My own worst enemy

I think I should say at the very beginning, if you're not up for some brutal honesty, this is not the post for you. Shit's about to get real up in here, and mama's gonna bare her soul. If you can't handle the truth (with apologies to Jack), please click back. I won't be offended.

Okay, so everyone left reading (all two of you) is okay with harsh reality? Good. Here goes.

Since the holiday season, I have been at war with myself. Hating my body. Hating it. Upset that I let go of my fitness goals and, instead, ate Christmas. All of Christmas. Carrying 10 or so extra pounds that I can see in my face, my muffin top (which is more like a coffee cake these days), my chins, my hips, my feet. Oh, how I wish I were kidding.

Hate is a powerful thing. A destructive thing. So the more I have railed against myself, the worse I have felt. This, it seems, is a struggle I am not going to win this way. I have got to knock it off.

By way of illustration, here's a bit of what I mean. The girl is the same; hell, the outfit is virtually the same. I see huge differences, though.

Di, me, Linda and Shelly last November at the Wine & Dine Half 

At the Wine & Dine, I was at my pre-holiday weight. I felt capable, strong and (GASP!) pretty. It shows, in every possible way.

Me, after I finished the Wine & Dine

My finisher photo shows Proud Maggie! My smile is genuine. My chin is singular. I look happy. I had also run well, for a pokey gal like me. All in all, this was a great night and a great race.

Contrast that with Princess Half Marathon Weekend. I'm heavy. I'm unhappy with myself. And it shows. Well, maybe not in the first pic.

Kath, Carrie, Linda, the Mad Hatter, Raquel, me, Jenn and the Queen of Hearts at the Enchanted 10K

I actually like the above photo. I think it's funny that I look like I have only one leg, and I like the way I am wearing a fitted tank and a tutu, in bright colors, and yet I look better than I did the following day, while wearing black in a style that didn't fit quite so closely ... as evidenced below. Anyway, the one leg that shows looks strong!

Me, after I finished the Glass Slipper Challenge

Again, the girl is the same. Everything but the skirt is identical to what I wore in the Wine & Dine ... but those 10 (or is it 15?) pounds really show. To me, anyway. In the cheekbones, and the hips. 

Other than the photo with the Queen, above, I hate hate hate every photo from last weekend. Every. Single. One. The monologue in my head has gone something like this:

"Cow. Fat. Ugly. SHIT homely. It's a good thing you already have friends, because no one would talk to you if they just met you today. You are gross, unloveable, and really ugly. See? We have proof. Just look at the pictures, ugly girl."

My inner voices are cruel. 

Sometimes they are echoes of things that have been said to me in the past. The old saying about sticks and stones? Yeah, that's bullshit. Names hurt longer, folks, and they leave scars that no one sees.

But back to me in the here and now: this is not a war. You cannot win if you war against your body. And the thing is, so much of photographs is angles, lighting and under-eye concealer. It really isn't reality. It's just a moment in time, captured in a still image.

So do I have some work to do? Yeah. I have 10 pounds of holiday weight to relinquish, plus 20 or 30 more, before I can say that I've reached my goal. Progress is slow. It's hard. But if it were easy, everyone would be fit.

The thing is, I have to work on how I feel about myself in concert with the physical changes I need to make. I would NEVER talk to a friend the way I allow myself to talk to me! What's that about, anyway? It's time to let it go. It's time to stop being my own worst enemy and learn to be good to myself. 

I believe we are all beautiful, but it's easier to see in others. I think we should all try to see in ourselves what the people who love us see. It's worth a shot, don't you think?

Veggies

Just a quick check-in to report my progress on adding more vegetables to the daily food.

For me, "veggies" mostly means "eat a salad." A big salad. So it's no surprise that I got most of my additional servings of vegetables that way. And no ... I don't hit it perfectly every time.

1/8: Had a large salad at the gym. I consider that thing three servings of vegetables; rough estimate, it's at least three cups of greens.

1/9: Had a big bowl of arugula with goat cheese with lunch. And that was it for the day, veg-wise. #fail

1/10: Had a MASSIVE salad, mostly vegetables, at our school salad bar.

1/11: Lunch with a friend was pizza ... topped with a mountain of mesclun. Honestly, it was really good.

1/12: Lots of carrots and onions with dinner, but not enough. #fail

1/13: So far today, I have had arugula with lunch, plus onion and artichoke hearts and beans - do beans count? Hell. I guess I don't even know how I'm doing today!

1/14: Not the best effort, but I did have a big helping of arugula with my lunch.

1/15: A true success! Had my greens at lunch, and then a big helping of broccoli with dinner. Each was about 1.5 servings, so I did it!

Ever forward. I will update this post as time goes on.

The Wagon

This. But not.

It's a new year, and I have an old problem. It's a problem that's looks like my ass, sounds like heavy breathing, and smells like bacon. Yep - another January and I'm still carrying excess baggage.

I'm not going to make a resolution or an excuse. I'm just going to acknowledge it, and move on. Because only by moving on can I even begin to move beyond, and beyond is where I'm headed, my friend.

The road to health is not a simple, straight line. In fact, there is nothing simple about it at all. It's all peaks and valleys and fried dough, and I'm in it for the long haul. I'm here to remember where I came from, and to forge ahead with wild abandon. This year, like every year past, is mine.

Over the last week or so, a few friends have reached out to ask for my support. Can it be that my progress looks like success to others? Can it be that my progress actually is success? It's strange to think of myself in that way - successful. And I think it actually freaks me out. That's why, every time I get close to my goal, I cheeseburger myself right back into my fat genes.

Not this year. Not this ass. Not in 2014. Thank you, but no. This year, I'm going to give myself a new challenge each month, and I'm going to do my damnedest to reach every one of them. My plan is to follow Cooking Light magazines 12 Healthy Habits program. Hopefully, by the time I turn the calendar to 2015, I will have kicked my fear in the teeth and reached at least an intermittent weight loss goal.

So, for the remainder of January, I'm going to focus on vegetables; specifically, getting three servings a day. Fruit is easy, but veggies? That's a challenge. So let's see how this goes. (I predict there will be a lot of salad in my January.)

It isn't easy. If it were, everyone would be fit. But the truth is, even after an indulgent December, I haven't fallen so far off the wagon that I've lost the wagon entirely. I can hoist my ample thigh right back up onto that sucker, and ride off into the sunset.

Hopefully, in a smaller size.

Growing healthy

I'm going to try and connect a few dots here. Bear with me.

I often say that I found myself out on a run. It's not a new concept; I don't know where I first heard it, but it certainly isn't original. Running - for some of us, anyway - is a philosophical pursuit as well as a physical one, and often times when I'm out there, competing against just me, I dig into places that require me to rise above myself. Or I'll be out for a long enough time that my mind wanders off and discovers things I didn't know. Or couldn't acknowledge. Anyway, out there, it's just me (and occasionally a close friend) and the run.

It's where I do my best thinking. And it's where I have healed. And grown healthy.

In a very real way, time and running have healed me. I was a new runner when I got my first injury: a micro-tear in my right Achilles tendon. It was awful. I couldn't raise up on tiptoe; I walked with a consistent limp. A careful regimen of slow jogging (as if I do anything fast!) and physical therapy allowed me to heal in a real, tangible way. My Achilles recovered, and I was cleared to run again.

But that's nothing compared to what has happened to my soul since I became a runner.

Yesterday, I was reading through an old journal of mine. In early 2007, I wrote from a place of devastation. I wrote of wishing for strength, wanting answers, needing someone to understand. I wrote about loneliness and fear of dying alone. I wrote about fear of not dying, as if surviving the pain was worse than leaving this world. I even wrote that I wished I could become seriously ill, so he might understand the error of his ways.

What I didn't realize was that I was seriously ill. Through the depression, I really couldn't see it, but I was dying on the vine.

In the summer of 2007, I wrote that when I got my finances in order, I would join Lifetime Fitness. I followed through on that, and the rest is history. One step at a time, I began to heal.

It would be a long time before I would actually begin to run. First I'd argue that I couldn't run. Then I'd say I didn't want to run. And all the while, I would see runners and secretly ponder how much I wanted what they had.

So why not? Why not run? Why not at least try? It was the summer of 2008 - the same week my divorce was final, in fact - that I laced up my cross trainers to try it for the first time. And I failed a lot. A fast (to me) walk was about all I could muster. But I kept trying. A few years later, in the fall of 2010, I would finish my first race.

And nothing would ever be the same.

I found myself on the run. I met the best and worst parts of myself out there, and I blazed (or walked or stumbled) past them. I kept going.

In the finding came the healing. In the healing came true health. Not that I'm where I want to be; not by a longshot. But from here, I can be content. I can rest easy knowing that I've done the hardest work, and the rest will come because I am determined and tenacious and a little bit nuts.

The State of My Ass Address

Well, here we are. Another holiday season is looming, and my ass is still big.

I've learned to cope. I mean, come on - it tags along everywhere I go. I'm grateful that gravity hasn't completely destroyed it, and I've come to terms with the fact that I will never be one of those girls, with the tiny tushies and all. But here's the gig:

It's mine. I earned it. I built it. I'm stronger and healthier than I look. I could probably kick your ass.

There are times when I see my reflection and I think, "damn ... you've done a lot of good work here." There are other times when I shrink away from the girl in the mirror, because all I can see is my immense thighs, or my turkey neck, or the bags under my eyes, or my bra bulge or back fat or front butt or whatthehellever. Come on, Mags; you are obsessing about the wrong things.

And so, the State of My Ass Address:

Ladies and gentlemen. Friends, Romans, countrymen. My ass is awesome. It does its job with great aplomb, giving me somewhere to sit and providing a place for my legs to connect with the rest of me. It contains muscles that allow me to run - maybe not like the wind or Forrest Gump, but run nonetheless. In the right pants, it looks great. In the wrong pants, it's still not half bad.

It's mine. I earned it. I built it.

It pushed me through four half marathons in 2013, and it's training for at least one more early next year. (This just in: probably two.) It provides the base from which I'm building a functional swim kick. It hurts like hell after spin class or a long outdoor bike ride. And it occasionally garners a compliment from a friend, because guess what? It's awesome.

So my weight may stay steady this holiday season (although I'm streaking again - at least one mile a day from Thanksgiving through New Year's Day) and I may not lose a single pound, because let's face it: hot buttered rum and cookies and at least one trip to Lou Malnati's. I'm realistic. I'm not gonna throw caution and good health to the wind, but I'm not going to obsess either.

I'm going to accept my ass - and all the stuff that comes with it - for what it is. Because what it is, in case you hadn't yet caught on, is awesome.

The Fourth of Four - Disney's Wine & Dine Half Marathon

It started as a joke and became a quest. A quest to run not one but four half marathons during 2013. As I approached the start line last Saturday night, I couldn't bring myself to claim the goal as achieved just yet; nope, not until I finished.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I?

On Saturday night, November 9, the same crew with whom I travelled to Florida back in February - Linda, Shelly and Di - and I returned to another RunDisney start line, this time for the Wine & Dine Half Marathon. Thirteen-point-one miles, through the night, starting at 10 p.m.

Linda, Me, Shelly and Di, ready to begin our race. 

Sometimes it's hard to believe the girl in that photo (or any of these photos) is me. I look strong and confident. I'm wearing a mini kilt! But it's me, and that version of me is just so so so happy to be running. So in love with the idea of doing something that she once thought completely impossible. So far outside her comfort zone, she has no idea where her comfort zone is anymore, and that's just the way she likes it.

For Disney races, you arrive literally hours before the start of your wave. I kinda like this, because it allows me to chill without the stress of getting where I need to be. And to us, "chill" means sitting in the grass, applying acupressure to each other's hands, and taking liberal potty breaks. Seriously, we have tiny bladders.

Di and Linda, hand massage. 

Around 9:30, we made our way to the start corrals. Shelly and I were together, so we chatted our nerves away and wished each other well. At 10, the first corral was released with a flurry of fireworks; every few minutes after that, another corral started - each with its own pyrotechnics - and soon it was our turn.

Running at night is something I really enjoy. There's something about the night air, the stars and the freedom of the shadows that just feels right to me, so in a way this was totally my race. I started out running slowly, according to plan. My first mile went by without me even really noticing, in 14 minutes. Yes, slow, but right in my proper wheelhouse. I was saving my energy. I was running this race without any GPS feedback, relying on my own ability to do math at each mile marker, so I really didn't know how fast I was going along the way; I was just joyfully running. It felt great.

The race begins at the Wide World of Sports complex, and heads out along Osceola Parkway toward the Animal Kingdom. By the time you reach mile 4, you're deep within the theme park, and it's dark, and there are a lot of people. But you just keep running. Mile 2 was 14:34; Mile 3, 15:01 (damn, I was slowing down); Mile 4, 15:03. Okay. Conserving energy. We're in the middle third now, time to pick it up.

Leaving the Animal Kingdom via the parking lot (Mile 5), we ran back along Osceola (Miles 6 and 7) to World Drive (Mile 8) and onto Buena Vista (Mile 9), finally entering Disney's Hollywood Studios. I sped up along this stretch - Mile 5, 14:14; Mile 6, 13:37; Mile 7, 13:27 (my fastest mile). And then I started to run out of steam. Mile 8, 15:41. Mile 9, 14:48. My playlist kept me motivated and I just ... kept ... running.

Running through the Hollywood Studios.
I can't believe the smile, either.

Right around Mile 10, inside the Studios, we entered the Osborne Family Festival of Dancing Lights. Or as I like to call it, "Every Christmas light ever." Usually when you walk through here, people are shoulder-to-shoulder and it's not all that much fun. This was amazing; I felt like I was flying through here. (Spoiler alert: I wasn't.) Mile 10, 15:27. I would not go any faster than this for the remainder of the race.

The thing is, I knew I was slow. I knew there was a chance I wouldn't beat my abysmal Princess time from last February. And it didn't matter. I was having a blast. Literally every picture the photographers caught of me, with the exception of one that appears to showcase all nine of my chins, shows a happy, smiling Maggie. I was joyful and strong through the entire race. We left the Studios at Mile 11 (16:42), wound through the Yacht and Beach Club resorts, the Boardwalk at Mile 12 (15:45), and into Epcot, winding around Spaceship Earth at mile 13 (15:43); 13.1 was just outside Epcot. 

Me, with Spaceship Earth behind me.

Did I have my perfect race? No. Disney races can be tough. The camber of the road slopes in a way that makes my plantar fascia cry. My left ankle went numb at mile 2, but it didn't hurt, and I never stopped feeling awesome despite that bit of weirdness. So I just kept going, listening to my body and walking when necessary, but for the most part, I powered forward.

I don't know who the walking chick is,
but the girl on the right? She's one
damn happy runner.

I don't think I have ever finished a long-distance race quite so happy, and it had very little to do with how well (or not) that I did. I finished in 3:20:12, fully eight minutes slower than my performance in the Great Western Half last May. But I had so much fun, it didn't really matter. Each Disney race, I have improved a bit; my first Princess was 3:24, my second 3:22, and this one 3:20 ... so if I improve by two minutes each race, it will only take me 12 more to get under three hours!

More than 2,000 people out of 12,143 were slower than I was. More than 150 in my age group and more than 1,600 women were slower than I was. Not that comparison is the point, but it does help me to see where I stack up. Either I'm getting better, or everyone else is getting worse.

But that's beside the point. The point - the only point - in all of this, in running to begin with, is to give your all. Yours. Not someone else's. Part of what made this race so fantastic for me, personally, was that I felt good the entire time (right up until I stopped running, but that's another story for another time.) I pushed when I could, I held back when I felt it appropriate, and I left nothing out on the course. Usually runners gauge their personal record, or PR, on beating a previous time. But this race, this magical night through three Disney theme parks, was my half marathon PR in a way that really mattered. I may not have made my time goal, but I did have the best time ever out there on the course.

And isn't that what it's really all about?

Here's what happens when you're willing to be ridiculous

I think it was last February, when Carrie suggested I follow up the Princess Half Marathon with the Great Western in May. I was already trained, after all, so the transition to the next race wouldn't be out of the question.

Yes, I do believe that's the point at which I figured, well, why not? Why not turn this one half marathon into two? And quickly on the heels of that thought cam the next:

If I can do two, I can do four.

So here I sit, ready to travel to my fourth half marathon of 2013.

First came the Princess, with its own set of weather-related issues. Warm and humid, I had a tough run, only just barely setting a new PR.

I finished, and I got my medal. 

Then, in May, I did run the Great Western. It came with what can only be described as the Most Epic Finish Line Ever, thanks to my friend Rich Bird who - in honor of my stellar fundraising efforts in support of Walk MS - showed up as I finished the race, in a kilt, playing the bagpipes. (Side note: I have the greatest friends ever in the history of ever.)

Rich Bird and me. He's the best.

July brought the Rock-n-Roll half marathon in Chicago. It almost killed me. I set a new PR of sorts, running my longest half marathon ever. They ran out of water for us back-of-the-pack runners, and I got acquainted with the personnel at not one, not two, but three medical tents. But I finished, and I'm damn proud of it.

Somewhere around mile 11,
I made a friend. 

This Saturday night, the posse (me, Linda, Di and Shelly) will head to another Run Disney starting line, running the Wine & Dine half. It combines two of my dearest loves - food, and running. It also serves as a reminder: setting a goal, no matter how outlandish it may sound (four halves in one year?) puts me in motion, bringing out the relentless competitor in me who cannot be stopped.

No matter how difficult it gets. No matter how much my knees ache. I will keep going.

I never take a race for granted, and until I cross the finish line in the wee hours of Sunday morning (the race starts Saturday at 10; since I am a long way from running 13.1 in sub-2, I'm resigned to running into Sunday) I won't call it a done deal. But I'm on my way. I have goals - I'd like to PR - but travel and weather often mean I need to maintain a solid grip on reality. And that's okay; the only real goal in any race is to finish strong.

So, off I go, to bring to light a goal that started as a joke, and ended up being something worthy of a year-long pursuit. I have literally been training for a half marathon (or four) for more than a year. In February, I will allow myself to take a rest and focus on training for triathlons (the goal? Three in 2014). But this year will always, always be special to me, because in 2013 I proved to myself that even the most ridiculous, the most outlandish and the most seemingly impossible goals are achievable.