A lot has changed in my life since this same month last year. I’ve run a marathon. My brother has adopted a puppy. I’ve traveled to India and Brazil, I’m dating someone new, and heart-throb Seal is back on the market. (Those last two items may or may not be related.)
But you know what hasn’t changed since April 2012? My performance in NYRR’s annual Scotland Run 10K.
This is the second time I’ve completed this race, giving me a chance to track my progress over the course of a year. Last year, I crossed the finish line at a respectable 50:58; a full 365 days later, I managed to shave off (drumroll please) a whopping 19 seconds to secure a time of 50:39. Not a bad performance in the scheme of things, no, but a time that’s in no way indicative of the literally one thousand miles I’ve logged in the 12 months since.
Saturday’s finish was also more than four minutes slower than my 10K PR of 47:31 recorded last June at the NYRR New York Mini. Four minutes may not feel a lot of time when you’re watching Ryan Gosling strut his stuff on the big screen, but it’s an eternity when you’re talking about 10K splits.
Or in other words (lifted from my good friend Toby Keith), it appears I’m not as good as I once was. Also, I should have been a cowboy.
But while it’s tempting to let my failure to improve as an athlete over the course of the year get me down, I’m trying hard to keep it all in perspective. Yes, my performance at the Scottish Run was nearly identical to last year’s, but I’m also coming from a vastly different athletic base. By the time I’d run this past weekend’s race in 2012, I already had six first-quarter races under my belt, including two other 10Ks and a half marathon in a blizzard. This year, my first-quarter race count was a big ol’ goose egg.
As a result, I haven’t been practicing pacing in a crowd or negative splitting or drinking on the go or – most importantly – getting my speed up to a racing clip, so of course this run would feel a little rocky. Without putting it in perspective, it’s easy to find myself disappointed with my performance, but once you take everything into account, Saturday’s lackluster outcome wasn’t worth getting bent out of shape over. I came at this year’s Scotland Run with painfully little training, and if I was still able to finish 19 seconds faster than I did last year, then maybe I’m not in such a bad place after all. I mean, if I were to actually start hard training again, who knows what I’d be capable of?
But perspective isn’t just for an athlete’s arsenal. It’s also an invaluable coping mechanism for non-athletes and non-humans alike. I mean, ever gotten a terrible haircut?
Oh cruel world. I preferred not having to see ye.
Tempting to let it get you down, sure, but sometimes, it just takes a little perspective, some time and a lovely red bandanna to get you smiling again.
‘I’ve got to admit it’s getting better.’
How do you try to keep a disappointing race performance in perspective?
My definition of adulthood has evolved and expanded with each life stage, and just when I think I’m about as grown up as a grown up can be, I go and do something so mature it would make the Lost Boys cringe.
In high school, I thought I’d feel like a grown-up once I had a serious boyfriend. In college, I thought I’d feel like a grown-up once I had a full-time reporting gig. In my early days as a New Yorker, I thought I’d feel like a grown-up once I stopped stealing Splendas from the corner deli to add to my kitchen coffer. (Spoiler alert: that’s never going to happen.) My concept of maturity has shifted and veered so many times in my recent history that I had almost come to believe there could never exist an absolute end to my exodus from youth.
And then this past weekend happened, and – my god – I am now without question an adult.
Why, you ask?
Well, on Friday night, I passed on happy hour to embark on some much needed spring cleaning, and was so pleased with my newly organized closet that I documented the results, which I have since shown dozens of (now former?) friends.
Yes, I own four pairs of GEL-NEO33 Asics in different colors. Don’t judge me.
On Saturday, I awoke before 7 a.m. on a weekend to meet two ladies for a 12-mile jog down the West Side Highway that culminated with a bowl of homemade oatmeal in my apartment rather than a bottomless mimosa brunch.
I hate you for not sweating, Leigh-Ann.
On Sunday, I cooked a five-course Easter dinner for a collection of friends, complete with egg dyeing, three kinds of vegetables and seasonally appropriate cupcakes.
Hippity-hoppity, diabetes’ on its way!
Pair this past weekend with me asking for a food processor for my birthday last year and it becomes painstakingly clear: I am ever so much more than twenty.
But I’m not necessarily saying that’s a bad thing. In general, I prefer being a responsible adult to my naive, former self, especially when it comes to hailing cabs and picking up checks and buying boxes of Splenda in the sugar (?) aisle at the super market (did that sound believable?). Being mature enough to forgo a cocktail ahead of a long run or pick a training schedule and stick to it is crucial when it comes to marathon training, so while I occasionally miss the freedom that comes with youthful irresponsibility, I think I’ll take adulthood any day.
Unfortunately, being an adult also means finally getting over my silly preoccupation with my furry niece. So, dear readers, as I complete my transition to maturity, please enjoy one last slideshow of the goldeniest doodle around.
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Happy April 1, everyone! What do you do that makes you feel like a grown-up? And more importantly, what do you do that still makes you feel like a kid?
Sometimes you attend a Seder dinner and sample all 12 kinds of unleavened cookies in solidarity with the Israelites. Sometimes you opt for the lobster roll and chips in lieu of the salad once you learn your Oyster Bar dinner is being expensed. Sometimes you spend a winter weekend in beautiful New Hampshire with access to unlimited cupcakes, mayonnaise and red wine, stuff yourself silly and then roll your way to the fireplace to capture what I can only imagine is a 1980s propaganda poster for Mormonism.
Sometimes all those things happen in the course of a single week. Sometimes you awake on Friday morning to find your favorite skinny jeans don’t fit. And sometimes you have to break free from a familiar sentence structure and just stand up and say it:
Hi, I’m Anne, and I have a moderation problem.
I feel like a fraud: I’ve been touting the merits of moderation in this space for well over a year. Don’t believe me? I have the MLA-style bibliography to prove it.
“As (I would have said Winston Churchill, not google says Petronius) once said: Moderation in all things, including moderation. That, and always eat two lobsters at the seafood buffet.”
“I’ve said before and I’ll say again: Just like you have to make some sacrifices in your life to be a great runner, you also sometimes have to make sacrifices in your running to have a great life. Moderation in all things, including moderation.”
(But seriously, MLA, do we really still need to write “Web” in our citations of online information? Might be worth revisiting. Just saying.)
I know deep down inside that moderation is paramount when it comes to healthy eating as well as running, and I preach its merits every time a friend asks me how she, too, can turn her unhealthy life around. “Portion control,” I say. “Calculated caloric intake.” “Picking a running schedule and sticking to it.”
Every word of that’s true, but when it comes to my actual life, maintaining moderation is still a struggle. Every. Single. Day. I wake up each morning with the best of dietary intentions: oatmeal for breakfast, a homemade lunch, a reasonable dinner with friends, topping it all off with at least 30 minutes of exercise and 7 hours of sleep. But then a co-worker leaves cookies in the kitchen, or my reasonable dinner turns into alcohol-fueled karaoke, or I forgo my Friday morning 4-miler to sit at my laptop in a towel and write this blog post. I mean, hypothetically, on that last point.
It’s time we all admit it: maintaining a healthy lifestyle every day is HARD work. And it never stops being hard work. Losing 30 pounds in 2011 was difficult, but working every day to maintain my new weight two years out when all I really want is another co-worker cookie is a constant battle. There’s a reason two-thirds of U.S. adults are overweight or obese: it’s easier than maintaining perpetual moderation, especially when there appears to be sugar lurking around every corner.
Courtesy of my mother, the accidental crafter.
But while repeatedly falling off the wagon can be frustrating, the wonderful thing about signing on to be healthy for life – not just from now until beach season like some fad-diets would suggest – is that you can always get back on. I used to go on flash diets, mess up one night with a late night slice, and then throw in the towel and revert to my old ways. But when you’re thinking long term (i.e. forever), it’s a lot easier to forgive yourself for your occasional (alright, frequent) nutritional indiscretion, because you know the next day is always a new day. You can’t maintain weight loss by ordering a basket of fries at every post-workout brunch, but you also can’t harbor guilt for days on end every time you slip up and do.
I recently found myself forgetting this key ingredient in weight maintenance – self-forgiveness – but an old family friend sent me an email to set me straight. He wrote:
“Heed your own advice: ‘All things in moderation, including moderation.’ Don’t be afraid to get in touch with your inner slacker every once in a while. And never forget that while the early bird gets the worm, it’s the second mouse who gets the cheese.”
Thanks, Vaughan. I may have skipped my morning run – meaning I already slipped up and it’s not even 9 a.m. – but at least I didn’t get crushed up death. And when it comes to a lifetime of fitness, every small victory is one worth celebrating.
Happy Easter, everyone! How are you planning to maintain moderation this holiday weekend? (“Poorly” would be the answer I’m looking for.)
There are people in this world who swear by treadmills, and while I mean no offense by this, I assume they’re the same kinds of people who swear by lima beans and child trafficking and cats.
I realize running on treadmills has its benefits – pacing, convenience, climate and built-in Property Brothers marathons if you time it right – but for me, with the exception of my Liz Lemoniest moments, I’ve never seen the appeal.
I could spout a list of Runner’s World-approved problems with treadmills, from the lack of wind resistance to the disintegration of proper running form, but my problem with treadmills doesn’t actually have a thing to do with biometrics: I’m just scared to death of them. I fell on one once as a child goofing off in a department store, and just the sight of them brings back memories of skinned knees and the faint smell of scorched rubber. Not my fondest memory. (This is.)
Smooch the pooch.
Fortunately, with my apartment situated just blocks from 843 acres of city-owned park and the vast majority of this winter’s snowfall arriving on my already-scheduled rest days, I haven’t had to step foot on the old belt-o-fear for twelve months and counting.
Flash forward to Monday night – or two days before the start of spring – when I arrived home at night to find this blanketing my neighborhood:
I live in a Windows 95 screensaver. I also steal jokes from Kat.
The next morning, I had three miles on the schedule, and with a solid inch of slush still lining the sidewalks of the Upper East Side, I vowed to do the unthinkable: I decided to run those miles on the treadmill instead.
As I bundled up, trudged to the gym, de-booted and made my way up to the cardio studio, my apprehension grew. You’re terrified of treadmills! I thought. What are you doing, woman?! I looked at my old elliptical friend longingly, then stepped onto the treadmill, cranked the speed up to 7.0 and prepared to get over my years-long fear of the running monster machine.
The first 10 seconds were fine. The second 10 seconds were fine. Then the third 10 seconds saw the treadmill suddenly lurch forward and convulse, throwing me off the back and onto the lap of the startled rower directly behind me. “Hmm, must be broken. That usually doesn’t happen,” the personal trainer walking by me said. Really? That usually doesn’t happen? What other pearls of wisdom can you offer?
He kindly unplugged the machine and donned it with an “out of order” sign, and then suggested I grab one of the other free treadmills to continue my workout. I laughed.
Luckily, Sir Elliptical was still going stag, so I picked up my headphones, backed away from the treadmills and decided once and for all: when it comes to workout routines, perhaps you can’t teach old dogs new tricks.
Or maybe you can.
‘Open the sun woof!’
Are you a treadmill runner? What do you see as the benefits? Handsy dude on the rowing machine, I already know you’re a fan.
My family is healthy, my own health is good, my job is rewarding and last weekend, I got all the smooches a lady could ask for. And by got, I mean stole. Some girls don’t give it up so easy.
…always have to steal my kisses from you…
But while dozens of things in my life may be going right, I can still find the little things getting me down from time to time.
Like when you go for a 5-mile “pace” run and can’t seem to get below a 9-minute mile. Or when NYRR double charges you the Scotland Run registration fee. Or when after all your canvassing, in a surprise ballot casting, you’re suddenly not selected as the next pope.
Two out of three of those things happened to me today, and I’m not going to lie: they put me in a funk. And not the music-genre-that-originated-in-the-mid-late-1960s-when-African-American-musicians-created-a-rhythmic-danceable-new-form-of music kind of funk. (Thanks, Wikipedia. I promise I’ll donate to you some day.) The bad kind of funk.
Fortunately, the world is a strangely serendipitous place, and sometimes just as you need a pick-me up, one comes your way. For some people, it comes in the form of a papal nomination. For me, it was this:
That’s right, folks. Superstorm Sandy and all, I’m in! See you on Staten Island on November 3.
I’ve been in a committed relationship since January 2011, and I hate to admit it here for the whole world to read, but the novelty has started to wear off.
When we first started seeing each other, it was new and exciting and gave me a real purpose for waking up each day. Together, I felt more fulfilled than I had alone, and because of my newfound love, I met new friends and traveled to new places and achieved new milestones I’d previously never even imagined. It brought out a new side in me – an active, determined, sweaty side – and I had originally thought we’d be together forever.
But as my close personal friend Bryan Adams once crooned: ‘I guess nothin’ can last forever, forever, no.’
Yes, I’m talking about my relationship with running. And yes, there’s been some trouble in paradise. And yes, my recent guest blogger Meredith is, in fact, seeing the same guy. What can I say? That dude gets around.
Heck, sometimes all three of us even go out together.
I realize running isn’t really a relationship, but let’s be honest here: it’s pretty darn close. It’s always on my mind, it can be a roller coaster of emotions and – as I’ve recently come to realize – without a concerted effort to keep things fresh, it can unfortunately begin to lose its spark. It also lets me justify eating an entire platter of pancakes for dinner several nights a week. But I digress.
If you’ve asked me in the past two weeks how my running’s going, I probably made up some nonsense about losing stamina in India but about how I was planning to get back on the bandwagon as soon as that last pint of Kingfisher works its way out of my system.
At face value that sounds convincing, but only if you didn’t also ask me about my regime in January, when I would have told you I planned get back into the swing of things when I started my next half marathon cycle in February, or if you’d asked me in December, when I would have told you I was planning to start up again in the new year.
The truth is, I have not been able to get honest-to-god excited about running since October 28, when I crossed the finish line of the Marine Corps Marathon, was handed a banana, a medal and a Gatorade, and was corralled into a cage, or so this photo taken by my father would lead you to believe.
Sure, I’ve logged some miles and even a new 15K PR in the four months since, but I also skipped my first registered road race ever and hit the morning snooze button more times than I’d like to admit. After two years of excitement, running and I got comfortable, then predictable, then downright stale, and now we find ourselves in our very first rough patch.
But I’m not prepared to just sit idly by and watch this once-fulfilling partnership fizzle. No, sir. I’m going to take a page from every romantic comedy I’ve ever seen and try to rekindle the flame before it’s too late. If Meryl Streep can do it – and look flawless trying – so can I.
I started my efforts last Saturday. Traditionally, my long runs take me around a few solo loops of Central Park, but with that view getting a little too familiar, I opted instead to run down the East River, over the Queensboro Bridge and through a total of three boroughs before breakfast. I continued to shake it up this past Friday, doing a brief interval workout at my high school track during a stopover in Baltimore, and again on Saturday, when I ran nine scheduled miles with a brand new running partner (in a shirt I apparently wear entirely too much.)
And as my mother and I threw back some Gu Chomps around mile 7, I realized I was experiencing something I hadn’t felt in entirely too long a time: I was out on a run and I was actually having fun. Partially because we were doing something new and exciting and challenging together. But mostly because we were laughing at my silly brother and his unorthodox choice of weights.
I know a few good runs are not enough to get me out of my rut, but it’s got to start somewhere, and couple’s therapy isn’t really an option. So here’s hoping we can pull out of this thing and grow stronger because of it. And here’s hoping you’ll all be there to toast our golden anniversary in 2061. And here’s hoping I’ll cross the finish line in New York this November with an even bigger smile on my face than after my last marathon. You know: something of this caliber:
You didn’t really think I was going to spend three days in Maryland with my niece and only include one photo on my blog, did you?
How do you keep the passion alive in your relationship with running? Wait, you’re dating him, too?!
My healthy lifestyle mantra traditionally centers round five core tenets: drink plenty of water, eat more fresh produce, get lots of sleep, limit my alcohol intake and exercise daily.
My routine in India also centered around five core tenets, but with some minor tweaks: don’t drink the water, avoid all produce, stay up ’til dawn, accept every beer and exercise no restraint, except when it comes to actual exercising, in which case, restrain away.
You caught me: India was terrible for my health and fitness. During my two weeks on the subcontinent, I stayed up until sunrise half a dozen times, didn’t touch my running shoes once and ate more white rice and refined flour than I did in all of 2012. And let’s not forget the Kingfisher. I think we drank that brewery dry.
Health Tip: Brushing your teeth with bottled Kingfisher instead of tap water is strongly recommended by the CDC. It’s a fact.
Fortunately, health isn’t strictly physical. I’ll be the first to admit that while my two weeks in India wrecked havoc on my bodily self, they had the opposite effect on my mental wellbeing. India may have destroyed my accumulated muscle mass and shattered my hopes of a new PR at next month’s Fitness Magazine Women’s Half Marathon, but I’d argue the trip simultaneously worked wonders for my soul.
And how couldn’t it? For 13 straight days, I was surrounded by good friends, delicious food, welcoming hosts, gorgeous scenery and all the elephants a woman could ask for.
(Just kidding. I could never reach my preferred elephant quota.)
Back in the states now for three days, I know my stamina is no longer where it should be. Wednesday’s 3-miler felt like a punishment, yesterday’s tempo run clocked in closer to my marathon goal pace and I nearly fell off the elliptical this morning after my jet-lagged knees forgot how to pump.
But that’s ok. Because sometimes, crossing a finish line last is worth it when you get this in exchange:
I love you, Arabian Sea.
When’s the last time your running shoes took a 14-day vacation?
Below is a guest post from my girl Meredith, who you might remember from that time I went to Austin, Texas, and gained 45 delicious pounds. You may also remember her from that time she threw me an “Anne no longer has mono!” celebration dubbed AnniePalooza, the time she let me pay her for gas money in scratch-off lottery tickets or the time she pushed me off the school bus in kingergarten. Good times all around. Enjoy!
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When Anne asked me if I would guest blog for her, I immediately said yes, then started to wonder how I could ever live up to my funny, beautiful best friend with an adorable dog-niece. Lucky for you, I am also (fairly) funny, definitely just as good-looking, and get to call this lovely lady my fur-sister:
Bring it, Keira.
After tossing around a couple of ideas, I decided that in the spirit of the Cosmo I read cover-to-cover in the park last weekend, I would share the intimate details of my LTR (‘long-term relationship’ for you dudes out there) with running and how I keep our relationship exciting.
There wasn’t immediate chemistry between running and me. In fact, in seventh grade, my basketball coach singled me out for being slow and out of shape during a set of suicides. I knew my jerk coach was on to something and that I would be better at my true love – basketball – if I ran. In preparation for the beginning of the next season, I started taking laps around the block before school. It was probably only a mile, but it got easier, and I eventually started tacking on another block, and then another one. During the basketball offseason in high school, I ran track, but as a sprinter, I never ran more than a few miles. When basketball and I had a falling out and the end of high school, rugby and I had an exciting fling in college. Running was still hanging around, but I never considered something like marathon running to be The One.
During winter break of my senior year, I went for a 10-mile run on a cold January day and despite being utterly drained, I felt amazing after it. From that point on, I started to see running differently. Maybe he was something more than a casual friend to hang out with when my other sports were busy, and while I had always been a team-sport type of girl, maybe there was something really attractive about that skinny, shy, introverted activity.
I stuck with him, and when I graduated from college and no longer had a team or a free gym, decided to run my first half marathon. My relationship with running became official when I triumphantly crossed the finish line of the 2008 Baltimore Half in 1:52:59. It was the beginning what has become a now four-plus year love affair with pounding pavement. Like any relationships, we’ve had our ups and downs, but I plan to impart my tips for keeping you and running as in love today as you were when you first got together.
Do your own thing: Sometimes the thought of going on a run is as appealing as spending your Saturday night cat-sitting (note from RiledUpRunner: see?! This is why we’re friends!). Keep your relationship fresh by doing things on your own a couple times a week. Yoga, pilates and Body Pump are my personal favorites, and yes, sometimes I even sneak in a girly date with the elliptical. Think of cross-training as your friends who keep you sane when running is being a (literal) pain in your butt.
Mix it up: I love half marathons, but some of my favorite running experiences were not racing 13.1. I did Ragnar in 2011 and had more fun than should be possible for combining running, no sleep and a van, even though my team was one of the last to finish. I raced a charity 5k for my brother’s organization, won the race and received a dodgeball instead of a trophy. I’ve challenged myself with marathons and run races without worrying about time. While I normally have an A Race with an A Goal, mixing it up during training and between cycles keeps running fun. ends!). Keep your relationship fresh by doing things on your own a couple times a week. Yoga, pilates and Body Pump are my personal favorites, and yes, sometimes I even sneak in a girly date with the elliptical. Think of cross-training as your friends who keep you sane when running is being a (literal) pain in your butt.
Dress up: It’s easy to fall into a comfort zone and throw on the first pair of shorts and synthetic fabric t-shirt you grab from your dresser at 6 a.m. and head out mismatched and unkempt. But I have a general “always appear put-together” rule, and running is no exception. My favorite race tradition is to wear a hair ribbon that coordinates with my shorts and shirt. Knowing that you look like you grace the pages of a Nike catalog is a big confidence boost, even if your run is subpar. It also doesn’t hurt to know you’re looking your sporty best when you spot a (real-life) hottie running with his dog on your route. (Dear guy with beautiful Golden that runs on Marina Drive at 7 a.m., consider this a Missed Connections post.)
Go on exotic vacations together: I’ve never done a true destination race (although I live in an amazing locale with lots of races if anyone wants to come run with me in San Francisco), but even a mini-road trip with my friends Aria and Hannah for the 2011 Richmond Half Marathon/8k was a great experience. Seeing a new city and spending a few days away from home was a welcome break, and we burned almost enough calories to justify our Sonic pit-stop.
Invite some friends to share your fun: No one likes the couple that only hangs out by themselves, posting selfies of themselves on the couch watching a RomCom on a Saturday night while eating a Pinterest-inspired romantic meal. While the majority of my runs are solo, heading out with a friend (four-legged or two-legged) is a welcome change of pace. Plus, it’s a good excuse not to stretch after (note: I’m not advocating for skipping stretching to cuddle with 75 pounds of furry love. Ok, maybe I am…)
Running and I have had our ups and downs. However, despite injuries, spending too much time together (like those 50 mile weeks while training for the Philadelphia Marathon), and falling into ruts, like any good boyfriend, running has always been there when I needed him. As a constant in my life, he’s kept me sane through a job I hated, two years of grad school and a cross-country move.
Right now, running and I are in a good place. I live in a super runner-friendly city, where morning temperatures are pretty much always between 45 and 55, a surprising number of guys are down for a running date (whether or not they can keep up is another story), and I get to start my mornings with five-mile jogs along the San Francisco Bay, watching the morning sun reflect off of the Golden Gate Bridge as the sun rises over the City skyline.
Yes, this is where I live and yes it’s really this beautiful every day it’s not foggy.
Meredith James has been Anne’s best friend since kindergarten and lives in San Francisco. She’s run 3 marathons, 11 half marathons and a bunch of 10ks and 5ks. When she’s not running, you can find Meredith engaging young professionals in philanthropy at The One Percent Foundation and frequenting SF’s finest coffee shops, chocolate factories, bakeries and bars.
Below is a guest post from my homeboy Davy, an uninspired runner and a cursed soccer player but a talented musician and a fabulous friend. You may remember his pretty face grazing these pages before, from when I plugged (my cameo on) his adorable children’s album to when I finally admitted I saw entirely too many baseball games last summer and checked myself into fandom rehab. Enjoy his long-form prose about tearing your ACL twice, the unlucky bastard. I, meanwhile, will get back to my elephant-riding adventures in India. God speed.
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I used to have a lucky pair of shorts. I still have them, but over the last couple years it’s become increasingly clear that they’re not that lucky.
They’re navy blue mesh with white trim and they say Kenyon College. Kenyon’s one of my happy places. My sister and I both went there. I came to visit her when I was 12 and she was a freshman. We watched The Princess Bride in the common room and ate microwave popcorn. She told me, with the glee of a mad scientist, that she and her friends had discovered exactly how long to set the microwave to make a perfect bag every time. That’s all I remember from the trip – just two little moments.
When I was in high school I read somewhere that people are always less polite to family members than to other people. Until then, it hadn’t occurred to me that all families work that way – that even the nicest of my classmates went home and clobbered their siblings just like we did.
The more I think about it, the more unfair it seems. My parents worked so hard to raise four well-mannered children and they never directly enjoyed the fruits of their labor. After dinner at a friend’s house, you offer to help clear the table. After dinner at home, you head straight for the basement, where it’s at least plausible that you really didn’t hear anyone screaming at you to take your dishes to the sink.
But it worked. We’re all polite. We’re all nice. We all say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘excuse me’ (although my older brother prefers ‘pardon me’ – I’m not sure where that came from). I think we’re all nice people and polite people, anyway. The problem is that it’s a hard thing to test. It’s important to me that I’m a nice person. It’s part of my identity. I just wish there were a way to settle it once and for all, you know? When the going gets tough, the tough get going. But the polite? All they can do is just keep on being polite.
I was wearing my lucky shorts the first time I tore my ACL. At that point, they became unlucky. After that they were eaten in a bizarre washing machine accident, becoming unlucky not just to their wearer, but even to themselves. After subsequent repairs, they became Frankenshorts. This fall, I was wearing them when I tore my other ACL. That’s when they became dead to me.
Dead to me, Frankenshorts.
My sister was on the basketball team at Kenyon, which is its own story. She tore her ACL in high school and missed most of her senior season. She spent a couple months in denial. She was trying to finish high school and apply to colleges, and it was just too much to handle. She refused to admit anything serious was wrong, then refused see doctors, then refused to have surgery. What finally brought her around was that her leg was unstable and she kept falling. Once on the stairs, once when she was just on the phone in the kitchen. The surgery was incredibly painful, and rehab took months, but I think that first part, just accepting the reality of what had happened, was hardest for her.
She has two daughters now. The older one just turned three, and the mission to civilize the next generation is under way. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ are extracted with, “What do you say?” The current focus is to discourage her from getting attention by saying or shouting ‘hey.’ This makes me feel a little self-conscious. I say ‘hey’ constantly. If I’m being completely honest, I also say ‘yo’ way more frequently than is acceptable for a non-rapper.
Before my niece was born I went back to visit Kenyon with a friend. We went to the bookstore and I bought a onesie and a lucky pair of shorts.
The onesie was not for me.
I tore my first ACL while I was playing soccer, which I’m sometimes embarrassed about. Stephen Colbert once called soccer “the sport for fourth graders that foreign people take seriously.” When co-workers ask about my weekend plans and I say I’ve got a soccer game, I can see in their eyes that they’re picturing me at the park with a bunch of six-year-olds, clamoring over orange slices at halftime.
It was the summer of 2010, during the World Cup. Everyone was a little more excited to go out and play soccer because they’d been watching soccer on television all week. Before the game, we all practiced heading in corner kicks. I was wearing my lucky shorts and I remember feeling good and jumping up and down a lot.
The game started, and it turned out the other team was not very good. Right away we had the ball on their side of the field. I was in front of the net and a pass came a little to my right. As I reached to take a step toward it with my right leg, I felt something pop in my left knee and I started to fall. That’s when time slowed down.
Objectively, I know that when it feels like time slows down, time doesn’t actually slow down, but the thing is, it really does feel like time slows down. When I was little, I always used to jump down the last few stairs on my way to the basement. Once I jumped from way too high – maybe only halfway down the staircase – and I can still feel myself there, frozen in midair and terrified of how much it’s going to hurt when I land.
What’s even scarier is when it works the other way – where things happen faster than you can process them. When I was 13, I was riding a bike down a narrow road and I got hit by an eighteen-wheeler. It was trying to pass me, and as it did, it clipped my handlebars, turning them perpendicular and launching me over them. I think. It happened too fast. I was on the bike, and then I was on the ground. I didn’t even understand what had happened. I got up and took a few steps before I noticed a big gash on my shin and sat back down. The truck driver stopped and got out to help. He was really nice, thank God.
When they put me in the ambulance I started to freak out a little bit and hyperventilate a little bit. Not because I was scared, but because of what came next. Hospital, doctors, police, my parents freaking out. It was hard to accept that all of this was going to happen because of something that, in the most literal sense, I didn’t experience at all. I tried to hide my panic from the EMTs. We’d just met and I didn’t want to make a bad impression.
It seems like time only warps itself around bad experiences. Think of all those moments that should’ve been longer, that you wish you could stretch out and live in.
The ones that really haunt me, though, are the ones that slip by. There are some things I really do wish I could go back and slow down. Back on the floor of the common room at Kenyon, watching The Princess Bride with my sister, the unimpeachable perfection of popcorn microwaved for two minutes and thirty-five seconds. Maybe if that moment had been a little longer, I would’ve realized then how special it was.
Somebody’s taller.
When I felt something pop in my left knee and I started to fall, I knew instantly that I’d torn my ACL. And what I thought about for the million years between then and when I hit the ground was everything that my sister, whose name is Leigh, by the way, went through. Fear and pain. Doctors, MRIs, more doctors. Travelling halfway across the country for surgery, waking up in a hospital room strapped into a motion machine that bends your leg for you, months of excruciating exercises just to get back to being a normal person.
Because of Leigh, the one thing that didn’t run through my mind was doubt. When I landed, I knew the deal. I’d torn my ACL. I had to have surgery. There was a lot of pain and work in my future. I lay there, afraid to open my eyes, miserable but resigned to what came next.
After a while, the ball went out of bounds. The other team’s goalie finally noticed me crumpled at his feet like a broken kite. He leaned over and said, “Hey, I went to Kenyon too.”
I silently cursed my formerly lucky shorts. I opened my eyes, and, from the depths of my despair, I said, “I would love to discuss that with you at another time.”
I said it nice as pie. Because when the going gets tough, the polite just keep on being polite.
Note from Riled Up Runner:How do you feel about this dog-free post? Not good? Yeah, me either. So here’s a photo of Davy’s brother’s dog pretending to be baby Moses. Eat your heart out, folks.
Below is a guest post from my college friend, Tara, whose simultaneous appreciation for delicious food and healthy ingredients makes for some awesome recipes that are impossible to pass up. Tara is just two months away from her big wedding date (what up, Mike? Let’s meet someday, fo’ real.) and three-and-a-half months out from our five-year college reunion. Start gathering your favorite 80s gear now! (More for the latter event, but you never know…) Enjoy her post, and check out her blog for more recipes.
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There are so many diet gimmicks out there – pills, shakes, drinks, juices, superstitions, tricks – and the list goes on. However, losing weight isn’t magic (unless you use Photoshop) – it’s a science, or a simple mathematical equation: calories in < calories out = weight loss. For those of you who hate math, let me rephrase: eat less than you burn and you will lose weight.
Unfortunately, no matter how many math or science courses we took at college, they did not teach us this equation. What they did teach, however, was how amazingly delicious calorie-packed food can be. Anne and my small liberal arts college was ranked No. 1 nationally for food, and with an all-you-can-eat dining hall, we indulged – a lot. Between the delicious meals, intense studying and a lack of physical activity save for dance parties, we were eating more than we were burning for four whole years, which meant we quickly packed on the freshman 15 (or in my case, 50).
Before shot.
So when graduation came and we entered the real world where sweatsuits were no longer acceptable everyday attire, it was time to drop the freshman 15 (or 50). And instead of giving in to gimmicks, Anne and I each separately decided to do it the good old fashioned way (and the only way proven to work): we resorted to healthy eating and exercise, or calories in < calories out. While running became a passion for Anne, my passion became cooking and eating healthy food.
After shot! Woo!
Two years (and negative 50 pounds) after making the switch to healthy food, I decided to start sharing my recipes with the world, and my blog InspiredbyMollie.com was born.
The philosophies I follow in my blog – and life – are as follows:
Use healthy ingredients. This means incorporating ingredients that are packed with nutrition so the calories that are consumed are beneficial to your body, including vegetables, protein, fruit, whole grains and healthy fats. At the same time, it’s important to avoid empty calories, or foods that are high in calories but low in nutrition (e.g. processed white bread). Also, you can typically find low-calorie nutritious substitutes for high calorie favorites (e.g. spaghetti squash for traditional spaghetti or fat free Greek yogurt for sour cream). Here are a couple of my recipes that are packed with healthy ingredients and incorporate such substitutions:
Make this. And send it to Anne for taste-testing, please.
Exercise portion control. This is especially important when eating rich foods or treats. It’s simple: if something is higher in calories, eat less of it. And if you are anything like me, and you don’t have self-control, use portion-sized bowls and plates to help you. Also, if you just need a “big” meal, increase the volume of your meal by adding a bed of lettuce or a ton of low calorie vegetables. Here are some of my portion-controlled favorites:
Indulge! Sometimes. Just because you are watching what you eat does not mean you have to deprive yourself of flavor or fun. Use low-calorie flavors like spices and herbs to enhance the flavors of your healthy food without destroying their nutritional value. Just beware of salt, as it causes water retention and thus apparent weight gain. And if you’re a sweets person, don’t skip dessert! It’s OK to eat a small treat once a day. Just remember – portion control is key. Here are some great portion-controlled desserts that won’t break the bank:
Plan and prepare. Plan ahead and prepare your own food. This allows you to make good decisions, rather than impulsive hungry decisions AND it also allows you to control what you are putting in your mouth. I try to avoid eating out more than once or twice a week and when I do eat out, I look at the online menu ahead of time and make my selection when I am not hungry. I know this could be considered a bit OCD, but if it allows me to order the beet salad (which I love) instead of the mile-high nachos, it is worth it. Also, if you are really busy and thinking to yourself you don’t have time to make your own food, think again. Make healthy food in bulk on a day when you have time and freeze individual portions for a healthy meal when you are pressed for time. Here are some freezer friendly recipes:
Drink water. Lots and lots of water. This is very important when you are running and working out and also when trying to lose weight. It helps flush your body and also helps fill your stomach – and it’s calorie free! Sick of water? Add some sliced fresh fruit to a pitcher of ice water for flavor. Lemon, limes, strawberries, watermelon and cucumber are all delicious options!
Of course, I do not always stick to these rules perfectly, but I do my best to make one good decision at a time. Like training for a race, you can get derailed and face challenges or temptation. But overall, if you stick with the training and healthy eating, you will find success, just like Anne and I did.
Riled Up Runner 