So About That Training Thing...

Originally posted Tuesday, November 22, 2016

When I first started this blog, my intent was to track my successes and failures training for a 5K run. I would follow the trusty Couch to 5K training program and in no time at all I would be a runner! There was only one problem: my body. It didn't want to cooperate with my surefire plan. Like, at all.

I think I've attempted the Couch to 5K ramp-up three times. Each time, one of my body parts said: "uh-uh, fool." One time it was a foot. The other two times, a knee. And all three times, my brain fought me tooth-and-nail.

Apparently, I do not have the mentality to be a runner. Despite my romantic desire to be a runner.

So out the window went the original intent of Life In Training. That's not to say I gave up on my fitness...erm, goals (I use the term loosely) but just as we all must adapt to our physical limitations, so did this space.

I've belonged to the local YMCA for close to eight years now. Attendance was irregular, as the demands of work and home ebbed and flowed. Once I was no longer working outside of the home, I was able to get back in with some regularity.

I'm not sure who recommended it, or if I just stumbled upon it, but around Thanksgiving three years ago, I took a Circuit Training class. I'd been introduced to the concept of circuit training some years earlier, although in an open-gym environment, it was nearly impossible to execute. Inevitably some rando was on the next weight machine in my circuit, using it at his leisure. Plus, the bit about alternating between cardio and weight training exercises was never really a mental hurdle I could surmount (Yep, I'm totally going to run in place here for 45 seconds before moving on to the next station that's being eyeballed by that random dude over there. Totally.)

But this Circuit class blocks off the entire hour (I think at the time, it was more like 45 minutes) to use the area in the gym. So if you want to use the equipment in the area, you join the class or wait until it's over. If some rando is in the way, he gets the boot! And it forces the alternating issue because that's how we do! And it was in no way intimidating like some group fitness can be.

I became a devotee for awhile. After awhile, the trainer who spearheaded the Circuit class at the Y talked my into trying the Tabata/High Intensity Interval Training (HIIT) class, which was even shorter in duration and the first time I took it almost puked (so you know it had to be good!) But timing was an issue so it didn't stick.

Then a wave of introversion engulfed me, during which I didn't much feel like being in a group fitness setting. Because group = social and I was not feeling it. And then too much life happened and things just didn't work out (ultimately, yours truly) and before I knew it was 2016 and I spent the greater part of the late winter/early spring in a dark corner of my mind, but vowed to pull myself out after Easter. You know, like resurrect some dead part of me. You know, like, WWJD?

So April 4th was the day. I got myself to the Y and took what was formerly a bootcamp class, re-branded as Outside the Box (OTB), and earmarked as a track to Crossfit. And it was good. Really fucking hard, but good. Come the end of the month, I let another OTB'er talk me into another Crossfit track class: Body Conditioning.

"It's [trainer's] birthday. It'll be fun!" she said. It was not and she apologized for her naivety, but I survived and even came back to it on Fridays.

Life started interfering again, as it does, so I'm not able to show up as much as I would like. But throughout this process--this training, I have of course become physically stronger, as expected. What I didn't expect was how it would strengthen me from the inside. To have people I hardly knew cheering for me and at times running along side of me, long after their workout is complete, as I am routinely the last person finishing the most grueling of workouts. And it has built and strengthened a number of friendships as we slog through day after day, week after week.

So today, I am thankful for my YMCA. For the community that I have found there and the challenges that I have faced there. Even if I still haven't metamorphosed into that runner I always fantasized about.

Paradoxes: Hiding and Holding

I am participating in Tara-Nicholle Nelson's 30 Day Writing Challenge for Conscious Leaders. Today's prompt concerned fears, longings, anxieties, desires.

Back in the spring, shortly after saying goodbye to Kristy, I sat with a friend, his arm holding me together around my shoulders, my head on his. And I asked him for his help with something. I asked him to remind me to stop being afraid to live my life.

Which maybe sounds silly. I mean, you are alive, therefore you are living. You know, your life.

But so many of my decisions in life have been motivated by fear. Fear of not fitting in. Fear of missing out (my FOMO could easily have a life of its own!) Fear of being alone. Fear of being judged. Fear of being forgotten. I won’t go on.

I remember about six months before Fella and I were to be married, I had what might have appeared to be a cold-feet moment. I had been thinking about my adult life up to that point and realized that outside of college and grad school, I had never truly lived on my own. Not without either benefactors or financing to cover the costs of living.

The FOMO got the best of me and I started looking for short-term leases with a friend. When I told Fella about it, he asked if I wanted to postpone our plans. That scared me more than the FOMO on my Real Life Sex and the Suburbs experience.

One fear outweighed the other; fear triumphed over fear. The theme is recurring.

This year, I hid from making scary life decisions. I keep hoping that the Universe will make the decision for me, or at least easy for me. But when the paradox of choice is fueled by conflicting interests--when I don’t make it easy for the Universe--it is paralyzed, too.

Which fear feels lighter than the other? Which fear can these shoulders bear?

The reality is, though, I’m juggling many fears. Because I’m afraid of what will happen if I let even one of those fears drop. Will it shatter? Will it ricochet and cause collateral damage? Can I live a life where fear is not my main motivation? Will life just get scarier? Even worse: not at all scary?!

Exhale.

My Contracts professor would weave a story from his childhood into his lectures. A shy boy, on his way home one day, carrying his prized violin, some thugs--hoodlums--bullies, preying on low hanging fruit, gave him the choice: “my money or my life. MY MONEY or MY LIFE! Given these two options, I chose the third option: I RAN!”

While I’m certainly not in the proverbial gun-to-my-head situation, I am paralyzed to choose between the two options I see before me. So I wait. I wait for that Third Option to show itself. I wait for my I RAN moment.

That Motherhood Instinct

Motherhood.

The call to it came early for me. And I’m not entirely sure what the impetus was. Whether I wanted so badly to be a mother because at the time society still revered it? Or whether it was my intrinsic, innate survival instinct to procreate?

But I certainly had more than enough time to sufficiently set my fixation on it.

And when it came...boy howdy, babies are like way better than the best drug I ever tried (theoretically, of course, for my kids who may one day read this).

But now my kids aren’t babies anymore and my withdrawaling mind wanders to thoughts of how I got here, to my most coveted spot on the pedestal that I held in such high regard for so long?

I’ve written before about my struggles to even so much as like myself (update: the struggle endures). And now I have two genetic copies of me to face on the daily. How did I ever have the audacity to want to recreate myself, this person whom I still have difficulty not, you know, harboring a deep sense of loathing towards?

I’m confident that most some of it stemmed from an ego developed in my teens (of course) - that I could do it better. Give more, encourage more, allow more, say “yes” more (lol!). Let my kids become instead of forcing them into ill-fitting, society-approved, security-assured boxes.

But there were so many red flags along the way. And I assumed that because I had my doubts, or put conditions on when it was OK to have kids, that maybe it made me more qualified for the job. Because I was, you know, thoughtful about it.

And what I’ve found in practice is that I had zero actual concept of what it takes to be a mother.

Sure, sure. I’m not a bad mom. My kids are housed and clothed and fed and loved. And, sure, sure, that makes me a good mom.

So why do I still constantly feel like such an abject failure at motherhood?

Maybe it’s because there are these two externally viable pieces of me running around and, as much as I love them, I wonder if I fully do. Because they are me. And like some mad scientist, I made more of me to harbor a deep sense of loathing towards. And if I can’t fully love the me that’s contained in this one body I was given at birth how could I possibly begin to love those two little people as much as they deserve to be loved?

Perhaps that’s the answer: knowing that they deserve better love than I give myself. And someday, because I have loved them better, I will love myself better, too.

When October Goes

I was in Ulta earlier this week when I realized: it's October.

Not just October, but, you know, OCTOBER. The pink ribbon wearing, socially conscious and evolved, cause-marketing machine October.

I went about my business, stood in line, and towards the end of the transaction was asked: would you like to round up your total to donate to the BCRF? YES/NO.

You guys, I saw pink. And not just because the whole fucking store has been pinkwashed to mark the occasion.

It took all I had to not give my proverbial middle finger to the corporate machine by indignantly telling the poor girl just trying to work the cash wrap that I have given enough to breast cancer research this year when six months ago one of my best friends died from it, while choking back the tears wishing I could have done more, given more, anything more so she would still be alive.

Instead, I quietly picked up the stylus to respond to the touch screen in the negative, paid for my purchases, and went about my day, albeit a fuck-ton more aware of the void.

It used to be that I didn't mind Breast Cancer Awareness Month. In fact, I wanted all the pink NFL gear and pink ribbon leggings and someday I would do this run or that walk or some other thing that there was to offer to the cause.

You see, I am also the daughter of a Stage 3 breast cancer survivor. When my mom was going through her surgery, recovery, and treatments, I was back living at home, between bar exams, surfing various temp jobs, and making sure that she, the queen of overdoing it, didn't in fact overdo it. Because she absolutely would have.

I've been on the front lines of this breast cancer bullshit and I cannot quite get right about the commodification of curing it. It should have been enough already, but it didn't do enough to save my friend earlier this year.

So yeah. I apologize, October. It's not you, it's definitely me. We'll try this again next year, I'm sure. But until then, I will not be sad to see you and your bubblegum pink halo effect in the rear view this time around.

Two Truths and a Lie

Yesterday, I told my daughter a lie. She was acting up at bedtime and that's when it happened. I told her, “this is not how I want our time together to be after I've been away from you all day and I missed you.”

Truth #1: Not how I want to spend our time together

Miss Thing was exhausted. The day was spent with her grandparents (i.e., overindulged) and included a swim lesson. It's a lot for her little four year old self, no matter how sassy and independent she might be.

She was at critical mass--the point where all she could do was fight the sleep descending upon her, chasing the adrenaline dragon in hopes of stealing more awake time. Wiggly and nonsensical and babble-y and insensitive.

All I wanted was a calm, heartwarming bedtime snuggle. Clearly, I ask too much.

Truth #2: After I have been away from you all day

I had spent the day in wine country. Being a goddamned grown up, FFS. Not that I'm not being a grown up when I'm filling in for the role of Mom, but, y’know, doing grown-up only things. Drinking wine and eating a meal at my leisure. Going to the bathroom uninterrupted. Because suddenly, out of the clear blue nowhere, I turned 40 this week. The fuck all is this about?!

Lie: I missed you

I remember the early years of being a mom, when being near these excised little human pieces of me was the only way I could feel whole. Being apart from them was almost more than my heart could bear. It's a wonder I only got one speeding ticket while I was still working, seeing as I became possessed by some lead-pawed mama bear when it was time to slide down the dinosaur each day. Must. Get. Home. To. Babies. Like a freaking siren's call.

And now? Now they're always there. Two proverbial monkeys on my back (sometimes quite literally).

It's not as though I didn't think about my kids while I was reveling in my grown-up-ed-ness (and old agedness) over unoaked Chardonnay. But when I soberingly found my way back to them, I instead found I hadn't been away from them long enough.

To miss them, that is.

Of course the little voice in my head echoes the lamentations of all the “seasoned moms” you ever meet, warning: “Enjoy this time. They grow up so fast.”

But what about absence making the heart grow fonder? I mean, there's some absolute truth in that. At least from where I'm stranding.

Ramblin' Man

Hi.

Happy New Year.

How are you?

Me? I'm okay. I miss you. This. I've tried to sit down to write for no less than 5 times this week alone, but find myself unable to take (make?) the time.

Maybe it's because I've got a whole lot of things jumbled and swirling in my head. Maybe I'm a little concerned about what happens when I do get it out. I would imagine, though, the best solution for such a problem would be to, like, actually get it the fuck out of there and then cross that bridge, as they say.

I know this much to be true.

So I went to a meeting tonight and instead of going straight home I'm at Starbucks, getting, at the very least, this out.  In hopes that it will cause something resembling a spark.

I read something the other day about living like you only had three months left to live. Like, as a rule of thumb. I envy the people who can live like this. You know, the laid back people.

One of the funniest pieces of feedback I ever received in a performance review, back in the days when I was still working outside of the home, was that I was a laid back. It took all I had not to laugh in my boss' face.

Hilarious, right?

I mean, I can fake it pretty well. And let's be real here, "fake it 'til you make it" is my penultimate mantra. But I am FAR from laid back. Nor am I your textbook Type-A personality, although I have my moments. I definitely have a quiet confidence that things will get things handled (even if it is at the last fucking moment possible).

I believe on a previous occasion or two, I have called myself an over-achiever-perfectionist-slacker (emphasis on the slacker). At first I thought that, reduced down, this was driven by a fear of failing. Even though it manifests as a fear of succeeding. Thinking back to that time I had a bar exam tutor, maybe it's actually a fear of having no more excuses?!

IDFK. This is getting too deep for my atrophied mind.

So there. I've broken the seal. Let's hope there's a flood of words down the pike.

And high fives for sticking with me. Also, apologies.

I Gotta Have Faith

Earlier tonight, we went out for some family fun. I use the term "fun" loosely because (and I think I've mentioned this before) we really don't do fun things. We may attempt to have fun now and again, but ultimately our (my?) dreams of having fun come crashing down upon us.

For instance. Tonight we went to a tree lighting ceremony. Not in our city, but a neighboring town where the Mayor attends school. So it's kind of our community, but totally not our community. We went because of the former, not the latter.

I've been to (and performed in) many a tree lightings in my day, but this was the first time we've gone to this particular event. In fact, it was our first official tree lighting as a family (on account of not doing the fun things). So none of us knew what to expect or where to even be exactly. But thankfully the town is small and even if you happen to be in the wrong place, you're a stone's throw from the right place.

Nevertheless. The kids needed dinner. So after getting the lay of the land, we went to the pizza place in the center of town and got back to the park with time to spare (and eat pizza). Then some school kids (including my favorite Fourth grader who requests to have my cupcakes for her birthday) sang before the man, the mystery, the legend himself, Santa showed up!

Miss Thing could not even. By the end of the evening, I figured out that she is in-part shy/apprehensive about Santa and in-part confused about him even being there (I mean, doesn't he have a workshop to be attending to up in the North Pole?! And his sleigh shouldn't be down here, it belongs in the sky! AND WHERE IN THE EVERLOVING FUCK ARE HIS REINDEER?!)

So off the cuff comes the narrative of how at this time of year, Santa is an emissary of sorts, on his Christmas PR campaign/press tour, making visits at shopping malls and tree lightings and other special events. Shaking hands and kissing babies.

BUT WON'T SOMEONE THINK OF THE REINDEER?!?!?

Oh, well...they are, of course, stashed away somewhere...safe! And...secret! And grassy, so they can rest and refuel. But of course!

Crisis averted. But MT was--is still clearly agitated by the whole experience. And not having the fun.

Then there was the Mayor. Fun repudiated after there was a run on the donut holes before he could get any. The humanity! (Though, when pressed, he *might* have had a little fun despite being donutless).

And as my kids were finding anything they could criticize about our attempted funning, I'm looking around at other kids being kids and other parents being... unworried about their engagement  in shenanigans in complete darkness, not to mention in public! 

And I thought: this. This right here is my problem. Maybe if we just did more of these things, it wouldn't be so foreign to any of us. And we could actually enjoy doing them. Instead of dreading all of the potential hardships (tantrums, bedtime, lawsuits) that come with the trying to do fun things. Maybe if I just put a little more faith in my kids, maybe they would surprise me a little more and we might actually have the fun?

So...

Dear Santa,

For Christmas this year, I would like for you to show the door to my inner Nervous Nellie, Debbie Downer, and Negative Nancy. I need some time off from them.

Faithfully yours,
#FunMom