 Yep, fill out the certificate and nail it to my wall. I am officially the “Worst Mother Out There.” I have had my moments of horribleness—normally they are spread out over time with a period of forgiveness separating them. But as of lately, they are coming closer and closer together. Such as forgetting to pick up my daughter from tumbling and showing up an hour later to do so (I apologized profusely to the tumbling coach, hugged and kissed my daughter all day, and assured her that yes, I really do love you! I told her that next time I would forget one of her brothers instead); forgetting about “Family Skate Night” that I am in charge of for the PTA; or dressing my children for school in spring attire (the morning looked great) only to have it completely snow on them while they wait outside for carpool.
But I think my best of the worst moments came last night (though my children are not complaining one bit) . . . I was writing on my new novel, I was at a critical point in which the tension was so fierce that my heart was pumping insanely and my jaw hurt from clenching it so tight. But I feared that if I walked away, set it down, for even a second, I would lose that feeling and not get it back to see that section through. Writers out there understand me, their nodding. Nonwriters are shaking their head in disbelief . . . “You’re rotten!” they say, and in a nonwriting world, they are justifiably correct. At 7:15pm, I took my two youngest and headed to a “Family Night Scout Event” for my oldest son. It was really nice—slide show, presentations, etc . . . The part my children loved best—the build your own banana splits. It was at this point I realized . . . I had not fed my children dinner. It was 8:00pm. So what did my children have for dinner? A big, gooey banana split. They each had two. Okay, condemn me. Everybody grab a rock and throw it. I know. I know! But lets think about this for a minute: Banana's and cherries=fruit; Icecream=dairy; Chopped nuts=legumes; Whipped cream & Marshmallow Topping=isn't it made from egg whites? If so, then they got a little poultry. If not, then a little more dairy; chocolate, carmel, strawberry syrup= fats, oils, and sweets group (the top of the pyramid) That's at least four out of the six main food groups—they don't even get that when I really cook dinner. So, in essence, I’m I really all that bad? I will be better. I will. Starting now—wait? What time is it? 8:26am . . . SHOOT! I got to get the kids up for school!
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My stomach is doing flip-flops.
I had a team meeting/conference call last night with the other 11 runners that make up our Ragnar running team “The Burning Sensations.” Having that phone call made it all real for me—scary real. What have I gotten myself into? First of all, I was really hoping to run the very easiest legs of the race out there. I figured that would be runner number 7 with a total of 12 miles. Nope, I was given runner number 4 with a total of 13.1 miles—an extra 1.1 miles added to an already impossible amount of miles I didn’t think I could do in the first place. My very first leg of the race is 5.1 miles on a gradual incline (there are tears in my eyes just thinking about it). What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do? (Do you sense my panic yet?) There is some good news though by being runner number 4 over being runner number 7 that I did not expect: Yes, runner number 7’s total length of miles is less than runner number 4, BUT the second leg of runner number 7 is pretty much straight up hill. 4.8 miles straight up. I didn’t know that. Now that I do, I’m glad that it’s not mine to run. I now have no straight uphill climbs (silver lining?). Another plus with being runner number 4, each of my running legs progressively get smaller and smaller in length. If I can survive the 5.1 miles in the beginning, then the rest of my running will be easier and shorter. My last leg of mine is 3.8 miles and is nearly all downhill (at this point, I could just lie down and roll). Yes, I just ran (sorta) a 5k race this past Saturday. That is only 3.1 miles. That is nothing in the realm of running and yet, it just about did me in. Running is hard for me. My lungs do not breathe like yours do. I struggle. I carry my inhaler with me always. I can run a half a mile and my breathing is the equivalent of you having run 3 miles. It sucks. (Please read the Running Advice tab above to learn more of what it is like for me to run with asthma. Though I didn’t write it, I feel every bit of it). Can I do 5.1 miles in one sitting? I don’t know. It scares the bejeebies out of me. It will be my goal. Will I attain it? I don’t know. Okay, I’m going to go lie down now in the fetal position and listen to Orlando Bloom tell me that I can. He always makes me feel a little better. My very first (EVER) 5K. Good News! I didn’t come in last. Bad news . . . I was pretty close. All that mattered to me was that I made it across the finish line before the older lady behind me. And I did. I have a ribbon of participation to prove it—mount it, frame it. It’s going on the wall.
Am I slow? Definitely. Am I a runner? Not even close. How did I do? Worse than I had expected (no joke). I made it across the finish line in 47:someodd seconds. Very, very sad in the realm of running, yet mighty impressive when I thought I would be closer to 60:00. Yeah, I suck. Now ask me how I looked. Oh, I’m all decked out. I’ve got the shoes, the quick-dry clothing to absorb and release my sweat, the iPOD arm band, the runner knee straps, and I even have the mighty cool running underwear. I look like I could be a runner, but it’s just an illusion—it’s all for effect. This was my test race. I win, because I completed it. I failed, because I didn’t do nearly as well as I had “visualized” (darn that Orlando Bloom). I have two months until the Ragnar. I don’t think it is enough time. I don’t think I will even be close to ready. (What have I gotten myself into? Stupid, stupid me.) Hypnosis—not helping. I don’t think the dangling carrot theory is going to work either. Someone is going to have to pull out the big stick and whack my legs with it or better yet, release the hounds. I was in search of a new radio station to listen to, since the one I normally have playing in the van, the DJ's were suddenly fired. It now plays a loop of music that drives me crazy—not my style. Somewhere in the 106 point range on the dial, Miley Cyrus was playing this song. It spoke to me. Especially the lines: “You’ll never reach it” (I can relate to that voice inside my head), “But I gotta keep trying” (Okay, I will, Miley), “Always gonna be an uphill battle, Sometimes I’m gonna have to lose” (Running for me is an uphill battle, even on flat surfaces/ I fear I will come in last place in tomorrow’s 5K. There’s a great chance of it happening), “Ain’t about how fast I get there” (I hear ya, sister), “And I, I gotta be strong, Just keep pushing on” (I’ll try, I really will). I’m not a Miley Cyrus fan (do I look like I'm twelve?), but in that moment we connected. And I have come to accept the fact that my life is full of strange moments like these.  I think that for me to become a better runner, one of two things is going to need to happen:
1) Someone needs to run behind me with a big stick and whap my legs whenever I stop running. (That’s motivation right there, but it is rather mean and painful. Not my top choice.) 2) I need a dangling carrot—an immediate reward for accomplishing a predetermined goal, however minor that goal might be. Possible dangling carrot: money, new clothes, chocolate . . . to name a few. (I like money.) I prefer number two. It will affect my husband’s wallet thickness unfortunately, but it just might be the inspiration for my success at this sport I despise. What about Orlando Bloom and his hypnotic voice, you ask. I’m still working on that. At the end of his relaxation and visualization spill, he tells me to listen to his voice at least once a day for a week. I have listened to him 3 times so far (I was so relaxed today listening to him, I fell asleep. I wonder if it works while I’m unconscious). So, the hypnosis idea is still a work in progress. But back to the dangling carrot theory (because I’m not ready to let go of that idea yet). I’m thinking in terms of, “If I run to McDonald’s, I get to buy a fruit smoothie,” which is nice, but not nearly as nice as “I will park my car at Khols and have that be my starting and ending points. If I run around the neighborhood and achieve my daily goal, then when I return to my car I get to go inside and buy something new.” All I know is that right now, my dangling carrot is “self-accomplishment” and that’s not enough to propel me forward. I need a dangling carrot with some $$$ attached to the string. Possibly, it will make me run farther, so in essence it’s a win-win situation. I get new things and my Ragnar team gets a better runner than the one their getting right now. I think it’s worth looking into. My knees are killing me. As long as I move, walk, keep going then I feel okay. If I sit too long, or heaven forbid sleep at night, I wake with stiff, painful knees.
I have to walk backwards down my stairs, since it is less painful than walking down them forward. I ran Saturday. I ran Monday. Tuesday I woke in pain—hot, achy knees. As the day wore on, I felt better. I went to Big 5 and purchased running straps that are placed just below the kneecaps—one for each knee. I have a bad knee. I knew that and I wear a brace every time I run. But now, my good knee hurts even worse than the bad one. Hence, two straps. I planned to run today, and it’s killing me that I can’t. I look out the window and think, “Just do it” (like Nike). I want to. I need to get out there. Each day not running, I feel is wasteful. It takes my goal of improving my running and smashes it to smithereens (you know, one step forward, two steps back theory). I hate running. But I feel compelled to do it. I want to test out my hypnosis. I want to try my new knee straps. I want to do better than I did on Monday. Then I look at the bag of frozen hash browns on one knee and the bag of frozen fake hamburger meat on the other, and think “You’re nuts” (Bags are in place as I write, and boy do they feel good). I’m a hack runner, a beginner of all beginners—a true beginner in the literal sense of the word—not a beginner who thinks they are a beginner because they can only run 7 miles in one sitting beginner. Since I don’t run kazillions of miles, then why the heck do I have “runners knee” (my symptoms match every internet diagnosis)? For the small amount of running I do, I should have . . . nothing. I should be just fine. My lungs should breathe happily, my legs, feet and knees should be rejoicing that it isn’t worse, and my body should be thankful. Why the rebellion? I can’t run, but I can’t just sit here either. It’s frustrating not being able to train for a race that will make me cry, curse and ultimately make me wish for death. I hate running (did I already say that), but I think I hate failure worse.  If there is a gimmick out there to help me run faster and farther, then by golly I’m willing to give it a go. Running is kicking my hind end, and if there is a miracle shortcut to help me improve my distance, then why not? At this point, I’ll try just about anything.
Sure enough, on the web there are all sorts of things to try. But the one that intrigued me the most (because it seemed easy) was hypnotism for runners—it’s called Zen running. Okay, I am not a big believer in hypnotism, but I’m going to give it a good shot, a “don’t knock it until you tried it” attempt. We will see. I will get back to you on this. (I have a 90 day money back guarantee if it shouldn’t work.) I found a website that for $19.95 I could download an MP3 hypnosis session to repeat over and over and over to make me a better runner. That is their promise. Don’t tell my husband (for several reasons in which we will get into later), but I did it. I purchased “Keep Running,” which came with a free download called “Never Give Up.” Two for the price of one. With my headphones in place, laying flat upon my bed, I pushed the play button. Oh, my goodness! I haven’t gotten to hear the whole thing yet (I plan to get back to it soon, because I really, really want to), but I like what I'm hearing so far. I think I am falling in love with my hypnotist! Oh, his smooth, silky voice speaks to me! His slight British accent makes me quiver. I may not run faster, but with a voice that sexy telling me to relax—who cares! I could listen to him all day (I’m a sucker for accents). The first part of the session is designed to fully relax you by using breathing and visualization techniques. The visualization I found I liked best, was when this sexy (because I’m quite certain that he is) British man told me to close my eys and visualize a nice hot bath where the steam rises from the surface and the warm water swirls over my skin and body. Oh, I just quivered again! If you didn’t, go back and read that in a slow British accent (think Orlando Bloom). I bet you will quiver now. I started giggling when I first heard it. I couldn’t help it. A hypnotist shouldn’t be allowed to sound that sexy. How the heck am I supposed to visualize being a better runner with a voice like that? I don’t know, but I am willing to listen to it a dozen times or more to see if I can figure it out. It made me start wondering, was there a female version for male runners? Because I’m all for fairness here. Who would be his counterpart? Kate Winslet, maybe. I don’t know. The whole thing is so silly, but I guess I would much rather listen to this fine gentleman than that of the old British guy who gave the introduction, who sounded almost like “Master Piece Theater.” I’m not sure what is more absurd—a sexy man or an old fart. Anyway, I am enjoying myself. **Disclaimer: I love my husband. He makes me quiver too.  Call me crazy. It’s okay, because guess what? I already know it. I embrace my crazy. I have no other choice—I am a fiction writer. And most fiction writers are slightly mad, a little cookoo, a little off their rocker, or a combination of all three. Many will admit it. There are those who won’t, but should (we can tell you’re nuts). To be a writer of fiction, you almost have to be.
When you tell another fiction writer that you “hear voices,” they nod, smile and say “me too.” Other fiction writers get it. They understand. I try to explain it to non-writers and they shake their heads. “You’re weird.” “Yeah, well buddy, I’M A WRITER. I’m supposed to be.” I am crazy. I hear voices all the time—my characters voices. They ride upon my shoulders, pushing each other out of the way as they fight for my attention, and whisper in my ear. It happens while I wash dishes, fold laundry, drive kids to school or pick them up; most often though, they invade my thoughts as I am trying to fall asleep, nearly every night, just like clockwork. They want their story told and they will not be satisfied until it is. These characters are pushy. They are demanding. Many times they will take my well constructed story and veer it right off course because they have other plans as to where it is they want their story line to go. It’s an interesting rollercoaster ride for sure. “Wait a minute,” you say. “You’re the author. They’re your characters. You made them up, so just stop thinking about them. Just stop it.” Oh, no. It doesn’t work that way. I have had various characters inside my head since I was in elementary school. Fifth grade—my first memory of getting the stories down on notebook paper. I don’t think I have ever lived without them and I am not sure that I would want to. The thought of that scares me. Think of a pianist without a piano, or a painter without a brush, or a photographer without the use of a camera. Think of something you enjoy, a talent that you love, something that defines you—now imagine it gone. When I no longer hear voices, then that can only mean one thing—I am no longer a writer. I shudder. So as I have said before, I embrace my crazy. I will embrace it for as long as the crazy is there. My current voice: “Sam” A twelve-year-old girl who unveils her tragic, yet inspiring story to me a little each day, a little at a time. My husband told me yesterday, “You’re running more for the comedic aspect of it than you are for the sport. You just want something funny to write about.”
Do I really? I would love nothing more than to be a stealth runner—a lean, mean, blazing running machine. I would love to blog about how in two short months I went from running zero miles to having the endurance to run 50 miles in 50 minutes. That would be sweet. I would love to write about my success at this running sport, and be the Big-Girl-Running-Mom-Poster-Child, who zips by you so fast that you have to ask yourself, “Was that her? I couldn’t read her cape.” But I can’t. My running knowledge is weak and so is my body. It is what it is. Funny things happen to me while I run. I didn’t plan it that way, it just sort of went that direction. I can’t help it—it all started with the sports bra purchase and got funnier from there. If I can’t laugh at the absurdity of my own situation, then I will most certainly turn into a Debbie Downer (Don’t know who she is? Check out Saturday Night Live). I could get down on myself (and don’t let me misinform you, because there have been plenty of times that I have), but what does it get me? Does being sad about my running ability make me run any faster? Does being funny about it? NO. Neither does. I am doing what I can do. I measure my milestones not in miles but in points of miles and I wave my arms triumphantly above my head when I have run farther than I ever have (even if it is only .2 of a mile more). I will take it, because tomorrow I will add another .1 mile and from there it will get bigger and better. Two months ago, I looked at a one-mile running course and thought “NO WAY.” Now here I am. One mile is easy, and if we can laugh a little along the way on this crazy running journey, then why the heck not. I don’t like being serious anyway. Yeah, I was talking with a neighbor friend of mine yesterday, who also happens to be running the Ragnar this June, and she invited me to come running with this group of hers today at 6:00am. I fought against it. I know my ability (slow & steady, just like a turtle,) but she convinced me to come.
Her goal—to run 7 miles. That’s nice. But she insisted that there were others in the group who have smaller goals in mind. “Okay,” I said. “I will think about it.” Well, I got up at 5:30am, got ready, and in the dark made my way to the meeting place. I knew most of the ladies there (neighbors and friends). We talked. We chatted a little. Two ladies had a real cool fanny pack/water bottle holder that I envied (and will buy later today for myself). It was nice. Then we started running. Or should I say—they took off like a bat out of hell, like a starting pistol had been fired. What’s the hurry I wondered? I even turned around to see if someone was chasing us. Nope, no one there. I maintained my speed. I originally had worried about peer pressure (trying to keep up with these ladies, by their side, going the distance—farther than I had ever traveled before). But guess what? No worries there. In a matter of minutes, my running group of 7 ladies (8 if you include me . . . ha, ha, ha) were at least a half mile ahead of me. Within, I would say, about five to seven minutes worth of time . . . I was alone . . . in the dark. I kept running, slow but sure, but with the dark all around me, I began to think to myself, “Someone could jump out from a bush and grab me,” or “A van could come by and pull me inside. I could be kidnapped!” BUT then I thought . . . “IF, a van should come by and yank me inside, kidnap me, and cart me off . . . at least I would have a ride.” Nope, running groups are not my thing. Unless, I could find a running group of overweight, middle-aged women, who run no faster than the old man at the track with his oxygen tank dragging behind him—these are mypeople. Nope? No takers? Then I guess I am bound to be a lone runner. It’s okay. I know what I can do, which isn’t much, but significantly more than I have EVER done in my life. I’m a beginner (I know some of these ladies said they were beginners too, but that was a bald face lie. If you can sprint like that, like what you did this morning, if even for only a mile . . . then you are no beginner, my friend!) So, as I write this, having run/walked my miles today (not gonna tell you how many, some of these ladies are gonna read this and go WHAT? That’s so sad. I pity your Ragnar team), this group of ladies are still out there, somewhere in Centerville, perhaps even as far as Bountiful, running like the wind. I am amazed by you. I am thoroughly jealous of you. I applaud you. You go girls! Thanks for inviting me, but my destiny is to plod along . . . all alone . . . and I'm okay with that. |
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