Brave little snowboarder.

It has been too long since my last post.

I needed some time to process what had happened with the marathon, with my legs, with life in general. 

Well, that, and I took my show on the road. 

First I packed up the dogs and drove to California. I accomplished so much in so little time (but I did cover alot of miles in seven days). I celebrated with my mom, she turned 60! Then I spent a couple of afternoons and a few lovely meals with my sister and her husband, who happened to be in town for some gigs. After that, I drove north and celebrated with my older brother, who was having a birthday blowout at his running shop in Aptos. As much as I hated to leave Aptos, it is a good thing I left when I did as the Grapevine was closed the next day because of a wild storm that I barely missed. Then, upon returning south, I drove downtown to check out my brother’s new digs. He lives on the 25th floor of his building and within walking distance of the Grand Central Market, where we ate some of the best carnitas tacos ever. 

It was an excellent trip. 

The pups and I drove home, took two days to do laundry and putter around the house, and then Mr. Shortpants and I were off for a seven day trip to Colorado for snowboarding, skiing, hot springs and cocoa around the fire. 

And so here we are. Today is the first day we were able to hit the slopes. We were snowed in on Monday and then the pass which we needed to cross to get to the mountain was closed yesterday, so today was the first day this year since last season I’ve even seen snow. 

And there is plenty of it, let me tell you. 

Anyways, there I am, feeling a bit like the staypuff marshmallow snowboarder, standing at the base of the bunny hill. I’m sitting on top of my snowboard, which doesn’t actually mean I’m a snowboarder, if you were wondering. I’m thinking about quitting so I haven’t strapped in to my board. Yes, you heard me, quitting. 

Quitting, How Many Miles? That doesn’t sound like you. 

I know. I hate quitting. 

But I was afraid. The kind of afraid that makes you feel a bit like throwing up and physically throwing something like a snowboard at the very same time. That sassy talking How Many Miles Till We Quit plopped down next to me. 

I think you might be too fat to snowboard. I mean, you’ve gained a lot of weight since last season. Why don’t you just quit now and we can go get a snack and sit in front of the fire. I mean, aren’t you tired? I’m tired just looking at the bunny hill. And let’s face it, you are terrible at the chairlift anyways. Come on–let’s go. 

I seriously considered listening to her. She is really convincing. Really. Convincing. 

I knew that I had to go though. After all that has happened with running and weight and the marathon, I knew that I had to get on that chairlift. So I strapped in and went. 

Of course, on that run, I felt like air. Like a perfect feather, floating down, down, down the mountain. Even when I fell flat onto my face and had to wipe the snow off my goggles, I feel magical. Drifting, weightless, through the powder, no rituals, no fat, no voices convincing me to quit. There is no better feeling. Well, except running. Running and snowboarding. Nothing better. 

Sometimes it is hard to tune out the inner critic. Sometimes it is hard to listen to part of ourselves that knows what is good for us. Sometimes it is hard to resist sitting inside the lodge when everyone else is outside, pushing past limits, working through fear. Being brave. 

So tommorow, I might just go down the beginner hill after a couple of runs on the bunny hill. I might. But it will take a lot of bravery. It can’t be any worse than a marathon, right?

Be brave, little snowboarder, be brave.

Rule of three. And 728.

Dated 12/21/07

I have to see the doctor today. I forgot to take my medicine three days in a row. My sister says that if you forget to do something three days in a row, you more than likely don’t need whatever thing you forgot to do.

For example, when I quit smoking last year, I forgot to put a patch on for three days. I assumed that my body no longer required the patch to fight the cravings, so I decided to no longer use the patches.

If I had called my sister and told her about my medication, she would have likely said something like, “Stop projecting.” Meaning-just because she says that if you have forgotten to do something three days in a row, doesn’t always mean that you should throw your hands up in the air on the third day, flush your medication down the toilet, and move on with your life. She hates the fact that I mold statements to fit my predicament.

But it is something I do quite frequently. My doctor hates it too, as well as my therapist. Let’s throw Mr. Shortpants in there for good measure, as I’m sure he loathes the behavior.

Anyways, I’ve forgotten to take my medication three days in a row and now I’m certain that I have to go off my medication. So I made an appointment with my doctor and I’m sitting in the waiting room.

Things are off in the waiting room. My rituals are stalking me, waiting in the corner for things to be too stressful, too different. A young mother comes in directly after me, carrying a tiny baby who cries like a mewling kitten. The mother forgot her wallet and, rightfully so, panic ensues which sends the baby into more shrieks, making her sound more like an arriving steam train rather than a kitten.

I’m in deep contemplation on the subject of babies and how helpless they are when they arrive in this world, when the new nurse, who I don’t trust, calls my name. She refers to me as Miss and no matter how many times I correct her; I’m still Miss to her. She leads me into the staging room, for blood pressure and weight, and even though I was there only a week or two prior, I still have to go through the ritual that I hate the most: getting weighed.

The nurse always clears her throat when she has to slide the bottom weight over from the 100-range to the 200-range. She then uncomfortably shifts her weight when she has to move the top weight over to the 30-range. She made the mistake only once of commenting on my weight, and even when she did she hid the insult inside of a deceiving compliment. “You don’t look like you weigh 230 pounds.”

I’m moved over to the actual room now. I’ve already read the “O” magazine that I’m reading now, but this is part of my ritual, I must read the article on incontinence, the article about Oprah’s favorite things, the article about a woman who becomes a pastor after her husband died. But first, I must read the very back page. Oprah writes that section and it is called something like “This much I know to be true.” I can never actually recall what this particular section is about, but I read it, word for word.

Usually my doctor comes in around the second or third article depending on what time of day I come in.

“So what is going on today? Didn’t I just see you?”

“Yes, but I think I want to go off my medication. Today.”

I ramble on after this, about the three day rule, about how I hate taking medication. I always chatter like a monkey when I’m nervous. I included too many details about things that are irrelevant and I sweat. A lot. Mostly, she spends the time I talk tapping vital information into her hand-held computer. When she stops tapping, she looks up and sighs.

“So what happened during those three days?”

“You mean like side-effects? Nothing, really. Overly tired. A little crabby.”

“No, I mean what happened with your OCD during those three days?”

I think hard about this before answering. I shuffle through an imaginary rolodex of memories in my brain. Did any rituals stand out? Did I ritual at all?

And then I remember.

I remember the mini-marshmallows.

I grew up in upstate New York. Some of my best memories are during the winter, when my mom had to bundle us up in moon boots and snowsuits. I remember igloo forts and snowball fights. And the best part about winter in upstate New York? After spending all that time in the cold, my mom would make steaming cups of hot cocoa with plenty of gushy marshmallows swimming on top.

In November, right after Thanksgiving, Tucson had a freeze. Now, it wasn’t nearly as cold as upstate New York, but the first thing I did was run out and pick up some cocoa and a bag of mini-marshmallows.

You should know about me and marshmallows. They mock me, those marshmallows. Their sweet roundness mocks me from their plastic bag.

“Nah, nah-nah, nah-nah-nah. Betcha can’t Just. Eat. One.”

It is rare day when a bag of marshmallows moves into my house without getting attacked and eaten in one sitting just for mocking me. Of course, they retaliate by turning my intestines into a slinky.

This time, though, I made some cocoa, added some marshmallows, and went on with my day. The call of the marshmallows was silent. And then, after the three day sabbatical from my medication, I heard them. Their saccharine voices, all sweet and sappy, squeaked out from the package. They taunted me as I walked by the cabinet, started in on their usual mocking.

I should mention that Mr. Shortpants was out of town. And it had been a horrible day. And the dogs were getting dangerously close to tying me to a chair and dancing around me like the lost boys in Peter Pan.

Finally, I could listen to the mocking no longer. I grabbed the bag, marched to the kitchen table and went to work. First, I dumped out the whole bag. I sighed and realized that I needed to know how many mini-marshmallows were in the bag before I could proceed. I flipped the bag over.

One serving of mini-marshmallows is 30 grams. There are 15 servings in one bag and this was a 16 ounce bag. I scratched my head. This situation is calling for math, I realized. Math and I are not really close friends. In fact, Math and I try to avoid speaking with one another.

I grabbed the empty bag and headed to my laptop. I searched “mini-marshmallows” and scanned the results. Finally, I found a conversion chart.

One regular marshmallow equals 13 mini-marshmallows. And there are 64 regular marshmallows in a 16 ounce package.

64 regular marshmallows X 13 mini marshmallows = 832 mini-marshmallows in one 16 ounce package

But we used 52 mini-marshmallows each when we drank the cocoa. So, that is 104 mini-marshmallows used out of the 832.

832 total mini-marshmallows – 104 used with cocoa = 728 mini-marshmallows remaining.

728 mini-marshmallows is a good number. I like 728. I return to the kitchen and get to work. First, I separate out the 8 marshmallows. I put them to the side, making sure they are all standing end-up and in a square formation. Then I search for any defective marshmallows. There are two that are deformed. I put them in their own pile. Then I pick out 18 marshmallows. I organize the 18 into another square, making sure that they too, are all end-up. I then set to work on separating out the remainder of the marshmallows, counting them out into perfectly square, end-up piles of 100.
I survey my work. The marshmallows resemble tiny soldiers, prepared for the battle of a lifetime. I can’t help but to giggle over the thought of the marshmallows carrying miniature bayonets and wearing the smallest helmets ever. They must be fighting over the rights to be fluff.

Then I start to eat them. I eat them in piles of 10. 70 total piles need to be eaten. After the 55 pile, I start to feel a bit strange. Queasy, really. I march on. After the 70 piles are consumed, I eat the 2 deformed piles. I’m about to put the first deformed marshmallow in my mouth when I realize that I hate 7. It makes me uneasy, those straight jagged lines. Eeep. Now I’ve eaten 70 piles making a total of 700 marshmallows.

I can’t breathe. Too many sevens. I scan the remaining marshmallows. 2 deformed, 8 normals.

8 is my favorite number. 8 is like a mother calming me when I’m sick, pulling a ragged blanket over my exposed toes. I eat the 8 marshmallows. With each of the 8 consumed, I feel better. A calm settles over me. Well, a calm and a wave of nausea, but that is a different story.

2 deformed marshmallows left. I stack them on top of each other. A faceless snowman. I pop each of them into my mouth and stand up to do a little dance. I’ve just consumed 728 mini-marshmallows. They start to morph in my stomach-a giant lump of chewed-up marshmallow coagulating in my guts.

Boy, do I feel sick. Sick and happy, because I’ve conquered the mini-marshmallows. Of course, soon after I eat the final offensive ‘mallow, I have to go lay down. The sugar has set it, of course, and I’m falling into a bit of a sugary coma. I sleep for 6 hours.

Back to the doctor.

I relate this story to the doctor.

She sighs, pushes her glasses on her nose, and sets aside her computer.

“What do you think about this marshmallow experience?”

This sounds like a question but the fact is she knows that I have already realized that the marshmallow experience was, in fact, a ritual. A super-size ritual that prevented me from going on about my day. A ritual that, upon reflection, is kind of funny, but truly, really scares me, too.

As I walked out of my doctor’s office, I realized that sometimes it takes an outsider to look in and push you towards the edge. And only then can you see how close you are to teetering over the edge. Sometimes it is a doctor, sometimes it is a husband, sometimes a friend who pushes you. Sometimes it is 728 mini-marshmallows.

And I’m still taking the medication, if you were wondering. And I’m pretty sure I will never be able to eat another mini-marshmallow again. Ever.

The Year of the Cheetah.

It is Tuesday.

I’ve spent the last 48 hours stuck somewhere between being frozen and stagnant depression. I keep trying to get moving.

So, I made a list of things that need to be done. I looked at the list. Looked at the couch. Looked back at the list. Brought the list over to the couch. Laid down on the couch. Looked at the list. Dropped the list on the floor as I fell asleep on the couch.

I probably should back up a bit.

The marathon was on Sunday. If you read regularly, I know that you read my happy, up-beat, decidedly positive post about the fever I caught.

I have some bad news.

The fever broke. I didn’t run it.

DNS.

After I got back from the Expo, I did all the regular stuff I do before a race. I laid out my clothes. I packed my hydration, nutrition, and my après race clothes. I ate a good pre-race meal and went to bed fairly early.

The whole time I’m moving through my night-before-the-race-rituals, I feel a nagging hot pain in both my legs. Tednonitis. The same pain I’ve been dealing with forever, I keep trying to push it out of my mind, but there it is, like a Clydesdale doing ballet.

In the morning, I get ready for the race while trying to convince myself that I’m a failure if I drop out. I squat over a chair to tie my shoes but the pain sends me careening over, face first on the carpet. It’s electrifying, this pain. I rub, massage, and fan my legs, trying to relieve this pain. I have a race to run for goodness sakes.

I shut my eyes, and say out loud to no one in particular, “Your legs don’t hurt. You feel fine. This race will be fine. Now get up and let’s get going.”

So there we go, Mr. Shortpants and I. We get into the car and start making our drive to Phoenix. By the time we reach Cortaro, I know that I am making a mistake. A big mistake. I know that I can no longer see the line between me running a race because I’m afraid of failure and taking care of my body. Also, I’ve fallen into some sort of hot, bubbly cauldron of Judgement. I wonder who will judge me if I don’t run the race. What will they think?

Mr. Shortpants was so patient. He kept driving, calmly listening to me and the I-can’t-breathe-snotty crying show I was putting on. Never did he tell me that I had to do something and he reminded me that he would support me no matter what decision I made.

Later he told me that he knew I shouldn’t run this race a week ago but he kept his decision to himself. He didn’t want to be the reason I didn’t run. But he told me that he was prepared to drive all the way to Phoenix if necessary. If I needed all two hours to decide what I needed to do, he was fine with that, even if that meant driving all the way to Phoenix, only to then turn around and drive home.

Around Picacho, I knew I could not run. I knew we had to turn around.

I know that I am not a failure for having to listen to my body.
I know that I need some time off.
I know that I made the right decision for me.
I know that if people judge me for taking care of my body instead of running the race they likely have other issues.

But then Failure creeps back into the picture, and let’s face it, Failure and I have a long, shaded and sordid past together. It is quite logical that I feel more comfortable around Failure than I do with my new friends Success and Compassion.

Hence the last 48 hours of stagnant depression and being frozen.

Today it feels like the veil of failure has been lifted. I can’t help but thinking that the reason the veil is lifting is because I love running. I love running like kids need to play. Like mammals need air. Like Polar Bears need ice. It is not an extra, it is a requirement. If you take it away, I will be despondent, unable to breathe, treading water.

If I ran through the pain during the race, I might have found myself cursing running. I might have starting to loathe running. I might have injured myself in a more permanent way. That is not what I want to do.

Taking a break will allow me to heal and still love running. But most importantly, it will allow me to heal.

So I’ve been resting, icing and resting. I picked out some races for this year and made a training schedule for the whole year. I’m addressing and changing some of my eating habits. I’m trying to strengthen some of my other muscles in my legs. I’m trying out some other conditioning exercises that do not hurt or affect my tendonitis.

I’m taking this as a clean slate. At least I’m trying to look at it that way, in between my moments of I-think-I’ll-drown-myself-in-a-gallon-of-ice-cream feelings.

There is nothing better than a clean slate. It is like the New Year’s of Running. If I think last year was an amazing year, then this year is going to kick last year’s ass. A clean slate. A New Year.

And people, I think it will be the year of the Cheetah.

No excuses.

And if catching the fever at the Expo wasn’t enough, this should do it.

 Sadly, I’ve used way too many of these excuses.

I’ve got a fever.

I was really crabby heading into the Expo today to pick up my race packet for tommorrow. Nothing has gone right in regards to this race. My legs still hurt, I had to drive to the expo and then drive right home, I’m secretly mad about having to do the half. You get the picture. 

I was determined to have a bad time. De-termined.

But instead, after walking into the Expo, it was hard not to catch that buzz. You know the one I’m talking about. That infectious athletic bug. It’s like a fever, really. Leg pain? What leg pain? It was the kind of bug that made me say, “I probably could run the marathon. I’m just saying.” 

So then, all infected and ready, I walked the Expo. Even though I’ve felt disembodied from this race and find myself doing all things related to it alone, I feel that the solo aspect has forced me to see that I’m really dedicated to this whole running thing. Even though the crabbies struck–I still went, picked the stuff up, walked the expo. It was no longer important who was or wasn’t coming with me, because it is more important that I followed through. 

And–I’m in the magazine that comes in the goodie bags. How cool is that? 

That fever. It’s hard to resist. Wish I could bottle it and slather it on myself whenever the crabbies return, because you know they will. 

Here goes nothing, people.

Run for fun.

I just ran 6.01 miles. 

I was supposed to run 10 miles, but had to decide to cut four miles out on the basis of pain. Around mile 3, I realized that could feel the pain starting to burn in both legs. I was disappointed in myself, but decided to have fun on the remainder of my miles instead of feeling like a failure. 

So I did. I sang, I danced a bit, I waved to passerbys. I put the upcoming race in the back of my mind and instead just ran. I put on music that makes it hard to not have a good time. Best example of such a song? Baby got back by Sir Mix a Lot. Try. Just try not to smile and have a good time running while listening to such a song, I dare you. Nearly impossible. 

I’m not a failure for needing to run 6.01 miles instead of 10 miles. I’m smart. I’m smart because I made a decision based on what my body needs. And my body was doing that nervous laugh and saying, “Uh, yeah, mind if we slow it down a bit, HMM. I’m still recovering.” Hard to believe, but the old HMM would have kept running. But only out of fear. And only out of the fact that she didn’t know her own body. Strange, but true. 

All in all, it was a fairly good run too. Felt good to be out there, stretching out my legs, taking deep breaths and smiling. Plus, I ran 13 minute miles, which is pretty good considering the tendonitis. 

Moral of the run–I should always listen to what my body is trying to tell me, I am never a failure for running, no matter what the mileage, and Baby Got Back will always make me laugh while I’m running. 

Have I mentioned that I love running?

A Year to Remember.

Do you know what today is? 

Today is the one year anniversary of us quitting smoking!! 

One year ago today, we quit smoking, and I started running. 

So in honor of that anniversary, I took my first run in two weeks. 

During my first run last year, it took me 24 minutes to run a mile. This morning, it took me 12:15 to run a mile. 

I’m constantly amazed at how far I’ve come. 

This last year was an amazing one. I quit smoking. I started running. I ran five 5ks, one 10k, two Half Marathons, and a Marathon. I’ve lost weight. I’ve made significant headway in addressing my OCD. I’m healthier. I’m happier. I smile more. 

More importantly, I followed through with a commitment. I committed to becoming a healthier person last year and I followed through. Me. The girl who bought the book called “How to stop procrastinating” but decided to read it next Monday. The girl who didn’t run unless donuts were involved. The girl who created an identity out of doing everything in excess. 

I have learned so many lessons this year. I’m so appreciative of all of them. 

We are so glad that you are learning lessons HMM, but where the heck have you been the last two weeks? 

I checked out for a bit. I left you all hanging, I know. But I learned an especially important lesson two weeks ago. 

Two weeks ago I was slated to run my long run of 15 miles. No prob, right? I set out feeling optimistic. I’ve run 15 miles lots of times. I know I’m capable. However, I knew in the back of mind that my tendonitis was acting up. I was afraid but willing to give it a shot. I mean, normally the pain subsides after a couple of miles. (Or just gets so numb that I can’t feel it anymore, whatever.) 

A couple of things you should know before I continue. 

I normally run downriver. It doesn’t seem like this would make that big of a difference, but damn. I decided to run upriver on this run. Don’t ask me why. 

Okay, I’ll tell you why. I ran upriver so that my post long-run meal could happen immediately afterwards. At one of my favorite restaurants. I ran upriver for the sake of food. Sad, I know. 

Also, I started this run really late in the morning, at 10am. But I didn’t eat breakfast.

And I wore shoes that I know for sure are in need of replacing. And inserts, too. 

And I didn’t lacelock my shoes to prevent my heel from slipping. 

And I tried to work through the pain even though I knew that I was probably going to hurt myself. 

You already know the outcome of this run, don’t you. 

I had to stop at mile 12. This, of course, came after crying through miles 10-12 because the pain was so bad. But now it had expanded to both legs and both of them were red, inflamed, and seriously bruised. 

At mile 12, I spied that the river had running water in it. I imagined the ice-cold water rushing over my tender legs. I felt, in my delusional state, that I *had* to get into that river. I *had* to have that water on my legs. So I climbed under the railing (generally when a decision includes climbing under the railing of anything, it probably is a bad one) and attempted to shimmy down the small, but still dangerously sheer, enbankment of the river. It was impossible for my legs to work their way down the rocks. Too much pain. I just cried harder. 

I thought maybe I could slide down on my butt like a kid going down a slide. I sat down. This was my second bad idea. Once I sat down, I knew I was done for. My legs were finished. I knew I had to give up. I cried even harder. 

I was stuck. I was alone. I was mad. 

I was mad at myself for being hurt. I know, it sounds stupid. But seriously, in that moment, all I could think about was letting myself down. All I could think about was being a failure for giving up. I’m not so good at giving up. 

I knew I would have to walk off the trail to get to Mr. Shortpants. I dreaded the thought of even standing let alone walking.

The long of the short of it? I *had* to give up at mile 12. 

Do you know how much the old HMM would have smacked me for being mad at myself for quitting at MILE 12!! Because ohmigod, that is still 12-freaking-miles! 

I know now that quitting was probably the best thing I did for myself. I was benched for the next week, mostly a self-inflicted bench, with a full intention of running my long run the following Sunday. 

I did all the proper things for my legs in the interim. I iced. I stretched. I rolled. I called Coach Tom. I saw doctors. I got the new shoes out of their box and started wearing them, with the new insoles. I lacelocked my shoes. I iced more. I took care of myself. I nurtured myself. 

And then, on Sunday, the day I intended to run, even set out my clothes and whatnot, I woke up with a fever. 

I found myself running straight back to bed. 

I had contracted some sort of super-cold virus. And so had Mr. S. We spent the next eight days sick. Sore throat, fevers, chills, aches, congestion. General disgustion. We tried a couple times to take advantage of our “vacation” by going out, or visiting with family on the holiday, but everytime we went out, we came home feeling twice as bad as we did when we left the house. 

I wonder though–was my body trying to tell me something? Sure I had the super-cold virus, but maybe my body was trying to force me to rest more. Maybe my legs weren’t ready. Maybe my mind was still trying to squeeze miles in that my legs weren’t prepared to actually run. 

So today I had my first run in two weeks. It sucked for sure, hacking up the remainder of the cold, sucking wind because I missed two weeks of working out, and general malaise. But–you know what I’m going to say here–it was the best run ever. You know why? Because I was running. I had no pain in my legs. My legs felt strong. It was spec-tacular. 

I have had to face another lesson, though. 

I have had come to terms with the fact that I will only be able to run the Half-Marathon instead of the Marathon I was preparing to run on January 13th. I’m afraid that the Marathon might be too much on the tendonitis and I don’t want to risk it. 

I have agonized over this decision. And I do mean agonized. 

I was afraid that people would judge me for *only* being able to run the Half. 

Did you hear that? Only. 

A year ago, it took me 24 minutes to run a mile and now I’m afraid of being judged for *only* being able to run the Half. Like there is shame in running 13.1 miles!

Go ahead, call me a dumbass. I earned it. 

I have come a long way. I’m strong enough to admit that I need to take care of my body and run the Half instead of the whole. But that is a big lesson for me. Big. The old HMM would have just quit for fear of failure. The old HMM would have hid in the shadows and never have told anyone about the race or the event in fear that people would judge her for *not* being able to do something. The old HMM would have probably never signed up to begin with. 

The second half of 2007 taught me a lot about myself. I was heading down the track to burnout for a while. I didn’t allow myself to step back and enjoy being a runner. Instead I felt that I had to prove something to someone. I’m not even sure what I was trying to prove, but nonetheless, I started to slip back into the old ways of HMM. I felt I wasn’t worthy of my status as a runner. I was afraid. It was too hard, I rationalized. Too much change at once, I argued with myself. 

But something happened during that 12 mile run. Something clicked. 

I saw the big picture. I know for sure that I want to keep running forever. Even if I never run another race, I’ll still be a runner. Always. I also saw myself trusting me in that big picture. Nurturing myself. Always going forward and not living in the past. 

And when that thing clicked during that 12 mile run, I forgave myself. I let myself off the hook. And suddenly, I knew that 2008 would be a lot like 2007. And not just because I like the number 8 better than 7. No, it is going to be amazing because of all the lessons I’ve learned this year and because of all the lessons I anticipate learning over the next year. Good things are going to happen this year. And I’ll keep running. 

Hell, yeah.