Things That Are a Workout

Going to the gym is really, really hard for me.

Not because of the workout, although that part is sucky too. In fact, just squeezing into yoga pants and tying my shoes feels like a workout most days, but lifting weights and numbing my brain on cardio equipment isn't the worst part.

I don't mind the gym when it's empty, which is why 2 AM workouts might be ideal for me, especially on nights I can't sleep anyway, but we've been going lately in the mid-afternoon, and I don't know if it's the furloughed federal employees, millennials that crawled out of their mom's basements, or a running start class at the community college, but there are always so many youngish people at the gym in the middle of the day. And I hate it.

I am digging deep into my twisted psyche to understand why I hate it, because it's ridiculous. I've been closing my eyes, and doing that mental exercise where you take the thing that is bothering you and don't try to ignore it, or kill it, but you examine it lovingly to find out why it's bothering you, but I just find myself swirling farther into anxiety and gym-loathing.

It's a weird mixture of "all those people are looking at me, judging me" and "all those people take themselves so seriously and actually look ridiculous," which is me judging them and probably the reason that I assume they are judging me. I can't touch a weight or pedal a bike without this sense of panic that the people who seem to be hovering around me like a cloud of condescension are evaluating my leg positioning and grip style, ready with a thousand helpful "pointers" about how I am doing it wrong. I have no idea what right looks like, so I know I am not judging them on how they're doing their shit, I just can't figure out why nobody is laughing at themselves when they try not to fart on the incline sit-up board.

They're all so busy making huffing sounds and looking in mirrors and it makes me feel so... something really awful that I can't even identify, as though I had endured some gym-centric trauma in my past that I can't seem to recall.

Every cell in my body wants to retreat to a corner where there are no mirrors and face away from everyone, but then I am worried they will be judging my butt in yoga pants, even with my shirt pulled down to my knees.

It's a real-live anxiety thing for me. I should be getting cardio credits for my elevated heart rate the minute I walk into a crowded (in Colville that's 5 people) gym. I want to die. WHAT IS MY PROBLEM?

The crazy part is I have yet to run into a single person at the gym that I know or care about impressing, but I am completely self-conscious about being watched or noticed at all. I try to turn my headphones up loud and drown out all of the panting, grunting people around me but it doesn't seem to help. All the girls are hotter than me and all the guys are watching the hotter girls and I feel like the whole thing is a like a flock of peacocks strutting around making obnoxious mating sounds and I am like an out-of-place prairie dog feeling like I came to the wrong party. 

It has been pointed out to me that I had a similar mental resistance to financial issues but have more or less pushed through and (pretend) to feel more comfortable with the decisions I am making about my money. It has been suggested that I will have a similar break through at the gym, and I hope to God so because it's getting worse.

I know I am frustrated that in the almost two months of fairly regular short workouts and yoga, mixed with a lot of walking on my trip and some time on the ski hill falling down since we got home, I have only gotten progressively more sore and tired and yes, even gained weight. I am trusting that I will have a break through there as well, but I'll admit my faith is shaky right now.

I also know I have a long history with narcissistic males "teaching" me how I needed to workout, telling me what I was doing wrong and going into great detail about their extensive knowledge of physical fitness and how clear it was that I had no idea what I was doing, which might have been true, but didn't feel great coming from the same men who lamented not knowing me back when I was "really hot" and thin, but were committed to helping me get there again, for the sake of our relationship and with the hope they could be more attracted to me (PSA: Don't marry guys like that. You're welcome). So sweet.

So I have some beef with the gym. And very limited knowledge and exposure, save some quick-and-dirty lessons that I was given in order to teach weight class for P.E. as a highschool substitute. I know I have SO much to learn, but I also know I am super resistant to most benevolent teachers.

I want to go to the gym with somebody who can also make fun of themselves in the mirror and laugh when they get really bad vertigo getting off the treadmill. I want to go with somebody who doesn't take it so seriously and knows they're as ridiculous as I am. I want to get healthy and strong but I don't want to have panic attacks doing it. I want to figure out how to enjoy it.

I am open to suggestions here, or psychological evaluations, hypnosis, lobotomy...  sign me up. I want to get into it like normal people. Maybe a personal trainer? I tried a few cross-fit type classes and it wasn't much better - even more personal attention and forced interactions. But maybe I should try it again.

Right now, I am forcing myself to go out of sheer discipline and commitment, and some times when it's emptier aren't so bad. But sometimes are really bad. Tonight I am going to a Zumba class with some friends and I am looking forward to being able to be ridiculous with them. Because there's no other way to do Zumba - it's impossible to take yourself seriously at Zumba unless you're Beyonce.

100% me at the gym.

Things That are Good For Me

Ugh.

I have a question for the universe: Why are bad habits so hard to break, and good habits so hard to form? Also, why does healthiness cost a fortune?

Like seriously. Is it not enough that all healthy food has to taste like crap and all exercise is pure suffering... can it not be just a little bit easy and/or cheap to do something to improve my long term well-being on a regular basis? Ugh.

We traveled to Colombia last month, and part of our quest was to create some new habits of exercise and better eating in a warm, sunny place with more options than Colville. Sorry Tony's and Mr. Sub, it's nothing personal. While we succeeded in walking a lot and going to the gym (under protest, for some of us with the initials of ME) on a semi-regular basis, doing the work to find not-deep-fried food was a little trickier. Still, with the price tag of about $5-7 on a good, Argentinian Parilla Steak  in Colombia, we did ok some days and I actually lost a few pounds and improved my stamina and endurance.

I got all my pounds back with interest and quickly lost my stamina and endurance as soon as we got back to the States, where a good, clean steak costs upwards of $20 and macaroni & cheese whispers seductive sweetness from every menu for a fraction of the price of a salad. Even gym prices in place like Florida and Washington D.C. were outrageous. It cost me $25 for one yoga class in D.C., and while it was (honestly) totally worth in my post-Christmas blobbery, we paid that same amount for four classes in Medellin. Being healthy in the U.S. is hard and expensive.

Which makes me think that the conspiracy theorists actually have it figured out. If we can only afford to eat chemical-laden garbage here, then we will inevitably fall sick with (COMPLETELY AVOIDABLE) illnesses that require medical interventions that we can't afford so we have to have insurance (which we also can't afford, but it's cheaper than health care) and all of the big chemical/pharmaceutical companies and their political/commercial cronies are the ones that are making out like bandits while we're just getting more fat and miserable by the day, voting for all kinds of random band-aid solutions that just line the aforementioned pockets even more. IT'S A TRAP! Which is why conspiracy theorists quit their day jobs, grow enough beans and peaches to live on and stockpile guns. Or move to Colombia and live on good, clean Argentinian steak.

I think I will join the latter camp, because I just spent $35 on eggs and milk and cheese at Safeway here which was consumed completely 36 hours later and now all we have left to eat are saltine crackers and top ramen. And I wonder why I am 35lbs overweight. Real food costs too much, and so does exercise.

OK, there are other solutions, I know. Like I can (and do) do Yoga with Adriene (I just started her 30-day Dedicate Journey if you want in!) on YouTube for free. it's just frustrating because I can't stretch my arms into a Texas T for a supine twist because one hand goes under a chair and the other hand hits the coffee table, and then Dagny puts her slimy ball under my buns when I am in bridge pose and also my floor is cold. I still do it, and I am determined to make a habit of it, but it's hard to really Savasana well when the dog is furiously humping her boyfriend 14 inches from my head. Seriously. No amount of essential oil fixes that.

I say again... UGH. We're doing the gym membership thing here which violates all of my sensibilities because I feel like it's a crime to pay someone to make you suffer, but it's the only answer in this sedentary life we life. So I am finding ways to enjoy the Machines of Torture and the abject humiliation of mismatched leggings and athletic shoes and walls and walls of mirrors reminding me why I am there as I stand frumpily next to that One Girl who looks amazing doing incline sit ups - the move that is more an exercise in trying not to express unintentional flatulence than strengthening my core.

So. Frustrating. HAPPY NEW YEAR. My low-carb, mostly soup diet isn't going so well. The offspring hates soup and that One Guy isn't a fan of most things that are carbless. But I will keep trying. There's a way to do this. I am open to suggestions.

I just read this Mark Manson article about habits vs. goals and it was a good reminder/inspiration, put into the succinct, manageable terms that Manson is so good at enumerating, where he listed of 6 habits to focus on instead of making goals for the new year. Some of them I am already working on dialing in... like the EXERCISE every day thing. Having an Apple Watch makes this fun for me because it is my new Life Aspiration to close All the Circles before this Certain Guy every day. Sometimes I think he has his watch set to cheat because he gets more calorie/exercise credits than I do for the same workout. But whatever.

Manson's other 5 recommended habits include COOKING (which is something I determined a couple months ago was an imperative skill/habit to re-form after my eating out budget was higher than my mortgage payment), MEDITATION (which I SUCK at but am determined to work into my daily yoga practice with lots of discipline), READING (which I used to love but have let go, apparent in the 6-foot shelf of to-read books), and WRITING (which is why I am here today).

These six habits are exactly what I know I need to establish to keep me on track - I have gotten lazy and written off the failure to practice of these things as self-exploration or self-care, blah, blah, blah (insert psychobabble justification here), and I have found myself floating adrift, without a sense of direction or even why I am opening my eyes every morning.

Writing is the biggest one for me. Since I was a kid, journaling has been my saving grace. The thing that kept me from (worse) insanity and maybe even saved my actual life. I have quit writing anything personal lately not from fear of who might read it, but more fear of who might NOT read it, and it's terrifying for me to think that NOBODY CARES. But the reality is, that nobody might care, and THAT'S OK. Because it's about me. It's about getting the words and the thoughts and the feelings out there and if somebody hates it or if nobody reads it or if it's all senseless babble, that's still ok, because it's my thing, and to be who I am and get where I am going, I need to use my words without self-censorship or fear.

So I've got my work cut out for me in the next few months, forming habits and finding creative ways to afford (and enjoy) getting healthy and whole - body, soul, mind, and wardrobe. I'll be looking for workout buddies and healthy recipes, so hit me up! And once I get my six-foot shelf done I will be looking for books too.

My mantra a few years ago was this: It doesn't matter, nobody cares. My new mantra has a lot more power to it: Nobody Cares, Work Harder. My only goal for 2019 is to set aside fear and pain and replace them with love and gratitude. Tony Robbins says that fear and hurt can't co-exist with gratitude, and while I thought I was pretty good at being grateful, judging by the fear I've been living in lately, my gratitude needs some gym time as much as my body. Robbins says to replace expectation with appreciation, so one thought at a time, I will learn the habit of swapping those thoughts. And for me, writing that shit down makes it real, so here's the first step of a journey to a bigger, better, brighter me.

Thanks for listening, if you did, to my ramble. And if you didn't, that's ok too. ❤️

Things About The Normal Days: a useful list

I googled "how to stay focused and content," looking for a Quick List of Useful Instructions that would keep me from waking up wishing that I was ANYWHERE in the world but here. I didn't find a list. In fact, I didn't find anything useful except for a PowerPoint presentation with some Seth Godin quotes that I liked but didn't really have anything to do with what I was looking for. So I decided to make my own list, because maybe somebody else is out there looking for a Quick and Useful List of Instructions and if somebody is going to make some up, it might as well be me, right?

How To Be Content And Focused On the Normal Days:

Step 1) Drink. No, not that kind. Drink coffee. I have a few friends who claim to have been redeemed from the power of chemical stimulation and are now caffeine free, and some who have never even dabbled in the stuff. These people are usually super peppy and optimistic and clearly have no grasp on reality anyway, so I discount their caffeine naysaying with all of the vigor of a triple shot americano and no breakfast. Coffee is the stuff of life. Or it's at least the stuff of reasons to get out of bed in the morning and not yell bad words at the first biologically active thing that crosses your path. Like the dachshund. Or a spider. Or the mold growing on the inside of the cream carton. Coffee helps. It's the chemical boost to get you to the next step. I strongly recommend coffee first thing in the morning, preferably with someone that you can say bad words to about the things that are wrong with first thing in the morning and they will agree and still love you. That is the best way to have coffee.

you can get this shirt HERE

Step 2) Dress. Put on the right clothes. If, say, you wear the wrong jeans - the ones that cut right in at the fattest place you have (and all real people have one of those places), or maybe your socks don't match your trousers, or you can't find your favorite belt, or you get to work and the shoes you're wearing are just WRONG, the whole day is shot. Make sure that what you are putting on your body brings you joy, like those Japanese de-cluttering methodologies, if it doesn't make you happy, take it off and throw it on the ground and cuss. Then find something that brings you joy. Like sweatpants. Or holey jeans that feel like sweatpants.

Step 3) Talk. Share your frustration. This might sound like I am encouraging negativity or complaining, but it really does help make the day seem ok when you realize that you're not the only one who doesn't always want to be wherever it is that you are and don't want to be. It doesn't have to be an elaborate dumping session. Human beings are empathetic animals, and sometimes a quick exchange of a knowing look with a "coffee is good this morning"  grunt, speaks volumes. And you just know. We're all in this together. All the normal. All the people. All the time. And it's going to be ok. If you want to level-up this step, and combine it with the power of Step 1, deliver coffee to someone else. It's like telling them,"I know, life sucks, but here's coffee," and it makes both of you feel that much better. Trust me, it does, even if it's gross coffee.

Step 4) Listen. I have watched music visibly change the attitude and posture of people. I know for a fact what it does for me. Sometimes it's angry rock music that takes the angst out on a drum set for you. Sometimes it's Alison Krauss lulling you gently back to sanity. Sometimes it's the music of absolute silence. Peace and contentment can be found behind the wall of noise-cancelling headphones plugged into nothing. Or the interior of a car with no sound but your own weird breathing. Find the noise you need to make this day ok.

Step 5) Daydream. Some people call this meditation, not paying attention or slacking off, but for me, unplugging from the four jobs and three conversations I am in the middle of for just a few minutes is the only way to keep myself from freaking the eff out. Sometimes I drift back to that Mexican Hermit Crab on the beach, or sometimes it's the warm squishyness of All The Pillows in bed last night, or Holding His Hand. But if I can let my brain disconnect from Right This Moment, Right This Place for a few minutes, I can come back and plug in with a little more energy.

Keep Calm and Scuttle On

Step 6) Eat. Days when you are really questioning where your life took a bad turn are not the days to be eating salads. Save your salads for those peppy, optimistic days after you quit drinking caffeine and your whole world is wonderful. Eat something that makes you happy. Eat something that makes you feel good. I don't care what it is, but you have to WANT it. Crusty white bread and pasta? Sure. Medium-rare ribeye? OK, if you can afford it. Cheesy bread? Definitely. Life is too short to be miserable on top of being unhappy. Eat something you love.

Step 7) Move. Go above and beyond rolling over on the couch. Get up and move. Shuffle to the kitchen for more coffee. Stand by the window. Every step you take gives you a thousand more possibilities that you will see, touch, smell, hear, feel something that reminds you of why you are here. Something that excites you. Of course, there's also the increased risk that you will see, touch, smell, hear or feel something that repulses you and confirms your suspicion that life sucks, but it's a risk worth taking. If at all possible, get outside. Unless you're one of those people that hates fresh air and all living things and prefer cardboard and drywall and scratchy upholstery to dirt and rocks. In that case, stay inside and move around. It takes all kinds, after all.

Step 8) Sleep. Find a way to get good sleep. Not having good sleep and not eating good food are the Two Primary Reasons for Hating Life. I just made that up but it sounds really good. Everybody's sleep trigger is different. Sometimes some of us need a little help. A glass of wine, a heavy dose of muscle relaxers, a swift kick in the head... Figure yours out and cash in on it. Don't miss sleep. It's not worth it.

Step 9) Give. Try to notice one person during the course of your day that has it worse than you. Maybe it's the hobo on the street corner or the single mom with a broken down car (not me, this time), or maybe it's the One You Love that has to put up with you. Find a way to give them something. A coffee, a hug, a jump start, or maybe a big and sincere thank you. Get outside yourself for a minute.

Step 10) Love. If there isn't a single person that warms the cockles of your heart then you should seek help more professional than mine STAT. But I'm willing to bet everyone reading this has at least one person that you can see when you close your eyes and be overwhelmed with gratitude for the place they hold in your heart. The people who don't have anybody are probably on a different blog about how to build bombs and stuff. Love your people, or person. Hold the hand. Steal the kisses. Feel the love. Go after it actively. You need it. It needs you. It's easy to let the doldrums convince you that you're not worthy - at least for me it is. That's when its the most important to find the love and bask in it.

Reading through my Quick List of Useful Instructions, I should probably rename it something like "A Hedonist's Guide To Everyday Living," because it's all about what feels good. But we're so good, these days, about beating ourselves up and Making the Tough Choices and Taking the High Road that we forget about how good life can feel if we let it. Sometimes the rougher path is the right one, but sometimes the Normal Days need a little love boost.

Things About Roller Skating

Natalee is turning 16 tomorrow. Sixteen. Sweet 16. A top-end teenager. Which means I only have one young kid left. The rest are all old.

For her 16th birthday party, we went roller skating. We took a good percentage of her class from school, along with some relatives and friends from other grades, for a sum total of 19 people, to the roller rink in Spokane, where we skated our collective buns off.

That's right, WE skated. WE including (but not limited to) me, myself and I. I skated THE WHOLE TIME. All three hours I skated. I swooped and circled, I chicken danced and limboed and even tried to do the cupid shuffle on roller skates, which is a terrible idea if I ever heard one. Especially when he says "freeze!" and all you can do is fall on your face on top of several small children who were in front of you and apparently know how to stop instantly on 8 rolling wheels of plastic. I was just happy during one sequence when I got a "hop" and a "right stomp" in appropriately. My left stomps always turned into a weird rolling recovery sequence of waving my arms foolishly in the air for several minutes. Turns out I am NOT an ambi-stomper on roller skates.

My ankles hurt within about 45 seconds of roller skating, which is important to note since my sister with the perpetually broken ankle and detached tendons, etc, etc, etc, skated THE WHOLE TIME too. She probably isn't speaking to me or anyone this morning, if she is still alive. I almost wasn't alive. If hips were capable of murder, mine would have killed me in my sleep. Instead, they collaborated with my lower back to exact harsh punishment on me today.

I am not sure which was more fun, watching the adults (i.e. me) flailing around like wanton scarecrows, or getting to witness my three nephews on roller skates for the first time ever in their whole lives. It was pretty much a perpetual dogpile with wheels on top. Roller skating is a sport where no one can actually take themselves seriously, which might make it my most favorite sport ever. Check your ego at the door, y'all. Even you - that middle aged couple doing constant couples skate routines - I see your potential for imminent disaster behind those clever hand movement that mask your instability, you don't fool me. Admittedly, I thought I was pretty cool at 11 years old when I won an Amy Grant record doing the Hokey Pokey at homeschool skate night. Far cooler than my sister who won Sandy Patti doing the limbo. Even homeschoolers don't like Sandi Pattie. For heavens sake. Did they think it was grandmother skate night?

The best part about it was that my Fitbit app says that three hours of roller skating burns approximately 1288 calories. One thousand two hundred and eighty eight calories. Twelve hundred and 88 calories. That's so many. I could have had two pieces of cake if I wanted. Why does running, which feels like torture, burn like 5 calories an hour, but roller skating burns over 400? Roller skating is FUN you guys! If it wasn't, I would have quit like 37 minutes in. But it's super fun! I would go every day if I could, and after awhile, I would beat Em at the limbo, win the races AND probably defeat my ex husband in a professional couples skate dancing competition (more on this, contact Josh Weston). Not to mention ROLLER DERBY!!!!

I drove home alternately whimpering in pain and plotting how to get a grant to build a roller rink in Northport. I am sure that somebody is dying to give away a couple hundred thousand to get kids and housewives off of the streets and onto 8 wheels.

Addendum: A friend of mine posted this on Facebook about the same time I posted this blog, it seems appropriate...

"That thing you want to do that makes no sense on paper that everyone says is ridiculous? Go ahead. Because I tap danced while wearing roller skates. So there." - Gene Kelly

Things About Getting In Shape

After a little research, I decided to order a PiYo DVD so I could start getting serious about working out. You know, really committing myself. And PiYo seemed like a reasonable answer to a self-proclaimed hedonist who wants to exercise as long as it's not Too Hard. 

So this morning, on the First Full Day I have been home in almost a month, I decided to whip that baby out and give her a whirl. First I went for a jog, which felt something like giving birth, since in the last 27 days I have taken no more than 18 steps on any given day. I started out running down the street with plans of conquering my three mile, up-a-giant-hill route, but at about .27 miles began to rationalize that if I really wanted to do my PiYo I should not be too aggressive on my run, so I turned around at .73 miles and after doing the up-a-small-hill route, and jogged back home. To be fair, it was my second fastest time doing a run under two miles (1.32 total), but my first fastest doesn't really count since I accidentally switched Runkeeper on when I drove over to the Middlesworth's last time. I will be hard pressed to beat that half mile in 2.01 minutes. 

Anyway after my run, and beginning to seriously second guess whether anything was really worth this much suffering, I popped in the DVD, unfurled my yoga mat and grabbed my water. I thought it was a little odd that the people on the video didn't have yoga mats. And they were all wearing shoes, which seemed rather un-yogaish, but not being super familiar with the Pilates side of things I figured I would just go with it. 

The DVD started off with some jumping jacks and running in place and some other spastic things that I am sure that I nailed. I was feeling pretty confident that I could keep up, but then I noticed the little banner at the bottom of the screen said we were in the middle of the three minute warm up. That was disappointing, to say the least. 

When the trainer started into the actual rounds of real moves, they were all these leaping squat things, and lunging-jump-twist contortions that weren't much like any pilates I have seen, but I was still up for being a good sport and kept trouncing along, sort of like an elephant on a broken trampoline. About halfway into the stupid thing I was still waiting for the yoga moves to kick in, and during one of the rest breaks I picked up the DVD case to see if these people even knew what PiYo was supposed to be. 

Turns out, in a fit of dyslexia, or maybe an Amazon ordering binge complemented by a bottle of merlot, I had ordered a DVD of a PLYO workout, not a PiYo routine, and my friends, let me tell you, the two are very different. In fact, as one google-question-answerer put it, they are completely opposite. Plyometrics operate on the principles of muscle confusion and aggressive bursts of high impact movement, whereas PiYo is intended as a graceful flowing low impact routine for core strengthening and flexibility. 

Not to be put to shame by my own silliness, I finished the DVD (except for the rounds that were all shoulder moves) and now I am pretty sure I will never walk again. But I am still interested in trying PiYo. Maybe I can borrow it from my BFF to avoid future ordering mishaps. 

Things About Doing It

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog about running, or more accurately, not running.

I mentioned the personal life goal I had of passing the pack test. The 45 minute, three mile, 45 pound wildland fire fitness test, required for all line personnel. It's not a big deal, right? Thousands of firefighters pass this thing every single year like it's no big deal. Thousands of young, whole, healthy firefighters who aren't me...

I haven't been able to pass it for the past five. Five years ago, in Bend, when I tried to pass it, twice, I didn't finish it time. That was after 6 years of passing it. I even passed the moderate when I was pregnant with Aspen, because, you know, I am a badass. But there I was in 2010, testing with a new fire organization, a bunch of strangers... a bunch of firefighting strangers. Nothing like making a fool of yourself in front of a slew of firefighters. Twice. Turns out I had a vertebral disc that was working it's way out one side of the space between my L5/S1 junction. It just wasn't happening.

Then the Forest Service decided that too many people were dying of heart attacks taking the arduous pack test, so only firefighters with jobs that absolutely required that level of fitness were allowed to take it. For a few years, they considered line EMTs a non-arduous qualification, and I was spared the agony of not passing it for awhile. This was good considering I had three surgeries to try to fix or remove the female organs that were killing me slowly during this time, so I was heavily entrenched in excuses.

Then somebody up top got smart: of course the line EMTs need the pack test - they're on the freaking line. But for us broken old EMTs, they made it optional, with a pay raise for the young bucks who could crank it out. The choice was mine, and something inside of me wasn't ready to roll over and play dead just yet. Even though the disc that was slipping before had now degenerated to nothing, I started practicing with 10 pounds, then 15, then 20... All the while reminding myself that I probably couldn't pass it this year, and didn't have to, and that extra $4/hr wouldn't make THAT much of a difference.

But in the back on my mind there was this thing. I saw it in a counselors office, as I sat there and listened to how my trust issues and lack of money management skills were making me impossible to live with, and trying to think how I could prioritize these things over keeping four girls alive to adulthood and somehow not lose myself in the process... It was a little sign that said only : "She Thought She Could and So She Did". It haunted me. As if I knew deep down that the only thing holding me back was the permission I was giving myself to not succeed.

With the gentle nudging of my best friends, I began to buy into it. Maybe I can. No, I know I can, if I can just meet this one goal first. And then the next... I met each of my workout landmarks, and I started to panic as I removed my excuses for not at least attempting the test. The reality that I understood was that if I started it, failure was not an option. I would not strap that pack on for a second attempt this year. I would not admit defeat again, like I had to in Bend. So I lost sleep for two weeks, arguing with myself about the ridiculousness of it all. I kept practicing, and psyching myself up. And then it came.

The day of the test, my buddy promised to pace me. Just like my best friend at home, I told him to keep on pace, just ahead of me, so I knew where  I needed to get to for a passing speed. The guys administering the test were good friends of mine and I watched with sweaty palms and minor palpitations as they weighed the vest and adjusted it to be sure it wasn't an ounce over 45 pounds. I have some awesome people in my life, you guys. The boys helped me get into my harbinger of doom, which almost didn't feel that heavy, until the walking started.

I could feel my hips creaking and my back grinding with every step, and the shin splints were burning within the first quarter mile. But it was do or die. I almost quit at a half mile. The pace seemed impossible and the weight was literally choking the life out of me. But I kept chanting in my head "she thought she could. she thought she could. I think I can, I think I can." I was like the Little Engine, chug-chugging across the pavement, red faced and not pretty at all. My buddy was a few steps ahead. Every time I gasped or grunted he turned to make sure I wasn't face down on the sidewalk in a puddle of aged regret.

I almost quit again at one mile. I was losing steam and my pace was barely on time. My shins were screaming, and if I had been able to see out of my eyes I was pretty certain there would have been a steady flow of blood pouring out from under the bones in my legs. "One more step. She thought she could. One more step. A little quicker. I think I can."

Two miles in and I was over time. I wasn't going to make it.  I almost cried but I was too exhausted. Clearly I hadn't trained enough. As if any amount of training makes the weight seem OK. Sometime after the second mile marker the burn in my shins started to die down, the spasmed muscles let go and my pacer turned with a concerned look when he heard my sigh of delight. I put my head down and picked up an awkward joggy rhythm that probably looked sort of like an emu running in place. Not finishing on time was clearly an unacceptable end to this mini-drama that I had created for myself. I had half a mile left when one of my good buddies showed up along side me and started to give me crap, which is always a useful motivator for me. A little while later and another bestie popped up on my other side. Then my boss was there, and some random lady I don't know. With a quarter mile left I had half a dozen cheerleaders jogging alongside me like my own personal fan club. Even my the guy formerly known as my husband got in on the pep rally.

The pacer kept me moving, and as I crossed the finish, with 30 seconds to spare, he came back and somehow wrung me out of the vest that had become one with my frame. There were at least 5 people pawing at that stupid vest to get it off me, half of them I am sure because they wanted to be ready to hook me up to a defibrillator when I collapsed. I was done. It was done. I had passed it one more time in my life.

The pep squad made me walk a little longer to cool down, which seemed like the cruelest part. But they did all offer to buy me a beer. I have every intention of holding them to it sooner or later.

After about 15 minutes of tottering on the brink of death, I recovered, and I felt like I had just won the lottery. I even jogged through the parking lot, humming the Rocky theme triumphantly, on the way back. I thought I could, and I did, but more importantly, all of them thought so too, and they made it happen. That's the beautiful thing about friendships - there is so much confidence in having the right people around you to hold you up when a 45 pound vest has beaten the shit out of you. I wonder if this means I have to split my wage increase with them?

this is me in the weight vest, pre-test. the smile is fake.

PS - I haven't done a single lick of exercise since the test. FOR SHAME!

Things About "Running"

I have been running.

That's pretty much a flat-out lie. Except that I did try. I ran. I ran like 100 steps. Granted, each of them was an individual stride, spaced in between with walking. But I still picked up both feet off the ground and tried to run. To make it sound cooler/more intentional, I told my brother/fitness coach that I was jogging. He said "don't jog. jogging is terrible. jogging does no good. you need to run." And I said back: "what you don't understand is that this IS my run." If I can clock a 13.5 minute mile, I am flying, baby.

None of it makes sense really. Last year I read the book Born To Run by Christopher McDougall, and it was life changing for three reasons: 1) it was the first time I downloaded a full book that I paid for onto my iPad and read it, in it's entirety, digitally ; 2) I actually voluntarily spent time reading about something I hate, namely running; and 3) I got done reading it and was absolutely convinced that with the right pair of shoes, I would fly like a gazelle through the woods endlessly as soon as I gave it a whirl.

I have been whirling quite a bit these days, and so far the closest thing to a gazelle on my runs are the towny deer giggling at me as I flop by. Because that's what it is. A flop. I "ran" so much yesterday that when I tried to do it today, I discovered I had given myself shin splints and even my jog was more like a clumsy imitation of a walk. Actually my shins hurt way less when I tried to "run" faster, but I wore my baggy sweatpants, because it's that kind of a week, and they kept falling off - not just down, but actually, off. Like those poor deers probably got an unintentional moon in exchange for their mockery. Serves them right.

All Of The People say that if you just keep on doing it, it will get better. I am inclined to believe this is true for knitting and possibly marinading steaks, but as far as running goes, I am reticent. In fact, after three straight days of "running", I am actually fatter, slower and now in more pain than I was three days ago. I understand one can't expect instant gratification - but come on - three days is a lifetime when you're talking about running.

In the back of my head all of this leads to the one driving purpose of my life: to pass the arduous pack test one more time before I die. I have found peace with the fact that that is probably not going to be this year, with the bone-on-bone situation in my lower back and a shoulder that spontaneously dislocated when I cross my arms, but the standard is still there, dangling in front of my face. It is the standard by which all exercizish things are measured in my world. A mile must be accomplished in less than 16 minutes. Easy. Check. Two miles should be finished in 30 minutes carrying 25 pounds... oooh, that's a stretch, but if I had to do it once, I could probably. Three miles, forty five minutes and forty five pounds - there's the golden standard of arrival. I got the three miles in time the other day, but the 45 pounds extra I was carrying are the ones around my midsection. I understand the concept that running will help me achieve my goal in developing my cardiovascular stamina, and building the muscles I need to support the weight. I get why. It's just the how that I have ethical problems with. Mostly because I still adhere to the idea that working full time and making dinner and doing the laundry and yelling at the kids and, and and... should be more than enough to prepare me for any other arduous endeavors. There is something just rude about the idea that I have to take what little "spare" time I have and use it to punish myself for being soft and lazy, when really I don't feel soft and lazy on the inside whatsoever.

That's what reading the book helped with. It made running seem like something almost, dare I say, fun?!?! And I know some people who say that they enjoy it, although I believe they are masochistic liars that clearly have no idea what fun actually is.  There has been the ever so slight and gradual shift in my thinking that maybe, with enough trying, I too could enjoy this form of torture. We're a long way from decided on that front, but I am not ruling it out.

And it's not like I can't run if I absolutely have to. If the fire gods are worried about me getting my ass off of the fireline in a hurry, they should see me beat four teenage girls to the shower in the evening. I'm so quick you don't even see me. Of course that's usually on the nights that I decide it's not worth the fight and skip it all together, in which case you really don't see me. Or that one time that my sister was beating me to all of the best stuff in the thrift store. You know I moved like greased lightening then. I had no choice. It was life or death. Think of how my performance would improve on these fronts if I actually practiced running more? It's almost terrifying. We'll see who's laughing then, Bambi.