Dearest blog....

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?