O HAI

Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t the blog I have been sorely neglecting for the past month-plus!  A polite kiss on the cheek and many heartfelt apologies to you, sweet blog-o-my-heart.

I would love to write that I have been far too busy gallavanting across the globe to write here– that I have been island-hopping with the supersexy bling ring (that’s still a thing, right?) and climbing tall mountains in faraway lands and indulging in culinary and corporeal delights of every stripe.  But alas, I do not write “the fictions” here.  I must admit that the past five-ish weeks have been rather rough on both body and soul.  And it has taken most of my energy just to get out of bed every morning, put on my bravest face, and trudge (or tiptoe) through the day.  The stress of the holiday season left me feeling spiritually depleted, financially stretched, and unbelievably tired, and the holidays were followed up by a terribly sad event in Todd’s life that only further exhausted my rapidly-dissipating resources.

AND THEN ERNIE THE SEVEN-TOED WONDERCAT GAVE TODD A STAPH INFECTION!

True facts.  True, surprising, awful, ridiculous facts.

“I’m too cute to infect people with my razor-sharp claws! Oh wait . . . no I’m not!” *SLASH*

Paws crossed for luck!

 

But as awful as I feel right now, I will admit that things are not entirely terrible.  I ran tonight for the first time in weeks, and it felt good to breathe hard and rhythmically to “Jock Jams, vol. 1.”  I started private yoga lessons and am rebuilding a home practice with Adamantine Yoga (blog post to follow soon on all that greatness), and I feel reconnected to myself– which is strange, because I did not realize how disconnected I felt *from* myself until I started practicing again.  Oh yoga, you are so wise.  And I made a delicious vegan dinner last night for Todd and I that was filling and healthy and pretty mind-blowing.  Thank you to Altoona Public Library and your surprisingly wide selection of vegan and vegetarian cookbooks!

Hellooooo, vegan sunflower cheese bread!

I don’t know where 2014 will take me.  Honestly, I barely trust the present moment to take me somewhere that doesn’t involve dangerous serpents and sneakly-hidden landmines and conservative talk radio piped in through the ceiling . . . but until I go, I am here.  And I am writing again.  That feels good.

 

33 things, one month in

Whelp, to paraphrase my friend (and prolific writer and tweeter) Kevin, November sure was a month, huh?

My November was a bit of a struggle, primarily on the health front– I endured one of the nastiest and most persistent colds/flus I have suffered in years, which adversely affected my running, and thus my mental clarity.  I found myself trying to force my lungs into runs that my brain knew were not a wise endeavor, but I suppose there are far worse and graver mistakes a girl can make than trying to run with “a touch of pneumonia” (my diagnosis during the first doctor visit).  Thankfully, with my trusty sidekicks, Rest and Clementines, I am back in my tennies and hitting the trails and treadmills.  I put in 2.1 miles tonight (plus some walking and weights) on the treadmill, accompanied by Songza’s “Sexy, Sweaty Dance Workout” (though admittedly, I’m not sure any amount of Kelis and Justin Timberlake can make treadmill-running a “sexy” activity), and I felt GOOD when I was finished.  My legs felt tired in a happy, they-just-did-something way, and my mind was ebullient and firing on all of its grey-matter-y cylinders!  So, while the 33 miles didn’t quite happen last month, I am feeling optimistic for goal-achievement in December!

My other goals for my thirty-third year were a bit more successful.  I read several books, including Catching Fire (repeat), Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore (new and BRILLIANT AND WONDERFUL READ IT NOW!!!), and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (only started, but quite intriguing thus far).  I wrote in my top-secret girl-thoughts journal for the first time in MONTHS and discovered how much I had missed writing just for me, in a safe and hidden place where my words and thoughts and fears and ideas can exist and just be, without judgment or analysis.  I traveled to the unassuming and charming Lancaster, Wisconsin, for a weekend of adventures with my favorite expat, and I saw my family on multiple occasions, which was spectacular.  I even managed to get back onto my yoga mat several times, and I can now downward dog in the light of the Christmas tree, which makes downward dog – and every other pose – feel a bit more magical.  

This month, I am focusing extra energy on my relationships with my family, be they biological or laughter-bound or spiritual members.  One of my (few) (okay, several) (alright, fine, multitudinous, but do we really need to make a list?) struggles in my little modern life is understanding how to continue building relationships once they exist.  I feel a bit incompetent in this, actually– I am incredibly comfortable in forging an initial bond with someone, but I often find myself awkward and lost at where to go from there.  A significant portion of this awkwardness is driven by fear: what if I pursue a relationship with enthusiasm and am met with apathy– or rejection?  I am getting more comfortable with the thought that this fear may be realized at some point, but these connections are worth pursuing.  I have wonderful stepbrothers and stepsisters and steps-in-law who I would love to connect with more closely; I have a fantastic pair of pseudoparents who I have never figured out how to thank for the home they gave me when I was a stranger in my own; I have a fascinating set of people in Todd’s family whose personalities are vibrant and enchanting.  So many brilliant and charming and high-quality people that I would like to know at least a tiny bit more than I know them know.  This is, to be sure, a magnificent “problem” to have in my life.  

I will continue to put one foot in front of the other, whether those feet are wearing stylish wedge booties and headed out for sushi and laughter or sporting tennies and steadily climbing the treadmill incline or keeping toasty-warm in slippers on a snowy evening with the company of a cup of tea and a good book.  I will get to where I am meant to be.  And in the meantime, I will run and read and love and laugh and mep.

Thank you, December, for the promise you hold.

Little gifts

My home welcomed home a kitten this weekend!  His name is Ernie, short for Ernest Hemingway– I wanted to name him Jake Barnes, after my favorite Hemingway character, but then I would need a Lady Brett Ashley and a moderately intolerable Robert Cohn and a Pedro and a Mike and who knows where it would end??  He has seven toes on each of his front paws, and he is rambunctious, and he is the first kitten I have ever been lucky enough to parent, and he is extraordinary.

Of course, I can’t get any of my blasted photos of lovely Ernie to upload– I have a new laptop (courtesy of Todd and the world’s most awesome AND helpful birthday gift EVAR) and for some reason, it cannot handle basic tasks like storing photographs and operating in a non-perplexing way.  C’est la weirdo technologie.  But trust me, Ernie is fantastic.

Today has been a bit of a crabby day, only because I have been ill.  My lungs were unfortunately “touched” by pneumonia, and I spent the better part of the past two days either napping or wishing I were napping.  My throat feels like I have been gargling glass, my body aches inexplicably, and my head has only recently cast aside the ache it had been carrying since mid-Tuesday afternoon . . . yeah.  un.plea.sant.itis.  But Ernie has made it a little more adorable, if not actually “better.”  He attacked my book while I tried to read, he purred loudly and sat on my tummy while I napped, and he made sure I knew that he cared– even if that caring came in the form of being loud and crazy and, at rare moments, mildly annoying in his page-attacking antics.  I am thankful for this newest addition to my little world.

Welcome home, Ernie.

 

33 things

Whelp, it’s official.

I am thirty-three years old.  And so far, let me tell you, it’s pretty awesome-ish.

The thirty-second year of my life ended on a painful, cacophonous chorus of sour notes that would have sent me running for the hills, if my part of the midwest had hills . . . But despite the rather disappointing ending, I am so thankful foir the gifts that 32 brought me.  I escaped the exhaustion and terror of private practice and rejoined the ranks of the government, serving the people and crusading for justice and clocking out at a reasonable time each day.  I moved in with my boyfriend, who quickly became my fiance, and we shared infinite laughs and adventures despite life’s best-laid plans to attack our fun with its bullshit.  I became good friends with a little small who has changed my world in the very best ways; because of her, I am well-versed in blessings and giggles and Selena Gomez.  And I got to be a part of some incredibly awesome endeavors!  I saw my friend Heather’s extraordinary Fringe show about R.T. Rybak and submitted a reflection for my friend Kevin’s blog entry on the anniversary of Elliott Smith’s death and adopted a cat and made some incredible new friends and ran in my very first 5K and started this little blog . . .

Of course, there were also some “gifts disguised as piles of poop,” from which I am sure I will learn many important life lessons.  But this little writing is not about those bits of nonsense.  Nay, this is my opportunity to set forth my ultimate, astounding, 133% epic list of goals for my thirty-third year of life!

BOOM!

1.    I will run 33 miles every month.  Maybe more, but never less.  I feel better when I run.  And this year is about feeling – and being – better.
2.    I will read 33 books.  Some might be repeats, but at least half MUST be new.  And one of them must be Moby Dick.  Melville, I shall conquer thee!
3.    I will work on being a better partner– more of my “felt on the inside” love needs to become “shown on the outside” love.
4.    Once each month, I will travel somewhere new.  I will be brave enough to explore the unknown, near and far.
5.    I will make a more concerted effort to visit my family.  I love them so very much, and I miss them.  Lots and lots.
6.    I will run the Gigi’s Playhouse 5K in under 30 minutes.  I. WILL.
7.    I will write more!  Specifically, I will write HERE more.  I also hope to complete a “This I Believe” essay, a “Hatesong” entry, and an “Open Letter to People Unlikely to Respond.”
8.    I will start volunteering with Amanda the Panda.  They gave me so much when I was so very small– it’s time to give back.
9.    Pushing aside laziness and excuses and nonsense and whatnot, I promise to build a better relationship with my yoga mat.
10.  Once again channeling bravery, I will spend more time on the zafu and will finally visit the zen center here in DSM.  The present moment is now.
11.   I will hug someone I love every single day.

There might be more goals that develop as the year progresses, and I am keeping this list short to leave room for that to happen.  These goals are already at least partially in progress, which is how I know they are good goals– these are things I care about enough to be doing in my everyday life, without a list for guidance and a deadline for pressure.  I cannot wait for a year from now to see where I am– both physically and Liz-ally.

Cats and leaves and longer sleeves

Ladies and gentlemen, it is officially fall.  The air is crisper and it turns my cheeks a rosy pink as I jog and wheeze under the earlier-setting sun.  The pumpkins are large and orange-ful and hold the promise of a blank canvas, making me almost forget how terrible of a pumpkin-carver I reveal myself to be, year after year after year.  The sweaters and hoodies have taken their rightful place in the forefront of my closet, and my faithful cozy black scarf has reemerged from its summer adventures in the coat closet.  Yes, the season is autumn and the Lizzles is happy.

This past weekend, Toddley P. and I took the small and her “gentleboy caller on the cusp of genius-insanity” (my term, not his) to Center Grove Orchard for pumpkins and ciders and animal-observing.  It was crowded but surprisingly spacious, and we returned home with a splendid selection of pumpkins for painting and carving, crisp and tart apples for a pie-baking adventure, and kernels of hard, pokey corn embedded in our cold and rosy autumnal bums.  That last element was not my personal favorite, but such is the life of a swimmer in the vast and pleasant-textured corn pool.

PUMPKIN PARTY!

HAYRIDE! (Not pictured: the small burrowing in my armpit to stay warm; the gentleboy burrowing into the hay whilst laughing manically)

 

I’ve been running faster these days, though unfortunately not more consistently.  Just over a week ago, I ran a nine-minute mile!  This is far and away the fastest mile I have ever traveled (not assisted by an engine, that is), and I felt overwhelmed by my own speed and accomplishment . . . it is rare, indeed, that I surprise myself like that.  I’m aiming to exercise at least four times a week and travel at least three miles each time– I’m hoping to watch my speed slowly increase with these efforts, and ultimately I’m aiming to decrease my 5K time.  I am going to register for the Chocolaterie Stam 5K, which occurs in the East Village area on November 16– helloooooo, chocolatey rewards!  

This is the face of victory– or victorious crankiness. One or the other.

My work has become an incredibly fulfilling part of my life.  I come home from a day of investigating and I fight the urge to babble about subtle legal distinctions and fascinating fact patterns and other civil rights law nerdiness.  Thankfully (for Todd and the cats, at least), confidentiality puts a stop to much of this temptation becoming a reality.  It’s incredibly satisfying to come home from a day of work these days; for eighteen long and painful months, that was not the case, and I am so grateful for the opportunity to work for an entity and a cause so much bigger and more important than my own little existence.

I am looking forward to the next year of my life.  In ten days, I will turn thirty-three years old.  I am thinking of making one of those “thirty-three goals for my thirty-third year” lists, both because I think it would be entertaining to review a year from now and because right now there are ONEMILLIONZILLION endeavors I want to undertake and if this next year is going to be successful in a “checking off items on a list” sort of way, I think it would be wise to draft – and dramatically trim – a concrete list of said endeavors.  I kicked off the celebrations a few weeks early with a grand adventure to the SPAM Museum with my birthday twin and my main squeeze!  It was epic: wildly interactive, surprisingly informative, and undeniably spamalicious.

Spamming it up, birthday-style!

I know the next year of my life will include more running and less slothing, more loving and less hating, more embracing the magic of the universe and less engaging with negativity of any stripe.  But beyond that, I suppose, the next year is entirely up to me.  

Scary.  And true.  And awesome.

 

The Anti-Princess Bride

Being engaged is fantastic.  Thinking about being married, especially to someone as fantastic-larious as Todd, is awesome.  Planning a wedding is total bullshit.

Let me explain.

When you tell people you are going to get married, you are met with one zillion questions.  When?  Where?  How big of a wedding?  How big of a bridal party?  Dinner or lunch?  Or brunch?  Or fancy apps?  (Applications?  Appetizers?  Applications through which you can order appetizers???  WHO KNOWS!)  Dressy or casual?  Where are you registered?  What kind of cake?  Where will you honeymoon?  Are you changing your name??  Do the cats approve?!

And then, there is the ULTIMATE “bride” question: Do you have a dress yet?

Now, I am a fan of fashion– I love my daily mind-excursions to gofugyourself.com and tomandlorenzo.com, I enjoy trend-spotting (and trend-criticizing . . . hellooooo, resurgence of plaid!!), and I have some fashion sense– enough, at least, to make my Target wardrobe courtroom-to-cocktails-appropriate.  Well, provided the cocktails are consumed on my couch, in my sweatpants.  But as I was saying . . . I like fashion.  I care about fashion.  But I cannot STAND the vast majority of wedding gowns.  Maybe it’s because I’ve always been a bit self-conscious, and I don’t want to wear something particularly attention-drawing.  Maybe it’s because I have never had any desire to look like either (a) a parlor in Versailles or (b) Queen Frostine from Candyland.  And maybe it’s because I cannot COMPREHEND spending multiple thousands of dollars on a dress I am “not allowed to” eat/drink/sit/sweat/breathe in and that I will wear absolutely no more than 24 hours.  Putting all of those maybes together, I have found myself incredibly frustrated by wedding-gown shopping.

I was determined to be non-traditional and fancy-but-classy, so I took myself down to a local boutique and very briefly considered having my wedding gown handmade.  This fantasy was beautiful and lasted as long as it took for me to learn the price.  After that, I took myself away and talked to a friend about having her brilliant seamstress mother fashion me a gown.  This idea had great potential– low cost and EXACTLY what I wanted.  Well, exactly what I wanted, provided someone had designed the pattern of my dreams and I could find this pattern.  I spent one afternoon poring over pattern books at JoAnn Fabrics and developed a headache, a fear of shoulder pads, and a fearful, rotten feeling in my bridal gut.  Driving home that afternoon, having spent the better part of my Sunday trying to decide which satin was less hideous contemplating (only half-jokingly) the merits of mosquito netting as a gown fabric, I was ready to order a white velour sweatsuit and be done with it.I thought it could not get any worse than this feeling.

And then I went online.  And I found the Disney Fairy Tale Weddings by Alfred Angelo gown collection.

HOLY CRAP.

This is a collection of gowns inspired by Disney princesses: there are Snow White gowns (complete with seven live dwarf attendants), Jasmine gowns (shoes coated with the blood of peasants), and Cinderella gowns (too obvious to mention).  There are Ariel gowns (with the fervent desire for legs and manliness between them woven into the fabric) and Sleeping Beauty gowns (wake up and smell the tuille).  These gowns are spangly and voluminous and bejeweled and attention-getting.  But what struck me about these gowns is that they are all inspired by the “great romances” of Disney’s various princesses, the women whose stories on the screen end with a kiss at the wedding (if that).  These romances that are tested by circumstantial challenges that fade in the shining light of TRUE LOVE.  These romances that do not know financial distress,  or health issues, or job stress, or grandmothers who accuse the groom of breaking the pepper grinder, or former spouses, or jealous cats, or any other challenge that cannot conveniently be resolved and disposed of within 90 minutes.

Now, I don’t know if the women who buy these princess gowns are thinking about the irony of their selections when they make their purchases.  And I certainly do not want to judge any woman on what she wants to wear on her wedding day.  But between the sparkles and the faux fantasy and the price tag, the Disney princess dress-up game was not for me.

Eventually, I found a dress.  It does not have layers of tuille or Versailles-inspired embroidery or a long row of pearl buttons down the back.  But it is simple and beautiful, and it is just the dress I want to wear when I say forever to the man who helps me through the obstacles of modern life.  And really, who needs Prince Charming when you have Chubby Batman.

 

 

VICTORY (or, that time I ran a 5K)

I have officially done that which I did not think I could – or would ever – do.  I, Lizzles P., ran/walked a 5K.  In public.  In August.

Crossing the finish line and laughing all the way, much like the reindeer (a relatively unknown method for staying cool).

The goal has been on the calendar for months now, but I must admit that the weeks immediately preceding this past Saturday were a bit rough.  Todd and I went on vacation, and while it was wonderful, it disrupted my excellent gym attendance record . . . and then I had to work at the Iowa State Fair (and “had to” eat a lot of things on sticks) . . . and then I got a cold . . . and then I got lazy.  And the old “Liz is a non-runner” thoughts started kicking in.  The nasty, self-defeating thoughts that will cruelly remind me anytime I ask (and most times I implicitly ask via unhealthy habits) that these thighs were built for lounging, not running.  These thoughts love to take every opportunity to reminisce about my failures, large and small (“Hey Liz, remember that time you were on the seventh-grade basketball team and were only mediocre, despite your mother branding you a ‘space-eater’ from birth?”  “Hey Liz, remember that one time in law school when you pushed, instead of pulled, on the library door and felt a little embarrassed?”  “Hey Liz, remember that time . . . ” “YES THOUGHTS I REMEMBER!  GEEEEZ!”).  These thoughts are frustrating and omnipresent.  And every other time, these thoughts have won.

But this time, things went differently.  This time, I faced the night before the race and did not suddenly come down with a mysterious ailment or have a scheduling conflict or shame myself into hiding.  This time, I got a good night’s rest and got up in the morning and kicked ass.

With muscles, are things are possible.

Saturday morning was PERFECT.  Todd and the small came to cheer me on, and Todd’s sister Wendy ran with me!!  She is an actual runner, of actual races, and it meant a lot to me that she slowed her legs enough to plod along beside me.

The course was mostly a paved path around a little human-constructed lake . . . but due to weird logistics, a small portion of the course was “cross-country,” otherwise known as a lovely dirt/grass combination that greeted me with dust and footing difficulties.

The sign at the beginning of the cross-country portion. I kid you not.

The awesome thing about this path was that it was only 1.6 miles, so at the halfway mark I paused for a high-five with my favorite people!  Also, there were cheerleaders, which made me think that life really needs more cheerleaders to help us through our challenges.  Sparkly pom-poms and an emphatic “you can do it!” do a LOT for me.

As Wendy and I hit the final stretch of the course on our second lap, I heard Todd bellowing cheers from the finish line.  And obviously, I started to laugh.  Which made me trip.  Which almost caused me to fall.  Which made me laugh harder.  It really was the perfect day for me.

After forty-one minutes and twenty-six seconds, I crossed the finish line.  And it was sweet, laughter-inducing victory!

Hahaha running is hilarious hahaha whoa I smell a little ripe . . .

This experience taught me a lot.  I learned that I am stronger and more awesome than I thought I was, and I learned that the victorious feeling at the end of any sort of organized running event is incomparable to any academic or professional victory I have experienced in my life.  I learned or was reminded that my family and friends have incredible faith in me — they helped me, chubby and lazy me, exceed my fundraising goal for this race by 20%!  I learned that my legs and lungs are incredibly powerful when I ask them to be.  And I learned (or was reminded, rather) that the wonderful people with whom I have chosen to become a family are some of the most kickass people in the world.  They cheered me on, they ran alongside me, they encouraged me throughout the training process.  And when my feet crossed the finish line, they shouted aloud that I had won.

And I had.  I raised $180 for Gigi’s Playhouse!  I showed up with tens of tens of other runners and walkers to support their organization and all they do for people with Down’s Syndrome.  I crossed dangerous-ish terrain and braved the risk of sunburn for my favorite small.  I. WON.

Cheering squad: an essential component of any runner’s life.

This was my very first 5K.  It will not be my last.

Me and my favorite cheerleader.

 

 

My new favorite Des Moines thing!

As you may or may not know, I am a bit of an art lover.  I studied art history in college, largely because I discovered fine art in high school and found that art was the one area I could study without getting bored.  Art taught me history, but art also taught me psychology and creativity and love and exploration and . . . it taught me a world without boundaries.  And ever since I discovered art – real, non-cookie-cutter, soul-altering, hilarious, maddening, depressing, beautiful, ugly, REAL art – I have been a better person.

Fast forward to today.  (WHOOOOOSH!)

I cracked open my fresh edition of Des Moines’ Juice (the free publication without the crossword, sadly) and flipped to page 16, the best page for all human interest stories, and what did I discover?  Des Moines is now home to community-supported art!  Much like a community-supported agriculture program, for a small and disproportionate-to-the-value-of-the-returns fee, a resident of Des Moines can receive NINE ORIGINAL WORKS OF ART!  Co-founder of Community Supported Art DSM Cat Rocketship describes the program as “sort of training wheels for starting your own art collection.”  I love this phrase and description and program and OH MY GOD LOCAL ART!!!

The details of the program are available in Juice, and through makebreak.us.  Simply put, you can join the program soon and begin reaping the benefits of Des Moines’ growing and flourishing atist garden as early as May 2014.  Art is growing in Des Moines!!

I heard about a program like this in Minneapolis, and unfortunately my timing was always off and I never managed to acquire a share of the little apple’s local artists.  I am delighted that Des Moines has created this program!  I love community-supported anythings (except for that year when I bought a membership in a CSA and got three weeks solid of wilty lettuce and then I moved and Todd adopted my share and accidentally stole a fruit share . . .  but I digress) and nurturing local art and local artists is the responsibility and honor of any good citizen.  Thank you, Cat Rocketship and Laura Palmer and Community Supported Art DSM.  I have bought in with my heart.  And soon, I shall buy in with my dollars.

ART FOREVER!

A fun-filled (and exhausting) day . . .

Today was the day I have been dreaming of since I moved to Altoona a long / short / unbelievable! eight months ago.  Today, Todd and the small and I piled into Frederico La Fiesta and headed off for the land of “over 200 shows, rides, and attractions” and had a “fun-filled day” at . . .

ADVENTURELAND!

 

We kicked off the day with the gondola ferris wheel– Todd likes it for the lovely view it provides, I love it for the tummy-non-stressing entertainment, and the small . . . well, she was pretty nonplussed by the whole ferris wheel experience, but she endured it with aplomb.

 

The rest of the day was largely similar in tone.  The small had been to Adventureland once this year already, and though she had a good time today, she was not nearly as thrilled as I was to be there.  I had not been to the land of fun-filled days in FIVE YEARS, which is wayyyy too long.

I remember going to Adventureland as a little girl.  I remember journeys from Cedar Rapids with my madre and sisters, when my mom packed me a cream cheese and grape jelly sandwich to eat at our pre-park parking lot picnic (thrifty, but never cheap).  I remember never being allowed to ride the crazy rides at the Iowa State Fair because we would be going to Adventureland the next day and, really, why would we pay to ride rides at the fair when we could ride them all for free later?  This logic, by the way, did not work on my little eight-year-old brain.  But I pretended it did.  As a middle child, I am the incorrigible peacemaker.  Adventureland has become this land of vested happy childhood memories for me.  Adventureland holds the promise of screams, squishy-wet tennis shoes, giggles, and mild sunburns that signal the end of freedom and the return of raising hands, completing worksheets, and sitting still long after you have lost the desire to do so.  It meant a lot to me that today, I could have this adventure with my Altoona family.

My favorite ride . . . and my favorite picture.

Todd and I took a few pictures along the way, though it was easier – and far more enjoyable – to put away our phones and just BE during the day.  After years of advisement books and flailing efforts, I am happy just being me in my daily life.  And today, that life took me to Adventureland.

After the theme park excursion, we returned home for naps and showers and a little relaxing before our week came to a close.  Tonight, I sit here relaxing with a summery brew while Todd grills cheeseburgers outside and the cats do their level best to pretend they have forgotten my pleas for them to do the laundry.  Tomorrow will bring a host of chores, Sunday carries my obliged final working-shift at the Iowa State Fair, and Monday . . . well, I needn’t continue describing Mondays, for they are emblazoned into the cranky souls of every worker bee I know.  But tonight, it is still Adventureland day.  And what a fun-filled day it is.

 

Okay, maybe one more picture . . .

Non-posed and wicked awesome: the little small wins!!!

Goodnight.  And happy, happy, happy.

Eighteen days

In eighteen days, I will run the first 5K of my third decade of life.

I thought I was going to be super-ready.  BEYOND ready.  I started the “Couch to 5K” program a solid three months ago.  I worked my way up from 60-second slogs to five-minute trots to a solid 30 minutes of downright running jogging.  And that alone made me feel good, and it made me feel accomplished.  Eventually, I ran a solid 3.1 miles!  IN A ROW!  I was still working toward my ultimate fitness goal, a 30-minute 5K, but the fact that I made it the entire race distance without stopping felt like victory.  It was a Saturday afternoon and I was quen of the world!!  And then, something strange happened.  And by strange, I mean frustrating.

I started regressing.

The run after my victorious 5K, I made it a mere ten minutes before stopping to walk.  My lungs felt tuberculine (maybe not a word, but it should be– adjective describing something inflicted with tuberculosis, obviously), my legs seemed leaden, and my soul. was. devastated.  I actually started crying on the way out of the gym, which I unsuccessfully tried to cover as sweat dripping into my eye – as sweat is not generally accompanied by gaspy sobbing sounds and a full-body collapse in a public entryway – and ended up taking the looo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ong way home to try and calm myself down.  There may have been an effort to cheer myself up with “mmmmBop” involved.  It may have worked.  Somewhat.

But here, my friends, is the difference between this year and all my other years.  This year, instead of taking this one devastating run as a sign that quitting is inevitable and running is quintessentially NOT liz, I took it for what it was: one bad run.  And two days later, I went back to the gym.  And two days after that, I went back again.  That bad run still sticks with me – painfully, at moments – but it does not control me.  I am stronger than my one bad run.

I have continued to run, and it has gotten a little easier.  I have not returned to the victorious Saturday afternoon 5K, but I have improved, and I continue to improve.  My legs feel a little bit stronger, and my core engages on its own now, and my diaphragm remembers to assist in the breathing process, and I feel as though – for the first time in my pseudofitness career – I can do this.  I. can. do. this.

I am further motivated by the fundraising I did for this upcoming race-of-sorts.  I am running a 5K for Gigi’s Playhouse, a Down’s Syndrome awareness and empowerment non-profit with a presence in the Des Moines area.  I like the idea of raising funds for such an awesome organization, and I knew that I would be motivated by my commitment to the organization — when I wanted to quit (after, for instance, my terrible-ist of all terrible runs), perhaps — to keep running and show up on August 24th.  I set a fundraising goal of $150, which seemed high but not entirely unattainable.  I sent an email, set up a little fundraising page, and kept on running.  Today, I *EXCEEDED* my fundraising goal.  I have now raised 120% of what I hoped to raise for Gigi’s Playhouse, thanks to the family and friend-family who believe in me and motivate me and help me be the awesome person I strive to be on a daily basis.  And though physically I still plod along on my own, my legs occasionally heavier than I would like them to be, I feel lighter emotionally.  With them, life is easier.  So I suppose it only makes sense that running would be easier, too.

In eighteen days, I run my 5K.  I may have to walk a little bit.  I may have to play some “mmmBop” loudly to power myself through the final mile . . . or two . . . and that is just fine.  I will carry with me a commitment to Gigi’s Playhouse, and the people who believe in me and put their dollars on the table for this cause, and . . . nothing else.

My legs can’t take much more.