An Unexpected Pause

For the past week I have fought (quite valiantly, I think) a sinus infection plague with every intention of avoiding the doctor.  Last night, as part of that avoidance, I took some NyQuil in hopes that it would knock me out and, by proxy, suckerpunch this bug.  Instead, it suckerpunched me.

I passed out around 1 am, grew faint on a walk back from the restroom, blacked out and woke up when my face smashed the carpet, jerking my neck backwards in a ridiculously painful arc.  I stayed on the floor for at least 5 minutes, willing the room to stop spinning.  I crawled back to bed, debated the likelihood of dying from a snapped neck this way, fell asleep before I cared enough to google those odds.

So it was the neck injury, which vibrates with pain every time I glance up or down, that made me finally schedule an appointment, by which time I had a doozy of a fever. So I'm now fevered, drugged, and largely immobile, in enough pain to actually watch Nancy Grace for ten whole minutes before digging deep and mustering the strength to grab the remote.

The doc said this sort of injury can take up to six weeks to heal.  SIX.  WEEKS.  I cannot fathom that, or what it means for my training for my first half-marathon of the season this coming March. For now, I'm just doing everything I can to get healthy again (hello, antibiotics), drinking a lot of water, and hoping that six weeks is a scare tactic to make me take the injury seriously.  This is an unexpected pause, and I pray a brief one.

Technology is Neat

I received a set of crochet hooks and a how-to book for Christmas.  I've always liked knitting scarves (never cared to learn how to knit anything else) and I'd been eyeing a fellow bus commuter's awesome crochet projects for a few months and figured maybe a change of yarn method was in order. I want to learn how to make a hat, dangit.  A cute hat.  With a flower on the side.

I will not admit to how many hours I have spent staring at the first page of the crochet book.  I just do not think my brain processes pictoral instructions well.  Maybe it's the same part of the brain that processes maps because those who know me recognize my complete idiocy with maps, too.  I get lost in the mall. Blurg.  Anyway, I have tried over and over and over again to make a stupid slip knot and a stupid initial link of crochet chains.  I have cursed at an innocent ball of yarn, I admit it.

I'm tucked in at home sick today and all the sudden the wonders of sudafed inspired me to give the crochet book another whirl.  The book is a disaster and will never be touched again. But the answer to my frustration? YouTube.  There are a ridiculous number of videos on beginner crocheting on the web.  I can start the video, pause it, rewatch it, cuss, unravel, rewatch, and...victory!  This one below is the one that finally gave me my Eureka moment:

Genius. No more staring cross-eyed at that flippin' book.  No more questioning my worth as a woman because I can't master a basic handicraft.

And the proof? My first line of single crochet stitches:

Doesn't look like much now (and please ignore the glaring hole), I know, but I figure by July I should be able to make a hat without bursting into tears or threatening a defensiveless skein of yarn with a trip to the dumpster. Thank you, YouTube!

When Your Tongue is Screwed in Backwards

One of the first warnings I have that I'm about to be smacked with a doozy of a headcold is that everything I eat tastes like onions.  Everything. Pineapple=onions. Yogurt=onions. Onions=onions. It's a fascinatingly bizarre occurence. And it has been happening for about as long as I remember. Today I discovered a new tastebud warning in that Coke tastes like turkey. Have you sipped turkey before? Have you sipped a Coke expecting to taste turkey?  These aren't experiences I would want to share with anyone.

I only mention it on my blog because the turkey drinking made me realize how easily I take for granted one of my five senses.  And it also made me question the art/humor of God in designing a body that reacts to pathogens by warping expectations. What area of the brain is responsible for communicating and labeling taste expectations? That knowledge is housed somewhere.  Before I bite an apple I can imagine what an apple should taste like.  Before I drink a Coke, I know that it should not taste like turkey.  But somehow, when my brain and body are busy fighting an infection, that knowledge gets pistol-whipped.

I always tell myself to treasure my senses.  My sight, my hearing, touch, and smell. Taste gets left out sometimes because it seems almost unimportant.  You can live and act within society without any manner of disability lacking a sense of taste.  But on the occasions that my sinuses implode, I'm reminded of how grateful I am that 99% of the time, turkey tastes like turkey, and Coke tastes like Coke.

The Books I Go Back To

My Uncle Rodney gave me the first book I remember being daunted by. I was too young for Jane Eyre when I received it, and I remember attempting to read it twice in that first year before settling in with enough vocabulary (and gumption) to tackle Bronte.  I was 10. It was in the window of age underlined by the move from Arkansas to St. Louis.  Bronte went with me, and Jane was my first friend in my new city.

Since then my Uncle Rodney has given me books.  Many books. He mailed a monstrosity of a box of them to Morocco when I complained of having nothing to read.  I don't remember how many books he mailed to Africa, but it was in the double digits, and I read every single one within three weeks.  Those books are still in Africa, left behind due to my speedy evacuation, and I have no doubt they've found their way into many happy Peace Corps hands since their arrival on the continent.

Within that box was Geek Love and Feast of Love, two books I return to often. As I do Jane. I devour books pretty rapidly and I find it hard to part with them.  And among the Books I've Read, there is a small, treasured bunch I'll refer to as The Books I Go Back To. I'll eliminate The Bible at this point.  It doesn't belong amongst mere novels and poetry volumes, as it's The Book of Truth that has been beside and within me since I could read. I grew up in a Bible-loving home, and so that Book is a constant, the heartbeat beneath the bookshelf.

The Books I Go Back To are listed below.  Some (The Flounder, Atlas Shrugged) were read and reread but now are revisited largely for certain passages or chapter.  A line of The Flounder is tattooed on my back so I suppose that one, in particular, is with me for life.  Some other books, like Jane, are old, dear friends that I reread often but are more like quiet companions that do not need a revisiting, the story is so well cemented in my memory.  Others, like Suite Francaise, are recent additions to my revisiting pile, and may or may not become lifetime members. But, for what it's worth, here are the Books I Go Back To, beginning with the first one that truly engrossed me. 

Jane Eyre, C. Bronte
Wuthering Heights, E. Bronte
Anne of Green Gables, L.M. Montgomery
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis
Suite Francaise, I. Nemirovsky
Geek Love, K. Dunn
The Flounder, G. Grass
Atlas Shrugged, A. Rand
Walden, H. Thoreau
The Tower and The Winding Stair and Other Poems, W.B. Yeats
Idylls of the King, A.L. Tennyson
Of Human Bondage, W.S. Maugham
Eliza Stanhope, J. Trollope
The Trial, F. Kafka
To Kill a Mockingbird, H. Lee
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, J. Joyce
Man Walks into a Room, N. Krauss
The Feast of Love, C. Baxter
Sonnet 71, Shakespeare
Voyage Au Maroc, E. Wharton

Molly's Walkin'

My lovely friend, Molly, is raising funds for the Komen 3-day walk in memory of her mother.  Molly's one of my dearest friends up here and I'm very proud of her excitement and courage in attempting an exhausting ordeal for the sake of all those who have been and will be diagnosed with breast cancer.  Sadly, Molly's story and her loss are not unique, but I believe her desire to spread awareness and optimism is a testament to her mother's grit and the grace of God.

Please take a moment to check out Molly's new blog page, which will detail her training and fundraising efforts.  Share the link with any and all who might be inspired to donate and I'll keep you posted on her progress (I'm expecting to share in some long training walks this summer). Go get 'em, girly!

Molly's Blog

Sunshine Makes the Snow Almost Worthwhile

There are good days to be had, regardless of single digit temps, thanks to the sunshine that January and February generally promise.  The incessant grey of early winter gets to me, so despite the often colder months of mid to late winter, I much prefer January and February's sunshine to December's cloudcover.

We traipsed around Elm Creek Reserve in Champlin on Saturday and snowshoeing tends to keep the heart rate peppy enough to avoid chills, but it doesn't safeguard the face from the biting wind. My cheeks were chapped enough to cause tears (below 10 degrees and my eyes can't hack it, they water like mad) to sting the skin. I didn't need blush for church this morning.

But negative wind chills notwithstanding, I will always be grateful for the promise of Spring inherent in a bright, blinding Sun.

Confidante

I have a dear friend, Sandy, who has become enormously important to my running/eating habits in the last 4-5 months.  Sandy and I have only known each other for a few years.  She was one of the first true friends I made up North, and I believe I latched onto her in part because she was from Virginia.  Hallelujah, a fellow Southerner!

While she moved back to Virginia, thanks to the glories of internet communication and a couple excellent visits, we've remained close.

Sandy and I share a common struggle in that weight/food have always played a large role in our self-perception and self-acceptance.  We've both lost large amounts of weight in the last few years and we both found running to be both a supportive element of that weight loss and an important boost to our occasionally flagging sense of self-worth. We're both goal-oriented gals and we thrive with a hurdle before us, conquering problems and pursuing specific accomplishments just lights a fire that keeps us going when the going gets a bit annoying. Sandy rooted for me from afar as I trained for and ran my first marathon and I committed to one day returning the favor.

A few months ago Sandy and I decided we'd correspond several times a week (pretty much all work week) and detail how we're doing food and exercise-wise.  Being accountable to someone is a powerful tool and just the threat of having to type out, "I ate 473 Cheez-Its," is enough of a bummer to make me second guess purchasing those little spawns of Satan. Neither of us was too married to a specific food plan, although we kept to Weight Watchers points for awhile. Our pursuit was always a pursuit of balanced eating, runner-supportive eating, and understanding why it is that we occasionally break down and lose control over what we eat. We were striving for the ability to recognize why we crumbled and what mental black line separated the good days from the bad. 

It isn't an exercise I imagine everyone understands.  While Sandy hasn't struggled with an eating disorder the way I have, she has struggled with her body, and so she recognizes the pain that sometimes accompanies Food, and how, for some people (I'm speaking of myself now) it can feel less like comfort and fuel and more like kryptonite. It's like a war, really, with battle scars and flashbacks and crippling anxiety.  And Sandy is one of the handful of people on this planet who I can say, "I really wanted to eat the hamburger but I was afraid I'd have a panic attack" to and know she 1) doesn't think I'm crazy and 2) knows that, in the end, I will always be okay.

I fight less with Food (it deserves a capital letter today) when I'm happy with how my body works.  And I'm happy about my body when I'm pursuing physical goals.  I no longer need to be a size 4.  A size 8 is a perfectly healthy, legit size for a woman. But I do need to feel that I'm getting stronger, that the Food I eat is purposeful and destined for action.  I enjoy Food when I can articulate why I'm eating it and I'm happy with that reasoning. Eating for fuel, because I'm running 10 miles tomorrow, because I lifted weights today, because I'm happy and want to celebrate a special occasion, because the mango is on sale and it's my favorite, because the new recipe for sausage and kale soup is so perfect, because my boyfriend's taking me out to dinner and strawberry shortcake is his favorite...these are all reasons my heart supports and embraces.  Food can be a lovely component in such instances. But if I'm eating only because I'm bored or tired or lonely, that's when Food stops being a component of my day and instead begins to consume it.  That's when the good days turn bad. 

I say all this because Sandy has been a large part of helping me understand that about myself.  It's a struggle I have been exhausted by for over half my life and it's a struggle I expect to continue for as long as I live. It will never be easy, and the panic attacks will still happen, and the crushing anxiety over the simplest of menu decisions, but I'm better equipped now than I have ever been.  And Sandy is a large part of that new-found comfort and courage.

While I've been growing and understanding myself in that way, tripping over emotional/mental hurdles from time to time, waiting for Sandy to dust me off and send me a cyber hug, Sandy has been struggling with a wholly physical hurdle.  In her pursuit of her first marathon, Sandy was injured.  She'd broken the 18 mile mark in her training and her IT band, and subsequently her knee, gave out on her.  It's a heartache and frustration I have never suffered from and I have struggled to know how best to support her as she watched her marathon training dream get sidelined in the interest of simply walking without shooting pain.

After surgery a couple weeks ago, Sandy is now on the mend and thinking of running and racing again.  She has started a blog and as she's a groovy little writer, I highly recommend you track her journey of recovery and, ultimately, victory at a finish line sometime this year. Sandy's blog is a lot like Sandy, realistic as to the likelihood of struggles and pain and also gloriously optimistic about her ability to conquer the hills before her.

Sandy has been more than a confidante to me, she has been a rock on the days Food feels like it owns me, and I have tried to be the same support to her as she has struggled to maintain her optimism throughout her current struggle.  She is a blessing to me; I thank God for her. And this is merely a blogpost thank you to Sandy, my marathon buddy and my sender of emails, and an internet ether-based "you can do it!" as she begins her recovery.

Rock on!

Back in the Saddle

After a good two months of shunning running (just listen to that full-bodied rhyme), I've recommitted to the pavement.  I've decided to run my second marathon in 2011 and for some bizarre reason I decided to announce on Sunday that my goal is to run it in less than five hours.

This is rather ludicrous.

My last (and first) marathon (Twin Cities 2009) was completed in five hours, 30 minutes. I was just thrilled to survive! I ran the whole way and was coherent enough to drink a beer and eat a Jucy Lucy after the finish, loved ones and dedicated cheerleaders beside me. It was one of the happiest and most exhausting days of my life.  But the further I got away from that day, the more exhausted I became at its memory.  The adrenaline of training, the weeks and weeks of 18 mile training runs, the thrill of its newness and my fear of failure kept me going.  But once it was over, I shuddered at the thought of putting myself through that again.

In 2010 I decided early on that it was not a marathon year.  The half-marathons had always been a more enjoyable distance and so I decided to tackle six half-marathons in six months instead of training for a full.  I ended up doing seven half-marathons, the last of which was a personal best made more perfect by my companion, kid sister, Caroline. By the end of the racing season at the end of October, I was exhausted again.  Seven half-marathons is a different type of exhaustion than training for the full.  The full was a slow and steady build to one crazycrazycrazy physical adventure.  The seven half-marathons involved seven months of maintaining a very specific level of fitness and that maintenance really did run me down after awhile.

It was at that point of fatigue that I realized something about myself.  I kinda like exhausting myself. I like pushing myself to the point where my body tells me, "nope. that's it. you're done."  And then I like answering, "not quite yet."  In the months after 2009's marathon and 2010's half-marathon bonanza, I rested and enjoyed my rest in ways I never did as a non-runner.  I think when you've made your body do extraordinary things you tend to love it a little more, treat it a little kinder, take care of it the way you'd take care of a priceless machine.  As a fat (lets not mince words) non-runner, I would freak out over the 4-5 lbs I'd gain over the holidays.  It just seemed like such a desperate endeavor to get rid of the weight.   Now, as a runner on hiatus, I weighed in after New Year's, looked at that extra 4 lbs and just thought, "well, that needs to come off before the half-marathon in March."  It was functional. The way I think of my car, "need to get the oil changed before vacation." It's not a terrifying thing.  I took some time off.  I enjoyed my time off.  And now, it's time to restart the engine.

In the two months since my last race I've opted for long walks until the cold forced me into the gym and onto the Stairmaster. I gained a few lbs, as noted above, but nothing disastrous, and nothing a few weeks of focus won't fix.  The pounds don't worry me near as much as the goal of a sub-five hour marathon. Because now that I've said it outloud, now that it's communal knowledge, I feel like I've shaken hands with God.  This is what I promise to do. This is what I will accomplish. Er, wish me luck...

In my first marathon I worried about finishing.  I have no such fears this time. I know I can run 26.2 miles and my legs won't actually fall off. But I'm not so sure of a five hour marathon.  My fastest half-marathon was 2 hours, 18 minutes, just shy of a 10:30/mile pace.  Prior to the 2009 marathon, my only half-marathon was at 2 hours, 30 minutes. But I would say my average showing is right smack dab in the middle of my fastest and slowest times.  I've run several half-marathons right at 2 hours, 25 minutes.  That doesn't leave much wiggle room at all for coming in under five hours, especially given the second half of the marathon is just a wee bit rougher than the first.

But I'm reminding myself that prior to my first half-marathon, the thought of running one was a joke.  The same can be said prior to my first full marathon.  So while my eyebrow naturally raises at a goal of sub-five hours, I'm also game for the challenge.  Today was my first day of training, my first recognition that the miles from here on out are cumulative and each one is important.

I have had a lovely rest. 

Now it's time to run.

The Merits of Cold

This blog is full of references to my general disdain for all things winter-related.  I've complained a bit here or there of my complete confusion as to why perfectly logical human beings choose to settle in a place where subzero temps are too commonly the norm. I'm perpetually cold in my apartment, I sleep with six (6!) blankets, and the 5:40 a.m. trudge to the busstop with double digit negative windchills has inspired a number of quasi-homesick postings.  I try not to whine (so unladylike).  But I believe it's fairly plain that I miss my South-of-the-Mason-Dixon upbringing, and New Orleans in particular, quite vehemently.

That being said, there is merit to the chill. I spent this New Year's Eve dashing about a friend's backyard broomball rink (that's me in red behind the rink's owner, Adam, who's clearly more skilled than I):

It wasn't the first time I'd played broomball, and I know it won't be the last as I've signed up for a church team starting up in the next few weeks.  It's a nutty, spirited, occasionally vicious game that always leaves me with a random bruise here or there and the sneaking suspicion there are muscles in my butt that God created strictly for the sake of broomball.

After the final round of play, a couple of us ladies plopped onto the rink and made snow angels, rolling around like 8 year-olds, with hair falling out of ponytails, skin kissing ice, giggling as we skidded and reveled in the last evening of 2010. The night was cloudy and starless, but as I rested on the ice and stared skyward, the wind gusted and blew snow off the trees, sending tiny pinpricks of white to swirl and shimmy to the ground. 

It was a happy moment, made happier by its brevity and the promise of hot mulled wine and good friends inside. I can appreciate that simple, visceral experience of coming in out of the cold, entering a warm home with the soft glow of expectant hugs, the ripping off of cold socks, the wrapping 'round of a well-worn blanket.  I love that slow, subsiding ache as the cold, inch by inch, leaves my fingers.  And I love to hear the hoot and howl of wind as it begs to enter every nook and cranny and every nook and cranny politely says, "no."

The cold is an evil, hateful thing if you're alone.  And I imagine the extra hours of darkness and the bite of ice are made more miserable without the company of dear souls.  So while I ache for Home (and the aching is that much deeper when you have no immediate plan to return), I am grateful for warm spiced wine, specifically perfect hugs, rosy-cheeked laughter, fellow snow angel makers, and the myriad opportunities to make the most of the frozen part of God's creation.