Then Change It

I’m a girl who likes her sleep.

My bed is my favorite place in the world. I gladly go to sleep around 9 pm (the 4 am gym wake up call is a nice excuse). I love to nap, and I am a crank-pot on anything less than 8 hours.

My mom has been saying since I can remember that I can’t function socially until 2 hours after I wake up (hmmmm….could explain my latest gym conundrum….moving on.)

Lately, though, I have been feeling more tired than usual. Sure, it could be the training for Broad Street, or my body healing after broad street. It could be the 4 am wake up calls, the “on your feet all day” nature of my job, the stress of the last month or so at work. It could also be my body just being my body; I’m newly taking meds for my thyroid, and my stomach has decided to turn on me – waking me up 3-4 times per night.

My JPouch will be 6 in a couple months. I hope this is just a phase.

But anyway, I’ve been extra tired. And when I’m extra tired, I have this weird thing I do.

On weekdays, almost regularly, an hour after I eat lunch, I am overcome with exhaustion.

You know the kind – eyes droop, lids refuse to stay open, head nods, body feels like it is jello type exhaustion. Having put under anesthesia numerous times, I can with 100% confidence compare this tiredness to that sensation of being put to sleep.

This seems to be a cycle that comes and goes for me; it’s not every day, but a few weeks every couple months, and always an hour after lunch. This wouldn’t be a problem, if it wasn’t SMACK DAB IN THE MIDDLE OF MY WORKDAY. Usually, after lunch, I have…lets call them…small group meetings. And I am facilitating said meetings. And there is a very small window of opportunity before my conscious mind and my unconscious mind switch gears and I can no longer control my thoughts.

Allow me to explain. Usually, this happens as soon as I’ve been sitting in a quiet area for a little while, and if I feel it coming on and catch it before it takes over, I usually get myself to stand up – go get my water bottle, grab a mint, do a lap, stretch, whatever I need to do – and the movement helps me wake back up.

But if I let it go a second too long, we’re in the point of no return, and I can no longer make good decisions. My ego, or superego, or id, or whichever it is that makes poor decisions, shuts down thoughts of movement. This results in my head bobbing, eyes drooping, body jello state. Except my ego, or superego, or whichever makes good decisions tries to fight back and tells me to get up. The bad me says stay put. The good me says get up now! The bad me says in a few minutes.

I try my best to keep my eyes open, to look actively involved in the task at hand. I nod my head and make facial expressions in a way that I’m sure is obvious overcompensation, and I can’t help but know that the people with me know exactly what’s going on.

Although, no one said anything, so maybe I’m a good actress.

But I feel like I’m drunk at a family function – I know I need to look alert and in control, and in trying to convince everyone I’m fine and dandy, I instead convince them I’m a hot mess.

But then once I get myself moving, I feel fine. Rested, even. Like I just took a power nap.

Luckily I’ve learned to reign in the id (think it’s the id) and get up quickly to ward off any unwanted dozing, but I wasn’t always so quick. And this has been my habit for a long time now.

Years, even. 14, as far as I can remember.

In high school it was a running joke between my friends and I. It was always the period following lunch.

Sophomore year? Geometry. Twice I almost fell out of my chair, and on more than one occasion in my semi-conscious state I thought I was actually in chem. Fact: to this day, I have my geometry notebooks from that year, and there are some chem terms scribbled in there, looking like a 5 year old wrote them, in my half-conscious attempt to “look alive”.

Junior year? American History, and I sat right in front of the teacher. Two feet away. I had mono that year though, so I caught a lucky break.

Senior year? Psychology. Luckily I had two people on either side of me that nudged me awake when it happened, but being very interested in the subject, it didn’t happen too often.

By college I wised up and scheduled classes in blocks; either first thing in the AM so I could come home and enjoy a nice post lunch nap, or after lunch so I could sleep in.

And since entering the workforce I’ve gotten a much better hold on things, but I’ve been feeling the fatigue coming on more frequently than usual. At first I thought it was the thyroid issues, but I’ve been medicating for 6 months.

(Of course, I take it maybe 90% of the time, and I never let it sit for half an hour like I’m supposed to.)

So now I’m trying to figure out the cause. Is it blood sugar dips? Lack of solid sleep? Related to my lady-cycle? I’m not sure. I’ll have to investigate further -  charts and graphs and dubious notes will be involved. I welcome your speculations regarding the cause of this phenomenon.

Let’s all pretend we’re doctors and give our best diagnoses. The Good Lord knows I’ve spent enough times in doctors’ offices to receive some sort of medical degree.

Hellllooooooo, lovelies.

And welcome to another week.

Mondays aren’t usually my thing, but when you have a weekend of family, friends, food, and 80 degree perfection, waking up is just slightly easier.

I feel like it’s been weeks since I had a calm, restful weekend – and this past weekend was no exception to the last month.

I had outdoor happy hour Friday with a former coworker I haven’t seen in far too long. Half price apps? Cocktails? Sunshine? Yes, yes, and yes.

I got to meet a friend’s baby on Saturday. I also got to Trader Joe’s for the first time in months. And experienced my first ever cookie butter. Totally lived up to the hype.

I finished up my latest trilogy of books, as well. Books I am SO ashamed to admit that I read. And books I don’t want to name on here because I don’t want any weird traffic coming my way. But basically, those books everyone is talking about? 28 book challenge #s 12, 13, and 14 are done and done. And I thought they were abysmal but addicting.

And then I started Game of Thrones to try and rectify my beliefs in the publishing world (how that chick who wrote the last set of books I read got published is beyond me, and angers me a bit). I got through one chapter. It was tough. Hoping this gets easier. Maybe there is something to be said for mindless, amateur-at-best writing.

And I visited my gram and made a delicious dinner on Sunday.

This was also the first weekend since January where I didn’t have to wake up early on Saturday to run. So naturally, I woke up at 5:30 and couldn’t get back to sleep. Whatever.

Mother’s day menu included steaks (marinated in salt, pepper, McCormick’s rub, and lawry’s steak and chop marinade) and my go-to simple salmon on the grill, roasted veggies, baked potatoes, and these cookies with adaptations courtesy of Amy. I followed the original recipe exactly, but added in her pretzel ideas.

Cookie butter stuffed cookies. Look into it.

So all in all, it was not a relaxing weekend, but it was a fabulous one. I think – nay, I hope – my weekends of sitting on the couch for hours on end are on pause until Fall returns. As much of a homebody as I am, I’m ok with that. I can be social…for a few months of the year, anyway.

Especially when beaches, barbeques, and beverages are involved.

How was your weekend?

1) Thanks for all the love and votes of confidence yesterday, lady friends. However, I wasn’t really seeking advice for what to do in that specific situation – or at least, I don’t think I was. I probably was on some subconscious level. But I was just trying to get an idea on a general level regarding who makes the first move. I appreciate your advice but I think I need to do what I’m comfortable with, which, for the time being, is just seeing what happens. Seriously. I plan out way too much of my life and usually end up stressed and running back and forth to the bathroom. One thing I need to do is learn is to let life happen and just be ready should an opportunity arise – in the gym or anywhere else; regarding boys or whatever. Just gotta keep livin, man. L-I-V-I-N.

2) I swear to God, I currently have a yawning problem.  I have, like, fits of yawns lately. No less than 30 a day; 5-6 at a time. And half of those are unsatisfied, partial yawns which are uber-frustrating. I should probably webmd this. I’m most likely dying.

3) My legs still hurt.

4) I am so excited for a fitness-free weekened. I’m doing happy hour today. I’m going to go to TJ’s for the first time in months, I have a jewelry party thing on Saturday afternoon (any excuse for appetizer dips and drinks is right up my ally) and then Sunday being mothers day I’ll probably go see my gram before a cookout with my fam. Any event that includes surf and turf is also right up my ally.

5) Two things I need more of in life: brunch and cocktail hour. I think I feel some summer goals coming on….

Random question relating to yesterdays conversation: those of you in committed, long term relationships: who made the first move/initiated the first contact? Just curious as to what the numbers are….

I really wasn’t planning on blogging much this week, but I was at the gym this morning and inspiration hit, so I figured why not?

And by inspiration, I mean a question I wanted to pose to everyone just to get an idea for whether or not I’m unrealistic in my expectations (spoiler alert: I usually am.)

So anyway. The gym.

Yes, I’ve been working out so far this week. I did M-T-W early mornings like the usual, so I could work out the lactic acid. My legs are holding up surprisingly well, but I am just overall SO TIRED. I’m giving myself a long weekend from exercise and taking Th-Sunday off.

Anyway. The story.

So I was at the gym today, once again working out with my normal 5 am crew – including the GC (Gym Crush). I’ve mentioned him before, yes? It’s just a fun little game I’ve fabricated to keep me from dying of boredom while working out. I try to minimize talking about it so as to not seem like a stalker. I’m not helping my my case much right now though, am I?

I’ve pretty much abandoned all hope there, as we’ve been on that same workout schedule since October and we have yet to acknowledge each other’s existence. There’s actually a developmental social stage for this, called “Parallel Play.” It’s what toddlers do; they sit next to each other engaging in similar activities, but don’t actually play together. That’s currently my assessment of the situation – we are literally two or three machines away from each other and I spend the whole time trying not to a)make a fool of myself and b) stare, while he (I’m sure) spends the whole time a) wondering who the creepy girl is or b)completely oblivious to the fact that I’m there.

He’s very pretty. And I went right to work one day from there, and walked by him in heels, and he WASN’T SHORTER THAN ME. So rare.

I have a point. I’m getting there.

But for 2-3 times a week, for 7 months, we’ve been in the same place at the same time, and no contact has been made on either of our parts. So it’s pretty much a lost cause, yes?

Well, according to my friends (wait, according to my MARRIED friends), I’m being ridiculous, and I need to take that first initiative. They got all tough love on me over margaritas one night, basically saying I need to “not be me” for a morning, stop worrying about embarrassing myself, and just go up and say hi.

This sounds more harsh than it was – they say this because they know me well enough to know that I would NEVER, EVER, EVER initiate conversation. EVER.

I tried the main excuse of gym etiquette – which neither of them are familiar with. If someone has headphones on while working out, it’s a sign that essentially says “Please don’t talk to me; I’m here to work out, not socialize.”

My friend’s hub (God bless him) backed me up on this. But they were persistent and told me I needed to do something, because for all I knew he was married, and despite this being a “fun game”, who knows what it may be, and better to just get an answer.

As soon as they said it the excuses ran through my brain.

“Oh God, what if he’s married? He must at least have a girlfriend. No cute, tall, built boy lives in the suburbs if he’s single. And if he is single, clearly he’s not interested in me, because as the boy, he would have made that first move.”

And then I started to think. (I feel like Carrie Bradshaw whenever I say that).

The boy would make the first move, right? Isn’t that how it works? I mean – COULD I go up to him, say hi, introduce myself with a smile? Sure, physically, yes – I have (long) legs and a voice and a lovely smile with perfectly straight teeth.

But WOULD I?

OHGODNO. THAT’S THE BOYS JOB.

I mean, we have to have the babies and all, so it’s only fair that they have to take the initial leap of faith. Why on EARTH would I risk such embarrassment – so early in the morning? I mean, if given some sort of signal, like a smile or nod or something then maybe I could do it. But based off the fact that, even just this morning, he walked right by me and….nothin, I’m gonna say I should just let it go.

Besides. THAT’S THE BOY’S JOB.

Part of my belief systems stems from the whole “He’s just not that into you” theory. You know the one – that boys are literal, honest creatures who don’t play mind games. Going off this, I always assume that if a boy isn’t talking to me, that means he isn’t interested. Take GC for example – in my mind, if he was even the slightest bit interested, I’d catch him glancing at me, or he’d be trying to say anything – a smile or nod when we are within 2 feet from each other. I’ve always believe that if a boy is interested in you, you’ll know.

I’m not being all self-loathing here, just FYI. I’m not saying he SHOULDN’T be interested in me. I’m actually starting to accept the fact that I’m kind of a catch. I’m just saying magic 8 ball says “All signs point to: NO.

But the rest of my belief system – the one that the boy should make the effort – stems from how I was raised. Essentially, I was brought up to know that I am a lady, and I should be treated like one. I can remember being no older than 12 or 13 and having my Poppy make me promise that I would never settle for less than a gentleman, or less than I deserved. I believe the example given was that if a boy came to pick me up, but only honked and never left the car, that I was to “lock the door and refuse to leave the house.” Or something like that.  But that’s just one example.

I understand that chivalry is dying….but its not dead yet. And I believe it says a lot about a man – the way he treats a woman. It speaks to how he was raised and to how he values women. I so highly appreciate when a man – stranger, date, whatever – holds the door for me. Or, better yet, opens it fully and steps aside so I can go in first. It’s just so respectful.

In a weird coincidence, this has been happening to me a lot lately. Mostly in the mornings. Sometimes, oddly enough, it’s at the gym. A handful of us show up at the same time, and I’m the only female there amongst a majority of middle aged men but a couple young guys. There are a couple men who, if they’re first, will open the door and let me go through. Sometimes it’s with a sort of “after you!” hand gesture and a smile. (GC is usually in the mix but never at the front of the line. Which makes me wonder what would happen if he were…….anyway). Also, at WaWa on my breakfast run for some reason, the men always open the door – be it business men in their suits or construction workers coming off the night shift.

I just love an old-school, honest-to-goodness, gentlemanly gesture. One of my favorite high school memories was my senior prom, when our group of guy friends got together and decided to be the ultimate in chivalry; we’re talking pulling out chairs and the works. When any of us ladies got up, all the boys at the table stood. It was super adorable.

Makes me feel special. But enough about my starving ego.

I don’t know. I just think it’s right. And I expect it, because that’s how I was raised and it’s how the men in my family are. It’s the way the sons treat their mothers and sisters, the husbands their wives. Carrying luggage, offering assistance, opening car doors.  It’s along the same lines as ANYONE holding the door for ANYONE regardless of gender, or opening it for a mommy with a  stroller, or giving up a seat on the bus for an elderly person, or letting a car into a line of traffic, or just being a decent human being. It’s also the way any and all dates/boys/exes have treated me; I took my Poppy’s words to heart and it’s a deal breaker for me. A boy won’t last very long if he shows no signs of being raised a gentleman. I mean, I’m not unreasonable in my expectations, but open the door and pay for the date, for crissake.

To cycle back to whatever this brain dump is: in my mind, a real gentleman will not only hold open the door but also make that first effort, and a boy who is interested will let you know in some way, shape, or form. Any lack of indication, um, indicates, a lack of interest.

But then, I’m 28 and single, and could therefore be very, very wrong.

Thoughts? Who should make the first move? And is expecting chivalry unrealistic? (I’m not about to change my expectations, just want to see if I’m alone in this.)

Do you have any “fun crushes” that keep your mind occupied? Make me feel less creepy. I usually have a work one, but I work now in a predominately female field, and all the men are married. And, of course, perfect gentlemen.

Philadelphia is known for a lot of things.

Being an incredibly murderous city.

Having obnoxious sports fans.

Living off of cheesesteaks, soft pretzels, and hoagies.

So I guess I should change my first sentence to “Philadelphia is known for a lot of bad things.”

In fact we’re currently in the news again for those obnoxious sports fans, as a certain ex-right fielder is claiming fans cheered him breaking his wrist, and he gave his personal guarantee that Philly would “never parade down broad street again.”

(I’m sure Chase, Ryan, Jimmy, Roy, Cliff, Cole, Hunter, and Chooch are all  huddling in a corner crying over that oh-so-scary threat. And way to give respect to the city that ressurected your career and gave you a WS ring. But I digress).

Infamous, we are.

But people who say these things about my (adjacent) city? Have no clue what they are talking about.

And if they’d like me to prove them wrong, I’ll point them to the Broad Street Run.

Because, you see, what I saw on Sunday wasn’t murderers and booing fans and big, fat people scarfing down heart attacks on a roll.

No. I saw people standing on roof tops, waving towels and shirts and cheering on thousands and thousands of runners – strangers -  before mile one was complete, at 9 o’clock on a Sunday morning.

I saw little kids lined up on the sidewalk high fiving the runners.

I heard locals yelling to not give up, that we were all winners, that we should be proud of ourselves.

For ten miles, I saw a city come alive and come together to support one another, and it was beautiful.

Awesome, even.

I know there are a lot of runners in this blogging world, and I’d like to propose that you run BSR at some point in your life.

It was one of the most fun, coolest experiences in my life. Truly. It was my second favorite event ever in that city (the parade, obviously, being #1 : ) and something I would do again in a heartbeat.

At 40,000 strong its also the biggest 10 miler in the country, with elites coming from all over the place to take part.

Sure, it’s a fast, straight, downhill course – all of which should be selling points for you legit runners.

And if you need a bit more proof, here ya go:

(Ignore that hook at the bottom; my phone kept recording).

But the fast, straight, downhill course aside, everyone should run this once because of the atmosphere.

The atmosphere which is, in a word, unreal.

Local high school bands pop up sporadically along the course, playing their songs.

Mummers take a corner to cheer you on.

Doctors that work at the hospitals come down on their breaks and spectate in full scrubs, cups of coffee in their hands after no-doubt working the night shift.

Locals lining the streets, offering high fives and words of encouragement.

College kids and cheerleaders and football players show up en masse to take it all in. (It probably doesn’t hurt that it could be seen as a reason for day drinking, much like the Manayunk Bike Race, but that’s another story).

In just one race, you’ll run down the heart of my fair city – Broad cuts Philly in half. You run through all kinds of neighborhoods, around all different landmarks. You may see local celebs and politicians, all watching under the eye of Billy Penn – high atop City Hall.

And while running down the heart of the city, you’ll also get to see the heart. Feel the heart. The soul. The City of Brotherly Love at it’s finest.

The excitement is palpable, the support indescribable.

Of course, the national media doesn’t want to tell you about how awesome we can be. Oh no, they prefer to show us booing opposing teams and shooting each other on sidewalks.

But that’s not the city I saw Sunday, and it’s not the city I know and love.

And personally, I think you should all see it for yourself.

What do you think? Is Broad Street a race you’d be interested in?

I am not a runner.

I am not built for it.

I am not good at it.

I do not enjoy it.

No, I am not a runner.

But today? Today I felt like one.

The 2012 Broad Street Run was not something I was excited about. It was not something I was looking forward to.

But of course, you know this. At least you do if you read this regularly.

I hated training, I had achy legs, and I just wanted it to be done and over with.

And now that it is, I am SO. GLAD. I did it.

But lets backtrack, shall we?

The expo was Saturday, and its nothing worth writing about. Seriously. It was poorly set up, took way too long to get into, and the bibs were on one end of the concourse, the tees on another. I was angry at the hour it took me to complete a 30 second task, and it did nothing to improve my mood.

I spent the rest of my Saturday doing things I normally do on Sunday – food shopping, laundry, etc. I cleared about 5 hours off my DVR, I read a little, I ate some pasta and meatballs and ignored the party my neighbor was throwing that I was unable to attend. I watched the Derby and called it an early night, and somehow – miraculously – got a good nights sleep.

Sunday the alarm went off around 6 and I flipped on the news. They were already covering the starting line and talking about the “perfect conditions” for the run today. I got myself dressed, confident in a tank and shorts, made an english muffin with pb and banana, and left around 7 – chauffeured by my amazing momma.

We made excellent time and got there around 7:30. Somehow mom found street parking a block away from where I needed to be, and we sat and chatted for about 45 minutes. I was surprisingly in a good mood – perhaps because I knew the end was near?

Around 8:15 I ventured out on Olney Ave, walked down to the port-a-potties, promptly turned around because I didn’t need to pee badly enough to wait in that line, stretched, and was in my corral at 8:30 for the start.

Of course, I didn’t start until 9:05 ish, but no need to dwell.

The first mile or two was par for the course for me; I tried to hold back, I was emotionally numb, you know….the standard.

But I was taking note of my surroundings. I was seeing all the locals, out on the corners, at 9 on a Sunday – cheering us on. And after about 2 miles, something happened inside my brain.

I started thinking about how these people came out to support all of us crazy runners. All 40,000 of us that had the same bad idea. The ones who sat on computers for almost 5 hours, frustratingly trying to register way back in February. The ones who gave up Cinco de Mayo and Derby Day to carb load and get to bed early. The ones who, instead of nursing a margarita and mint julep hangover, were out…running. And all those people who were nursing those hangovers? Were out….cheering.

And around mile 2 I decided to ignore my negative thoughts, ignore my pace, ignore my goals and just. have. fun.

And fun I had.

I also smelled pork roll. And I love pork roll. And the thought of eating pork roll made me run faster.

And now I’m thinking about pork roll again. Looks like WaWa for breakfast this week : )

I loved running down Broad Street. I loved the sense of community. I loved the spectators cheering, waving, yelling for us to keep going.

And when people screamed about how “we were all winners!” I didn’t scoff and hate myself. I actually believed them. But more on that later.

And then I saw a sign. Literally. It said, “Never Give Up!” and it made my eyes fill with tears.

Because that’s what my Poppy used to always say to me when I was sick. And my Poppy left us just over a year ago, and in that moment I knew I wasn’t running alone. I knew he was with me, and I missed him more than I ever have. I wished I could have called him; knowing he’d get such a kick out of my doing it; knowing he’d tell everyone he knew that “his granddaughter won the Broad Street Race” (him and my Gram were known for stretching the truth).

By the time I got to Temple Hospital, around mile 3, my legs were warmed up and I was – dare I say? Enjoying myself. I was high-fiving the little kids along the sidewalk, I was in awe of the mass of people ahead of me, and I was so glad I stuck it out to make it to that moment.

By the time I got to mile 4, which is Temple’s Campus (and the alma mater of yours truly), I was proud of myself. I soaked in the marching band, the cheerleaders, I even appreciated the TU football players lining the street. The neighborhood was out in full force and I soaked it all in.

Rounding City Hall I knew I was more than halfway done. I flashed back to the night of my best’s bachelorette party, and how a bunch of crazy girls were wandering around the building at 3:30 am without a care in the world – climbing on statues and playing in fountains.

Man we were stupid. But oh, the memories.

The other memory that hit was that glorious October day in 2008, when my beloved Phils took to the streets the victors, celebrating their win. I realized I was running the same route their parade trucks went down on that most amazing day. More memories. More goosebumps. Visions of millions of red-shirted, red-faced fans in pure ecstasy pushed me through.

Closing in on mile 6 I noticed a bit of a local celebrity – former Governer Ed Rendell, and I zigged over to give him a high five. He’s even cooler because he does Eagles PostGame Live every Sunday, as a Philly native. He’s known as The Gov and my dad and brother and I love him. I’d actually met him before – about 12 years ago, when he was first campaigning. He came to the mall I worked at and came into my store (The Gap.) Of course, an ignorant 16 year old, I had no clue who he was.

Miles 6-9 were uneventful, boring, and challenging at the same time. I was trying to finish strong but starting to feel out of gas. My stomach was waking up and responding to the bouncing around. I realized I wouldn’t be finishing in under 2 hours, but truly in that moment I didn’t care.

By mile 9 the streets were packed with spectators yelling and cheering us on. Even though I knew my goal was out of reach (unless I somehow found a 6 min/mile in me…unlikely as I am not from Kenya), I picked up my pace. I still took my walk break, but I ran faster.

Then I entered the Naval Yard and picked it up even more for the last .25. The tears rose back in my throat as I started thinking about how far I’d come, how hard I’d worked. I decided I was running for my mom, the stage 3 cancer survivor; my Poppy; my Uncle; my family and friends. I was running for all the men and women in the armed forces – who were out in full force (I WAS in the Naval Yard).

As an aside, it is really tough to run with tears choking your throat. Anyway.

Then I saw the finish line, and I booked it.

We’re talking balls-out, full-out, sprint. I almost felt primal and animalistic in a way; knowing that my body, the human body, was made for running like this. Running short spurts, like ancient man did. Running that fast felt fun, and I enjoyed myself.

Because then I was done.

The sense of accomplishment, the pride, the positivity all you guys talk about with regard to running that has always alluded me? I get it.

I didn’t get it after my half. But this time? This time, it was me.

I collected my medal, downed some liquids, stretched, and then embarked on the worst part of the day – navigating through 80,000 plus spectators and runners all trying to get to get out of there like I was.

Cell wires were tough, and it took a half our to catch up with my mom. My poor, arthritic, cancer-survivor mother, who had walked around alone trying to find me. We finally found each other, and I could tell she was hurting. Beaming with pride – yes – but in pain.

“There’s shuttles to take us back to the sports complex where I’m parked!” she said.

So we started walking. And walking. And walking some more.

Long story short? The shuttles were no where to be found. The initially horrific traffic at the complex was compounded by the 1 pm sixers play off game, and we ended up hobbling (both of us) almost 2 miles back to the car. She kept apologizing to me, and me to her. I kept telling her the walk was good for my legs, she kept rolling her eyes. I actually think it was, though. This was the one black stain on the whole day, and something I hope they fix for the future.

But then a little girl, bald obviously from chemo, went running and laughing by us and we both stopped complaining. And teared up a little bit.

The ride home was rough due to my lack of using a bathroom before we left. I got home, I foam rolled and ice bathed and ate. I had my heart set of Primos, because, I mean, why wouldn’t I crave something like chicken cutlets, brocoli rabbe, and prov on a perfect roll….

…but didn’t actually get it, because my stomach was doing some weird things. All the gatorade and water and bouncing does not make a surgically altered digestive tract happy.

(Also keep in mind I had not used a restroom since 7 am, and we were now closing in on 2 pm).

So instead I ate leftover pasta and meatballs and settled onto the couch for a SATC marathon and my Kindle. And drafted this.

Of course, the draft running through my head during the race was 10x better, but I’m trying to recreate it best I can.

I had fun today. I actually think I would run this again. 10 miles is a good distance to train for, I think, and who knows? Maybe after a few months of lifting and swimming and yoga, maybe after losing a few pounds, I’d want to start up again. I’m still not sure what I’ll do – for now, the shoes are being thrown into the back of a closet – but this was so. much. fun.

I don’t know. We’ll see.

I guess you want the splits and such, eh? Splits below – but ignore miles 11 and 12 and the final time and pace. My phone was acting crazy and recorded some of our walk back.Final time: 2:05:19. SO close to my goal, but I really don’t care. I can’t get onto the site, but a pace calculator tells me that my average was about 12:30 min/mile. Slower than I wanted, faster than I probably deserve. And honestly, I truly don’t think I could have finished any quicker or done anything differently. I gave it my all.

Mile 4? That was all Poppy and Temple U carrying me through : )

Now, I realize something.

These times aren’t fast.

After all, I am not a runner.

I don’t run 8 minute miles.

I’m not graceful.

My hips and knees are week, my bones riddled with osteoporosis.

I run a slow, 12:3o mile and want to collapse after.

But 6 years ago, my body was killing itself. I was 50 lbs lighter, bruised from shots and IVs, and so malnourished and weak that I couldn’t even walk down – DOWN – stairs without needing to stop and rest at the bottom, to catch my breath.

This is what I realized around mile 2. And this is what carried me through today.

Six years ago, I was dying. And today, I successfully ran 10 miles. And I don’t know about you, but I think that’s pretty freaking spectacular.

1) Just over 2 days until the big run. I’m not nervous. I’m not excited. I just want it to be over and done with already. That’s the attitude.

2) Tomorrow I need to head down to the Lincoln Financial Field (home of the ever underperforming Philadelphia Eagles) for the expo. I’m sure parking will be lovely, what with 33,000 crazy runners heading for the same enclosed space and that new Xfinity monstrosity smack dab in the middle of what used to be a key lot. I still haven’t stepped foot in Xfinity because I’m still protesting. I’m sure I’ll get over that this summer.

3) I am also bitter because this stupid race is directly interfering with my celebrating one of my favorite holidays, Cinco de Mayo. Tacos and margs do not great fueling foods make, unfortunately. And I actually had a few social invites, too, but NOOOOOOOOOOOOO I need to eat pasta and rest. BS.

4) I will probably spend my time not eating chips and salsa updating my playlist. The Rocky Theme may need to be called upon, although I’m sure it’ll be played along the route at some point. Any other suggestions for me? I need new music anyways.

5) I’ll probably post this weekend, both about the expo, my thoughts heading into this should-be-mess, and a recap Sunday night. Due to all this extra blogging (may be 7 days in a row…yikes) I’m giving you a heads up now; don’t expect much from me come Monday.

Alright, that’s it. Off to start my weekend of not indulging in Mexican food and drink.

Frowny face.

Catch you kids on the flip side.

Thanks for all the support yesterday, friends. Your kind words made me happy.

When I was growing up, in a stout Catholic household, my mom had a few rules regarding churchgoing.

Sundays and HDOs (Holy Days of Obligation) were non-negotiable. We had to attend confession twice a year. We had to go to CCD through 7th grade. We had to go to church on either Holy Thursday or Good Friday, as well as Easter Vigil. And we had to attend one night of our parish’s three night “mission” each fall.

The missions were on Sunday – Tuesday night, once a year. I usually went on Sunday to get it over with. It was always some boring speaker who could not relate to an adolescent in any way shape or form.

Until 2001.

I was a senior in high school. The world had just come crumbling down in the form of 9/11, my life was being turned upside down in the form of college and graduation impending. I wasn’t looking forward to going to the mission, but it ended up making a pretty big impact.

Let’s start with a confession; the speaker this year? A cute, 30 something guy….straight from the Land Down Under. This was a year after the Sydney Olympics, meaning a year after I decided Aussies were the best things ever. I actually gladly gave up 2 hours on a Sunday evening to listen to the man talk. And listen, I did.

He was honest. He was relatable. He talked about life and change and things that struck a huge chord with me. He was funny and interesting and something that  I needed at the time. The next day at lunch, I gave rave reviews to my friends – not just about the cute guy with the hot accent, but also about his message.

I volunteered to go again Monday night. My bests came with.

By Tuesday night, my group of friends – boys and girls – took up a whole pew.

It didn’t hurt that we had off school that Tuesday, but still. I think it speaks volumes about the message the man was relaying that a group of 17 and 18 year olds stopped for two hours at church before starting their night out on a school holiday.

And, as an aside, he came back to help me out in a different way during one of the scariest times in my life. During the mission, I asked my mom to buy me one of his books (all inspirational, motivational – with a catholic edge to them). I, of course, never read it. But during the spring of 2006, in between IV infusions and therapy sessions, I started reading one again….and it made a huge difference in my attitude towards life and the challenge at hand. It led to the moment when I decided to stop kicking and screaming and just appreciate what I actually had.

I’ve never told anyone that before.

But back to the mission. It’s still a running joke between my friends and I, not so much anymore, but it was back then. We’d bust out our horrible accents and retell his funny stories. But one of our favorites was to quote an Albert Einstein quote he used in one of his speeches.

I found myself thinking about this while the other day while deciding to in the metaphorical running towel (incidentally, I realize I’m dwelling on this, but for some reason it seems like a big decision. Slash, I tend to fixate on stupid stuff when I have much bigger problems – like not having a full time job, being single, etc). Anyway, I just found it appropriate and it made me feel better – not just the words, but the memories it brought back.

I am a genius. No, really, I am (ask the State of Pennsylvania and their IQ testing people). But just because other people are good at something which, for all intents and purposes should be easy, well, it doesn’t mean I will be.

I’m not physically built for it.

I don’t feel ok spending $1000s of dollars on shoes, entry fees, watches, and the like.

I get super bored on my runs. Seriously. People watching at the gym FTW.

I never even thought to “stop my watch” when I took walk breaks, stopped for cars, to tie my shoes, or catch a break – and honestly, it angers me to find out actual runners do this. I’d be averaging a sub-9 min/mile if I stopped it during every walk break, too.

And, oh yeah, I HATE ITTTTTTT.

I do enjoy the pasta eating, though. I think I’ll keep that.

This doesn’t make me a failure. It just means I’m a fish climbing a tree. And a tree is no place for a fish, and a race is no place for me.

No, I’m much better suited for a beach. Of course, I prefer a lounge chair and a margarita to the ocean, but still. At least I’m inching closer to where I need to be.

Two Saturdays ago, as I was stretching and foam rolling in my front room, prepping to run 7 miles in the early morning light, I was deep in thought.

Thinking about how much I dislike running.

Wondering if now would be a good time to call it quits.

Not quite sure if stopping made me a quitter, or if it made me extremely realistic.

My thoughts were interrupted, however, by the sound of a robin flying smack into the window not 2 feet from my head.

It’s not an unusual occurrence this time of year, and as we all know, birds are pretty stupid.

But then it happened again. Same bird. Flying off the same branch on the same dogwood tree.

And then again.

And again.

Seven times. SEVEN TIMES in about 10 minutes, this bird flew smack into the exact same spot on my front window.

I marveled for a few seconds, then continued readying myself to go and do this running thing that I so profoundly hate. I was getting my things all in order when finally, the light bulb went off on the top of my head.

I am the bird flying into the window.

I am the bird. Running is my window.

That bird really, really wants to get into my house. I get it. I’m sure that, from the outside looking in, my house looks pretty enticing.  Comfortable, warm, fun, easy. It must be inviting, and I’m sure that bird looks into the front room, and forgets just for a minute about that glass paneling stopping it, and decides to give it a shot again.

I really, really want to enjoy running. From the outside looking in, it looks pretty enticing. It seems to be comfortable, natural, easy for so many of you. It seems inviting and every time I look at your blogs, or see a finish line, I forget for just one minute about my poorly-constructed (for running, anyway) body, and decide to give it a shot again.

My body is built for a lot of things – child bearing, low cut tops, short shorts, high heels, apparently defying death. But running? Running is not one of them.

Think about the elite runners – whether they are on the professional level, or even just in the blogosphere. And for a frame of reference, I consider an “elite” to be anyone who can average in the 8:00/mile. Think of how these people are built. They are long, they are lithe, they have very little body fat and lean muscle tone. They move with a natural grace and ease that is almost beautiful to watch at times.

Now, I know none of you really know me in real life, and I try to skimp on pictures, but as a visual: my body does not look like that. I’m what you may call an hourglass figure (minus the backside, I’m a big disappointment there. All my extra curves went up north). I have the body type that clings to fat, my spine is crooked, my bones weak. I have that osteoporosis lingering in my low back, hips, and shoulders. I’m prone to swollen ankles. I have the Good Lord knows what surging through my cells and tissues and veins, a result of all the meds I’m been on.

Sure, I have the long legs, they’re great. But unfortunately, they are hinged to my body at wide-set hips, and they are connected by genetically faulty knees. We all have “grandpop’s knees”; they pop and crack loudly at the slightest movement and they ache in low pressure systems. They’re the first thing to go when you start working out, and, as my cousin told me just this past weekend – a cousin with the same knees – they make running almost impossible for us. When I told her I was running Broad Street, she looked shocked. “I’m proud of you, girl, but (my real last name)’s aren’t runners! We’re just not made to be!”

I’m just not a runner. I’m never going to be good at it.

Or, maybe, I’m never going to enjoy it enough to put the time and effort forth that is necessary for me to get good at it.

It’s just not fun for me. It’s never been fun for me. In the two and a half years that I’ve been giving this a shot, I can count on two fingers runs that I “enjoyed”. And by “enjoyed”, I mean “didn’t hate entirely.”

So why did I stick with it so long? That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. This past weekend, I had many family functions, and my mom kept telling everyone how I’m doing this run, and everyone was asking me, “Oh, you like running?” And I always responded with a  frank, “No, not really!” and then laughed.The follow up question was always, “…then why do you do it?” at which point I answered, “I don’t really know.”

And I realized that was entirely honest. I don’t like running.  I started running in January of 2010 because, I think, I needed some sort of challenge. I was faltering in starting my career up and feeling like everything around me was unsettled and I needed to accomplish SOMETHING. I needed a long term goal, which I could methodically achieve by setting a routine and sticking to it.

This actually worked. It was some form of therapy. And it was also free, unlike joining a gym. It also led me to the blog world, which was a much, and still is a much, more effective form of therapy. I found a place where I can sort out my thoughts; I found a group of readers who have become a weird sort of internet-based group of friends; I found something that made me feel good. I love to write and I love to learn about people and the human psyche and this world is a great comfort zone for me.

This blog world is also full of runners. Happy runners. Runners who jump for joy at the thought of a 12 mile Wednesday morning run; runners who see a beautiful day and want nothing more than to spend hours on the trails; runners who see the numbers 7,8, or 9 in the minutes column of their fancy pants Garmins.

This is not me. I don’t like waking up at all. I see a beautiful day and want nothing more than to spend hours on a lounge chair with a cool drink and a trashy mag. I see numbers much higher than that on my free Droid app.

But you guys make it sound SO GREAT! So I keep chugging along, thinking it’ll happen for me one day, too. I’ll be the best runner!

It’s finally all hitting home though. I’m never going to be a great runner, because I will never enjoy running enough to do it frequently enough to be one.

I. Hate. Running.

And yet I still felt conflicted; like I was giving up on some big, lifelong goal by tossing my shoes in the closet and moving on with life. Would I like to someday cross a marathon finish line? Sure! Why not? Who wouldn’t? But the more important issue is, would I be willing to take months of my life training, dedicated to running hours on end, in the elements, spending money, missing events, waking up early, being conscious of everything I eat, giving my life over to a race?

Yeah. NO.

This marathon thing, this running goal, is about 2 1/2 years old. I have dreams and goals much older than that; as old as I am. When I think of the top of the list of things I want to do before I die, it’s filled with things like get married and have a family, travel the world, publish a book, find a career that I am passionate about, and get my body into tip top shape. Running probably isn’t even top 10. Maybe not even top 20.

So why have I been spending all of this time chasing a goal that I know, in my heart of hearts, isn’t something I’ll ever do – well, at least – nor is it something I really, truly, need to do before I die?

All these nights I’m going to be early for rest?  I could be out socializing. Meeting someone. Falling in love. All these hours I’m running?I could be writing down my thoughts, starting a book. I could be putting even more time and effort into my career. And all this money I’m spending on shoes and compression socks and Runner’s Worlds and the like? I could be saving for airfare or hotels to see Greece and Australia and anywhere my heart desires. And in terms of getting my body into shape – well, running doesn’t have a stronghold on fitness. In fact it’s one of the worst total body toning and weight loss programs, due to the amount of food you need to eat. Plus, I’ve found other forms of exercise – swimming, lifting, yoga, cardio – that I prefer.

And the most important thing is that none of those other activities – writing, socializing, traveling – none of them make me feel as dreadful as running does.

Running makes me feel like I’m dying inside. I have been so overwhelmed these past few weeks with having to run certain days, certain distances; feeling out of control of my own life and stressed to the max. And this stress is making me incredibly moody and irritable and I’m just miserable all the time. My mom even pointed it out to me recently; she wondered why I would ever spend so much time doing something that makes me so unhappy.

And the reasons I could come up with just didn’t hold up anymore. And I going to keep running because everyone on the blogs does?  Because I don’t want people to think I’m a quitter? That’s just stupid. But then, my fatal flaw always has been caring too much what other people think.

Am I stopping running? Yes. Am I quitter because of it? No. I don’t think so. I’ve run two 5ks and successfully trained for, and completed, a half marathon. I’m also training for and on the cusp of completing a 10 miler. I could have stopped halfway, but I didn’t. I stuck it out, and then I’m done. I can’t keep doing this to myself, and I’m not a failure because of it.

I used to think sticking with running made me resilient and gritty, but now I see differently. My body is just not responding, and may never respond. Acknowledge it and move on.

I mean, really, is this a big deal? Is this a problem? For me, right now, it is almost all consuming, and it shouldn’t be. Why am I even analyzing it so much? I mean…it’s a hobby.

I’m analyzing it because I’m me. And it’s what I do.

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Well, we all knew I was crazy. This just confirms it.

I will never have the right body type or mental attitude to enjoy running enough to get good at it. I just won’t.

That bird will never get into my house, no matter how many times or windows it tries. And it has tried a few, on different days. I hear it every now and then and smile a sad smile, feeling connected to it now somehow. 

I hope the bird keeps looking; keeps trying different houses to get into. Who knows? Maybe someday, one of those windows will be open.

This week will have running themed posts. Sorry in advance if this bores you, but it’s on my mind a lot, what with Broad Street just around the corner and all.

Plus, confession time, but I wrote all these posts in one sitting on Sunday afternoon. I was relegated to my kitchen during the Flyers game. Because I can’t leave my kitchen during a Flyers game. Because history has shown that it’s where the Hockey Gods want me.

Anyway.

I’ve been trying to do this “running” thing for almost 2 1/2 years now, and I’ve picked up quite a few tips and tricks along the way. I’m by no means a “good” runner, or, for all intents and purposes, an “actual” runner, but I am much more experienced and knowledgeable now than I used to be.

So, for this weeks Top Ten list, I thought I’d compile a set of the 10 things I think all new runners should invest in/partake in/ practice.

Because, clearly, I, with my PR pace of 11:14, am an expert.

Top Ten Tuesdays – Rookie Runner Tips.

10) Find a chiropractor. Your body is going to take a beating, and you’ll need someone to put it back together again. Chiros have a much more natural and holistic approach, and it’s much safer than popping Aleve every day. Although some of us do that, too. Bonus points if you find someone who let’s you pay a majority of your bills in baked goods, like mine does.

9) Subscribe to Runner’s World. It’s like, $10 for a year, and it’ll be monthly motivation. And it’ll make you feel super tough.

8) Read running blogs. Same as above, but more personal. These will help you feel motivated almost daily, as well as allow you to learn from others’ experiences.

7) Take the ice baths. They suck at first, but they’ll be an addiction once you realize how amazing they feel  after your legs go numb. I actually look forward to them now, and my legs respond favorably. Bring in a book; soak for 15-20 minutes, then let your legs warm up on their own. Avoid the urge to jump right into a hot shower – the whole point is for your body to warm your legs up naturally with extra blood flow, which speeds recovery.

6) Purchase some compression socks. I am in love love love with mine, and my calf/shin issues that were killing me a month ago are now non-existent. I wear them after work just to stop my legs from swelling after being on my feet all day. Fabulous invention, and I will be stocking up.

5) Invest in a foam roller. This will help your muscles recover more quickly and really does work on sore spots. Google how to use it cause I don’t feel like doing that right now.

4) Buy the expensive shoes. Trust me on this. Go to a running store, get fitted, and cough over no less than $100 bucks. Again, your body will take a beating; you’ll want to minimize this.

3)Cross train. Suck it up and join that gym. I know, I know, you started running because it’s “free”. But the gym will be your best friend, promise. You need to work out all the muscles in your body; running targets only a few key leg and core muscles. You will want to work out the others just as much. You’ll also want someplace to recover from long runs or injuries, and bikes, elliptical, pools, and yoga mats are great for that.

2)Start with a program. I used C25K app on my phone and it worked really, really well to get me started. It chunks things up nicely and makes it more fun when getting started. At first I thought I didn’t need it, but then I remembered I’m not a running coach. Or athletic at all.

1) Take your time. Seriously. Don’t buy the shoes and the socks and the gear and feel the need to register for that half. It takes months, maybe years, for your body to adapt to the stress of running and too-much-too-soon will ruin you, so just be patient. Build up a strong foundation, then take it to the next level. It may not happen as quickly as you’d like, but all it takes is one wrong step – literally – and running is completely over for you. Be smart, and be safe.

If I had a #11, it would be to stock up on clearance C9 gear at Target. Just as good quality as that LuLumon nonsense, pretty cute, 1/10 of the price.

What’s a tip you wish someone had given you when you started running?