Dear Blog,
Blogging feels so self-serving. I keep thinking back to some of the things I've written, and I just have to wonder, who the heck cares? Who cares that I every time I run I seriously question why I signed up for this half-marathon? Who cares that I started crying while running on the side of a road like a total loser? Who cares if I post twice a week, or once a week or at all? Well, I care. I care and I owe it to my imaginary web of Internet readers who are following me to post. So, get over it! It is self-serving. And, dammit, this is America. Self-serving is where it's at!
On another note. I am one of those weird obsessive people who can't take a day off from an activity I'm trying to make into a habit, because it's so gosh darn hard to get back into it. I grudgingly headed off to the gym late morning after vacuuming and e-mailing and completing other important tasks, despite being fully dressed in work out clothes and ready to go. I get there and I look around hoping to find someone interesting that I can stare at to take my mind off the task at hand. Too bad. The guy who wears jean shorts on the stairstepper wasn't there today. Fortunately, there was a woman salsa dancing by herself in the corner. Oh the joys of humanity.
About 15 minutes in, I'm feeling good, but this is about the point that I start getting really hot and start breathing strangely. I've decided that this is a problem. My solutions: a) accept that I'm a freak of nature and don't know how to breathe properly, so I'll just quit; b) embrace the stitch in my side and the rattle in my lungs and keep going; c) practice breathing. Option C is the most practical, but I don't know how to go about it. I mean, I breathe every day. Shouldn't that be enough practice?
On another note based on previous posts, I had an epiphany today. An epiphany that shouldn't be an epiphany because it's so obvious and I fully accept it in other aspects of my life, but somehow running seems to bring out these weird weepy, "Blah! This sucks!" person out of me. So...here's the epiphany. I was running along for awhile and then the breathing hitch occurred, and I decided that I wouldn't try to push myself too far today. Instead, I decided to walk rapidly on a steep incline. While I was huffing and puffing and sweating profusely, this old man hopped (well, slowly climbed) onto the treadmill next to me. After a minute of fumbling with the buttons, he hit his pace: 1.7 miles per hour. I looked down at my 4.2 miles per hour. I looked back at him, and I thought, "Good for him. This man is really trying. I hope to keep going when I'm his age." He couldn't go far; he couldn't go for very long; he couldn't walk fast, but at least he was walking. He was making the effort. So I started thinking about myself (because that's what this blog is all about right?), and I realized: why do I have to think that I hope I'm still trying at his age. I'm trying now, aren't I? Maybe it's difficult. And maybe it's slow going. And maybe I'll never live up to the comparison of those tall, skinny, blondes from my last post (side note: I am told that my tall, skinny, blonde and gorgeous cousin is running a whole marathon some time in November [ugh!]), but at least I'm out there. So on race day, maybe I'll barely cross the finish line, and maybe I'll be dead last, but at least I did it. And that's all I can ask of myself.
So now, instead of comparing myself to others, I'm going to compare myself to the only person worth measuring up to: me.
Aww...isn't that sweet?
Friday, September 10, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
There were tears
Yesterday my mom told me that she thought about my blog posts while she was at the gym. She found them a wee bit discouraging because I talk so much about how running sucks. Well, it does. I will admit that I have made some serious progress during the past few weeks since starting on the path to a more fit Tasha, but still, it's a struggle.
Running has never been easy for me. Although I was an active child, once I hit puberty and my body started changing, the insecurities struck. I remember being in middle school and being required to participate in some sport during gym class. I was terrible at volleyball. I was terrible at basketball. I was moderately bad at badminton. I wasn't so great at track and field. I could burst with some initial power and I was strong, but I was awkward and didn't pick it up quickly. I had to go to one track meet. I had to throw a discus. It was the one "sport" I was felt kind of OK about. I just had to throw really hard in one direction. Easy enough. Right? Wrong. I had a serious crush on this guy named Chris. He was 6'2" and great at every sport. He waved at me and leaned against the fence watching. So I wound up (a real official term) and threw really hard determined to impress this boy. And it flew. Right into the fence behind me. With a loud thud the fence shook, metal clanking all the way to where he stood. I was mortified. I wanted to run away or cry or both. Thus, my fitness career ended. I had no interest in going out for any sports. I always just felt like a short chubby Greek girl in a sea of skinny American blondes.
Training for this half-marathon is the hardest thing I've ever done. "Wait, Tasha," you may say. "You have worked your way through school. You're starting your thesis. You work two, sometimes three jobs. How is running the hardest thing you've ever done?" I'll tell you. It doesn't come easy for me. I can be busy. I can work a lot. I can learn complicated concepts. I do well in school. I did well playing the violin. I was baking bread at 10. I am a learner. But I am not a runner. Not only is it physically hard for me. It's mentally hard for me. I am still riddled with some of those same insecurities that made me choke that day at the track in middle school. I don't look like a runner. I don't feel like a runner. I didn't learn to play sports easily. I could pick up algebra, but I couldn't throw a ball.
Today while running, battling a hill and the wind, I was overcome with the fear that I will fail in this effort. I will fail to overcome the hardest task I have ever put before myself. And in the midst of my run, the tears started flowing mixing with the sweat and falling down my cheeks, neck and welling in my sports bra. I continued to huff and puff and sob. I am faced with graduating with my master's in just a matter of months. I am faced with finishing a 70-page research paper filled with my own original research. I am faced with attempting to learn just enough French to be proficient to earn my MA. These are overwhelming objectives, but they don't scare me as much as this 13.1 miles.
But I pushed through. I willed myself to keep going. Even if I could only walk. I made it to the front gate of my apartment, and I almost turned in, but instead, I cranked up Flo Rida's "Club Can't Handle Me" and started to run again. I ran another half mile. The last quarter uphill and against the wind.
Running has never been easy for me. Although I was an active child, once I hit puberty and my body started changing, the insecurities struck. I remember being in middle school and being required to participate in some sport during gym class. I was terrible at volleyball. I was terrible at basketball. I was moderately bad at badminton. I wasn't so great at track and field. I could burst with some initial power and I was strong, but I was awkward and didn't pick it up quickly. I had to go to one track meet. I had to throw a discus. It was the one "sport" I was felt kind of OK about. I just had to throw really hard in one direction. Easy enough. Right? Wrong. I had a serious crush on this guy named Chris. He was 6'2" and great at every sport. He waved at me and leaned against the fence watching. So I wound up (a real official term) and threw really hard determined to impress this boy. And it flew. Right into the fence behind me. With a loud thud the fence shook, metal clanking all the way to where he stood. I was mortified. I wanted to run away or cry or both. Thus, my fitness career ended. I had no interest in going out for any sports. I always just felt like a short chubby Greek girl in a sea of skinny American blondes.
Training for this half-marathon is the hardest thing I've ever done. "Wait, Tasha," you may say. "You have worked your way through school. You're starting your thesis. You work two, sometimes three jobs. How is running the hardest thing you've ever done?" I'll tell you. It doesn't come easy for me. I can be busy. I can work a lot. I can learn complicated concepts. I do well in school. I did well playing the violin. I was baking bread at 10. I am a learner. But I am not a runner. Not only is it physically hard for me. It's mentally hard for me. I am still riddled with some of those same insecurities that made me choke that day at the track in middle school. I don't look like a runner. I don't feel like a runner. I didn't learn to play sports easily. I could pick up algebra, but I couldn't throw a ball.
Today while running, battling a hill and the wind, I was overcome with the fear that I will fail in this effort. I will fail to overcome the hardest task I have ever put before myself. And in the midst of my run, the tears started flowing mixing with the sweat and falling down my cheeks, neck and welling in my sports bra. I continued to huff and puff and sob. I am faced with graduating with my master's in just a matter of months. I am faced with finishing a 70-page research paper filled with my own original research. I am faced with attempting to learn just enough French to be proficient to earn my MA. These are overwhelming objectives, but they don't scare me as much as this 13.1 miles.
But I pushed through. I willed myself to keep going. Even if I could only walk. I made it to the front gate of my apartment, and I almost turned in, but instead, I cranked up Flo Rida's "Club Can't Handle Me" and started to run again. I ran another half mile. The last quarter uphill and against the wind.
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