A love letter to my thighs.

Several years ago I acquired a book entitled Three Black Skirts. The premise was that one's wardrobe (and presumably, life) could be simplified through this "all you need to survive" book. Budgets could be followed. Clutter could be eliminated. A broken heart could be healed.

While I don't remember much else about the contents of the book (I suppose I could go look since it's still on my shelf), I do remember something about writing a love letter to the body part you dislike the most. If I recall, the author's was to her "bottom." I guess embracing one's "uglies" is liberating. To me that's way more interesting than rearranging a closet to attain spiritual clarity. Okay. Fine. In an effort to boost my self-esteem (and possibly improve my cosmic destiny) here I go: A love letter to my thighs.

Dear Thighs,

I don't know how to start. What should I say to my thighs? I mean, really? Maybe I should go consult the book to see how to approach this... Do men worry about these things? Somehow I don't think so. I digress. Let me get the book.

I know in the past we've had issues, but I'm trying to come to terms with you. To be blunt, I always wanted you to be something other than what you are-- a pudgy expanse of swollen flesh and the reminder (and evidence) of my donut infatuation. I'll admit I'm weak. I wanted you to be thin, vein-less, and toned. I wanted perfection.

It's taken a long time to reach the realization that I've been wrong. I should love you as you are because true love means accepting you, weird veiny things and all. You're strong, you're dependable, you're well-matched. And through the insight gained through many miles of running, you're unlikely to change. I now appreciate how you carry me through each day, even if you do that weird jiggle thing.

Does it really matter that because of you I can't fit into my "skinny" pants? Can't wear shorts above the knee or cute little skirts (black or otherwise)? I suppose not.

Actually, that's not a strong enough denouncement of my vanity given the assignment. Let me try again.

I say "no."

I'm done worrying about how you appear to others. If I love you, what others think won't matter. I will dress you in pants that flatter, skirts that accent, and shorts (well, maybe I'll just forget about the shorts for now).

Next time we're out on the trail and I'm agonizing over your wobble, I'll remind myself that you're strong enough to carry me wherever I want to go. (And then I'll proceed to fixate on a different body part I'd like to change, like maybe my butt.)

With love,
C.


That's all the energy I can muster for now. I may need to revise at a later time. I'm waiting for some sort of spiritual epiphany from the release of the negative body image feelings. Maybe I wasn't sincere enough.

This makes writing about imaginary running partners seem normal.

At a loss for words.

I keep trying to come up with a post to end last week and welcome this one but I'm uninspired. Have I run out of "nothing" to say? Is that possible? Has my life become so wrapped up in running and working that nothing else comes to mind?

Saturday I attempted to run 14.6 miles; Sunday I read a novel cover to cover.

I'm going to clean the office (still de-cluttering) and ponder my unexciting, uninspiring current state.

Nice day for a run.

Actually, seems like most any day is a good day for a run. High seventies, low humidity, clear blue skies made for an easy 4 miles today. I can tell that I was tired because the only thing I focused on was my feet hitting the pavement. No imaginary running buddies came along; no new slogans (or names for body parts) presented themselves. No bananas. I tried to think about plans for work, but just couldn't muster any interest. I just focused on the run. While that makes for a quick workout, it doesn't offer much by way of interest for writing.

Tomorrow is a longer run. I'll have more to talk about after that. One interesting thought-- I am in week 8. I am halfway to my goal. That's what I'll meditate on tomorrow-- goals.

You can't run with a banana in your pants.

Maybe that should read, "You shouldn't run with a banana in your pants." Or more specifically, "I shouldn't run with a banana in my pants."

You guessed it. I planned my mid-run snack in the form of a nice, healthy, banana. I figured that since I seem to run better with a banana in my belly that it made sense. Not so.

There is no good way to carry a banana on a run. If you clutch it (even gently) in the non-water bottle hand, it feels (and looks) like a weapon. Forget about tucking it into the sports bra strap. Doesn't work. At all. I tried. As for the short's waistband, let's just say the bouncing, not to mention the unsightly, unexplainable "bulge" (either off the the side or in the back) leads to some funny looks from others on the trail. So there's really only one viable solution: eat it early.

After struggling for about two miles to carry it, hook it to the water bottle or tuck it in, I gave up and just ate it. It was delicious. The downside was that at the midway point when I was ready for my snack, I had none. I need a better plan.

Snack malfunctions aside, today was about the most perfect day for a run. Temperature in the mid-50s, blue skies, no humidity. It was absolutely beautiful. I'm still walking more than I want to on the long runs. I really need to figure out the food thing so I have consistent energy. I did somewhere around 12 miles. I think it was a little more than that. I didn't have a good way to measure the route exactly, so I just kept going.

Tomorrow's an "off" day and then it's back to an easy 4 for Monday.

Introducing 'Powerhouse' and 'Hammer.'

How is it possible that I can run 6.6 miles faster than I can run 4? Isn't there some law of the universe that would prevent that circumstance?

I couldn't run Monday so I pushed the "short" run to Tuesday. To condense a long, not very interesting story, let's just say it was not one of my better days. I should not run if I am any of the following: hungry, thirsty, or tired.

After Saturday and then Tuesday, I was discouraged and needed to really chat myself up (you know, tell myself how I'm fabulous and love running, and have made a commitment that I need to honor and all that positive feel good stuff) in order to run on Wednesday. The weather was bad (again) and oddly enough, that's what finally convinced me to go. I took on that "I'll show you" attitude (you know the one-- it's more bluster than sense) and went out in the downpour to run my 6 miles.

I was soaked before I left the parking lot and hit the trail. But it didn't matter. (It really didn't.) I felt light and happy and strong. It was so different than the previous day. It felt good to move. I had the trail to myself and just listened to my feet hitting the pavement, measuring off the distance.

At one point the trail winds along the edge of the lake. There's a rowing team that practices there. On Wednesday, I could hear their coach reprimanding them from the pace boat. I guess they weren't pulling correctly or something. Anyway, he told them to remember that they should rely on and trust not only their strength, but the strength of the others in the boat. He used some pretty colorful adjectives but as I ran past I just kept thinking about him yelling, "You're a powerhouse. You're a hammer. You're a powerhouse. You're a hammer."

Meet my legs: Powerhouse (on the right) and Hammer (on the left). I kept chanting "Powerhouse. Hammer. Powerhouse. Hammer. " for the rest of the run.

What a great day.

Today I followed up with a fast, short run of only 2 miles. (Only 2 miles-- hah!) Saturday is a 12-miler. I am ready. Powerhouse and Hammer will carry me wherever I want to go. :)

Not running; just thinking.

I should be in bed, but instead I'm sitting here thinking about why we do what we do or more specifically why I do what I do. Is it impulse? Just plain stubborness? I'm back to disecting this need I have to prove myself and then the follow up question, "What will be enough?"

Week six is now history.

I ran 11.6 miles today and while that's a new "record," I have mixed feelings. It was by turns a great run and a frustrating run. To begin with, it rained-- a light mist to a downpour-- throughout the morning. I have decided that I like running in the rain. I really enjoyed the feeling of being washed. I know, sounds odd, but I can't really explain it. Tobin has been on the past two runs. In life he couldn't be bothered to stay with me on a trail, but as a "ghost" he sticks right by me. What else? I didn't hurt. When certain songs came on, I felt like I could lift off and run forever. Actually, that's kind of how the run ended up being a bit longer than anticipated.

So why am I not ecstatic with my achievement? Again, only five weeks ago I was struggling to run 3 miles. Eight weeks ago I could barely run one. I think part of it is the stopping. I kept walking today for some reason. I don't know why. I wasn't winded. My legs were a little tired, but not horribly. I felt like I just couldn't concentrate. Maybe the music is too much of a distraction although I'm not sure I want to be alone with my thoughts for any length of time. That's the other issue. It took me so long to run those miles. I know I stopped and started, but I felt like I was moving faster than I have been. According to my calculations, I'm running somewhere in the vicinity of a 13-minute mile. People walk faster than that. I don't know why this bothers me so much, but it does. I don't want to be fixated on the time. I want to focus on the accomplishment.

So now, today, I ran 11 miles and I still feel some vague disappointment and dissatisfaction with myself. Why is it so difficult for me to feel happy and proud of me? I need to reconnect with my inner-llama and get my head in the right place. I've committed to doing this marathon and I intend to do it right. Doing it right means that there is only one goal that needs to be met-- I want to finish strong. That's it. I want to run 26.2 miles and cross the finish line smiling, proud of my accomplishment.