun you stupid human. You shall pay.” (said in God-voice, naturally). Of course Law School BF and Bruschi the Mutt were having a grand old time, chatting about inane subjects I would normally laugh at and appreciate in their stupidity, running at a faster pace than usual and making me mad it was so easy for them. Literally as soon as I set foot on the pavement, I had to convince myself every step was going to feel better than the last and that yes, I could complete the remaining 11.99 miles of my 12 mile run.

Have you ever had that feeling that you are just plain doing the wrong thing? I don’t mean morally, because those stories would take months to tell, let’s be honest, but the feeling that what you are doing is okay to do and maybe even good for you but absolutely, horribly wrong for you at that particular moment in time? That’s what I felt. For 12 miles. That’s almost two hours in Average Josephine time. And, if my calculations are correct, that’s 12 miles and two hours too long to do anything that doesn’t feel right. However, at this point in the game, I can’t afford to skip any training just because it doesn’t feel right. Imagine what the higher powers would think of that?

Some of my weaker thoughts:
Mile 1: I wish Law School BF would shut up already. I wish he would go home and do his stupid law school homework and be miserable too and just leave me alone and stop frickin’ talking as if I ever have once cared what he has to say.
Mile 3: I’m only a quarter of the way done? Are you kidding me? I would rather break my ankle right now on that dirty, nasty pile of old snow and have to drag myself home down Route 2 while 18 wheelers barely miss flattening me into the gravely pavement than run the marathon.
Mile 6: I’m starving. I’m so stupid for not eating a snack before we left. What kind of idiot leaves for a two hour run without shoving some food down her gullet first? Stupid. Idiot. Moron. Loser.
Mile 9: Alright, I dropped off boyfriend and dog. I had a snack and some water. I went to the bathroom. I plugged in some music. It’s 6pm and still light out; it’s sunny and not too cold. There is no reason I should hate this right now. I have to do this. I have to. I hate my life.
Mile 11: I still have a mile left? What the heck kind of dumdum made up this horrible training plan? What sort of idiot follows that obviously stupid training plan? Can’t I be finished already? If mile 11 in the marathon isn’t even half way done what kind of failure am I going to be? If I just passed out in the street right now would someone pull over and drive me home or would they just think I was a drunken bum passed out and ignore me?

Then, I was done. And I felt great about it. And I forgot all the horrible things I said to myself, and I was psyched about running, and when I got in the apartment I told the boyfriend how the rest of my run had been grand. That’s the thing about training: sometimes you have to struggle to do it (and you want to kill yourself and everyone around you and you hate the world, etc., etc.), but when you finish you feel like the strongest and smartest and most accomplished person in the world and you are so proud of yourself.

I’m sure I’ll repeat this entire process more than once in the next month and a half, but for now I’m still feeling great about finishing that run yesterday. Go me.

Enjoying Myself?

I had a wonderful, absolutely amazing, calming, easy, relaxing, enjoyable, exciting, feel-good, smiling-the-whole-time run yesterday. It sounds so weird to say, but that 8 mile Wednesday afternoon run was fun and simple and I feel great about it. Most people, me included, would think that an 8 mile run is abnormally long, tedious, and a waste of time. Well, maybe not a waste of time if you’re trying to lose weight because you are morbidly obese (like half of America) or training for the Olympics (like 1/10000000th of America) or something, but a waste of time if you are an average person with a job, a social life, and some hobbies outside of running, let alone a family or secret affair to nurture and hide.

For me, yesterday, I was in the zone. I have never really experienced “the zone”, that I know of, so I’m not sure if that’s exactly what it was, but the 8 miles flew by in a breeze of comfortable enjoyment and pleasure, and when I was done I felt like I could have done it again but was perfectly content being finished. The air was clean and it was quiet on the roads I chose; I could hear some birds, excited for the spring, and the soft padding of my feet—nothing else. When I finished, I couldn’t stop smiling and I felt as if I was walking on air. That is how I wish I felt after every run. Sometimes it’s nice to be a little too sweaty and a little too out of breath and wish immediately to have a different shirt to change into; it feels as if you’ve really accomplished something (and can afford calorie-wise to go huge on food later). But this feeling of euphoria I experienced definitely tops that. That magical run really put me at peace and, as cheesy as it sounds, I felt like a runner.

I’m not sure when one becomes a runner—is it like a butterfly coming out of its cocoon, wrapped up one minute and free the next? Or is it like a seed, planted months in advance and sprouting slowly as the weather permits? Maybe it’s like a cake and you have to get all the right ingredients in order, perfectly measured, and then combine them exactly right, stick ‘em in the oven, and wait for the timer to ding. I don’t really know. And I’m certainly not saying I think I am a runner. Runners wear those super loose and short shorts (on men you can almost see their…you know), even when they have jackets and gloves on; runners get up early on Saturdays and run until lunch time; runners are skinny with big calves and tight quads. So no, I don’t consider myself a runner. But it was nice to feel like one.

And then go have a margarita and some cookie dough because I could.

Back in the Game

After my two week hiatus from training (flu and vacation; bad and good reasons), I promptly hurt my knee. Now, don’t get me wrong, I really want to complete the training so I have every chance of enjoying (and finishing) the marathon in April, and so I don’t look like a total a-hole, petering out after five miles and stumbling off course to secretly catch a cab home but I also know when to stop and rest so that’s just what I did.

Since I have absolutely zero chance ever of winning the marathon (any marathon, let alone the Boston Marathon), and, honestly, even less desire to do so (unless it was wicked easy and the prize was never having to work at anything ever again, duh) I didn’t much mind taking some time off. Maybe if four days turned into ten days and I even had pain just sitting still, which is so annoying, then I would have worried. But this injury didn’t worry me, and thusly (positive psychology works, remember that) it healed with speed. I stayed away from running for five days. I admit, I used the elliptical trainer once. I got a really cheesy book from the library about some girl moving to NYC to live with her French prince boyfriend for some inane reason and in the end she makes out with and wakes up next to his best friend and oh, dear, the drama. So at least that was entertaining for me while I droned away in the stupid gym.

I also took three days straight-up off from using my legs at all. I could really get used to this “marathon training” thing! From the library, I also procured some information on the IT band, icing leg injuries, and the like. I walked around for three days with a little lunch-pack ice bag Ace bandaged to my knee, bulging out from my leg like a Discovery Channel tumor; I started to think it felt good though. A couple times, I took off the ice pack and my skin was white and numb. Naturally, I like to poke it with various objects to test myself when this happens. Ahh, my good friend, Frostbite! Have you ever frostbitten something on purpose? Well, in ski group we used to steal latex gloves from the bathroom supply closet, fill them with water, leave them out for a few hours, and then play with the frozen hands we so geniusly made—that has nothing to do with frostbite unless you then put that frozen hand down your pants or something. Which you didn’t, so nevermind. The point is, I kind of frostbit my knee on purpose a few times. I really started to like how my knee felt in that almost frozen state, making me limp around the apartment, and allowing me to get free stuff, like a drink from the kitchen, or control of the remote, from Law School BF while I laid, necessarily of course, on the couch.

Resting a knee is boring, but the library (and my brain) told me to do it. So I missed an 8 mile run and a 4 mile run. Then, I postponed a 16 mile run and when I did it it became just 11miles. Haha, just 11. Like that’s not long. My first run “back” I was pretty wary of my knee starting to bug me again so we did little loops around home; if I needed to bail out I wouldn’t be far away. Total wimp style, I know. Luckily for me, all the stretching and icing and whining and sitting still and reading trashy books (that must have played a part) and planning my first route back paid off. Four miles this loop, ok, five miles this loop, ok, two miles this loop, better not push it= 11 miles. Obvious equation.

I’m pretty proud of myself for my self-rehabbing, but if I think too much I just get nervous about how much training I haven’t done and start to sweat in the armpits. Sweating just sitting there is gross. So, I’ll stop.

Owwie

It has happened. I’m injured. Bite me.

Do you know what an iliotibial band is? I’m really smart so I do, but just so you know it’s more commonly known as an IT band, and it basically hurts on the outside of your knee. This giant muscley-tendony thing actually runs all the way from your butt-hip joint (approximately) to your tibia, or one of the lower leg bones. It’s pretty long and big, and I have no idea how long it takes to heal but it hurts like an annoying, festering ache that just won’t quit.

It started the other day when the Mutt and I were just going on our usual 4 mile run. It wasn’t slushy or snowy, it wasn’t raining, I wasn’t running hard; I was doing everything I normally do which is plod along at my own pace, daydream about not living in a high school dorm, and stop every once in a while to let the Mutt sniff or dig and then pee on something (ahh, the life). All of a sudden it hit me that my knee hurt. This might be the worst part: that I actually hurt myself without any drama. I mean, the last time I got really injured was in my last field hockey game in college when a huge 200 pound beast on the other team decked me in the head, straight-on, with her shoulder and I, obviously, got blasted to the turf where I promptly received a concussion and then threw up a few times. My mouthguard was knocked right out of my mouth and was at least fifteen feet away; I don’t know what happened to my stick. Then there was the time my friend took a ball in the temple and you could hear her skin splitting open from across the field—75 yards away. Have you heard of people getting their teeth ripped out by soccer balls sticking to their braces? Forgive me if I think “all of a sudden” being injured is a little boring.

Now, as a ski racer, knee injuries are particularly exciting (which does not mean I enjoy them). They mean extreme crashes in which helmets, skis, clothes, and possibly limbs go flying across an icy course and slide to a stop against fencing, other skiers, trees, or the finish line equipment and the injured person screams and yells (if he or she is still conscious) and bleeds from the face where skin was rubbed off by the ice and everyone close enough runs over to stand there and pretend they know what to do when really they just have to stand there and wait for a ski patrol person to drag one of those super heavy, bulky, and treacherous looking sleds down the hill where they have to find a place to park it where it won’t slide down and hurt someone else on the way down. And besides the sound of the screams, it is silent, which makes everything even more solemn and horrible. But what I learned is that it doesn’t have to be that way. While it would have been much more rewarding to be kicking and screaming and throwing a fit, getting people to help me and feel sorry for me, and to get a fluorescent cast or some colored stretchy rehab cord or something, I’m pretty lucky it was only a sharp ache that I could deal with for the final mile home. But I’m still going to complain about having to take time off to “recover” because, technically, I just took over two weeks off from running and I’m a little far behind in training.

Oh well. At least I can’t feel bad for sitting on my butt, mindlessly watching tv, and writing on a blog for lord’s sake because what else can I do?

"Nordic Skiing"

Law School BF has a sister-in-law. Not just any sister-in-law though, but one who took time off after college to move to Alaska to pursue a career in Nordic skiing and attempt to make the Olympics. Jealousy (of taking time off and of being an elite athlete, not of living in Alaska). Being a devoted “nordie", she only wants to do outdoorsy activities all day, every day of her life. Somehow Law School BF’s older and nerdier brother, who hates running, has diabetes and celiac disease (no gluten—can you imagine?), and loves computer games, keeps up with her (when he feels like it). Me, I don’t even try. But we all went on ski vacation together, marathon training went out the window, and simply trying to keep up became a grueling exercise in itself.

The reason I titled this entry “Nordic skiing” in quotes is because Law School BF and I have little to no experience, little to no form, absolutely no idea what we are doing, and look like complete fools when we go “Nordic skiing”. It’s that bad that I have to put it in quotes; it’s like a sloppy, retarded version of real Nordic skiing when we get out there. Picture a 6’4” [tall, dark, and handsome] guy who weighs 195 with about .02 percent of his body weight in his legs. Picture him being somewhat uncoordinated to begin with, and watch him ski off with poles six feet tall going in one direction and skinny skis almost as long going in the other. Also, picture him doing the style of skiing called “sprint 100 yards to try to keep up and then stop to rest because I’m going to die but then start over again asap because I have to show how I can keep up with my big brother.” I’m not a lanky mo-fo, and I just diddle along at my own pace, but I’m sure I look ridiculous too. Sigh. However, sister-in-law makes sure we get the “good” rental stuff and she outfits us with “nordie” gear so we at least look like we know what we are doing. Which, of course, is the most important thing.

I imagine when you ski, like, 100kilometers (that’s how nordies measure) in Canada in the middle of winter in nothing but a skimpy, tight spandex suit that an actual running marathon ain’t so bad. I can only imagine, though. So skiing with sister-in-law on vacation may or may not have been a little stressful on my body. Needless to say, there was no running to be done in Montana and Wyoming. It was: eat, ski, eat, ski, eat, ski, avoid the moose, sit/lie like a zombie, eat, sleep. For six days. It certainly took a chunk out of my ability to run, but it was awesome. PS. If you like skiing, go to Big Sky, Montana.

Things I Do Instead of Train

Here is what my current two-week training span is supposed to look like:
Week 1. Rest, run 3miles, run 7miles, run 4miles, rest, run 10miles,
cross-train.
Week 2. Rest, run 3miles, run 7miles, run 4miles, rest, run 15miles,
cross-train

Here is what my current two-week training span actually looks like:
1. Run 10miles. Go to a wedding.
2. Get sick. Watch MTV's “The Gaunlet III” reruns.
3. Work at a ski race. Drink hot cocoa.
4. Party with college kids. Pour hard-a down the ice luge chutes.
5. Go out west for a ski vacation. Don’t run. Ever.

For marathon training, I recommend plan number one. For fun, I recommend the latter of the plans; be warned, however, that it will absolutely make you suck at running, and will, in fact, make you very sad you don’t live in a ski town where it snows every night and is sunny and 30degrees every day and everyone is relaxed and kind and smiley. It will also make you dread going back to your “normal” job outside Boston where everyone moves too fast and is too stressed out all the time and you have to live in a dorm with 25 high school kids who are trading flus with each other and miserably awaiting spring break which is still two weeks away. Well, maybe that last part will be different for you but I’m giving you an example to work with here.

V-Day delight

I have to write about Valentine’s Day, right? Well, I was a pathetic loser on Valentine’s Day and you probably don’t want to hear about it. But obviously I will tell you a bit about it anyway.

We had a gift certificate to the local fancy wine and cheese shop (that is actually called the ever snooty “The Wine Shop”) so I walked my sick and sorry ass down the block to scope it out. The fresh air felt great but not lying face down on the couch felt horrible. Anyway, this shop had the most random teas, sausages, dried herbs, magnets and other weird items you have ever, or never, seen. It was overwhelmingly stocked with boxes poking off of shelves, colorful labels all over the place, and a giant, shiny meat counter, so I panicked and went to the booze. Being Valentine’ Day and all, I went for the champagne section. I know absolutely nothing about champagne except that you can’t call it champagne unless it is actually from champagne. Everything else, to the Champagners’ delight I’m sure, is supposed to be called “sparkling wine.” I don’t know about you but I would rather have champagne than sparkling wine. But I’m poor and cheap so I actually don’t care one bit. And also, some of it is “dry” and some “brut”. I could look up what that means and then pretend I know but I’m too lazy.

So I’m looking at some champagne, and some champagne next to the bottle I have in my hand, and the one above that, and one in a green label, and one that’s dusty…and I realize how stupid this is. I have no frickin’ clue what I’m doing. It’s okay: I’m smart. I take out the gift certificate, see that it’s for $50, and then pick up the bottle closest to $50 that will also let me buy the $5 tea that my aunt likes without spending any of my own cash. Cha-ching—free champagne I would never purchase for myself, ever.

This euphoric feeling gets me to ski practice, during which I have to drive 6 ADHD kids in a cramped and smelly mini-van and then stand outside in the cold for an hour and a half watching them dink around at their last ski training of the year and complain about how they don’t want to have yesterday’s canceled championship race rescheduled because, and I’m quoting here, they “don’t want to have to miss school again.” If you know me at all you will know that this enrages me. What kind of athlete doesn’t want to miss school? I’m all for the idea of the “student-athlete”…but why would you play a sport and then complain about getting to play it instead of sitting in class all day?

So I go home, sicker than before. And also mad. Genius combination, really. And while law school bf doesn’t have a fever anymore, he is still sniffling and hocking loogies and well, gross. Valentine’s Day can be very unromantic.

A Sickness Road Block

I know it’s obvious that people get sick when their bodies are run down, but I don’t think it can be more evident in any one but me. I never get sick—not even living in a dorm full of gross high school boys—unless I have run my body ragged 24/7 for at least two days. After a rough week, I could basically predict the onset of symptoms to the second if I didn’t believe in the power of positive psychology and willing oneself to stay well. For some reason I try to keep believing I am not sick until I have been down-and-out for two full days, blown through three boxes of tissues, eaten all the soup in the house, and smell like a sick person. You know, that stale pajamas smell? Not body odor, and not smelly feet or anything…just sick people smell. Smells like you haven’t moved in sixteen hours, are dehydrated, and don’t care if the ceiling is really boring to stare at because you can’t will yourself to do anything else. Sick-people smell is when I give in. But I hate it.

We were on weekend dorm duty, which means we had to stay up until midnight Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, for the second weekend in a row. Staying up until midnight totally throws me off. Call me a wiener but I need my beauty sleep; I’m talking nine hours at least. Then I’m good to go. I think going back to grad school left me a little spoiled in the good-sleeping-hours department; I hope I never have to have a “real” job. Sigh. Anyway, on this second-in-a-row weekend of midnight nights, my boyfriend became sick. He was shivering on the couch and whining like a pussy for hours on Friday—I almost wasn’t nice to him because it was so annoying that he wouldn’t admit he felt bad and just go to bed already. Not that’s that what I would do or anything. So, he spent the night tossing, turning, kicking, sweating, drooling, coughing, stealing the covers, and breathing right into my face. I got up early (not good on the late nights, remember?) after this wonderfully refreshing night of sleep to drive to Philadelphia for a wedding. Which I went to by myself. This is probably the bravest and most social thing I have ever done, by the way. That adventure by itself was stress on my body, let alone the lack of sleep and exercise it entailed. So then, Saturday, I spent the night at my friend’s house outside of Princeton, which is sort of near Philadelphia, and we stayed up late, drinking red wine, eating cookie dough, and watching Brian Williams on SNL because we used to teach and babysit his kids. He was really good, if you are one for watching back episodes of late-night sketch comedy. You have to ignore the current cast, who is just horrible, but I give Mr. Williams credit.

Needless to say, Sunday morning rolls around and I feel pretty poopy. I had the fat cat sleeping on my stomach all night, I was sunk into the couch which, no matter how wonderful, will never be my own bed, I went to sleep sugar high, teeth stained cabernet, and woke up after not enough sleep. Five hours in the car led me back to dorm duty, which I totally took over for still-really-sick-man (who is very cool for staying by his sick self to cover for me, btw). At this point, there was no chance for napping or even sitting still. Then again, making sure kids turn their lights out on time and don’t sneak out of the locked and alarmed house isn’t really tough work. Alas, it was enough to exhaust me to sickness of the 101 fever, shakes (doesn’t that mean you get to drink?), and plain old misery all over variety. Naturally, it’s my second day in a row skipping my training…and I foresee several more ahead.

Death to Bad Weather

This week’s weather has been total junk. In the first week of February in New England it should be, in a healthy world, pretty cold, snow-covered, and wintry. I’m not saying I love freezing my buns off and driving around with people skidding all over the road going six miles an hour or pulling off the high-way every five seconds to clear their windshields (as happens in Massachusetts) but I do feel pretty badly when it’s pouring rain and 55 degrees in what is supposed to be winter. Somehow the abnormal weather makes me guilty, as if I drive my car everywhere and leave it idling, leave lights on and faucets running all day, don’t recycle and do all the things that cause global warming. I’m not perfect (close, though) but I’m pretty eco-friendly and should not have these pangs of guilt. I’m not even Catholic, geez. So the question is: why should I have to suffer on the treadmill because of the world’s idiots? I shouldn’t. But alas, I do.

For three days of training this week, it has been raining. And I mean pouring raining. Lakes and ponds formed where there used to be yards; rivers expanded to twice their width. The highway department has come around every day to clean out the drainage grates so they can actually drain—that’s how much rain there is. So, there’s not much room for running outside. I can’t even walk the dog for seven minutes without coming home soaked, dripping, and miserable. At first, I was determined to stay off the treadmill. On Rainy Day One, I finished my book on the ever-popular elliptical machine in lieu of treading the mill. The one benefit to the elliptical machine is that one can read while exercising. I figured one day wouldn’t hurt. Then, as weather.com predicted, Rainy Day Two followed right after Rainy Day One. I didn’t feel right shirking my running duties two days in a row…and the forecast didn’t look any better. This leads me to the groundbreaking announcement that, yes, I ran on the treadmill. I admitted defeat, total and utter disappointing and scared defeat. I moped to the gym. I took ten minutes to tie my shoes. I filled up my water bottle four times. I circled the gym, trying to pump myself up for it. I checked myself out in the mirror for awhile, fiddled with the tv stations, stretched…I did everything I could to delay the inevitable. Finally, I got on, punched some buttons…and ran for 1/3 the amount of time I was supposed to. I swear I looked at the clock every seventeen seconds. I couldn’t really read the subtitles on CNN so I didn’t even have that boredom to preoccupy myself with. My iPod was dead too, so I had to listen to myself breathing for entertainment. Now that makes me want to run indoors even more, how bout you?

As much as I hate the treadmill, as much as it makes every ache and pain (I don’t actually have) feel like knives and mismatched gears grinding in my joints and muscles, as much as it bores the hell out of me, I feel that much more successful about completing the workout. Yeah, I only did 1/3 aka 2 miles aka 18-20 minutes aka not really much time at all, but I felt great about it; I came off that stupid machine victorious. Then I kicked it, spat on it, and swore I would never get on it again.

Instead of quitting (quitters never win, and winning is everything) I did something else aerobic-y for awhile to break up the monotony and diffuse some of my hatred. Then, I repeated the same exact process and called it a day. I am already dreading the day I have to get on that treadmill again. It gives me that sinking feeling just typing about it. Ick.

What about Rainy Day Three, you ask, totally enthralled? Well, it wasn’t as much raining as dumping snow. This is much better in the world of ski racers and winter-lovers but not much of an improvement for runners. However, the thought of the treadmill got me in some good snow gear and old sneakers pretty quickly. On top of that, my iPod was charged and my dog was psyched, and we all know how you can’t say no to your dog. It was an adventure too: I had to look straight down at my feet while running if I didn’t want to go blind from the giant flakes sticking to my eyeballs or clogging my eyelashes while at the same time trying to see where the safe parts of the road were and avoiding people driving by and splashing me with brown slush. I was soaking wet and freezing when I got home. Why am I doing this again?

Boredom Central

Have you ever (and the answer here should be yes if you are any sort of normal female human being with hormones and feelings) found yourself drinking a Cosmopolitan, eating cookie dough, with a fork, out of an old Tupperware, sitting on the couch with your sweat-panted legs propped up, in fluffy slippers, leaning on your dog, thinking about how much softer he is after a good bath, and watching pseudo-soap operas such as Dawson’s Creek or Gossip Girl and wishing, just a little bit, that your high school experience was more like the characters’ of said show, which, by the way, is on its tenth re-run because of the damn writers' strike? How about on a Monday night? Cause right now, that’s me. That’s right, I am so cool and fabulous that I’m a little tipsy, way too full on sugar, chocolate chips, and butter, and disgusted with myself over the nonsense I am totally digging on tv...and it’s only Monday. I’m on the couch with Bruschi the Mutt because I know he won’t judge me. He can’t: he’s sleeping. Really, it’s all the rage to be so bored by Monday night that you have to bust out the hard-a and turn on crap television by 8pm.

This is my life since I finished my Master’s degree and found myself stuck between landing a real job and working the quarter-time job I have that barely pays the non-existent rent and utilities. More than one person told me having a Master’s degree would broaden my job horizons but I call their bluff right now. My part time job opening mail for the admissions office for a month and a half (you should have seen my cuticles and fingernails, sheesh) wasn’t exactly stimulating, but Hay-soos boy, it was something. I would rather do that than what I have now done for the past eight days: nothing. Last week I don’t think I changed out of my pajama top once. Well, I guess I went running, which means I wore a sports bra, and consequently showered, once or twice… but why take off your silky, comfy cami when you don’t have to? Don’t answer that.

To top off my most boring week of all time, I just about wanted to quit the miniscule job I do have nine times. The ski team coach made me run practice without any forewarning, which isn’t actually bad but is sure something to complain about. It obviously gets better: the Director of Residential Life tattled to the Dean of Students on us that our dog snapped at her dog (who charged us in our own front doorway, off leash, while Bruschi the Mutt, who is sensitive anyway, was stuck on his leash, per campus rules, smarty pants, and strapped to Mr. Law School Boyfriend with his computer, books, and coffee mug who couldn’t exactly complete the necessary dog-instinct assuaging maneuvers in time). We had to go have a meeting that reminded me of, not that I ever actually had, a call to the Principal’s office in which we looked and felt totally sheepish when actually it wasn’t our fault at all. Truly. Then, I locked myself out of the dorm, twice, which reminded me how much I hate living in a place that doesn’t have a private entrance. Then we were on duty all weekend which means staying up way past my bedtime for three nights in a row. Last night, the Patriots played like ass and lost the Superbowl—to Eli Manning. And today, I had a meeting, for which I was on time and in the place I was told to be, that I had to wait over ten minutes just to find out I was in the wrong place but actually the lady I was meeting wasn’t in the right place either, nor was she anywhere in the building (I know, because I looked everywhere). She was at home with her sick (again) kid and blatantly just forgot about me altogether. Thanks.

So, I may be whining a bit, but I don’t do so very often so I don’t really give a damn what I sound like. I’m a little drunk and sugar high so I have a couple good excuses too. Good thing I’m running so much, it keeps off the pounds. Ten miles on Saturday, to be exact. Actually, if you add up all the running for training I’m doing, which I have clearly done in my boredom, it doesn’t actually add up to that much more running than I do on a regular weekly basis anyway, which means I can’t actually eat that much more than usual and still feel good about it which may actually be the only reason to run a marathon in the first place. Dammit again.

Middle School Misery

A quick note on our fundraising lacrosse clinic: middle school girls are either horribly miserable or incredibly wonderful. There is no in between, and they sure don’t care. While the wonderful ones are a million times better to work with, the misery ones are much better to tell stories about.

Exhibit A: Mom drops off a tired, cranky, disheveled looking girl 15 minutes before registration starts. She asks if it’s okay; I look at my watch, consider, and sigh, “I guess so. I’m here.” What that really meant was, “What are you doing on Saturday, at 8:30am, that is so important you have to strand your daughter, early, who is already miserable, with someone who can’t even pay attention to her because she has to set up the entire clinic in ten minutes by herself because her partner got lost in Cambridge and is coming late?” And of course this girl hasn’t pre-registered, as the flyer and accompanying forms blatantly stated, and of course she has cash, which I hadn’t even thought about (because people were supposed to send in checks ahead of time) and therefore don’t have change for. At least the mom was in such a rush, and so rude, that she threw the money down and said “Oh, keep the change” and she slammed the door on her way out. Bonus $15 for me. Not-so-bonus dark-looking 7th grader brooding, slumped over in a chair, and staring at my every move for ten minutes until the next (early) girl comes in.

Exhibit B: This girl doesn’t even wake up until 11:55, when we clean up and stretch at the end of the session. I don’t think she said one word the entire morning, and I had to read her name off her name-tag every time she said it because she mumbled so much under her breath and looked the other way, bored, that I couldn’t even understand, or try to lip-read (which I am not even skilled at) the first letter or any sounds in it. Her bangs are in her eyes, which isn’t exactly conducive to seeing the lacrosse ball coming at her, and is definitely a sign of a totally apathetic, and thusly useless, athlete, but she doesn’t care one bit. When we play games, she walks, or asks to sit out, or just stands still and watches the ball bounce right next to her instead of at least pretending to care for her team’s sake. Thanks for your money, sweetheart; I would kick you outta here if I had the guts.

So anyway, it was a successful and fun clinic and we raised over $800. Don’t get me wrong, I’m psyched about the results and had a good day of lacrosse. Also, most of the girls were perfectly kind and hard-working—totally awesome, really—and learned something from playing lacrosse all morning. But I certainly was reminded of how interesting it can be to work with middle school girls. Thank goodness I was a lanky, dorky, bookish, unfashionable, totally clueless pre-teen because I wouldn’t want to know I was like some of the girls we saw yesterday. Yikes! I did have a sort of mid-life crisis about not being popular in 6th grade, but at least I wasn’t one of the girls my teachers and coaches had to tell stories about in the mysterious teachers' lounge, where they probably stood around drinking martinis and doing evil things to voodoo dolls of their students. At least that's what I do in the teachers' lounge.