My First *Fix*

I typically like to see myself as being immune to advertising...somehow above being coerced into buying things just because a splashy ad tells me that I want it. I suppose we probably all want to think of ourselves as being strong willed and strong minded enough to withstand the pressure and just do our own thing...

For well over a year now, I have been seeing ads for Stitch Fix pop up all over my social media. First as ads on Facebook. Then in the form of sponsored pins on my pinterest.

"Pffft.." I thought.
"Not gonna suck *me* in...no sirree bob. Nope. Not a chance."
"Wow, that really *is* a cute outfit...I bet it's a bait and switch."

...and finally, one night, when I was reasonably certain that no one else was looking, I clicked on one of the banner ads and started to read up on what it was all about.

I filled out the profile...

...but did *not* schedule a "fix" for myself. Because hey, you're not the boss of me! I'm not going to cave to the peer pressure. Also, I'm *frugal*.

A few weeks ago, I started seeing more and more people posting pictures from their "fixes"...and I was quietly impressed...I thought "Hmmm, I could totally see myself wearing *that*..."

Finally, earlier this week, I decided "what the heck!" I recently got a promotion and a healthy raise and by golly, why *not*?!? I figured, I 'll try it once, probably hate it, will send everything back and that will be that.

Click, click, submit...next thing I knew, I got an email advising me that my "fix" would be here on February 28th or sometimes thereabout.

So, imagine my shock and nervous delight, when I came home to a white and aqua box *today*, fully 4 days *early*...

As TGC and I walked up to the house I nonchalantly asked her to pick up the mail and carry it in for me. (Play it cool, play it cool)

I said my hellos to the fur babies and TBC...

Then casually picked up the box and CHARGED UP THE STAIRS LIKE A TODDLER AT CHRISTMAS...

As soon as I was in my room, with the door safely shut behind me, I stared at the box in nervous anticipation...

What would I find inside of it???
What if I hated it?
What if I loved it?
What if I loved it but none of it fit???????

#firstworldproblems

Finally I took a deep breath and cut open the tape...and found parcels, wrapped in white paper and a small envelope with some papers in it.

In there, I found what I initially thought was *another* advert...until I noticed that my name was on the top...hmmmm...

Instead of an advert, I found it was a note from my stylist, Amber. In it, she mentioned perusing my pinterest style boards...and as such she had included boyfriend jeans (WITHOUT holes!!!!!!), a striped shirt, a cargo jacket and a "little black dress".

She pinterest stalked me...which almost felt creepy...except...I loved it.

At that point, there was no holding me back...I removed the parcel form the box, tore open the white paper and started going through the items. I loved the look at feel of each of them...

...at which point a mile panic set in...what if none of it fits????

Skeptically, I pulled on the jeans. Jeans and I have a love-hate relationship. I have really long legs and a really short waist. My waist is also pretty small in comparison to my hips and butt. And though my legs are long they are a runner's legs...strong and muscled.

To my astonished delight, the jeans fit. And well.

Oh my! Boyfriend jeans sans rips??

Next I unfolded the navy blue and white striped shirt. It seemed pretty basic and I thought, "Well, *this* one I can surely send back..."

And then I saw it...the shirt has elbow patches!!! I LOVE this sort of detail. My heart skipped a little beat and then I started to brace myself for the inevitability of the sleeves being too short. Because they almost always are. Because I have monkey arms. That my knuckles don't drag on the ground is nothing short of a mystery.

I slid the shirt on and the sleeves are PERFECT. And the shoulders and neckline flattering! ::swoon::

Next I eyed the cargo jacket...I really, really, really wanted it to fit. I tried it on but alas, it is a bit tight across the shoulders and the sleeves are a little short for my liking...

That left the black dress...which is super soft...and has nice detailing around the bust and neckline. I slid it on, over my head and was delighted to discover that it fit me like it was made for me.

The last thing left in the box was an accessory...a pair of earrings. Nice, intricately detailed but not my thing.

So 3 out of 5 are keepers and 4 out of 5 are a perfect match to my taste. Not quite enough to get the discount for keeping all 5, but I'd call this first run a success...now I just need to be patient until my next fix, coming up on March 28th! Stay tuned!

The Brooks Running Run Happy Hour

Last night marked another foray outside of my comfort zone.

"Live Lager". Heh.

Our local running store, The Appalachian Running Company was hosting a neat event...the Brooks Running Run Happy Happy Hour. Conveniently, the ARC is located right next to a bar...so pulling off a happy hour event is sort of a no brainer.

A local(ish) Brooks representative was on hand, handing out Brooks Pint Glasses - super, duper cool - and showing off some of the upcoming models of shoes. He also brought a bunch of sweet Brooks clothes for folks to try on and (of course) buy. Everyone that came got a coupon for a free beer, next door.

The night was to kick off at 5:30, with an easy 3 mile run.

I saw the event on my FB feed and immediately checked off that I was going.

And then I immediately started stressing and coming up with reasons that I probably wouldn't be able to make it.

Both Mr. Man and TBC had indoor soccer training, in the opposite direction, at different locations at about the same time. There was no way I would be able to make it.

Nope. Not a chance.

C'mon Adidas...you just can't *pay*
for that kind of ad space.

But then fate stepped in. On Sunday, TBC was on the receiving end of a really vicious tackle, during the last game of the season...well, of the outdoor season, anyway...it was one of those tackles that makes the whole sideline *gasp* in shared parental horror. He went airborne, flipped and then came crashing down on his shoulder. The rest of his body crumpled to the ground and then rebounded for a sickening little bounce.

The kid hit the ground hard enough that he had "Adidas" bruised into his upper thigh...not from being stepped on, but from the embroidered logo on his shorts. That's right, ladies and gents, he got bruised by...thread. Stop and think about that, for a minute. Just how hard do you need to hit the ground to get  thread to *bruise* you? Ask TBC. He can now tell you.

So, yeah. Bad tackle.

Not surprisingly, this adventure scored him a trip to Urgent Care for his very first set of X-rays.

The crack is the white line,
right above the joint.

Verdict? Fractured collarbone and separation of the shoulder joint. No soccer (or much of anything else) for 4-6 weeks. This will be the absolute longest that this child has gone without playing soccer since he was 5.

Suddenly, only 1 of my boys had indoor soccer during the event.

No reason not to go now.

I got there exactly on time. I pulled into the parking lot and immediately felt a little queasy, when I realized that there was not a single parking spot available. The lot was overflowing. I'd have to improvise a spot.

I zipped up my light up vest and strapped on my head lamp, took a deep breath and walked across the parking lot towards the group of people that seemed to be pouring out of the store. I did a quick scan of the crowd, to see if anyone looked even vaguely familiar. Nobody did.

Moments later, we all took off on our run.

I found a comfortable spot, nestled behind a group of folks that seemed to know one another pretty well. They chatted amicably and I tried to be unobtrusive and wondered what the heck I would do if any of them actually talked to me.

Not a bad way to spend a
Wednesday evening

It was a simple out and back. Nothing terribly scenic or challenging, but not a bad run. I chuckled to myself about how this group of blinky-flashy fools must look to the drivers in the cars that happened past us. We were in something of an industrial area, so it's not exactly prone to having runners back there, let alone en masse in the dark!

On the way back, I noticed a women a few strides ahead of me had an untied shoe. I pushed a bit, to bring myself even with her and worked on screwing up the nerve to mention her untied shoe to her...when suddenly, she stepped off the course, to tie it. Ah well. Maybe next time.

Anyway, before too long, we were back at the store. I trotted back to my car, so that I could dispose of the light up gear and grab my glasses and wallet. As I got to the car, I briefly considered just getting in my car and heading back home. I'd gone on a "group run", wasn't that enough socializing?

I talked myself out of it and back into the store I went. If nothing else, by golly, I was getting that darned pint glass!

For the next 20 or so minutes, I meandered around the store. I collected my pint glass, tried on a quilted, winter skirt (which I bought for a super cheap $25!!!), talked to one woman, briefly, about a spray to get the stink out of athletic gear and tried not to look like a psycho.

Just as I was getting ready to bolt, a non-running friend of mine, from work popped in to say hi and give me an intro to a friend of his that is part of the running community. We talked for a few minutes and then, finally, I called it a night.

Though I didn't stay, to have a beer with the other runners - though I'm not 100% sure how many of them stuck around, to be honest - I did make an effort and put myself in a social situation where I knew NO ONE.

We're going to call this one a win, and try to ride that victor wave through next Tuesday, to another group run, with the Chambersburg Beer Runners. Who knows, maybe this time I will even stick around for a beer.

Hello From the Other Side....Of the Hill

The year that I turned 29, I decided to throw myself an epic birthday weekend, at Disney World.
At the time, we lived in South Florida and made the 2ish hour trip to Disney, on the regular. We had yearly passes and were regulars at a handful of the hotels on property. We were often joined by an assortment of friends and family and somehow, over the years, it had become my "job" to do all of the scheduling and arranging and reserving of rooms.

TBC was 2 1/2 and TGC was creeping up on her 1st birthday. With 29 approaching, I knew that 30 wasn't far behind, and I just couldn't stomach the idea of no longer being a 20-something. So I decided that 29 would be the last birthday I would acknowledge.

Which, honestly, if you know me is a really sad state of affairs.

I love birthdays. I mean like big-puffy-heart-open-mouth-kiss LOVE birthdays. I love to plan and throw parties. I love to plan surprises. I love to hunt down the perfect gift. I. LOVE. BIRTHDAYS.

So, 29 was going to be *it*. Go out with a BANG. And gosh darn it, I wasn't going to be the one to plan the whole thing for everybody else.

I decided to book a room on the concierge floor of the Yacht Club at Disney, and let everyone else know that that is where *I* would be for the weekend...and the rest of them could figure it out on their own.

I had my plans in place, I was going to my favorite place, and that was that.

And then, mere days before my birthday, Disney called to cancel our reservation, due to the impending Hurricane Frances.

My lovely birthday plans were, quite literally blown away by a massive storm that would go on to spend more than 36 hours tormenting us. We were plunged into darkness and left without power for more than a week.

(In the spirit of her "mini-me-ness", TGC also got a doozy of a storm for her birthday, Hurricane Jeanne.)

And so it was, that 29 came and went without much fanfare or ado. Unless you count rain, tornadoes, flooding and power outages as fanfare. If you do, then it was a *rager*. And we can't be friends any more.

As 30 approached, I was much more focused on throwing a suitable soiree for TGC. We'd gone all out for TBC's 1st and 2nd birthday celebrations and I felt guilty for her getting such short shrift.

Apparently, my preoccupation with her party arrangements was the perfect cover, because Mr. Man pulled off an incredible surprise party for me, and gifted me with beautiful diamond stud earrings that never leave my head.

Earlier this year, I turned 40.

I can remember feeling vaguely ill, just thinking about 40, when I was resisting turning 30. It seemed such an awful, horrible, sagging age. Something you would almost use as an insulting adjective when describing someone..."oh, well, she's 40..."

Interestingly, I spent the year between 39 and 40 getting increasingly excited about my birthday...about my new milestone. Quite honestly, I couldn't wait for September 2nd to roll around.

I'd spent the majority of my 30's, trying to look and feel like I was still in my 20's.

I'd colored my hair to hide the grays.

I'd dressed myself in clothes that were more readily associated with the college crowd than the soccer-mom set.

I fought being a 30-something tooth and nail.

And my 30's fought back. They were not easy years. It was not until my later 30's that I finally started to hit my stride and feel more comfortable in my skin.

At 39 and 2 months, I decided to stop coloring my grays.

At 39 and 4 months, I decided to stop straightening my hair on the regular and just let it be curly.

At 39 and a half, I went through my wardrobe and got rid of anything that made me feel even remotely foolish. Shirts that had snarky sayings...skirts that were too short...shoes that screamed "Emo teenager".

I replaced these things with clothing that made me feel comfortable both inside and out. And that's not to say "mom jeans"...that means clothes that make me feel like me. A little bit sparkly...a little whimsical...a whole lot of practical...and just girly enough.

The closer it got, the more I solidified my plans, the more giddy I became. Come on 40 and just get here already!!!

It had been years - 10 of them, to be exact - since we had really thrown down and celebrated for one of my birthdays and I decided that it was high time to do something about it! Me being me I could think of no better way to celebrate the occasion than to run a race, so I registered us for the Rock n Roll VA Beach Half Marathon. We rented a beach house and invited friends and family to join us, on Labor Day weekend. (I'm sure I'll post about that at some point...)

As the actual day of my birthday approached, I felt like a kid marking off the days until Santa arrived.  Even though I knew that I wouldn't actually feel or look or really be materially different in anyway, once I was 40, it was something I was looking forward to.

The morning of 40 dawned and my phone started buzzing. I looked at it, expecting to see a birthday text of some kind.

And it was. By merit of the fact that it was a text that I received on my birthday.

My ex-stepfather, the man who had been present for the bulk of my childhood, had passed away from a short but awful battle with cancer. At 5:43am on my 40th birthday.

Later in the day, I would be taking to the PIC and telling him this and he shared that a member of his extended family had also passed that morning.

As lunch time approached I would hear from my next door neighbor that her beloved father had passed away.

It seemed that the light of my birthday was doing its darnedest to be dimmed by the sadness and grief of others.

I braced myself for a swirling emotional let down. I prepared to switch gears and give up on the glee as I attempted to process what all had happened...

...but, something deep inside of me still felt warm and glowing. I was still happy. (quick aside...autocorrect just tried to change "still happy" to "slithery"...I was half tempted to leave it...new goal for the day, find out what it means to "feel slithery") If anything, I felt peaceful.

..for which, I immediately felt guilty. I mean, how could I feel peaceful when so much badness had just crashed my party. People around me were suffering, and I still had a smile in my heart. What kind of person did that make me??

It is now 2 months, 1 week and 2 days since I turned 40. I've thought a lot about the events of my birthday and my surprising lack of an emotional response. I've always fancied myself an empathetic person, but my lack of reaction has had me questioning that. Am I less caring than I want to believe? Am I cold?

...until last night, as I was drifting off to sleep. I had a last waking thought that has eased mind...Perhaps my lack of sadness over these passings is not about me at all. Perhaps it is more about them and the relief that passing must have been for their souls...especially my late stepfather's. I think that my peace may be their final gift to me. Rather than having my birthday be another day of suffering and pain for them, they went home. Their suffering is over. Rather than seeing my birthday as their death day, perhaps I should be looking at it as the day of their homecoming, the day that their souls made their way heaven.

Now tell me, what could be more joyful and peaceful than that?

On Finding My Life Pace Group

When I first started running again, back in 2011, I did it, in part, to have something that was *mine*. Something I was in control of. Something that I could call every shot in.

I had just gone back to work, after spending 3+ years at home, with my kids and I wasn't entirely pleased about it. I had loved being at home. It wasn't my *choice* initially, as I was laid off, but I loved it, all the same.

It wasn't entirely my *choice* to go back to work either. Mr. Man had been laid off and we were both scrambling to find employment. Which we both did. Within mere weeks of one another.

Making matters worse, I wasn't exactly warmly received by my coworkers and I felt awkward and unwanted...but I needed that job, whether I liked it or not.

When I was home, I had my kids and the PTO and all of the different organizations I had gotten involved in. I identified them as my "tribe".  I never had to sit alone at the table...anywhere I went, I had a spot.

At the office, I had no such spot. Everything was grey and lonely. People were sniping at one another and I got the sideways eyeball at least 4 or 5 times a day. And because I was now at the office during the day, the rest of my 'tribe" moved on, without me. They were still in the same circles, but I had become an outsider, peering in through the glass.

Not one to just sit back and wallow in a situation that I don't like, I set out to find something to fill the void that I was feeling. I tried doing the group fitness, yoga thing...but it didn't really come to me very naturally. I never really felt *relaxed*. The classes were at times that just didn't suit and I'd have to move mountains to make it work. Mostly, I just felt guilty.  

Guilty for leaving work a little early to get there.
Guilty for getting to the class almost late.
Guilty for not being home with my kids after so many hours away from home.
Guilty for not at least trying to hang around and socialize and make friends afterwards.

So I stopped going. Clearly the "zen crowd" wasn't my new tribe.


After a few months, I decided to get back into running. It was pretty simple really...I could go whenever  and wherever I wanted to. My kids had soccer practice several nights a week, and it was something I could do while I was there. I set whatever pace felt comfortable and was just pleased with myself for *doing* it. And *bonus*, I had a friend who was slogging through a C25K program with me...so we were a tribe...of 2.

That first 5K came and went, and my interest in running didn't wane. A gulf in ability had started to develop between my friend and I though, and we stopped running together much.

I stepped out on my own, and running became my own thing.

It started to fill that void...I started running early in the morning...when no one else was up. The pre-dawn roads of my small town became my own private playground.

And for a while, this was good.

Over time though, I started yearning to "find my people". I wanted people to talk to. People to bounce ideas and thoughts off of. People to get advice and understanding from. I started looking online, and discovered some great runners. I interacted with them...cheered them from afar...admired their accomplishments and sheepishly shared my own. The longer I "knew" them, the more about their real lives I got to know. Many of them had running friends. Running groups. Running clubs.

I was jealous.

I wanted someone to run with.

I started paying closer attention to the folks that lived near me, and discovered that there were some local-ish running clubs. And as it turned out, I knew some of the folks that were members! I started reading their newsletters and websites...and the more I did, the more I noticed that these weren't just runners...these were Runners. Real Runners. Fast Runners.

I was slow. And just starting out. I couldn't possibly ask them to deign to run with me, could I?

Self consciousness prevailed, and for a long time, I didn't ask. I'd nod appreciatively at their accomplishments...dismissively answer their questions about my own runs...and secretly wish that they would offer to run with me...they didn't. In retrospect, I realize that the ambivalence I was trying to pull off in regards to my running made me seem disinterested and cold...but that was then.

Fast forward a few years...(yes, I said years.) and I was still running. Mostly

alone.

With multiple marathons and half marathons under my belt, there was really no denying the fact that I was now a Runner. A Real Runner. I started meeting other folks who were just starting out. Folks that would tell me that they were inspired and intimidated by me. And I would remember being them, and would offer to run with them.

The answer was typically the same, every time..."I'm not ready to run with you..." or "I'd slow you down..." or "I can't run as far as you can..."

I'd always say "That's ok, we can run your pace, your distance..." All I really wanted was to cobble together my own little tribe...but it didn't typically work.

And so I kept running. By myself.

After a while, I focused more attention on coercing my husband and or children to run with me. It was always nice while it lasted...at least for me. They weren't nearly so...enthusiastic...about the experience.

About a year ago, my internet trail crossed with an old acquaintance who had also become a runner. A Runner. An avid Runner.

This ushered in a new age for me, as I finally had someone to talk to and share the obsession with. And because we were far apart, the differences in our abilities didn't matter. We cheered one another on from across the interwebs. We started having virtual running dates. We'd encourage one another when one of us wasn't feeling it and give one another a kick in the ass when it was needed..which was great. Sometimes, it is nice to someone other than yourself to hold you accountable to your goals. For me, it was a refreshing change of pace, from time to time.

Eventually, this gave me an idea...and so, The O'Dark Thirty Virtual Run Club was born, on Facebook. I started out just inviting everyone that I knew was a runner to any degree, on Facebook. And people actually accepted the invite! I was delighted at how many folks accepted the invite, and started posting on the regular. And then, some of them started sharing the group with some of their friends...and before I knew it, we had a fledgling running community.

This makes me happy. Very happy. Some of them live nearby one another. Sometimes they post runs together. I love this.

And I envy this.

Several of us have actually made plans now, solid, real, money backed plans to complete a Ragnar Relay together...people from the tribe we are building. This delights me...and has given me the gumption to start taking more risks about trying to interact with other runners.

Last night, I met up with a new (to me) group of runners, for a post-work 4 miler. A work friend of mine and I planned to meet up there and run together. Which, ultimately, is exactly what happened.

Just not right away.

When I first got there, there were about 20 runners milling about, decked out in blinky-flashy-glowing safety hats, vests and knuckle lights. Not a single familiar face in the crowd. I stood off to one end, silently surveying the scene...and considered bolting. Small groups were huddled in friendly conversation...I couldn't envision an "in".

Just as I was about to back away, my friend, The Flash, appeared. I'm fairly certain that he has never, in his whole life, met a stranger. He has an open and friendly nature and immediately strikes up conversation with anyone around.

No leaving now...

We continued to wait, as he talked to a few folks he already knew. While we were waiting, a 10 year old girl came over and commented on my bracelets. We had a brief conversation and then I turned to what I assume was her mother and introduced myself. Which, for me, was a really big step.

Before long, we took off, lighting up the night and the back streets of central PA. The Flash and I chatted idly for most of the time, so I didn't really interact much with anyone else...but I was *there*. I was *present*.

As we finished up the 4 miles, the group made ready to pour inside of the restaurant that we had used as our starting an stopping point. (It is a "Beer Runners" group...) I didn't stay...but someday, maybe just maybe, I will.

Slowly, timidly, cautiously I am finding that, while I may not have a tribe to call my own right now, what I do have...what I can build for myself is a life "pace group". We may not connect on many things...but when we are running, we are a community. It's terrifying and wonderful.

Weight, Weight...Don't Tell Me...

Everybody has their demons…some people just hide them better than others. To the casual passerby, you may appear utterly carefree and well adjusted, while on the inside, an epic battle is waging on, that sometimes threatens to tear your heart, your soul, your sanity…or maybe just your afternoon…asunder. Society tells us to chin up and mosey along…don’t let it get you down…mind over matter…but what do you do when your mind is exactly what is the matter?

I like to joke. I’m snarky and ironic and oh-so tongue-in-cheek. I’m a proud mother and will gladly bore you with endless stories about my kids. I’m a happy wife, and can regale you with tales, both good and not so good about my spouse. I’m a runner, and will drone on and on about this race or that, until you have snuck out of the room, and I may not even notice. I can prattle on endlessly about my job, Doctor Who, the weather and the newest trends in hair care. All the while, a silent battle is waging on in my head.

I don’t suspect that this is all that different from anyone else. It’s not like I believe that you are sitting there, listening the whole time, without thoughts of something else running through your head. I know you are thinking about what you need from the grocery store. And that’s just fine. Or maybe you are fighting your own demon.

I have been wanting to talk about my demon here for some time…but I just couldn’t quite figure out how to introduce it. Maybe because I am afraid it would seem trivial…or self-serving. Or maybe because I am afraid that you will think it is something brought on by vanity. Maybe because by owning up to it, I would somehow seem…”less”. But then, I got to thinking, this is my space. This is my voice. If anyone is allowed to sing the blues here, and sing them off-key, it’s me. I’ve already relinquished the space in my head to this little monster for too many years, why let it win here too? So instead, today, I am calling it out…ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to today’s sponsor, Body Dysmorphic Disorder. Body Dysmorphic Disorder, this is everyone. Now, play nice.

Body Dysmorphic Disorder is a mental illness wherein the sufferer obsesses over a perceived defect, or collection of defects, to the point that it causes a great deal of distress and can inhibit occupational and social function. It doesn’t matter what the sufferer does to change or improve the perceived defect, to their perception, it never goes away. It’s like there is a tiny chorus of voices in your head, telling you lies, all of the time…sometimes they are relatively soft, and you can drown them out with common sense and logic. Others they bellow loudly, drowning out any other thought. On days when they are screaming, they may even spread out and tell you horrible, malicious things about other aspects of yourself…and it is next to impossible to not hear them. You find yourself looking around, wondering if everyone else knows what they are telling you…and if not, how long until they do.

In my particular case, it is weight. No matter what the numbers on the scale – which I don’t have…it’s much too dangerous and tempting to have one…I’d hang out by it, weighing myself nearly hourly if you let me… - say, no matter what the size on my clothing label reads, no matter what my husband, my friends, complete and utter strangers on the street may say to me…I always look the same to myself in the mirror. And the reflection? Is not a pretty one.

Everybody has “fat days.” I occasionally have “not fat days.” Every once in a blue moon, I will catch a glimpse of myself, from just the right angle, and think “hey, wait…that’s not so bad…” It’s fleeting though. The actual, honest truth of the matter is that I have no idea whatsoever what I look like to you. I cast about constantly, looking at other women, constantly wondering “Am I as big as her?” In some of my weaker moments, I drag my long suffering husband into my crazy and point out other people, asking him, “Am I that size?” I can only imagine that, on some primal level, this feels like a trap…”wait, you are *asking* me to check out other women and compare you? Duuude, no way am I falling for *that*!” Really though, I just want a sense of reality. I am trying to calibrate.

Not that attempting to level set against anyone else really works for long. Friends and acquaintances that I have mentally associated as being “thin” don’t remain so in my eyes, as I approach their size. Instead, I start asking the poor hubster…"Is it me, or has so and so gained A LOT of weight?” Maybe they have…but more often, they have not. It is just my voices telling me that, if I am smaller than they are, they must be practically pre-diabetic.

At my largest, about a year and a half ago, I was a size 12. From what I read, that is about the national average. Completely and utterly normal. Far from obese.

I knew I was bigger than I had ever been…and the labels on the clothing I was buying agreed with that assessment. The scale, not safely hidden away at that time, boldly confirmed my suspicions, proclaiming a number that made me want to cry.

At current, depending upon the brand, I wear anywhere from a 0 to a 4…and sometimes girl’s sizes…where I can wear as small as a 12 in some articles of clothing. I have no idea what I actually weigh. I won’t know until my annual physical, which is still several months off. I have my estimates, but I know that *knowing* would only lead to me needing to constantly monitor whether or not I was maintaining that number.

In the mirror, I am just…heavy. Lumpy. Kind of a big girl. Exactly as I have been for as long as I can remember. My stomach is too “squishy”. My thighs are too thick. My butt is too rounded and jiggly, and my hips too wide. You would think that, being an at least marginally intelligent human being, I would be capable of looking at the change in size and be able to intellectually make the distinction. But I can’t. You would guess that, putting on articles of clothing that were once snug, and having them literally fall off of me would trigger some sense of recognition. But it doesn’t. Instead, this is what the demon tells me:

Those pants stretched out.

They never fit as well as you remembered.

You’re not really a 4, this brand just runs big.

You’re not really a 2, this is just vanity sizing at its worst.

You’re not really a 0, this item must be irregular.

Yeah, it came from the girl’s department, but my how sad that there are girls *this* big...Childhood obesity really is an epidemic.

They have a field day, doing everything that they can, using my own imagination against me, to convince me that I am super-sized. On days that they manage to chisel away my outer layer of confidence, they then start in on a whole host of other traits, both physical and otherwise, and leave me wanting to hide in the back of my closet.

…it all just sounds so…terribly, terribly vain. A first world problem.

“Awwww…poor skinny bitch is afraid her size 4’s are too big…here, let me get you a sandwich.”

Or…”stop fishing for compliments.”

The fact is, I don’t want anyone to say anything about my size. Or theirs. It makes me horribly, terribly, wildly uncomfortable. My perception is so skewed that I haven’t the slightest idea what is real and what is not. And I hate that. It is exhausting. I try to take all of the wonderful things that friends, family and more than anyone else, the hubster say to me and internalize them. More often than not, I let him be the judge of what looks good and what does not, because I know that my own eyes just cannot be trusted. I force myself to look at myself in the mirror and try to find something positive to “say” about what I see. Sometimes, I am there for a very long time. ..but eventually, I find something. And I use that as my talisman for the day…and remind myself that the demon lies. I cling to that, all day long, and try to see what you see…tell myself over and over again that I’m not as bad as they would have me believe.

Maybe someday, I will even believe it.

In The Running

Finally starting to feel a bit better run-wise...I am not too small to admit that I seriously under-estimated the impact that running 26.2 miles would have on my body! My knee and hip are just finally consistently feeling better. I have spent the last couple of weeks working on doing faster, shorter runs...between 3-4 miles a day at a sub 8 minute pace. The shorter time spent running seemed to help my knee and I have to say, I rather like being able to see an average pace come up of 7:51.

I'm also feeling a little better mentally, as I have a few races on my horizon. Tomorrow is the local turkey trot 5K, which, while not a long distance, is something I am looking forward to for two reasons...1 - the whole family is running it this year, and 2 - I am anxious to see if I can break 25 minutes.

Also coming up soon is a 10K, next weekend, one town over. My husband and "Mildred" will be running with me, so that makes it even more exciting.

Shortly after that, we have our eyes on a half marathon in West Virginia, so there are races for me to focus my training energies on. All good stuff.

I hope you all have a happy and healthy Turkey Day! Cheers!

Filling the Void

There is a phenomenon that happens to many brides, immediately following their wedding. They have put so much effort into planning out all of the minute details of their big day...they have given so much of their active, waking (and often sleeping) thoughts to making sure that everything goes off without a hitch, that they wake up the morning after and feel somehow...empty. Deflated. Depressed even.

With the big day come and gone, there is now this big chunk of their time and mental focus that frankly, they are unsure what to do with.

I realized, about 2 months before the race, that I was at risk for succumbing to that same phenomenon. Planning for the marathon had been so all consuming that I was almost as nervous about the day after the race as I was about the race itself. When I woke up on Monday, what was I going to do? I wouldn't have a run scheduled...there would be nothing to hold me accountable. What was going to motivate me to keep going, especially given that it would be colder by then, sometimes even frigidly so, in the mornings? Without a race to plan for, without a goal to work towards, what exactly was going to entice me to roll my happy ass out of my nice warm bed, at 5AM going forward? I am only just so disciplined.

I started at that point, to look tentatively around for other races, in the months following the marathon, for me to set my sights on running.

I also decided, then and there, that I needed to set myself some new goals. Sure, I could decide upon some time goal for a future race, but until I had at least finished one marathon, that seemed a bit premature. Instead, I felt the hazy outline of two, new long range goals materializing in the back of my brain.

One - to complete a triathlon within 18 months of the marathon.

Two - to run a Boston Qualifying time by my 40th birthday. (For those playing along, that gives me roughly 3 years, to shave about 45 minutes off my first official finish time. Yeesh.)

About a month before the race, I first said these out loud, so that someone else knew about them...and you know how that goes. Once you have stated a goal out loud, you are committed to it.

No? Just me? Interesting.

So I started eyeballing other full and half marathons. And realized that there are ALOT of really cool races out there. Enough cool ones that I started a list, of races that I someday want to run...they include the Disney Princess Half Marathon. The Disney Marathon (both at Disney World and Disneyland). The Cherry Blossom 10 Miler. The Las Vegas Rock and Roll Marathon, and a whole host of others. In fact, if I really put my mind to it, I'm fairly certain that I can find a race in just about any state that I am interested in tackling...

Now I just need to pick one for early 2013, so that I can get back to training in earnest, no excuses, no exceptions. And this time? I'm dragging my husband with me.

This Is Gonna Leave A Mark...With Pictures

I am not a fun of clutter, or bric-a-brac and nostalgia. I'm that bad mom who, upon seeing most of my childrens' artwork wants nothing so much as to say "this is lovely. Can we throw it away, now that we have all seen it?" Its not that I don't care. Its not that I don't love it. Its not that I don't believe in "sentimental value". Its that I simply can't stand to be surrounded by too much stuff.

I do however like to have something to remember big events by. Which makes me something of a contradiction. Its part of my charm really. (Keep repeating this until you believe it.)

The marathon? Was an event that needed commemoration. It begged for, nay demanded an important memento, beyond the medal and shirt that simply finishing earned for my P.I.C. and I...

In my book? There is really only one way to properly do this..and that is with a tattoo.

Let me back up a bit.

Hi, my name is Duchess Pandora, and I like ink. I have 5 tattoos at the current moment and, if I am absolutely honest about it? I am perpetually on the brink of getting my next one. This is in total juxtaposition to almost everything else about my persona.

Not too shabby for an almost 20 year old bear.



I got my first tattoo when I was 19. I was having a hard time in college and had just spent the summer working in a Boy Scout camp. The Grateful Dead was the soundtrack of that period of my life, and the counterculture that surrounds it was helping me lay the groundwork for who I would ultimately become.

I am, by nature, fussy. The Deadhead lifestyle taught me to relax, and to let it go.

I can be exceedingly self-conscious. The Deadheads taught me to dance whenever and wherever the music moved me.

I can be very reserved with my emotions. I learned to hug like I meant it, even if the other person hadn't showered in a week.

Ask my friends. Ask my family. Ask my co-workers. This? Is huge.

Towards the end of that summer, Jerry Garcia died. It was tragic.

At the end of that summer, I got my very first tattoo. A purple dancing bear, holding a rose, just above my ankle.

Over the years, I would toy with the idea of having this little fellow removed. In the end? I can't see that ever happening. He is a reminder to me of the fact that I am not always in control, and that is OK.



Virgo

My next ink would happen many, many years later, the day that I ran (finished? I didn't run the whole thing) my first 5K, with my female best friend, "Mildred". Mildred and I wanted to get a shared tattoo, something that would bind us together, no matter how far the distance between us. We thought long and hard about what to get, as we wanted it to be something meaningful.

We finally decided to go with the constellation for Virgo, as it is the sign we were both born under. Today we both have the same image, on the back of our necks.

 



Number three was added to the mix in 2011, also in the company of Mildred. We each got a tattoo that day, and she did me the honor of allowing me to design and draw her tattoo, which represents her two youngest children. I also designed mine, which adorns my inner right forearm. It is a family crest of sorts. My name is an Aramaic name, that means "bower", which is a poetic way of saying "tree". The tree branch is me, the large, flying bird is my husband, and the two small birds are my chicks, The Boy Child and The Girl Child. The flowers on the tree have hearts built into them, which represents our love.



Three little birds

My next ink would come much more rapidly, and in the company of my P.I.C.. The story there is a whole blog post unto itself, with the end result - for me anyway - being what would be, to date, my most painful addition. Two lines of poetry from Pablo Neruda's 41st Sonnet that remind me of my husband, scrawled across my rib cage:

"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

In secret, between the shadow and the soul."

Sweetly and romantically enough, my husband has a matching tattoo, in the form of a QR code on his forearm that scans to read this same verse. It was my 40th birthday present to him, but really? I see it as a present to me. Go ahead, take a moment and swoon. It gets me every time too.

So it was no major shock when, going in to this marathon, I wanted to get a tattoo to commemorate the event. I talked to my P.I.C. about it, and he was on board too. We spent many a month debating what we should do...and finally decided that the perfect artwork to mark the occasion would be none other than the logo for the race itself. Additionally, it seemed to make perfect sense to have this symbol inked onto our feet.

The evening following the marathon, we headed out to Saint Sabrina's to get our vision realized.

My P.I.C. went first...this wasn't his first tattoo - there will be more on that later I am sure - but this one definitely would leave a lasting impression on him.



Stencil is on...

 But I mean, c'mon, the guy just ran a marathon...this should be nothing in comparison, right???


First prick of the gun...

Right????? Because I am a very caring friend, I of course held his hand through the worst of it...

This is a little pinchy...

 ...any of my friends or sorority sisters (or kids) who have ever had the honor of getting ill with me to tend to them should recognize this position. I am nothing if not an attentive and doting nurse...

Oh owwwwwww

 ...apparently this whole ordeal "smarted" a bit.


"Now smile like you just finished a marathon!!"

Once it was all said and done though, he quickly regained his toothy grin. (And hey, let's give me some props for showing my bare-faced self to the world. Holla!)

The finished product.

 Now...there is a saying that I have come to love...

"Never underestimate the strength of a woman.

NEVER EVER  f*$% with one who runs 26.2 miles for fun."



Shhhh...I'm tryin to sleep here.

  This? Would be why.

All done.

We now have a lasting memory...a proper tribute, to the craziest thing we have ever gotten one another through...until the next time.

And big news!!! Stay tuned for a special post tomorrow, from P.I.C. himself!

The Morning After

I remember, when I first birthed the boy child, that almost all of my visitors thought it was hysterically funny to ask me "So, you ready to do this again?"

They'd wink and nod and then wind up mouth agape, when I cheerily responded "Yup! Sign me up!"

Childbirth? Apparently I was built for it. After 26 years of listening to horrific retellings of the story of my arrival into this Earth after 42 hours of labor and a subsequent high forceps delivery, the reality of giving birth to my own child was a walk in the park. Which explains why, a year later I was expecting the girl child.

People called me a glutton for punishment.

As I crossed the finish line, I had absolutely no doubt. I was ready to do it again. Yes please, right now, as soon as possible...if my body would just stop hurting.

When I returned to work, and the real world, I was asked (and am still being asked) at least a dozen times, so? You done running now? You're not going to do another one of those, are you?

No, no I'm not done running. And yes, yes I am going to run another. As soon as I stop hurting.

Towards the end of the race, my hips started to hurt. I kind of figured that was to be expected. I mean, seriously, four and a half hours straight of pounding the pavement? It'd be a little unexpected if something didn't hurt - right? I wasn't truly surprised that I was still a bit hobbly the next day either.

Even the next day, I could excuse being a little stiff.

When I woke Wednesday morning, I was determined that I just needed to stretch my legs, and run the kinks out...nothing huge, no epic distance, no killer pace...just a half an hour alone with my feet on the street.

Ow. Oh ow. Ow, ow, ow, ow.

Not from the very beginning mind you, but about 1 mile or so into my run, my right hip and knee started yelling profanities at me that made the retired sailor down the street blush. Because I am extremely, mmm, how do you say it? BULLHEADED, I kept going, determined to turn in a 30 minute effort, even if it killed me.

When I walked in my house, I felt like I had just finished the marathon all over again. The words "not good as new" rolled derisively across my brain. I stopped them short though, and thought "hey, you ran a marathon 72 hours ago...give yourself a break."

I ran again that Friday. To similar effect.

I gave it another shot on Monday. Still very owie.

So I did the only sensible thing I could do. I Googled it.

Seems that, based upon the description of the symptoms I have irritated my IT band. Basically? The big rubber band of ligament that connects the hip and knee joints? It got rubbed raw during the race, and swelled up and tightened. The pain I feel? Is the result of a that tightening.

Thankfully there are stretches that I can do that help to loosen it, and slowly but surely, I am getting back into form.

Which is good. Because I have a race to train for. I'm just not sure which one.

Make My Heart Race...With Pictures!

***if you are new here, and have no idea what this is going to be about you have two intelligent choices:

a) Leave Now.

b) Start here, then work your way back, m'kay?

On the eve of a big, life changing event, everyone seems to want to tell you to get some rest. "Get a good night's sleep" they say. "Good to bed nice and early" they urge. Really? Does anybody really manage to just drift, peacefully off to sleep, waking refreshed and bright eyed the next day? Because I? Will invariably toss and turn, heart thumping loudly, head racing, full steam ahead and try to will myself asleep.

The night before the race was no exception.

We woke (or rather, gave up the pretense of being asleep) at the crack of dawn, and started pulling on our race day ensembles.

Nike running tights - check

Long sleeved white technical t-shirt - check

Heather blue fleecy hooded running sweatshirt (fresh from Target, mere hours before) - check

Balega socks - check

Newton Gravity shoes with timing chip in the laces - check

Twin Cities Marathon headband - check

Running Bib - check

Gloves - check

Garish blue lensed sunnies - check

We pulled together some clothes to change into after the race, to put in the sweats drop bag, grabbed some other sundry items then loaded up into the car. The sun wouldn't be up for hours.

My partner in crime was lending my husband his bike, so that he might bike the course and play paparazzi along the route. We drove into Minneapolis, and dropped him off a few blocks from the Metrodome, where we would be meeting up before the race, and taking off from.

As he got out of the car, a sickening sense of panic rolled over me, as the reality of what was happening in just a few short hours jumped up in front of me and pointed in laughed. Holy shit...holy shit...holy shit.

I mustered every last bit of nonchalance I possessed and pretended that it was no big thing, and casually said "See ya in a bit."



My P.I.C. and I at the Metrodome. Pre-race.



Having deposited him into the heart of the city, we continued on to St. Paul, where we would park the car and catch a bus back to the metrodome.

We tried small talking, but honestly, I haven't the slightest idea what was said. My mind was too busy casting desperately about for clues that this was really just a convoluted dream and that this wasn't really happening right now.

We parked, and walked over to catch our bus...and old style school bus, that was bursting at the seams with antsy runners. I was freezing, even bundled up as I was. Looking around, I saw folks that were even more warmly clothed than I was as well as people who looked like they were headed to the beach. I was amazed at the contrast.

After a short, loud ride, we wandered, lemming style, into the metrodome, and began wandering about aimlessly. My husband found us shortly after, and I felt myself relax.



Outside, headed for the corral.



Before I knew what had happened, it was time to line up in our corrals. Because this was my first ever race, and I did not have an official finish time, I would be in corral 3. Home of the slowest racers and the unknowns. This would also mean that we would be the last to leave. We would get to hear all of the announcements...we would see all of the other runners leave...we would see the odd clothing explosion that happened, right before people taking off.

There was absolutely no turning back now.

Moments later, we would be crossing the starting pad, and officially running a marathon. I looked at my partner in crime, smiled and waved one last time, and took off on my own. (We run at vastly different paces, so this was a foregone conclusion.)

The moment I crossed over that pad, all of the cares and worries I had been hanging on to about this race just sort of floated away. Rigth from the first step, there was an enormous crowd cheering and waving. It was almost intoxicating. I felt myself grinning and could barely contain my excitement.

The first part of our course was right through downtown Minneapolis. After all the months and miles logged on country roads, lined with cornfields and cows, to be running down a road in a major metropolitan area was crazy. Sure I had run in the city in Lousiville, but that was on the sidewalk. This? Was an entirely different animal.

An announcement had been made, early on, that there were 25 "Medtronic Heroes" running the race. To wit, these were individuals that were actually pacemaker patients, sporting Medtronic pacemekers. Each of them was identifiable by a special shirt, with a big white star on it. As I was running the first 1/4 mile or so of the race, I saw one of the stars up ahead of me. I( was excited to see e of these heroes, and made my way up and over to him. Just as I did, he fell, face down on the pavement, and started writhing about.

My blood ran cold and I think my own heart may have considered stopping.

I stopped, unsure what to do, but was immediately urged on by what seemed like a whole platoon of medical staff.

I hesitated a second longer, then obediently continued on my way and was quickly swept up again in the euphoria that was being dished out by the crowds.

Minneapolis is a beautiful city, and we were on nice, wide streets. I was very thankful for this, because it meant I had plenty of room to dodge and weave through other runners. I tried to resist the urge to speed pass a huge crowd, only to have them later overtake me, and instead just find my comfortable pace, and pass when needed. The only problem with this was that, especially in the beginning, the race was a bit claustrophobic. I felt almost trapped, with people all around me. Slowly, steadily I found small openings and made my way around slower runners. Each time I passed someone I wondered, "Will I see you again later? Will you be passing me?"



In the groove.



The first couple of miles were a blur. We ran from the downtown area out into a more residential neighborhood. The streets were still lined with excited spectators, amny bearing signs with funny or encouraging phrases on them. I scanned through the masses, wondering when and where I would see my husband, but just kept happily gliding along.

On a typical run, I don't bring water with me, unless I am going at least 5 miles. The race offered plentiful water/Powerade stations to provide you with hydration. When I came to the first of these, I made a decision then and there that I would grab something to drink at every stop. A grabbed a cup, from an eager volunteer and immediately realized that I, picture of grace and elegance that I am, am in no way capable of drinking out of an open cup while running, without coating myself in liquid. And so a second, equally important decision was reached. I walked while I drank from the cup.





Soon we were outside of the city proper, and making our way to  the first of the lakes that we would run along. There was a small incline, nothing compared to the hills I run at home, but an uphill nontheless. I suddenly felt like a gazelle or something, as people started petering out and complaining about the hill, as I bounded around them. This? This wasn't a hill. This was barely a speedbump. This was my wheelhouse.

First spotting my husband!

It was cold and crisp out. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun was shining on the water. Fall leaves would catch on the breezes and rain down on us, like golden raindrops and I again wondered whether I was dreaming it.

Finally I caught sight of my husband and I was so excited that I felt like a kid a Christmas. Camera at the ready, he started snapping away and telling me how proud he was. I felt unstoppable!

According to my plan, I drank at each stop and walked, for my own safety as well as that of the other runners around me, while I drank.

Along the way the crowds cheered, rang bells, held up signs and kept your attention. There were bands and deejays and even a group of bagpipers playing. Kids and grownups lined the route, with their hands held out, just wanting to give you a high five. In this race, everyone was a superstar, and everyone had a huge fan club, clamoring for their attention.

I  was doubly blessed. Because I also had one extremely devoted fan that met me, every mile or so, and gave me encouraging words and a beaming smile.



Warming up now...



As the race wore on, I finally started to warm up. I removed my gloves and handed them off to my husband.

A short while later, my headband came off.



Finally, a good long way into the race, I was done with the outer shirt. It wasn't until that exact moment, as I peeled off that shirt, that I remembered that my Nike watch had been running the whole time, sandwiched between the layers. I looked down for the first time and noticed two things:

First: The distance on the watch was a few tenths of a mile further than the mile marker flags seemed to indicate. This puzzled and frustrated me to no end, but I decided not to obsess. (I would figure out later that it was not the watch being inaccurate...it was me underestimating the extra mileage that bobbing and weaving through other runners will add to the route. By the time all was said and done, my marathon was closer to 27 miles than 36)

Second: My average pace was 9 minutes.

No. Freaking. Way.

Even with the walking at each drink stop? That seemed crazy.

As we approached the 17th mile, I knew that a little energy boost, in the form of a Cliff Shot would be awaiting me. I walked while I ate it, then grabbed a drink and kept walking. My husband joined me for a bit. walking on the sidewalk next to me, and we chatted briefly. Finally it was time for me to take off again.

As I passed that 17th mile I had the amazing realization dawn on me that I now was into the single digits...less than 10 miles remained. I could totally pull this off!

Starting around the 20th mile, my hips started to ache a little bit. As I continued on, the aching turned into a steady pain and finally was punctuated by small spasms of sharp pain. At mile 23, I finally relented and started to walk a bit more.

In those last few miles, I saw more entertaining sights...bounce houses and inflatable slides...tables with cups of beer set up for runners to grab - but only for the "quitters". The more "seasoned" runners would actually leave the course, hop on the slide and then get back on the course. This pleased the spectators to no end, and amused me greatly.

Hi honey!

Finally I hit the 25th mile, and decided that this was it. I was running from here on out. Just 2 more songs from my play list, and I would be crossing the finish line. I could do two more songs, no problem.

As I cruised towards the finish line, I could see the capital building. The street was lined with people, and a big red and orange"finish" sign stood boldy across the road. There were grandstands and cameras flashing. I'm not sure how, but I managed to find my husband in that sea of faces, just before I crossed the finish line.

 I had done it. 4:26:43 (Pay no attention to the clock...that's not my official time)

They gave me a medal and *everything*