Watch me run.

Four years ago today, I was preparing for my sunset wedding atop Glacier Point. 

I would just like to say that without the love and support of Mr. Shortpants, it is fairly unlikely I would have ever slipped on my first pair of running shoes, let alone run a marathon or be in training for another marathon. 

Mr. Shortpants is the kind of husband who orders me a peanut and butter sandwich and a tall glass of milk from room service on the night before the marathon, even if it costs $11, plus tax, plus gratuity. 

Mr. Shortpants is the kind of husband who gets up in the middle of the night to clean up dog barf. 

Mr. Shortpants is the kind of husband who tells me to follow my dreams and to do what makes my heart happy. 

Mr. Shorpants is the kind of husband who follows me on his bicycle on my long runs, saddled with hydration, cold bottles of ice, many packets of carb boom, all just in case I need any of it. 

Thanks, Mr. Shortpants, for four of the most adventurous, daring, heart-felt, loving, and amazing years of my life. I look forward to many more.

“The woods are lovely dark and deep, 
But I have promises to keep, 
And miles to go before I sleep, 
And miles to go before I sleep.” 

This is one of my favorite poems. And here it was, in my inbox from Runner’s. I love when worlds collide. 

In fact, I memorized this poem for my first race, the race that didn’t allow headphones so I had to keep myself entertained with poems and lyrics and singing out loud, much to everyone’s delight, I’m sure. 

Fitting that this arrived in my inbox as I’m about to make me second debut at racing. My first race since I went on injury hiatus is Friday morning. I’m nervous, but in that good kind of nervous I’m-going-to-barf-and-do-a-happy-dance-at-the-same-time kind of way nervous. 

It is only three miles, so I’m confident in that, and I’ve ran the course before last year, so I know what to expect. It’s good. I’m excited. Plus they give out medals and t-shirts and that is just the kind of ego boost I need right now. 

Speaking of ego boost, I had one of my best workouts yesterday. I did the first prescription of the week, which sometimes kicks my ass because it is a new number and it throws me off a bit, but yesterday, my body just slid right into it. I stopped focusing on the time (which always throws me) and let my body breathe, run, and stride with strength. 

I love that feeling of strength. It comes from somewhere deep inside, and it can push past the baggage, the drama, the ego and the insecurities and it whips outs like a lion’s roar. And letting it out makes me feel powerful, beautiful and kick ass all in one swoop, which feels so. damn. good. And, for the record, is better than any drug. Ever.

Today I went to my first water aerobics class with my best friend, Angel. It was such a different workout than I’m used to. My arms and my obliques are so sore but in that good way, that way that makes you certain you did something productive. I forgot how much I love being in the water. I think the class will be a nice compliment to running. 

Something like 22 weeks left until the marathon. 

But who is counting, right? Right. 

Still kicking ass over here. And, that’s right, taking names, too. 

I found this article over at Complete Running Network. 

Before I was a runner, I would have smacked myself for saying things like, “It was only a 10k.” Also, before I was a runner, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have talked openly about butt scabs and peeing myself. I’m also pretty sure that before I was runner, I wouldn’t have openly wept while watching coverage of the Olympic Trials or of the Ironman.

Here is the article from CRN, written by Mike Antonucci:

Before you were a runner there is no way you would have paid $90 for a pair of sneakers–every six months.

Before you were a runner you thought people who were running just before a race were insane.

Before you were a runner you would have spit out the sugar water that you now drink every 10 minutes.

Before you were a runner you thought women runners were too skinny.

Before you were a runner you would have called tapering “wearing out.”

Before you were a runner you had no idea how far 10K was.

Before you were a runner you would not have told people you had foot blisters and black toenails.

Before you were a runner you were afraid to go outside before dawn.

Before you were a runner you thought Keflezighi was a rare tropical disease.

Before you were a runner you made fun of people in tights or short shorts.

Before you were a runner you thought nutrition that came out of a squeeze tube was for astronauts.

Before you were a runner you didn’t how ketones smelled.

Before you were a runner you would have laughed hysterically at people doing lunges, strides or butt kicks.

Before you were a runner you never watched running on TV.

Before you were a runner your favorite website wasn’t CompleteRunning.com, it was this.

I’m not avoiding you.

I took a new job. The new job has me traveling, a lot. Most trips I’m able to squeeze some writing in, but some trips it just doesn’t happen. So what ends up happening is that I scribble on cocktail napkins, cash register receipts, and talk into a digital voice recorder on my trip. Then when I come home, I have 100 pieces that need reconstituting.

Got back from Long Island on June 15.

Long Island left me with a whole notebook full of scraps and bits that needed to be mixed and massaged into a piece. Something was especially inspiring about the women in Long Island.

They are strong and yet compassionate. They felt like that aunt you had when you were a kid-she knew how to paint on perfect lips and eyes but could also slam neat whiskey shots with the boys.

In fact, one woman struck me in particular as incredibly inspiring. She had short spiky hair and perfectly arched eyebrows. As she browsed the booth, she made polite chitchat. She asked about the marathon, as a lot of folks do, and I gave her the highlights.

Most people stand, slack-jawed and eyes akimbo during the highlights. Shock. Not her. Instead, she continued browsing and then, when I was finished, she said, “Two words. Five boys. I’m not trying to be bitchy, but I’ve got five boys. Nothing shocks me, not even 26.2 miles.”

Anyways, on the trip to Long Island, I managed to write down everything I ate, drink a lot of water, and lose weight (albeit a small amount of weight, but a loss nonetheless) during my trip away.

I say this with shock because sometimes I get caught up in the trip of it all, and forget that I’m trying to make better decisions about health, and wind up in a beef tartare/ killer chocolate cake induced state of shock (a post for another day).

I only had two significant learning experiences.

Initially, I typed problems. But they weren’t really problems. They were experiences to learn from. So there you go.

First-there will be times when working out is just impossible.

For example, I left Tucson at 7am on Friday the 13th. I did not have enough time to work out before I left.

Well actually, I should say, it was not so much of not having time, as much as not wanting to get up any earlier than I had to. What can I say, I like to sleep.

I arrived in Long Island at 2:00am. The alarm for Saturday the 14th went off at 4:30am. As much as I would have liked to workout on those particular day(s?), I just couldn’t do it.

Then on Saturday, the hotel I stayed in by the airport did not have a gym. And I was just too much of a wuss to run outdoors in the swampy heat of NYC. I guess I’m officially from Arizona and used to the dry heat. Go figure.

So I missed a couple of workouts. I let it bother me for like a minute and then I moved on.

I went ahead and adjusted my running schedule though. Last week, instead of progressing onto the next running prescription, I took a step back. Last week, I ran 1/3 x12 again. It just seemed smarter to make sure I’ve got 1/3 down before moving on to the next prescription.

The second lesson-when I’m really tired, I’m not good at making healthy food decisions. I’m also pretty crappy at making healthy decisions if I haven’t eaten breakfast. If I don’t eat breakfast, I will more than likely make some interesting choices for lunch.

Instead of having some food delivered to my hotel room, I ate Burger King. I’m not a big fan of Burger King, but I went because I was tired, I was in the middle of a city that I knew nothing about, and the girl that lived in the GPS box wouldn’t tell me where I could find a nice thick, juicy steak, a baked potato and an elegant glass of red wine.

So I settled on Burger King. Of course, I didn’t choose the grilled chicken or the diet coke or a salad. No, my sleep addled brain chose the Indy burger, which is a double cheese burger with pepper jack cheese and spicy mayo. Fries, too. Washed down with a sprite and a chocolate shake.

Oh, but I paid for it. I’m just going to leave it at that-I paid for it.

So I learned some lessons and managed to still lose 0.4 lbs. Not a lot, but still a loss. But more important than the weight loss is learning. It seems to me that learning something will allow me the make healthy lifestyle choices long term. Losing 0.4 lbs is not going to be what I remember, but learning that I need to eat breakfast, or that learning that sometimes working out just doesn’t happen and it is no cause for beating myself up.

Sounds all well and good right?

Right.

Or wrong.

Tuesday the 17th I head to the gym, to do my first scheduled run of the week. I’m happy to be at the gym, as normal. I choose a treadmill near the window, so I could watch the sunset and the clouds. It makes me feel a little bit like I’m outside.

I’m running. I’m happy. It’s fantastic.

Then, in the glass in front of me, I spy a woman’s reflection running on the treadmill behind me. This happens all the time when I run in the front row. I can see the reflection of the folks behind me who are working out. But this woman, she is checking me out. She has scrunched her face up and she looks a bit like she sucked up a lemon.

I tried to put her out of my mind, but there she was, all-lemony faced and a bit sassy, staring back at me in the glass.

I finished my workout and walked out to the lockers to grab my bag. She followed me out. Her locker was two over from mine. She stood at her locker, one hand planted firmly on her hip, the other in the air, and proceeded to look me up and down.

“So, what do you think you are, a runner?” She hissed in my direction.

I looked around, feeling bad for the poor recipient of this woman’s venom.

It was then that I realized that she was speaking to me.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t you think you are too fat to be a runner? I mean, come on.”

“Excuse me?” Now I’m pissed. I mean, who does this woman think she is?

“I mean, I saw you trying to run, but fat girls don’t look like runners. And they can’t actually run.”

It took all the strength in my body, mind and soul to keep from taking this woman and breaking her in half like a fat-free pretzel. I found myself shaking, sweating and nearly crushing my ipod with my fist without even knowing it.

I debated-if I give her a reaction, I’ll be stepping down to her level. If I ignore her, I will lose the opportunity to defend the fact that any person can be an athlete; fat, thin, tall, short, or otherwise.

I chose to ignore her and walk away. I was too worked up. It would have never come out sounding like an opportunity to defend athletes of all shapes and sizes. It would have come out as a stuttering defensive mess, riddled with cuss words and a spray of spittle.

And look, here is the thing, I’m human. I would like to tell you that it didn’t bother me, that I drove home and got up the next day and went back to the gym, no problemo.

That is not what happened. I wanted to not let it bother me, but it did. So much so that I avoided the gym. You’ll be glad to know this is not entirely because of the insult woman. I’ve been experiencing pain in my tendons and decided to bench myself for the other two prescribed runs.

But it is still in the back of my head. “I didn’t go to the gym because of the insult woman.” I’m full of guilt and more guilt. And I’ve eaten pizza and ice cream sandwiches and BBQ chicken with extra sauce.

This is not the first time someone has commented on me not looking like a runner.

I was in a running shop in Northern California and I was speaking with the cashier. She was telling me some story about a woman who had been in the shop earlier in the day.

“I could just tell she was a runner.”

“How?” I asked, with real curiousity.

“Well, you know, she had that look. Plus she wore the clothes of a runner.”

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“Well, you know,” she stopped to look at my outfit, “she was wearing running clothes. And she had that look. Not like you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you know, she was quite thin and had running shoes on and other stuff. I could just tell. With you, it was different. You don’t look like a runner. I thought you might be shopping for a friend.”

“I see.”

Here is the thing-I am a runner. Always will be. And yet, I wear black cons and black shirts and I’m fat. I’m not trying to become a runner, I already am one. How much I weigh doesn’t disqualify me from that status. I earned the permanent title of runner the minute I crossed the finish line at my first marathon.

Just because I gained some weight and am trying to recover from an injury, doesn’t mean I’m less of a runner. People always assume that I’m trying to lose weight because I run. Or I run for the sole purpose to lose weight. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

I run to feed my soul. I run to connect all the parts in my body; mind, body, spirit. I run for the challenge of it. I run to be connected to the earth.

I might lose weight in the process of running. I might wear my cons less often and wear my old running shoes instead once in a while. My body might give me away, the cut in my calves or the toned part of my thighs might lead someone to believe that I am a runner.

So know, after I’ve calmed down and feel more rational, I would tell insult woman this: Underneath it all, I am a fat girl who can run. I can run a 10:31 mile and I weigh 256 pounds. Don’t believe me? I don’t care. Because I’m not running to prove something to you, to the girl in the running shop, or to anyone for that matter. I run for me. And I kick ass AND take names, so get over yourself. Then I would have turned sharply on my heel and shook my ass from here to tomorrow, knowing full well she couldn’t take her eyes off my lovely curves.

So then, I’m off too Kentucky by way of Chicago last Tuesday. My flight is delayed so I walk the terminal. This is my normal habit, by the way. I’m always antsy, so I have to move to feel calm.

I daydream while I walk the terminals, thinking about races and running, or maybe the people at the gates, or thinking about the novel I just finished.

Properly worn out, I went and sat on the floor near my gate. I was eating some fruit snacks and just hanging out, scribbling notes on my notepad. I keep noticed a running shoe walking by with a small tattoo on the ankle. The tattoo is the Ironman symbol.

Eek. An Ironman. I’m in the presence of greatness.

The Ironman and I started talking. Probably because I was gawking at the tattoo each time he walked by me, until finally I said, “Are you an Ironman?” When I asked him about his Ironman experience, he said, “It was really hard.” I liked the honesty behind his answer. No frills, no false security.

Anyways, we chatted for a little bit. I told him I hoped to someday do a triathlon, but that my passion was long distance runs. We talked about running marathons. We talked about running in Tucson.

Here is the thing-he did look like a runner. He had his Timex Ironman watch on. He had the ankle socks on. He had proper running shoes on. His legs were cut. But running wasn’t necessarily what his whole life was about. I would be wrong to assume otherwise. He might paint great masterpieces. He might be the lead cellist in the Chicago symphony. He might be a welder. He might speak twelve languages.

But never, not once, did he say anything about who should or shouldn’t look like a runner, or what you have to look like to be a runner.

And all this coming from an Ironman.

I can’t say for sure if the sassy girl at the gym has ever run a marathon or participated in a triathlon or earned the title of Ironman. I don’t know her. I can’t pretend to assume I know anything about her. (Well, except for the fact that she is really rude. That I know for sure.)

What I do know is that there is a sense of non-judgemental camaraderie amongst runners that I love. She lacked it. Ironman had it. My sister has it. My brother has it. Other runners I’ve met have had it. My readers have it.

But she, she lacked it. Which sort of makes me think she attacked me because she was insecure. Because she was jealous of my ability to run without care. To run for myself. To run with wild abandon. To run because it felt good.

That night, after arriving in Kentucky, I knew I had to run. I knew I had to get back up on the horse. I knew that sassy girl was going to have to get left behind waddling through her insecurities, while I ran through mine.

So that night, I ran in the hotel gym. I even ran four minutes in a row and it felt good. Actually it didn’t feel good-it felt great. And then the next day, in the next hotel gym, I did a 20 minute walk on the treadmill, a 20 minute bike ride and a 10 minute ride on the elliptical.

So today, I’m off to conquer the gym. I haven’t been back since sassy girl attacked me. But I’m going to run with my head held high. I’m going to run for myself. I’m going to run because my life depends on it.

And then, when I walk by her, I’m going to smile at her and give her a wink. I’ve been in her shoes. I know how bitter life can be for those who are so insecure that they must attack others. I know how sour life must be to have to run from problems instead of facing them dead on.

But I’m not there anymore. I run towards my problems. I embrace those with differences.

I’m a runner. I’m fat. I kick ass. Deal with it.

Hell, yeah.

I just paid $75 bucks for the pleasure of running 26.2 miles with thousands of my closest friends. 

It’s official–I’m training for the Tucson marathon in December. Here goes nothing. Again.

Guess I better get my ass in gear. 

“Life (and running) is not all about time but about our experiences along the way.”
–Jen Rhines

Yesterday, after my post about being angry, I did go running. I did my first run of the new prescription, 1/3 x12.

It did make me feel better. Plus, I grabbed a treadmill in the front of the workout room, so I couldn’t see the TVs, and watched the people come in and out of the gym. People watching made my workout go a lot faster.

Close to the end of my run, I accidentally ran three minutes in a row. I’m not sure what came over me, but it felt good, so I went with it.

Even though I’m working really hard to get my conditioning back to any state of normalcy, in those three minutes of straight running, I was absolutely positive that I could do it. I knew I was capable of training to run another marathon. I even managed to smile during those three minutes.

Last night was the fourth weigh-in. I’ve lost a grand total of 7.4 pounds. That is 18.6 pounds away from the 10% my doctor wants me to lose. No problem, right? Right.

Now I’m off to try out the elliptical machine or maybe the bicycle at the gym.

Today is a good day, people. A good day.

I’m on Day 3 of no Wellbutrin at all. 

So far the world has not come to an end. A giant hole hasn’t opened up in my living room and swallowed me in one gulp. No angry townspeople have stormed my front door, brandishing pitch forks and burning torches. 

I spent most of the first day somewhere in between being awake and asleep in Albuquerque airport. I walked up and down the terminal over and over again, thinking about the fact that I managed to, in about three minutes, barf my entire sob inducing story to my sister the previous night. 

When I arrived home, I went to bed and then spent the rest of the day hanging with the dogs, but still hung out somewhere in between asleep and awake. 

Yesterday I was still foggy. I was dreadfully aware that I had not taken any medication, but I still moved through the day getting a small amount of work done. 

Today, however, things seem to be regressing. Which means, of course, that things are getting better, at least if you subscribe to the whole, “It will always get worse before it gets better theory.” 

I normally do subscribe to this theory, but today, I just feel angry. 

I wonder if my sour mood has something to do with the fact that my last workout was on Saturday night. I skipped my active rest workout on Sunday because I felt like the walking dead. 

The truth is: 

I’m still in my jammies. This isn’t a problem, per se, but makes me feel blech. 

I’ve started to write 6 email responses to people, and in mid review of said emails, decided that the email responses are all too angry and bitter to actually send. So I’ve deleted them. I must have some wherewithal, because actually choosing to not send the emails is a step in the right direction. (It goes with that whole, “I’m choosing to help myself and not use other people’s problems as a deflection for my own self no matter how much I know that I can solve their problems” deal.) 

I keep working in circles. 

I only feel happy lying flat on the floor. 

Even with the fogginess of this day, it is kind of cool to think that this is the first time in a long time that I have been totally unmedicated. 

No Wellbutrin. No booze. No cigarettes.   

Just a multi-vitamin and the occasional homeopathic remedy. That is pretty cool.

Maybe I’ll go dope up on endorphins and then I’ll feel more human-like and less angry-beastish. 

We’ll see.

I just finished my last run of the week and more importantly, the last run of this particular prescription, 1/4 x9.

Just for good measure, I threw in 15 minutes on the stationary bike. I was hoping the wild kids were going to get out of the pool by the time I was finished so I could have completed HMM’s mini-triathlon part two, but they were still throwing the beach ball and doing cannonballs, so I decided bed was calling my name.

I get great satisfaction about being able to accomplish two workouts on a business trip. Don’t get me wrong, there have plenty of trips where I’ve blown off the workouts, but this time, I needed that accomplishment. I needed that satisfaction.

Tommorrow is my first official day with no Wellbutrin.

And I forgot to mention, I ran the last two minutes straight. It felt good. And you know what? No pain in my legs. None at all. Pain in my lungs, which I assume is from my lack of acclimation to altitude of any kind. But none in my legs.

I’m exhausted, sweaty, stinky and happy in only the kind of way that can be brought on by running.

Thanks, New Mexico. You kick all kinds of ass.

I’m sitting in a delightful little café in Albuquerque, New Mexico waiting for my sister’s flight to land in a couple of hours. 

It was this place, The Copper Canyon Café, or Starbucks. I opted for the free wifi and the best steak and eggs I’ve ever had in my life, hands down. 

I’ve never been to New Mexico before. Everyone is very friendly here, more so than I thought. Everyone calls each other by their first name and smiles, and yet, it still feels a bit like the old west. It is a dynamic that feels vaguely like home. 

I haven’t written in a while. I’m not entirely sure why. I have a lot to say, really I do. But that doesn’t surprise you, does it. 

My brain is still trying to sort itself out and with that has come a lot of ups and downs, but that is too be expected, I guess. 

Of course, the ups and downs started with last weekend. My parents are moving cross country and last weekend, Mr. S and I went to see them. It hit me a lot harder than I thought it might. The strange thing is I’m not necessarily sad that my folks are moving. (No offense, guys.) I think this a really good opportunity for them. 

What is hitting me is saying good-bye to the town that I grew up in. Of course I’ll be back. I still have family and friends in Southern California, but it will be quite a bit different. 

And you know what didn’t help matters? Last weekend was the anniversary of my first marathon. So as we are driving through San Diego, I’m having flashbacks of running my first marathon.

On one hand, it was wonderful to run down memory lane on the anniversary. I think running that marathon was one of the best things I ever did for myself. On the other hand, it was a little emotional because I did what most humans would do: I compared this year me to last year me.

Aye, right. Do you want to smack me for even saying that, for even thinking that?

(Someone just choked in the restaurant and their breakfast partner just gave them the Heimlich. Crazy.)

Here are the facts: last weekend, I spend much of it in a brain faze. I only did one run. I ate things that made me feel happy as opposed to foods that fueled my body. I was still tapering off my Wellbutrin, which contributed to my haze. I helped my folks sort through family memorabilia, which only sends emotions higher. I said goodbye to my folks.

‘Nuff said, How Many Miles. Aren’t you already embedded on your couch, taking the lazy train straight to Ice Cream Town? We’ll bet you are.

You not going to believe this, but you know what I did?

I came back to Tucson, motivated by my lack of motivation and the marathon memory lane experience, to stay the course. I went ahead and stayed at last week’s prescription for running this week, since I missed two workouts last week, and I feel okay about that decision. I’ve already done two runs this week AND I did active rest workouts. I’m determined to get back to my races. I love to race. I want to run another marathon. Desperately.  

You should have seen me: I was like a border collie chasing sheep. Determined, focused, sweaty and all kinds of hear-me-roar-empowered.

Then I went to the doctor.

Sometimes going to the doctor wears me out. On Wednesday, after my appointment, was no exception. I had to drag around the house, somewhere in between asleep and awake, my hair all askew, my eyes half shut.

Why, you ask?

First, I had a run in with the receptionist. Then I had to wait an hour and a half to see the doctor. By the time the doctor came in to the room, I felt angry and tired at the same time, only then to have her tell me, “I want to put you on a new medication.”

Why is it always the meds with doctors? Have they forgotten how to look at the patient as a whole person? Have they forgotten how to rely on their instinct, their training, healing before medicating?

I’m jumping ahead of myself.

About four months ago, I found myself unusually tired. I’ve always been a violent sleeper, thrashing about, kicking and rolling. Mr. S, bless him, has the bruises to prove it. But it is not a new development. My parents had to put bars on the bed when I was ten to keep me from falling out.

So my doctor prescribed a sleep study and I did it. It was a disaster of an experience. Cords attached to my head, beeps and blips, sensors on my legs. I am still wondering exactly how it replicates normal sleep.

Anyways the results are in: apparently I’ve got Restless Legs Syndrome.

Duh.

And apparently, doctors don’t exactly know why Restless Legs even happens. They are not even sure how to treat it. But I have it apparently, and the doc wants to medicate me for it.

Biggest side effect of the medication she wants to put me on?

Compulsion.

Hello? Doc? Is this thing on? Did you just hear what you said? Compulsion?  I don’t think so.

I’ve decided to try some alternative approaches instead. Accupuncture. Homeopathy. More exercises. Meditation. Stress relief.

Apparently the sleep study also determined that I’ve got sleep apnea. I guess all humans have some percentage of sleep apnea but it is all about what percentage you have. Mine is the we-really-need-to-keep-an-eye-on-this-thing percentage.

The problem is, while the apnea is at the low end of the spectrum, I’ve got other problems that might be interrelated, which is causing my doc to be stressed.

My blood pressure is rising. My pulse is higher than normal. I’m not sleeping well. I’ve got consistent headaches. I’m irritable. (Wait, that might be normal. The jury is out.)

The short of the long of it? It goes like this: above issues+weight+apnea=bad news bears.

The doc is giving me three months to lose 10% of my total weight before she sends me in to have a second sleep study A) to get hooked up with a CPAP and B) to put me on meds for blood pressure, pulse and apparently, restless legs. Basically, she is giving me a second chance to do it myself.

And while, in a normal state of mind, I’d agree with her, on this particular day I was already stressed from the waiting and the receptionist, but also from the weekend of memory lane and goodbyes.

I bet you can imagine my reaction. It didn’t involve rainbows and sunshine.

But she is right, you know. Just a little bit of weight loss will help me in so many ways, including making me a stronger runner. Including a biggie: taking the pressure off my recovering tendonitis. That is huge. That is the difference between long term runner and I used to run.

Plus, here is the thing. I’m uncomfortable where I’m at. I’m ready to change anyways.

And with that, I have to admit something. I may lose readers over this. I may lose respect. But you know what? Sometimes in life, I have to make decisions that are good for me and no one else.

I joined Weight Watchers again.

I’m approaching it differently this time. Instead of a diet, I’m looking at it like a support group. I spoke with my doctor, my therapist and Mr. Shortpants about this and we are all in agreement; as long as I can approach it like a support group for learning how to change my habits on a permanent basis without getting obsessive or compulsive, I can join. If any behaviors crop up, we all agree that I will find a different way to obtain support.

I’ve been at it for almost three weeks now. (My doc gave me the second to the last warning about three weeks ago so that is when I signed up. She gave me the final warning on Wednesday.)

So far, I have been learning stuff. I’ve been approaching it differently. I’ve been looking at it from a health perspective, rather than a numbers perspective. And I found a very nice leader and a group who seems to be a lot more supportive/loving than the last group we joined.

So there you have it. But here is the thing-I still am refusing to be diet girl. Ever. Again. I’m not going to manipulate things this time. For example, it used to be that on weigh-in day, I wouldn’t eat or drink anything in preparation for the scale. The scale, after all, was like the all-seeing eye. It knew that my self-esteem counted on that number. And eating and water did not assist in that.

This time around, I eat on weigh-in day. In fact, last week, I worked out in the afternoon before the weigh-in, and I drank a quart of water afterwards. A quart of water weighs 4 pounds. The old HMM would have been shaking over a sip of water. The old HMM would have to go lie down on the carpet after a sip of water. But now, it is different. Hydration is more important than a number.

I’m sure some of you will disagree with this move. I’m sure some of you will be concerned about this move. That is okay. I’m still glad you are here, reading along, offering your support. You guys are my support, too. I need the watchful eyes just as much as I need the loving hugs. I get it.

This healthy living stuff-it is damned hard work. Damned hard work.

Everyday I wake up and I have to make the decision to live a healthy lifestyle. It is hard work. But the rewards; the marathon, two half-marathons, 3 5ks, a 10k, non-smoking, managing OCD, taking my health in my own hands, no booze, eating whole foods, kicking ass and taking names, it is all worth it.

So tonight, even though I made some questionable food choices in Santa Fe, I decided to hold my own HMM mini-triathalon in the gym of my hotel. I walked on the treadmill for 25 minutes, I rode the bike for 20 minutes and then I swam for 15 minutes.

Can I just say, I love being active. I got out of that pool feeling like a million bucks. Not a care about food, weight, brain chemistry or anything, really. All I felt was grateful. Grateful that my body is capable of working so hard. Of pushing to the extremes. Of kicking ass and taking names. Hell, yeah, people. Hell, yeah.

Suddenly, I can see the marathon in December a lot more clearly. And not just cheering on the sidelines. I can see myself running it. I can see the 10% of weight disappearing. I can see myself being comfortable in my own skin. And I can see myself kicking my own time at the marathon.

Can anyone say 5:00:00?  

I went to the gym. I ran the first run of the new week without pain. I even did one minute at 8mph.Then I came home and showered. With soap.

I feel so much better.

I cannot emphasize to myself enough how much I love running. It really makes everything better. It cures everything.