I ran 3.8 miles this morning. Well, run might be a strong word since my pace is one others might define as, “Sunday stroll.” Still, there is no mistaking that the girl who had to start out running for 60-second painstaking intervals has come a long way. Which isn’t to say I now find running easy. Yeah, no. But for a few stretches where I’m going downhill, in the shade, with a breeze, and listening to a great song, I’m basically forcing myself to take each step. But, those stretches do exist and I love them. I really am a runner now, you guys. People love to go on about how great beginnings are, about how important it is to just get started, but I think beginnings kind of suck. Look at the beginning of people. Babies are terrible. They’re needy little noisy poop machines. If all of parenthood was dealing with babies, I don’t think I’d make it. But, they get better. They eventually deal with their own excrement, feed themselves, and buckle their own freaking seat belts. One day you are able to say, “We’re leaving, get in the car,” and your children actually do. (True story, new moms, I’m not making this up.) You sit there in the driver’s seat, waiting for buckles to click, and think, “this is it. I have arrived.” I’m at my sister’s house and all seven of our children are in this great summer camp. It’s two weeks long and it consists of hiking, swimming, archery, crafts, capture the flag, and pure childhood bliss from what I can tell. They’ve been going for years and in the beginning, it was a nightmare getting them out the door. Trying to get each of them dressed, breakfasted, lunch packed, shoed, supplied with a towel, and covered in sunscreen took two grown women and a ton of self control. Every morning at least one child was crying about something — usually the sunscreen. Now, morning send off is more like an exit interview. Have your towel? Lunch? Water bottle? Shoes? Have you been sunscreened? Great. Get in the car. After a while, parenting switches from dragging yourself through the motions to enjoying the process. From what I hear, that’s what happens to you as a runner. Much like parenting, you go from asking yourself, “what in the hell am I doing here?” to “I don’t hate this right now” to “I’m really glad I chose to do this.” As my moments of non-hate stretch, I can’t help but look back on the skeptic my former self was about my ability to be a runner. I want to be there for her in the beginning as she is trying to force herself through those 60-second intervals, doubting that she’ll ever be able to run her 3.11 miles goal, and whisper in her ear, “Keep going. It gets better. You’re going to make it.” Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure she heard me. That new runner, that new mom, that new nurse, that new potter, they’re all still me. They are the me that kept going. They are the me who has arrived.
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I didn’t think I’d have to post again about running until I finished a race. I figured so much other life would be happening in the eight plus weeks between when I started and when I definitively reached my goal of crossing a 5k finish line that running would be a back burner item until then. Running is not a back burner item. This is the first mystery I have unlocked since I began this thing. (I may actually be starting to get these whackadoo runners.) There is a reason Facebook and Instagram are flooded with running photos and running stats and running routes: running is all-encompassing. And it’s hard. Each time you finish a run, you feel like you’ve accomplished something. I haven’t been posting about my progress, but a few friends are getting regular updates. It’s not that I think they care, I just have to tell someone. “Great, Heather, you can run 22 whole minutes in a row. How far did you get?” they ask politely. Let’s not get muddled in details… So, go easy on the runners who feel the need to share. Yes, they like to tell the world each time they finish another race. It's a solid accomplishment after months of hard work. Other people feel the need to tell the world each time they have another baby. Nobody gives them grief. Besides how hard it is to actually run, it is also hard to carve a new habit into your schedule and keep it there as life launches time-sucking catapults at you without warning. If I had followed the plan diligently, I’d be finished the eight weeks by now. I’m not. My next run will start week seven. I’ve decided not to be hard on myself for getting off track, though. Instead, much like each individual run, I’m proud of myself for not quitting… even though sometimes I really, really want to. Here’s the really insane part: sometimes I don’t want to quit. Sometimes I actually look forward to running. My body kind of tingles with excess energy that I have a strong urge to burn. Really, it’s almost like I crave a run. WHAT?! I know, you guys. I know. I’m just as surprised as you are. I can’t account for this lunacy. Maybe all the oxygen hunger has led to brain damage. Running has not made me skinnier. I’ve lost zero pounds since I’ve started. I don’t even care. Honestly, I think there are easier ways to lose weight. What it has given me, though, is a mind shift. When I was in my early twenties, I made a list of all the things I wanted to do in my life. (I was in sales and spent a lot of time thinking and not a lot of time cold calling — hence, I wasn’t a very good salesperson.) My list had things like: learn another language, visit Hawaii, speak in front of a large group of people, write a book, learn kung fu, run a marathon... You know, a bucket list. The concept was still new then. It was very exciting. Sometime in my early thirties, I grew a cloud of doubt about what I was capable of and what I was likely to do with myself. The list made me sad and full of regret for the things I knew I’d never do. I think I threw it away so I wouldn’t keep feeling bad about myself when I read it.
Running a marathon was probably the thing I was most sure I’d never do. (Not “learn kung fu”, oddly.) For the first time since I wrote that list, I find myself wondering if maybe I could. I’m also wondering what else I might be able to do before my time is up. I may have been motivated to become a runner by seeing skinny bodies and wanting to have one of my very own, but, what keeps me running is how I want to answer one question: Are you capable of doing this? Yes. I am. You crazy runners. You’ve done it. You’ve sucked me in to your vortex of insanity. I have sworn my entire life that running is something I’d never do. No matter how popular it got. No matter how much fun it looks in the pictures of women covered in paint or mud or dressed in matching outfits, smiling from ear to ear. That will never be me, man. Those bitches are crazy. Running sucks and no matter how many people on Facebook pretend to like it, I’ll never be snowed into doing it... I thought. And then a new breed of pictures cropped up. Pictures of women I knew IN REAL LIFE that were chubby like me, then weren’t any more. What the heck? What happened to solidarity, you traitors? What’s with getting all skinny on me? Still. Those women must have some attributes that I don’t have because running is suffering. Plain and simple. That ‘high’ everybody talks about must be a lie. Only high I ever felt was that black, starry feeling you get right before you pass out. No. Not doing it. Then, life kicked me in the stomach. When I got back up and looked around, I realized my priorities had amplified and come into razor sharp focus. Health and human connection. There they were. My priorities. Big and bold and full of color. Everything else got a little smaller. Some things I thought were so important before, kind of shriveled up and blew away. Health. Serious problems that I’ve been dismissing for a good year, suddenly developed flashing red lights and a siren. My first instinct was to dive back into the murky waters of weight loss dogma. The relentless swirl of points and writing everything down and weigh-ins and carbs and YOU CAN’T EAT THAT! Hell no. I’ve had enough taken away from me for right now. I’m not willing to give up anything else for a while. But, I am willing to add something. When I looked around for something to add, I saw the smiling faces, the camaraderie, the swag, the fun, the graphs, the maps with routes, the looks of accomplishment. The runners. And I thought, I want that. Here’s the thing, though. I’m one hell of a starter. I’ve got a good 25 years worth of before pictures to back me up on this one. So, before I stepped foot on the treadmill with an intent to be a runner, I decided I am not letting myself off the hook until I’ve completed at least one 5K. Even if I hate it. Even if it never gets better. Even if my initial thought that you runners are freaks is completely accurate. That said, I just finished week three of Couch to 5K and I’m still wondering what kind of fairy dust is supposed to waft out of my phone over the next six weeks that is going to make me capable of running 3 miles when running for 3 minutes feels like my lungs are being scraped over a cheese grater. How can you people claim to enjoy this agony? The week before last, I made the bonehead decision to run in my forest. My forest is on the side of a hill. Hills are evil. Hills are like satan is reaching into your chest and calves and burning them with hell fire. At one point, I passed a couple walking their dog and they looked at me as if they wanted to call an ambulance. Seriously, I’m pretty sure I was, for them, one of those things you wish you could unsee that ruins the rest of your day. Shortly after I passed them, my phone died. My no good, lying, cheating, worthless phone that said I had 56% battery went dead. Mid run! I wanted to throw it against a tree, fall to my knees, raise my hands to the sky and scream, “NO!” How was I supposed to finish my timed walk/run cycles? How was I supposed to function without music blaring in my ears? It was a freaking tragedy, I tell you. (I get it. First World Problem. So is obesity. I live in the first world. That’s where all of my problems are.) Whatever. I totally regrouped. Unwilling to relent and give up the day’s worth of C25K progress, I started counting. One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi… up to 90 Mississippi. Then walked. Then started counting again. One Mississippi, two Mississippi… Three times. That terrible experience may have been the first inkling that I might have a chance of actually doing this thing. I’m not. *huff huff* Effing. *huff huff* Quitting. *full blown panting* Of course, that’s why I’m posting my commitment here. I’m counting on you guys to be a source of public shame if I quit. Mind you, I’m not looking for you to throw rotten fruit at me. Your silent knowing is enough. I expect to feel utterly defeated if I quit. Again. In front of everybody. I think that would feel terrible. Like, even more terrible than running feels. Last week, I didn’t want to run on the treadmill and I didn’t have enough time before sunset to drive to a trail so I just ran on my road (also on a hill). My neighbor drove by slowly, I believe trying to figure out who might be chasing me and whether to call 911 or go home and get his gun.
So, if you see me out in the world, please don’t call an ambulance if I’m still vertical. Also, please don’t try to talk to me because, honestly, I don’t have the spare oxygen for that. And, before you offer, cause I know how you psycho runners operate, no, I’m not ready to run with you. I’d rather suffer alone for now, thanks. If I do manage to keep going, though, I’m expecting y’all to be lined up next to me one day, with your (possibly fake) *I love to run* smiles and matching outfits, getting a picture for MY Facebook wall. *I do not represent nor did I receive compensation from C25K or Panera for mentioning their products. I just like them. One more than the other. Last month my mom died. It was unexpected and devastating. Trying to write about it without getting bogged down by despair has been challenging. However, it would feel cowardly to move forward in this blog without recognizing such a profound life event. Still, I think most of the post ideas that capture how I’ve been feeling since it happened would not really be in keeping with my usual tone. Some of the titles I’ve considered include: “How can you be so happy while I suffer?”, “I don’t want to hear about how alive your mother is”, “People older than 66 make me feel bitter” or, my personal favorite, “Someone you love is going to die too, just wait.” Of course, I’m not the only one who has ever suffered a serious loss. The self-involved nature of my grieving reminds me of being a first-time mother. Being pregnant and having a newborn is such a life changing experience you feel like you are seeing the world with unique eyes. In reality, they are just unique to you. Death, just like parenthood, is a shared human experience. Everyone has been exposed, one way or another, to both. There are things about being pregnant and having a baby that I couldn’t believe people didn’t warn you about: the dark nipples, the line down the belly, how precious showers and sleep are, how much babies cry (really, daily crying is part of your life for YEARS), and how lonely it is to be a stay-at-home mom. There you go, moms-to-be, becoming a mother means your body gets weird and your stress reaches levels you can’t even imagine yet. All the poop will be the least of your worries. (You’re welcome.) Losing someone close has its own set of insider information. At the forefront is the guilt. The best way I can explain the guilt is feeling bad for not being perfect. Or for still being alive when your loved one isn't. Or for not somehow stopping the chain of events that lead to death. Or for all the times you could have been a better person but weren't. Not all of the guilt is logical, but it's real and pervasive. There’s also the pictures. There will never be enough pictures. And here’s the thing about losing someone older: that’s not who we’re photographing. At least, I’m not. I take pictures of my kids, my pets, and, embarrassingly, myself. I scrolled through my photos to see the most recent one I had taken of my mom. It wasn’t on her birthday, or Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or even Halloween with the costumes she had sewed for my kids. She was there and I had my camera out, but I didn’t turn it toward her. No, the last picture I took of my mom, she was actually in the background of a picture of my cat. You can’t even see her face. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. The thing about losing your mother is she is the one person who has literally been there since your day one. The idea that she would ever be gone was inconceivable to me. Worrying about losing her would have felt like worrying about losing air to breathe or sunshine. Fear of losing my children has been with me since before they were born. Fear of losing her was something I never even considered. Hence, it didn’t occur to me to take her picture that often. It felt like she would always just be there. Also, the clichés are true. The people you love will never truly be gone. My mom left her mark on every cell in my body. Vestiges of her are sprinkled throughout my house, most of my memories, and on the face of my daughter. She will always be a part of who I am. Not a day goes by where something doesn’t remind me of her. Right now, all those memories come with a sting. I hope, in time, the pain will be outweighed by the happy feeling thoughts of her also brings. And finally, the people who love you can really help pull you out of the dark sadness that comes with loss. Because, much as it doesn’t make sense, part of you wants to stay sad. When my mother died, I wanted to curl up in my grief and shut everything else out. It felt like I was closer to her there in the darkness, clinging to memories of her. Your people know that isn’t good for you. They want you back in the light where living takes place. They want you to keep going. Ironically, it is the same thing when you have your first baby. Everyone who has been there knows how hard it is. They pool around you because they want to soften the blow and encourage you to hang in there. (Once you are on to your second baby, however, you’re on your own.) Just as there is no way to truly prepare for how life changing a new baby will be, there is no way to really prepare for a loss. In both cases, there will be pain and suffering. There’s no getting out of it. However, just as you try to prepare yourself for a child, you can try to prepare yourself for losing someone. You do that by showing them you love them as much as possible. You forgive easily. You say ‘yes’ to plans or make some. You remember birthdays. And when they are walking out the door, you give them a hug and tell them you love them because you really don’t know if, like me and my mom, that will be the last time you get to talk to them. The day my mother died, my sister’s mother-in-law was cleaning out my sister’s refrigerator in preparation for "the food". I thought she was being a little overzealous — until it came. Unannounced, a stream of southern women came in carrying the predicted food. First, there was the biggest box of donuts I have ever seen. There was soup and chili and a meat and cheese tray and fried chicken and Pinterest inspired breakfast biscuit things. There was a basket of snacks for the eventual car ride north for my mom’s service. One woman, knowing how much food was coming, brought stacks of paper products so we wouldn’t have to worry about doing dishes. It was like an army of kindness came marching through my sister’s kitchen. Turns out southern hospitality is no myth, and its reputation as the pinnacle of graciousness is well deserved. I’m from the north. But for a few exceptions, like, Italian families, up here people ask, they offer, they have the best intentions, but our northern culture generally gets in the way of follow through. The polite thing for us to say is, “thank you, but you don’t have to do that.” I was talking to one of my sister’s southern friends about it and she said, “Oh, you don’t ask if people need help, they’ll say no. You just have to show up.” Death, like colic, happens. The same way you get through night after night of walking your screaming infant while patting him on the back, longing for sleep, is the same way you get through a loss. You keep moving knowing that this moment of pain won’t last forever, knowing that people who love you are depending on you to keep your shit together, knowing that, in the end, human connection is the whole point and sometimes you suffer the most for the people you love the most. I'm no expert on loss, just as I'm no expert on raising children. In fact, I tend to assume I’m doing it wrong in both cases. But the real secret is you don't have to be an expert when it comes to being a mom, or moving on after losing one, or, in general, being a loving and loved human. You just have to show up.
When I was a little girl, I used to fall asleep in the bathtub. I wasn’t a baby being neglected by some crack-whore mother, mind you. I was totally old enough to self-bathe. I just had a habit of submerging my body until only my nose was above water, closing my eyes, and drifting off… then waking up to my hysterical mom who didn’t particularly like seeing her daughter in drowned position. I did this countless times. (I’m not sure my mother ever got used to it.) I’m still a big fan of bathing. Only now, I use it for sensory deprivation. When chaos peaks, I run for the bathtub. It’s my escape pod. It’s hot, wet meditation. This past Fall saw a lot of bath hours. Being back in school is both wonderful and, you know, crazy stressful. There’s the *I’m totally moving toward some huge goals! Yes! Where is my cape because I am totally awesome!* part that comes from simply being enrolled in school. Then there’s the part where you actually have to do all the work. You have to write the papers. And take the tests. And talk IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE WHO ARE SKINNY AND YOUNG. Then there are the deadlines. Oh, the deadlines. Fall semester finals? Two weeks before Christmas. That was hard enough back in the day when I was childless and my only job was as a cashier at 7-Eleven. Throw in my big girl job, my three kids, and my pottery business that is busiest when? Right before Christmas, of course. And what do you get? Insanity. Sleep deprivation. An upper respiratory infection… But, you know what, Christmas has passed. Santa came. Pottery was made and sold. I kept my day job. And every last thing on all three of my syllabi were completed. I just kept chugging along until the to do lists were done. At times I was so under water that I felt like I was drowning, but I wasn’t, ‘cause I was still breathing. So why am I telling you this? To toot my own horn? No. I don’t even have a horn.
The whole point is I’m not special. Well, I'm special in that everyone is special, but I'm not special-er. It's goal-setting season, you guys. If there are goals you want to achieve, here's the trick to getting stuff done: do it. BAM! That’s it. That's the magic. Enroll in the classes. Open the online store. Sign up for the race. And then do it. Doing it can be painful, I'm not going to lie. But, having done it, I'm here to tell you, feels wonderful. Kind of like a nice, hot bath. Happy New Year, y'all! |
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