Author: hollyida

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Life by Numbers

I am defined by numbers.

1–The number of children I have.  I often hear, “Is he your only one?”  Sometimes asked with pity.  My answer?  “He’s my only one and am very, very happy and grateful for that.” So stuff it, lady. (Ok, I don’t say the latter part, but I want to.)life-path-numbers-numerology-meaning

8–As of today, the number of years I’ve worked at the Pittsfield Public Library.  Although there are times when I want to tear my hair out due to a few scary or annoying members of the public, this is mostly a good place to be and I hope to be there a while.

10–The size pants I currently wear.  THAT number makes me pretty happy. Especially considering the fact that I wore a size 24 at age 18. At one point I thought the single digits in clothing would be a great place to be, but my hip bones have told me otherwise.

16–I’ve been married for this many years.  Often it seems like for.ev.er.  Other times it seems like….a long time ago. 😉

40–The age I was dreading for over a year, and now that I’m here….it’s ok.  Mostly good, I think. I have more aches and pains and occasionally hear, “You don’t LOOK 40!”  I think that’s bullshit, but whatever. People usually mean well when they say it, or they say it to cover their shock because they thought I was really 50.

165–My goal weight and the number I typically struggle with, wrestle with and sometimes want to strangle.  Currently I’m one pound less than that….until my official stickK weigh-in on Monday when my scale will tell me that I’m heavier. It will tell me I had a lot of fun over the weekend AGAIN and that fun cost me at least a pound or two.  But on Thursday?  Yup, I’ll be back at goal or below.

740–The number of miles I want to run this year.   This is the number that makes me fret, although it shouldn’t.  Look, last year my goal was to run 600 miles. I did so by November 30th, and was so freakin’ proud of myself.  So this year, I wanted to up the mileage, but I wanted the number to sort of mean something.  Or at least to figure out where I would be in the country if I ran a certain number of miles. If I ran from my home in central Maine to my former graduate school in western Pennsylvania, then I would need to run nearly 740 miles.  So what the hell?  I chose 740 miles as my goal for this year and thus far, I have run 634 miles.  I should be able to do this, right?

In theory, yes. Of course!  Currently, though, I’m only averaging 15 miles per week.  And that would be just fine and dandy except I have to have varicose vein surgery again at the end of November.  No running for 2 weeks and not as much mileage for the 2 weeks following.  Lately during my morning runs, I do math in my head and figure out how many miles I should try to run BEFORE the surgery, but honestly?  I can’t get out of bed early enough to get more than 4 miles in (and often it’s only 3 miles).  My left foot has been hurting for the past month and now my back wants to give out.  (Oh yes, 40 can be just lovely sometimes!)  Will I make my goal?  And does it really matter if I don’t?

Well….no.

It really won’t matter in the grand scheme of things.  I won’t die if it doesn’t happen. No one will get hurt if I don’t reach my goal.  I’ll be disappointed in myself and no doubt beat myself up over it, but ultimately it will mean nothing.  And yet……I can’t stop trying.  I won’t stop trying.  Maybe that’s the beauty of this resolution I made for myself back in January.  All year it forced me to keep trying to better myself, to do something I had never done before but desperately wanted to.  And CAN do.

So.

Just one more number to define me.

106–Miles left to run for 2013.

Now let’s hope by December 31st, that last number becomes a big, fat ZERO.

Let the countdown begin!!

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Country gal meets REAL country gals

I like to tell people I’m  a 5th generation Mainer.  I’m proud of my state, my home, my heritage.  I live on the land my mother was literally born on, where my grandmother raised her children and where my grandfather worked in the woods. I’ve always thought of myself as a country girl….until this weekend.

A few months back, my sister invited me to attend something she called BOW–Becoming an Outdoors Woman in Maine.  She thought it would be fun for us to do together.  My first thought was, “Yay!  I get to spend the weekend with my sister!” I was psyched because we get very little time to hang out together. We live nearly 2 hours apart and have quite different schedules.  We’re 8 years apart in age, and my son is the same age as her grandchildren. We’re in very different life stages right now, so the idea of being able to spend 3 days with my sister sounded fantastic.

But my second thought was, “Wait…what? An OUTDOORS woman?”  Just this year I was able to admit to myself that I’m really not an outdoorsy kind of gal.  I do like to run outside and I enjoy spending time at the beach in the summer and generally being in the sunshine most of the year, but I don’t enjoy camping or being in the woods where the bugs are so horrendous that they either pick you up and throw you out of their territory or they eat every inch of your skin.   At 40, I finally said to myself, “You know what? I don’t like being uncomfortable, damn it!”  But I held my tongue until I could see what BOW was offering in workshops.  My sister suggested I go to this because of my running.  She figured that if I got lost or was injured, then maybe these classes could help. (She was really just humoring me, because I run on roads and not on trails. I do take precautions to at least tell someone where I’m going. But her heart was in the right place. She also said I needed to do something that wasn’t so intellectual, like my Winter Weekend with the Maine Humanities Council last February. We discussed Dickens’ Great Expectations for two days, and I was totally in my element!)

At first glance, I wasn’t sure I’d find anything I wanted to learn about at BOW.  Then I started to think about one of my resolutions this year–trying new things.  I love to learn, and who says it always needs to be about things I already know I enjoy? How do I know I don’t like archery or marksmanship?  I don’t. So….I signed up.

My sister and I arrived at Camp Caribou in Winslow on Friday morning in the pouring rain.  We checked in, looked at the raffle items and wandered around for a bit.  Lugged our stuff into a cabin that we would share with 9 other women and went back to the lodge to begin our adventure.  At first, I felt pretty comfortable with everyone there and the entire idea of the program.  About half of this year’s participants were first-timers.  Either the word was getting out about the program, or more women wanted a way to reconnect with nature or buff up on survival skills or even just want to learn something new.  There were also lots of 4th and 5th timers there, and most of them you could pick out after a bit.  They knew each other well just from BOW and they seemed to have this genuine affection and respect for one another.   I liked being around those women.  They’re good people who were doing something they enjoyed but also challenged by.  I think I felt so comfortable with them because they were so comfortable with themselves.

I will admit, though, that I started to feel more out of my element by the next day.  I was learning a lot and was anxious to teach my family what I learned, but was also very humbled by what I didn’t know.  I learned how to identify trees (something most of us learn in high school, although I had forgotten it), shot arrows with a compound bow (and loved it!), learned that a simple white pine tea has a hit of vitamin C in it and sometimes you learn a lot about your surroundings if you just stop and listen.   I also learned that striped maple leaves are the best leaf to use for toilet paper (I’ve already started to look for  them on my running routes), I’m a horrible shot with the bow but want to get one and practice, and my sister still knows WAY more about edible plants than I do.

I enjoyed watching my sister at BOW. She was clearly where she belonged.  She met people who were really into survival skills and had a “bug out” bag in their car, just like her.  She got to shoot guns with other women and learn how to properly use a compass and show off her survival kit (which people were impressed by).  I really liked seeing her this way.   She was confident and happy and just lovely.

So….would I go again?

Absolutely.  Even with occasionally feeling like I didn’t quite belong, I think that was more my lack of self-confidence talking.  I love to learn new skills, new knowledge, new perspectives.  For me, learning with a large group of women is even better.  No one seemed to really care what they looked like (there were lots of hats and hair pulled back, stained clothes, absolute comfort–as you can see by the photo of my sister and myself). Although I didn’t leave with a strong bond with some of the other women, I still felt a comradery with them.  My goal was to spend more time with my sister (which I certainly did) and to come away with new life experiences and hopefully new skills.

And since I spent my entire run this morning attempting to identify trees in my neighborhood, then I’d say goal accomplished.  🙂

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My noncomformist

Each year, my lovely little town has an “Old Home Days” celebration that includes a parade, bounce houses, games for the kids, a street dance and fireworks.  It may not sound like much, but it’s always a good time and it gives us a sense of community.  The kids have fun and the adults eat too much fried food.  What could be better? 😉

The “street” dance is held on an outside basketball court near our rec fields where we watch the fireworks. After the games are put away in the evening and we’re waiting for the fireworks to begin, the DJ cranks the music and kids start to dance.    My son loves all kinds of music and absolutely LOVES to dance, particularly to the top 40 music we play in the car.  He has always enjoyed this part of Old Home Days and has never needed encouragement to get out on the dance floor.  But this year, at the ripe old age of 6 1/2, things seemed different.  He wandered over to the edge of the floor, holding his monkey hat with two hands and watching some of the tween girls do their group dancing, when the song Gangnam Style began.  I was watching him from a distance, waiting, but he didn’t move.  I came up to him and whispered, “Are you going to show off your awesome dance moves?”  With wide eyes, he vehemently shook his head no.  I rubbed his arms and said ok and backed away.19390_10200328235471251_1213748912_n

My kid has an entire dance routine for Gangnam Style.  It’s not just the dancing from the video, but a bunch of “dance fighting” that he likes so much.  It seems to make him feel good and tough and happy.  But as he watched the other kids, or rather girls, he seemed paralyzed.  He wasn’t moving…at all.  Two more songs went by with him just standing like that.

I was heart-broken.  I couldn’t believe that he felt so….self-conscious at so young an age.  Maybe I did too at that age?  I don’t know.  I just wanted to hug him and tell him that he can dance and have fun and not worry about other people around him.  It was really ok.   But I didn’t do anything. I waited. I hoped.

And then…I saw his foot tap.  He started to just kick his leg back and forth, but at least he was moving.  He started to jump a bit.  And then it’s like that little spark within him blew up and he became wildfire!  He swung his hat around his body (like dancing with streamers) and jumped and kicked and DANCED!  To me he sometimes looked a bit frenetic, but mostly happy and even graceful. He stayed at the edge of the floor, close to the music but far from the other kids.  He was in his own little world….and I loved him for it.   Every few songs he would come running over to me and ask me if I Iiked his new “moves.”  That kid was just bursting with joy. I told him I thought they were wonderful, perfect even!  I gave him a hug each time he came back to me, but they never lasted long because he wanted to get back to dancing.  At one point, it started to lightly rain and my boy stopped moving, looked to the sky and tipped his head back.  He remained still for just a moment, grinned, then went back to dancing.  And the really cool thing?  A couple more boys actually got out on the floor and did a bit of wild dancing, too.  Who knows? Maybe he’ll start a trend.

I’m not sure how  long my son will be this way—happy with who he is and knowing how to live in each moment. I hope, hope, hope he always will be.  I know there will be a time where he’ll want to be like everyone else.  In some ways that’s already started, like wanting the same sneakers his friend had, saying they would make him faster.  I told him I wished that were true, but it’s a bunch of bologna.  (He did NOT get those sneakers.)   He wanted to have cold lunch a few times because his friend did, yet he ended up missing out on hot dog day and was not a happy camper.

So I guess he’s learning, figuring out what he likes and doesn’t like and trying to feel good about his choices.  He’s trying to make his way in this freaky world, and I’m trying my best to teach him that it’s ok to be different.  It’s not always easy, for sure, but it’s really ok. I worry that he’ll be alone, that he won’t find anyone he can share his differences with.  But I can’t control any of that, can I?  I can only hope.  For now though, he seems to be happy with his life and the people in it and who he’s becoming—I certainly am.

And now if he could only teach me some of those dance moves….

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Attempting to “stickK” to it

Over the past 8 months, I’ve ever so slowly gained 8 pounds.  Big deal, right?  When I was 252 pounds, I would have said the same thing.  I would have been irritated at this person who appears slim-like, runs a few days a week, and eats salad every day.  So she gained a few pounds? Who the hell cares?!? She looks great, so why is she bitching so much?

Why? Because this slim-like gal looks in the mirror and sees that 252 pound girl looking back.  That heavy girl was angry and sad and ate every emotion that came her way. She was more unhappy than anyone could imagine.  I can’t be that person anymore.  I don’t want to forget her, but I can’t be her. Thus, I need to lose 8 pounds. (Odd logic, I know, but this is how my mind works.)

My motivation for losing this weight isn’t just the fact that I’m afraid to become obese again. It’s also the little things, like my pants not fitting as well as before, or how sometimes I just feel so squishy.  Eight pounds might not sound like a lot, but once your metabolism slows down a bit, it can seem more like 80 pounds. (My sister warned me that the day I turned 40, my metabolism would go down the crapper.  I hate it when she’s  right.)

So….how do I go about this?  Weight Watchers? Atkins? The Vegetable Soup Diet?

Back  in 2009, I was inspired by the book, The Big Skinny by Carol Fay. It’s a graphic novel about a woman who loses weight by just eating sensibly, counting calories and increasing her physical activity. I lost over 40 pounds by doing it this way.    We all know that losing weight isn’t rocket science, but why does it seem so damn difficult?  It’s slow going and we just want it all gone RIGHT NOW!  People always say, “Well, you didn’t put the weight on overnight, so you can’t expect to lose it overnight.”  Yeah, honey, I know, but please stop reminding me because you are seriously pissing me off.

*sigh*

See?  Aren’t you glad you don’t have to live or work with me?!?

Anyway, I decided that this time around, I needed a little more motivation than just my pants fitting better.  I signed up on stickK.com to “commit” to lose weight.  I put my money where my mouth is, people.  And for me, money is a HUGE motivator.  Here’s what I did: I committed to lose at least a half pound a week for 16 weeks to get me back to my 165 pounds that I love so much.  I have a “referee” who is supposed to make sure I stay on track and who gives me encouragement. I can also have supporters to cheer me on each week.  Ok, but here’s the kicker.  If I DON’T lose a half pound a week….I have to give $5 each week to my “anti-charity.”  In other words, I would have to give money to a group that I didn’t like and would never, ever support.  In this case, I chose the Institute for Marriage and Public Policy—they are against gay marriage.  Trust me, folks, I would cut out my tongue before I give money to this organization, which is why I picked it.   If this doesn’t encourage me and keep me from eating that bag of chips, then nothing will.

I won’t lie, though. This has been very, very difficult for me. I’m  3 weeks in and have lost 4 pounds, but oh my word I am sooooo hungry!!  I wasn’t running when I lost weight before, and I’m having a very hard time not eating a cow the day after a long run.  (I’m usually ok the day of, but the day after is a killer.)  I’ve had many weak and exhausted moments, and more grumpy days than my co-workers can count.

Back a few years ago, if I ate more than I wanted to, I’d add a bit more exercise into my routine.   But now? I already exercise every day (although only run 4 days a week). So I feel I have to be more strict about my caloric intake, which makes me a bit….obsessive…..compulsive….bat-shit crazy.   I am really, really trying to do this the right way, just like I did before….eating lots of vegetables and fruit, no artificial sweetened garbage. Just real food, good food, and still the occasional yummy like a chocolate bar or DQ vanilla ice cream……mmmmmm…ice cream……icecream

Wait….what?  Where was I?

Phew! Ok, got it.  As I was saying, I like that it’s only 8 pounds, and not 50, but it’s still just as difficult…..as you can see.  I’m pretty ticked at myself, though, for letting my weight get this far up.  I’ve been really diligent over the past three years in staying within 2 to 3 pounds of 165.  I liked it there. I felt good and looked decent. Admittedly, I got a bunch of people asking me if I was well, if I was ok. I hadn’t been in the hospital, had I?  It was nice to hear people concerned about me, but they didn’t realize that this is what I’m supposed to look like!  They had only known me as fat or chunky or full-figured. My “norm” had become their “norm” as well.  But no, folks, I’m not physically ill. I’m healthier than I’ve ever been.  We can discuss my mental health at another time. 😉

So….4 more pounds to go.  Can I do it?   Will my family and co-workers survive the next few months?  Will the Institute of Marriage and Public Policy get my money?

Shall we make a bet?

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It’s not you, it’s me.

Since I began running, just 2 1/2 years ago, I’ve had many folks offer to run with me.  Some were trying to be supportive, and help me over whatever hump I needed to get over.  Others were just good friends who wanted to be with me and have fun and again, be supportive.  And a few runners I met last month, just wanted another person to run with, or were trying to get a running group together, so wouldn’t I like to join them?

Actually….no.

Here’s the thing: If I HAD to run with other people, then I probably wouldn’t run at all.  I’m too self-conscious, too worried that I sound and look like I’m dying (or look like a wounded giraffe, because in fact I do). I can’t talk while I run.  I’d want to go as fast as you and would hurt myself doing it. Or I’d feel bad that you had to slow down for me.

I know there are many advantages to having running partners or groups, but right now I am trying to do things that would NOT make me feel bad about myself.  And honestly?  Running with another person would have the opposite effect of what you, my fellow running friends, intend.  You’d want to be supportive and encouraging, but all you’d do, completely inadvertently mind you, would be to make me feel inferior.

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Would I still run in the same race as you? YES!  Would I still go shopping for running shoes with you? OF COURSE!  Would I still want to talk about running and all the joys and heartbreaks that go along with it?  FOREVER AND EVER UNTIL MY TONGUE FALLS OUT!  Would you just try and run a few miles with me? Just once?  *SIGH*  I’m sorry, but no.

You probably think I’m nuts, and that’s completely ok. I think that sometimes, too.  I appreciate every single request to run with another person. I feel honored, in a way.  I want to shout, “You like me, you like me!”  And if you feel the need to keep asking me to run with you, that’s ok, too.  But if I turn you down for the hundredth time, just remember that it’s not you, it’s me.

Really.

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Brusha, brusha, brusha…..

Typically, I don’t like to write about parenting.  My friend, Michelle, does a great job blogging about it, and often I don’t think I have much to add on the subject except to say that I have no idea what I’m doing.  But today I needed a little reminder.  I needed to remind myself not to worry what other people say about my kid or how I parent. People have judged me for a variety of things, including the fact my kid and I HATE crafts and the kind of music I allow my child to listen to (yes, my child knows many songs by Katy Perry and Kei$ha and not a one by Peter, Paul and Mary).

Today, my son and I both had dental appointments.  I was dreading it, because last time I got a lecture from the hygienist about my son’s lack of flossing.  For the past 6 months, I’ve attempted to work with him more on his brushing and flossing, but you know what?  I freakin’ HATE nagging him about it.  He’s been better about it lately, but mostly I just tell him to do it, and if he doesn’t, he’ll just suffer the consequences when his teeth rot and fall out.

When we got to the dentist’s office, we went our separate ways with our respective hygienists.  I had someone new and she asked me about my boy and if he brushes and flosses. I said mostly, but it tends to be a battle.  She goes on to tell me that she puts her 6-year-old grandson in a headlock to brush and floss his teeth.

Ummm…..I won’t be doing that.  I’ll bribe the kid way before I wrestle him to the ground and brush his damn teeth.

As we’re finishing our appointments, Briar’s hygienist told me he IS starting to get a cavity, but it’s minor right now so we’ll wait to do anything about it. She emphasized the flossing again, but was much kinder about it than the last lady.  So what did we do on the way home?  Went to the donut shop, of course!  (I know, I know, but seriously, I needed an iced coffee after that.)

As my son bounced around Tim Horton’s waiting for his sweet treat, I attempted to ignore the scowling woman in line behind us and asked Bri if he thought he really needed the sugar since he was a bit hyper.  His reply?  “Yes!  And Momma?” He opened his arms for a hug and said, “Now gimme me some sugar.”  After howling with laughter, I hugged my boy, grabbed our goodies and smiled at the grumpy lady.

Look, I am the first to admit that my kid can be annoying, but you know what? He’s smart and funny and I am completely in love with him.  As a parent, I have made mistakes and will continue to do so, but I’ll be damned if I’ll feel bad about the awesome little dude my son has become.

On the way home, we listened to Fallout Boy’s Light Em Up and sang along at the top of our lungs.  We talked about our appointments and promised each other we’d TRY to brush and floss more. If we get cavities, we’ll pay the price, but headlocks will not be a part of our dental hygiene plan.  Our bedtime routine?  Now that’s a different story….

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My boy’s adorable smile. I’m quite certain he didn’t floss that day, either.

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The Brain Freezer 5K

What an adventure!  Today my family & I “ran” the Brain Freezer 5K in Burlington, Vermont. Let me explain this race. As I’m sure you know, Vermont is the home of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream, so what would a 5K in Vermont entail if it’s called the Brain Freezer?  Yup. You guessed it!  At the halfway point of the race, you must consume a PINT of B&J ice cream.  Sounds odd?  Yes, but my god, was it fun!

This was the first time I had ever “run” with my husband and son.  We knew there would actually be very little running, due to the fact that my husband is out of shape, but also my son drags his feet and whines a lot.  He’s 6. I know this is what kids do, but it often frustrates the hell out of me.

Near the beginning of the race, my boy wanted to run.  And my, oh my, did we run!!  At one point we were running downhill and I yelled out, “Hey, don’t lose me!!”  Some of the walkers in the race were quite amused to watch my son zig zag far out of my reach.  When he slowed down, I caught up with him and we turned around to see my husband running after us. We cheered for him then took off again.  For most of the race, though, we walked, jogged, poured water on the boy’s head and pulled each other along….literally.  Once we got to the ice cream eating part, it was amusing to watch my son attempt to consume an entire pint of Chocolate Therapy ice cream.  His face and hands were very brown and sticky and just plain gross!

My husband & I both finished a pint about the same time (I had Chunky Monkey–the middle was frozen and I wish I had a fork), and our son ate about 2/3 of his pint.  He had enough, he said, so he & I both took off running.  Believe it or not, I didn’t have a stomach ache or felt sick at all.   The sugar rush only lasted a few blocks for my son, and then he thought he was going to puke.  Our last mile included a little bit of dragging my six-year old along, placing him on my husband’s shoulders for a bit, and walking.  At the very last bit of the race (we were not only last, but the awards ceremony was starting), my boy HAD to pee.  He had held it for nearly a half a mile, and in adult terms that’s like 5 hours.  So we stopped at the porta potty while my husband kept going.  Once my boy was done, I told him we had only a few more steps.  “We’re not done?” he cried.  I pointed his Papa out to him (my husband was crossing the finish line) and my boy took a deep breath and walked on.  We were guided onto the grass at this  point and I said, “Ok, son, let’s finish this strong!”  We started to run uphill toward that banner, and I stayed just two steps behind him, cheering him on.  There was no way I would let him finish last.  “Go, go, go!” I yelled and completely choked up as he finished what felt like the longest race in history.

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If you look closely, you can still see chocolate ice cream on my boy’s face.

A volunteer took the photo you see above, which was also just after my son stuck his hand in someone’s vomit.  I wish I was joking, but I’m not.  He sat on the ground just after we finished running, and although it didn’t look like there was anything on the ground, there certainly was.  Ewwwwww!!

All in all, though, we had a really great time.  I got irritated and frustrated a few times, but that was mostly in the first 5 minutes.  After that, we got into some kind of rhythm and joked with the volunteers at the race (especially the poor woman who had to ride her bike behind us).  I do wish that we had trained better as a family, and since my husband is already planning to do this again next year, then perhaps we can try again.  Next time, I’m hoping for a little more running and a little less whining.   I’m not sure we could have more fun, but anything is possible. 🙂

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Mirror, Mirror….

Just after waking up last Monday morning, I felt…..fat, obese, humongous.  I thought I might run, but being Monday morning, I woke up too late and felt too tired.  I weighed myself and although I knew the number was not completely accurate (being the end of my menstrual cycle), I was still appalled and honestly a little bit ashamed.  I shook it off, though, took my shower and got dressed.  My clothes didn’t feel quite right, but according to the bathroom mirror I seemed to look ok, so I avoided the full length mirror in the bedroom.  I just didn’t want to face it.

As I ate breakfast, I wrote down the number of calories I was consuming.  I wrote down what I made for lunch as well, and the snacks that I packed.  I already knew how many calories I would consume throughout the day and how many I would have left for dinner, all before 8:30 in the morning.  Sounds ludicrous, doesn’t it?  In some ways it can be exhausting, but on that day, it’s the control that I needed. To not feel that I was going “back” to the person I used to be.

I drove to work, listened to an audiobook for escape, and tried to ignore how uncomfortable I felt in my clothes, in my skin.  I squirmed in my seat for the first few miles until I finally settled down and lost myself in the story I was listening to.  When I got to the library, I lumbered up the walkway, carrying my purse and tote bags.  For just a second, I stopped in front of the glass door as I looked at my reflection.  I was stunned.  I thought I would see the me I saw in my head, the 252 pound me from over 20 years ago.  I thought my face would be round and my arms thicker and all in all just…bigger.  But instead there was this 40-year-old woman, looking fit and fairly slim, with a thin enough face for me to realize that she was kind of pretty.

I liked the looks of this gal.

Huh.

The rest of the week was filled with little battles within myself.  I still counted calories on most days, ran when I could but had a hard time with the heat and humidity, and bddjust tried to feel good in my own skin again.  There were a few days when I wore clothing that was baggy and sometimes not even appropriate for work, but I just couldn’t deal with anything form fitting.  I’m sure most people wouldn’t even be able to tell that I’ve been carrying these 5 extra pounds for the past six months (nor would they care), but it feels like it’s tattooed to my forehead.  I forced myself to look into that full length mirror, and told myself that what I saw was real and really ok.  I’ve never  been diagnosed with body dysmorphic disorder (BDD), but I know this can be how it feels.  And as a former bulimic, it can be damn dangerous.

I want to say that everything is just fine now and I love the body I have and it doesn’t matter what I weigh, blah, blah, blah.

But that, my friends, would be a bunch of big, FAT lies.

Instead, I’ll say that TODAY was a pretty good day, although I didn’t run as much as I wanted to, nor did I lift weights like I planned, but I ate ice cream….twice.  So what else did I do?  Well….I played Whack-A-Mole with my son, cheered my friend on (via facebook) as she ran her first 5K, took a short nap in the hammock, ran beside my boy while he rode his bike and watched Spider-Man cartoons with my family.

You know, when I lay it all out like that, I have to say that it was actually a GREAT day.  And maybe tomorrow will be great, too, and I really will love the body I have and it won’t matter what I weigh.

Maybe.  We’ll just have to wait and see what the mirror says.

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Clarity

I started this morning’s run completely pissed off.  I had a quick and dirty argument with my husband and I left the house without telling him where I was going or how long I’d be gone.  I figured he could just look out the window to at least see what direction I was going in….and I just didn’t care.

Because I was angry, I started the run a little too fast, but slowed down after just a quarter mile as I could feel the humidity squeeze my lungs.  I got into some kind of rhythm, listened to my “feel good” playlist, and forgot about home.

As I ran along, I looked at my familiar surroundings, watched the deer stare at me as I passed the deer farm, and wondered if my neighbors were still asleep on this grey Sunday morning.  I saw very little trash on the side of the road (which always makes me happy), but did see half of a pregnancy test.  The stick had been broken in half, with the test results missing.  It made me wonder about the woman or perhaps, girl, who owned those results.  Did she break it because she was so happy with the results that she wanted to keep it?  Or was she so distraught that she broke it in half and threw the rest of the stick in the woods?  I started to think about a “pregnancy scare” I had 18 years ago.  My boyfriend and I had just started dating, I had just finished college, and I was late.  I just knew that if I was pregnant, I couldn’t have the baby.  I just couldn’t.  My boyfriend?  I knew he was pro-life and this could be the thing to end this brief but enjoyable relationship.  But you know what he did?  He told me that he would support me, no matter what decision I made.   And I think I fell in love with him at that moment.  Two years later he became my husband.  (And come to find out, I was not pregnant, just in case you were wondering.)

I started to feel my anger dissolve as I continued my run.  The argument my husband and I had this morning was foolish and honestly, completely my fault.  I blew up at him with no cause and my anger was mostly at myself….but I couldn’t tell him that.

At this point in my run, I was struggling up a very steep hill, and just needed to get to my turnaround spot (which happens to be my brother’s house) and head back down the hill with my rubbery legs.  I was wheezing and holding my chest and hoped my brother couldn’t see my from his living room window.  I shuffled along for a bit, then picked things back up halfway down the hill.  I watched a crane swoop over the stream as I crossed the bridge at the bottom of the hill.  I was enjoying the scenery, appreciating the beauty of my little town, and loving the feel of the sweat trickling down my back while a delicious breeze cooled my face.

As I turned the corner onto the Horseback Road, I saw two vehicles parked on the side of the road, one on each side.  Often, people fish in the little stream, but there’s also a gravel pit there where kids used to party.  A car was parked at the pit’s entrance, with a man in the driver’s seat.  No one else was around.  My legs were tired, but I picked up my speed a little and just kept thinking, “Holly, you are an idiot.  No one knows where you are or how long you’re supposed to be gone.  You could be dead before they find you.”  Then I waved at the guy in the car, hoping that if he did indeed want to kill me, he might change his mind if I’m friendly.  (I know, I know, I’m stupid and irrational!)__apology___by_kicsterash-d5d4ukg

Thankfully, he didn’t follow me.  A few cars passed me and made me feel not so alone.  Someone was burning brush a half mile up the road, so I knew I’d see someone then, too.  I actually had to dodge ash falling from the sky and try not to take too many deep breaths.  The men waved as I passed by and we shouted “hello”s.   I took a little walking break, drank a swig of water, then continued the rest of my run towards home.

When I got to my driveway, I checked the time and was disappointed.  I was hoping for two minutes faster, but as I stretched and walked toward my front door, I stopped beating myself up and was satisfied with doing the run in the first place.  After a quick bathroom break, I entered my living room and immediately apologized to my husband.  “You didn’t tell me where you going or how far!” he huffed.  He didn’t shout but he was upset, for all the right reasons.  I apologized again, he accepted it then asked if it was my hormones going a little wacky.  He wasn’t being snide about it.  My body is going through changes and no one besides myself, is more aware of it as my husband.  But Benjamin Franklin once said, “Never ruin an apology with an excuse.”   So I didn’t blame it on my hormones, just blamed myself for always wanting to be right and making everyone else suffer when I’m not.

Sometimes running exhausts me, but I do find that more often than not, it makes me feel good about myself and the world in general. It clears my head, puts my thoughts in order and makes me want to do what I SHOULD do, even if that is to apologize and admit I was wrong.  Not an easy thing to do, and possibly even more difficult than running a half marathon, but the right thing to do.

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40 is not “just” a number

I first began to read at the age of 4.  I got my period when I was 12 years old.  I fell in love when I was 16, 20, 21, and 22.  I got married and received my Master’s degree when I was the ripe old age of 24 and had a baby at 34.  I first began running when I was 37 years old.

All of those numbers?  They are not “just” numbers.  They mark significant events in my life, important time periods.  And I’m hoping that 40 will also be one of those meaningful yet amazing years.

I’ve had MANY people in the past few weeks say to me, “It’s just a number. There’s no reason to get freaked out by 40.”  If you know me, you  know that I have indeed, been very worried about my upcoming birthday.  But why?  I’ve never really cared much about my age.  Of course I wanted to be older when I was a kid (who didn’t?), but once I turned 21, I just enjoyed the years as they passed.  I had a HUGE party when I turned 30, told everyone what to bring me, and had a fantastic time.

Yet….these past 6 months I’ve started to fret about turning 40.  Logically, there is no reason for me to be upset.  I’m healthier than I’ve ever been, in the best shape I’ve ever been. I have a good husband, an incredible son, a decent home and a fantastic job.  I have a family that I love and friends that I could not live without.  Unfortunately though, I am periomenopausal.  I don’t sleep well, my menstrual cycle is completely out of whack, fatigue overwhelms me each  afternoon, and tweezers have become my dearest friend (seriously, what is up with the excess hair?!?).

Subconsciously, I thought life would be over at 40.  That’s why I ran my half marathon less than two weeks ago.  I HAD to run it before I turned 40, or I thought I would never do it.  I thought my body would fall apart the minute I turned 40 or I’d gain weight or lose motivation.  I felt like as soon as I turned that corner on the next part of my life, everything would turn to shit.

The other night, as I tossed and turned, desperately wanting to sleep, I finally realized what was bothering me.   Reality and the first kernels of acceptance had started to settle in.

I now know and can finally admit that I will never achieve the body of my dreams, no matter how many miles I run.

I will never win the lottery.

I won’t ever be able to read everything I want to or learn everything I’ve ever wanted to learn or visit every place I want to see.

Life will never be long enough.  Ever.

We already know all of this, though, don’t we?  We’ve always known it, but *I* have never accepted it.  Apparently my brain and heart were fed up and decided to have an intervention.  “Holly…..you have to accept the fact that your muffin top?  It will never go away.  Your doctor told you, remember?  And those arms?  Yeah, they’ll continue to jiggle and will get worse as you get older.  It’s time to get over it.”

So, my friends, that is what I must do.

Does this mean I’ll never get on another scale or buy the occasional lottery ticket?   No.  I’m sure I’ll continue to whine about that damn fat roll as I do crunches and planks in the morning and will cringe each time I see my arm wiggle.  But I want this to be the year that I finally takes those first steps in accepting who I am, no matter my weight or my pant size or how slowly I run.  Life is just too damn short to worry about any of this, isn’t it? I need this to be Tfunny_40th_birthday_round_stickers-rf45ef4149cc14c73a5aff5261fbe4598_v9waf_8byvr_512HE year that I finally give myself permission to love the woman I have become.  So many other people love me for who I am, so why shouldn’t I?

As I blow my birthday candles out tomorrow, I will not be wishing to look better in my jeans.

I don’t need to.

I already look good in them, damn it.

So no more wishing.  Just accepting.