Athena

Today, the weather is more genuinely Wisconsin: bitter cold with a biting wind. If 2010 was out like a lamb, 2011 is in like a lion -- a really mad lion.

Speaking of change, I worked really hard on it in 2010 and anticipate more of the same in 2011. It's interesting, though, how change will ripple and spread into places one doesn't expect.

In 2010, I got really tired of being tired. My doctor thought it had a lot to do with weight (too much) and exercise (too little) . I decided I'd work on the exercise piece and the weight thing would fix itself. But it didn't work that way, and it never will, because the same voice that tells you "it's just one muffin" will also add loudly that "you JUST RAN THREE MILES." After eight months of vigorous exercise, I got really REALLY mad that the scale number wasn't going down, and realized I was going to have to (sigh) watch what I eat.

So I joined Weight Watchers. At first, the plan emphasized calorie counting, and just about the time that I was gonna throw in the towel and resign myself to being a slow, chunky fit person, they changed the plan to encourage more whole foods, discourage artificial and processed foods, and basically made fruit and veggies not count for purposes of tracking your food. This made all the difference in my ability to think I could stick to the plan long term, and since I joined I've lost ten pounds and maintained over the holidays. Today I'm back on the bandwagon, and anticipate that I'll be down to my goal weight by summertime.

This brings me to two points. One, given my height (five nine) and my overall build (big boned and muscular), even my goal weight will exceed my husband's weight, and I will never look "willowy" or "lithe" nor will I ever leave the athletic category designed for big women: Athena. While there's something cool about being in the same category as the Greek goddess of war and strategy, I must admit it's discouraging to know that a healthy weight for me would still classify me as "fat" among athletes.

Which brings me to my next point, which is, I don't know if it's the nature of being me or the nature of being human, but it seems that when I decided to change myself, to set boundaries and goals for myself, to do things in my own best interest, I get encouragement from people I don't expect (which is great) but I also catch a lot of flack from people I don't expect (which stinks). As a woman, it's hard to do the right thing for yourself, to set goals and meet them, to run farther and faster than you ever have in your life, and then learn that people (especially other women) are threatened by it, want to sabotage you, or question your motivations, or even your sanity, and then, on top of THAT, to know that even when you meet your goal, you'll still . . . well, weigh more than the average man. To know that you can also probably chick the average man is kind of cold comfort.

I know that names have meaning, and I don't think that there could be a better name for a class of big, strong, and athletic women than Athena. I am honored to be one. I guess I just wish I had Athena's self-assurance too.

Run Into the New Year 5k, West Allis, WI

What can I say about a New Year's Eve race in Wisconsin where I didn't have to wear a hat or gloves, or even a long sleeved shirt? All I can say is, I think the unseasonably warm weather today in the Milwaukee metro area (55 degrees!!! Seriously!!!) was a direct result of my running in below freezing weather two weeks ago to test out my gear. If I hadn't done it, well, it would have been freezing, so since I did it, God laughed at my plans and gave me drizzly warm weather. So, to the other 1900 or so participants who were the direct beneficiaries of my pre-planning: you're so very welcome.

But I digress. It was unseasonably warm, and so I wore the usual: running capris, a singlet, and the fivefingers with toesy socks. I tied a running jacket around my waist just in case. We left the house and got to the race about 30 minutes early. The pre and post run activities are held inside one of the exhibition halls at the State Fair Park -- including allllll the portapotties -- so when we walked in to get our timing chips, we were assaulted by the smell of . . . uh, Wisconsin's wonderful "dairy air." We stood around waiting for the race to start and saw, along with my dear husband's paper New Year's hat, a Viking helmet, a woman wearing a bridal veil (15th wedding anniversary!) and a Kermit the Frog stocking hat (admiring the headgear at these races is a good way to pass the time).

Five minutes prior to the start, we went outside to the seeding corrals. Sweetness and I found the "open seeding: all runners" corral and lined up in the back. Not too many walkers in the "all walkers" corral behind us, to my slight dismay.

The starting gun went off, which meant we had about 3 minutes of walking before we crossed the chip timing mat, but once we did, Sweetness started pacing me on the one minute run/walk pace we'd discussed. The first mile went quicker than I'd expected, probably because, as Sweetness told me later, my stride was a little longer than usual. And also, because I wanted to at LEAST finish faster than the people who were doing the race on motorized scooters. Yes, for real, I'm not kidding.

So we knew by mile 2 we (meaning I, because poor Sweetness, who ran it right by my side, was at half his normal running pace) needed to slow down a bit. We altered the run/walk intervals to 1 minute run/2 minute walk for mile 2. By mile 2, the really really fast people were finishing the 5k, and also, some of the really really fast people running the 10k (two loops of the 5k) were starting to pass us. Also, it is apparently my pattern that at about the halfway point of any athletic event I
get really irritable and negative, even if I've done the distance before in training. Don't know why, haven't a clue, but because poor Sweetness was there (and obviously bored, because he was practically going in reverse in the Sweetness time/space continuum) for about a quarter mile, the conversation went thusly:

Sweetness: "Okay, time to run again. Oh, wow, that guy looks really tired. Hey, aren't those the other kind of minimalist shoe you were telling me about? Aw, what a cute couple up ahead. Hey, let's see if we can pass them. "

Me: (hissing) "Talk less. You need to talk less. How much more running?"

Sweetness: "Thirty seconds."

Me: "That is appropriate (pant) and helpful talking. More (pant) of that kind of talking."

Sweetness: (oblivious to my minor discomfort) "Okay!!! ten seconds left."

And so on. Until mile three.

My mile 2 time was slower, right on target, so I thought we would do thirty/ninety, and I'd finish pretty strong. Mile three was also on target, and due to the weirdness of the course, we crossed the path of my sweet ten year old stepson, who was running the 10k.

Now, apropos of nothing, though I love my stepsons dearly, my stepson's mother and I . . . well, there's never been much love lost between the two of us. And of course, Mommie Dearest (yeah, it's accurate) was there with Sweet Stepson and probably waiting at the end of the course, and would rush Sweet Stepson and my other two stepsons far far away from us as quickly as possible, so as not to have to, you know, actually behave like an adult and allow my Sweetness to see his sons. This hurts my husband tremendously . And so, I cannot tell you how much this was suddenly harshing my mellow. Well, you can probably guess.

On the other hand, I am not one for letting mean people harsh on my mellow for too long. And by the last quarter mile of mile 3, I'd devised a plan. Heh.

I saved up what spring I had left in my step for the last .1 of the course, the last turn before the finish chute, and came around the corner, not sprinting, but not jogging either, a nice smooth stride, and smiling. Silly Stepson was standing at the finish, swinging a cowbell (as I am sure he had done for the entirety of the race). I yelled his name, and he looked up, confused. I couldn't help but laugh -- Silly Stepson is not known for the quick draw -- and I ran past Mommie Dearest commenting on how surprised Silly appeared to be to see me . . . running. Heh.

I crossed the timing mat -- couldn't suppress a primal yell -- then told Sweetness to find Sweet Stepson on the last quarter mile of the course and run the chute with him. Thus, I got to finish my 5k with my husband, scream my head off for my stepson and my husband, my husband got to run the finish with his son, and I got to irritate my husband's ex-wife and go home with my sweet husband next to me . Win/win/win/win/WIN.

All in 47 minutes and some change. Not bad for a Friday afternoon.

Resolutions, Schmesolutions

Bah, it's that time of year again.

You know what I'm talking about. It's that time of year when everyone picks out a part of their life they'd like to see improved, and vow to "get fit/lose weight/stop drinking/stop smoking/change jobs/work harder/work smarter/work less/yadda, yadda yadda." This comes in the form of a resolution. As in "resolved: I will do this thing that has eluded me lo these many years and FINALLY get my arms around this problematic part of my life."

Look, I'm all for improving one's life. But I'm not in favor of "resolutions." Because "resolutions" are recipes for failure. Have you ever, EVER seen someone hold to a New Year's Resolution? Me neither. That's because they're externally driven by society or by someone else's idea of what people should be doing with themselves. They're also driven only by the calendar. This is why people have a huge blow-out party on New Year's Eve; those with "resolutions" to keep know it's the last hurrah for a while.

Until, of course, the novelty of having a "resolution" to keep wears off and people revert to their old ways of being and doing.

Resolutions also get a big fail because they are too general. "I resolve to lose weight" can be accomplished by a steady, sensible eating plan and exercise over time, and it can also be accomplished by cutting off a limb (or doing a liquid diet, or having bariatric surgery, or some other equally radical quick fix). But one way is emotionally and physically healthy, and the other way lies madness. And after the madness, the weight comes back on. Yes, even for bariatric surgery patients. Because they have not dealt with the reason they are overweight in the first place.

Look, the bottom line is this: people get to the place where they intend to make lasting change happen in their own way and in their own time. And not a moment sooner. And it applies to all those places where it's dark, scary, and just plain hard. Weight loss. Fitness. Work. Relationship. Smoking. Drinking. Drug use. Mental health. Nonspecific, all-purpose brokenness. And also, forgiveness. Acceptance. And love.

So don't come talking to me about resolutions this week. I don't want to hear it. But I'll happily listen in mid-April. Or July. Or even October 21, at 2:33 P.M.

Whenever you're ready. And not a moment before.

Why?

Because I don't want cardiopulmonary disease.

Because I don't want to take statin drugs.

Because I don't want diabetes.

Because I want to be able to chase my children (and grandchildren) around the park.

Because I want to run up and down gorgeous mountain ranges with my sweet, cute, hot husband.

Because I love feeling the wind against my face, and in my hair, when I'm running, or on the back of the tandem.

Because I want to live, not just exist.

And if it takes funny shoes and spandex and my wiggly parts wiggling even more than usual,

I'll do it.

Slow

Slow. Yeah, that pretty much describes my pace, be it run, bike, or swim.

But it could be worse. I could be unable to run, bike, or swim, and how crappy would that be?

I have never been an athlete. As a kid, my dad nicknamed me "grace" because of my general physical ineptitude. I vastly preferred sitting on the front porch with a book than running and playing with the neighborhood knuckleheads. Invariably, when trying something "sporty" I'd end up injured or embarrassed. Begged off on gym class as often as possible.

I have also never been skinny. And I don't mean an extra ten pounds that won't come off. I mean at the age of 14 I was 5 feet 9 inches, weighed 170 pounds, and looked like a full grown woman. Most of it was (and is) boobs and butt. Oh, and thighs. Now, after 2 kids, there's a tummy pooch too. Fun.

So for me to consider donning spandex and doing physical activity which causes my jiggly parts to jiggle even more violently . . . well, let's just say it wasn't in the picture.

Until I visited my hometown this past spring. I come from a small town in the South, and down there you don't run unless you're being chased by someone. Vegetables are boiled until gray with fat back included, and fruits generally come out of a can. Meat is almost always fried. It shows.

And I saw my mother for the first time in four years. She is probably up to 400 pounds now, and between the weight and her rheumatoid arthritis she can barely walk. I love her, but I have that genetic disposition, and I don't want to be her.

So here I am, on an almost daily basis wiggling my feet into funny shoes and sweating profusely, to get myself healthier.