Escape

In March 2004, I found a flier at my gym advertising marathon training.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had written "run a marathon" on my sub-conscious "before I die" list.

I think it was there because it seemed really, really hard; almost impossible.  If I can do THAT, I reasoned, I could do just about anything.  It wasn't that I had never run before; I had.  When I was seventeen and going through my first, painful breakup, I ran as means to deal with my feelings.  I ran a lot.  I ran in the dark and came home so exhausted that my brain didn't have room for making me feel terrible.  I slept, ran, went to school...repeat, for months.  I lost about twenty pounds that I really didn't need to lose at the time.  Lots of running and eating one meal a day will do that to you.

That spring, I came out of my funk, wiser, more driven and with a hard body to boot.  How I envy that girl.  17 years later, plus three kids, running was not quite as easy as it had been in those days.  My youngest was not quite four and my oldest was seven and a half.  I was coming out of the constantly-sleep-deprived phase of parenting and smack in the middle of school-homework-IEP hell.  I was starting to feel like maybe I needed to get a job; but really, I wanted to get a life beyond being "Mommy".

My husband, who has always been my loudest cheerleader, read the flier I brought home and said "do it!".  No whining about giving up the next six months of Saturday mornings to take care of the kids while I ran (like I would have done if the shoe was on the other foot), no complaining about not having any free time of his own, he gave the thumbs up with no hesitation.  

He wins husband of the decade for that.

My training was taking place a thirty minute drive away from home.  We would run at 7 am every Saturday until the weather got warmer, then we would run at 6.  6 am runs meant going to bed early on Friday and getting up at 4:30 on Saturday.  It is a testament to how desperate I was, that I was willing to get out of bed in the middle of the night to do it.

As the runs got longer and longer on the weekend, I realized that marathon training was the perfect metaphor for being frustrated with parenting, with things that were out of my control, with life in general:  I wanted to run far away.  Since I couldn't run away from the crap in my life without losing the wonderful parts (my husband and kids), running for hours, thirty minutes from home became my salvation.  

I did wind up completing the Chicago marathon (read about it here), along with a 28 mile warm up run a month before.  I have honestly never felt prouder of an accomplishment than I do of that.  Yeah, I traveled alone around Europe on very little money and I moved far away from my hometown at a young age; but those accomplishments were achieved before I had any real fear.  The world of being a parent and the world of being a single, young adult looks very different and there is a good bit of fear involved.  As much as I think that that teenager could learn from this 43 year old; I think this 43 year old could learn a lot from that fearless teen.  

I don't want to be shaken out of stagnation by a health emergency or any more death.  Too often it is a cataclysmic life event that makes us (me) think about what really matters.  Why?  Why can't I learn from my own glorious triumphs and bitter failures?  Why do I not seek out my own greatness because of the fear of failure?  Why am I so afraid of being poor that I can not figure out how to have money?  Why is it easier to stay still, rather than move in a positive direction?

I think I have just answered my own question.  It's not.  It's not easier to stagnate.  It's awful and soul crushing.  It makes the fear bigger.  

Who am I?  Am I the middling house wife whose biggest accomplishment on any given day is doing all the laundry and dishes?  Or, am I Adventurous Amy? 

De-cluttering My Soul

I've been thinking about what it means to be me.  I'm wondering if I met me, what my first impression would be.  Fat?  Chip on her shoulder?  Nice teeth?  Well spoken, but salty?  Funny?  I wonder if hypothetical me would get past fat and chip on her shoulder to see the truth.  The truth is, that I have a hard exterior made up of guilt, sadness, fear, anger and confusion covered in a thin veneer of sarcasm.  With a little pressure, that shell yields to a gooey center of love, hope and dreams.  I'm basically a Cadbury Cream Egg.  No wonder my husband likes me.  I need that shell to protect what is really worth protecting.  You can have my anger and my sarcasm, but my dreams?  Not without a fight.  

The truth is, that up until just a few days ago, fat was all I was seeing. You'd think since having my last baby 13 years ago, I would be used to being fat, but I'm not.  There's fat and there's FAT.  Right now, I am at FAT and I'd like to get down to fat before spring comes and I can start training for some kind of crazy physical feat; like a triathlon or another marathon (read my condensed marathon story here ).

More about those plans later.

So, up until a few days ago, I was hyper-focused on what was going on with my exterior, to the point that it was exhausting.  I still had obligations to family, friends and the various committees I am involved with, but doing even the most basic thing felt monumentally hard.  I blame it on being heavier than ever before and being just a tiny bit depressed about it.  You know that things are not going well when brushing your teeth seems like a real chore; like something you need to cross off a list.  Forget the actual lists I have.  That shit is on the back burner.  

Now, the list has only one item:  Be the person I was meant to be.

That's it.  Of course, there are sub-headers and lines a through z.  There's a lot that goes into being that person.  But, the way to get there is simple:  Do the things that move me towards a goal and don't do things that move me away.  For example:  I want to complete a big, physically demanding goal by the end of next year.  In order for me to do that, I have to be physically and emotionally ready.  It will take many weeks, many smaller goals and many setbacks to achieve it, so I need to give it a good long time to be accomplished.   

I am not very patient and that has been a big part of what has kept me FAT.  It took too long to see results and I got mad and punished myself by gaining more weight.  It's a long and complicated journey, this one with food.  Everything I think about myself plays into how I treat my temple (it's a god damned temple, you hear me?!?  It just needs some slight retrofitting and remodeling and it will be a thing of beauty for years to come).  

This journey is not about being hot again.  That ship has sailed.  And you know what?  I think that for the first time ever, I don't care.  I was talking to my sister the other day about this.  I said something to the effect of being invisible; that I have gotten to the point where I could grocery shop wearing a clown wig and no one would notice because I am a chunky, middle aged mom. 

Somehow, I've gotten to the point where no one outside my circle of family and friends really sees me.  Sometimes, I wonder if they even see me; me how I really am.  I think my husband usually sees the girl who met him at the end of the aisle eighteen years ago.  I can't keep up with that girl in a race today, but I sure am more thoughtful and more compassionate than she was.  I wonder what my kids see.  Do they judge my weight?  It makes me think of my maternal grandmother, whom I loved so much, and who passed away this summer.  She was heavy most of the years I knew her and I loved her.  My grandfather loved her.  They were happy and laughed and had fun, even though she was bothered by the weight and was always trying some kind of weird diet.  I hope that at some point she stopped measuring her worth in pounds and more in love; that which she gave and that which she received.  I wonder what she would tell me now about wasting time on things that don't ultimately matter.

Speaking of my grandmother:  I am also realizing that I have not fully processed the losses of this past summer.  I lost three significant family members, including both of my grandmothers and Oliver; a boy I never met in person, but learned to love just the same.  I've tried to channel my feelings into advocacy and writing and doing things that make my existence on this planet mean something, but at some point, I just need to sit with my grief.  I've been catching myself from falling into that vast, unwelcome valley, but maybe it is time to explore it a little.  We all have to walk through this valley time and time again as we age.  It should be like going home, but instead, it feels like an endless mire of tears and silence.  It's murky and dark and I am afraid.

I don't need to fill that valley with food, or approval, or laughs.  I only need to sit there and see that I can survive on my own.  All I need is a hanky and a hug when I emerge.

And to the people (they seem to be coming out of the woodwork) who want me to find Jesus/go into business with them/join their cult I want to say thank you for making me see that I am the only one who can fix me.  I think I am on the right track and I will burn your business card keep you in mind, but I need to step away right now.  I have enough crazy up in here, thanks.

So, the to do list:  Be the person I was meant to be 

     a) lose the weight

          1) make a list of achievable goals to meet the ultimate one

     b) sit with my grief

     c) start today

Marathon

(this is my condensed marathon story...re-written because I cannot find the file in which the full version is saved.  Sigh...)

My only goal at mile 23 was to not let the street cleaner pass me.  I had heard it for a while, coming up behind me, sucking up and scouring the debris from the Chicago street.  But, like most every goal I had at the start of the race, this one eluded me in a cloud of black smoke and stench.  

And I started crying.  Again.  I had pretty much given up trying not to cry at this point.  I had been crying on and off throughout the race.  First, my tears were of joy and happiness and just being overwhelmed by the sheer size of the mass of humanity surrounding me.  Runners, millions cheering, the theme from "Rocky" blaring...it was too much.   Who doesn't get choked up when they hear "Gonna Fly Now"?  

So, yeah.  I was crying again.  Only, these tears were of disappointment and thirst and hunger and agony.  WHY?!?! Why was I doing this, again?  

Something about bucket lists and wanting to rediscover my inner athlete and oh yeah, lose weight.

What an idiot.

I looked up at the street sweeper as it lumbered past and I saw the driver was gesturing to me.  Sweaty, dirty and humiliated, I was in no mood to be laughed at by some guy in sanitation.  

I looked again, too tired to flip the guy off, but wanting to and I saw it:  Three fingers.  Three miles to go.  Then, a thumbs up and a smile as he rolled past.

I still get emotional thinking about that moment.

He could have laughed.  He could have ignored me.  Instead, he chose to cheer me on, my only fan besides poor Yuyi, who was running behind me, afraid to leave me alone.  

I smiled for the first time in miles and miles.  I reached down and found some previously untapped reserve of determination and picked up the pace.

I finished that race, the 2004 Chicago Marathon, in eight hours, three minutes and 51 seconds.  

I was the last official finisher.  Go ahead, Google it.  

If you don't believe that, here's the article that some douchey writer from the Tribune wrote after he interviewed me by phone.  He stole all my best lines AND called me a "terrified homemaker".  Jerk.

http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2004-10-15/features/0410150059_1_chicago-marathon-finish-race-director-carey-pinkowski

That was not the plan.  Finishing?  Yes.  Last?  No.

It is here where I will say that something like 800 people dropped out of the race or finished after they picked up the carpet with the timer, which was, literally, the second after I crossed.  The guy was actually picking it up when Yuyi and I were approaching.  But, seeing us, he called us over and said "step on it!".  So, we did and there you go.  

But, I finished what I had started six months earlier when I first saw the flier advertising training with the AIDS Marathon team.  I guess that is what matters; sticking to it.  That cheesy ad "Just Do It"?  Yeah.  That's me.  :)

I think it's time to dust off the old running shoes and set a new goal.  

2014 will be the year that I reclaim my badassedness.

You can bet on that.