Tag Archive: me

I’m on my second cold of the winter. The last one took 3 weeks to move on its merry way, leaving me with only 5 or 6 days of respite before the next one moved on in. Lovely. I could tell it was coming. I went out on my lunch break and everything was fine. I walked back to the office and my throat was scratchy and sore. Misery ensues.

I’m not a resolutions girl. I kind of hate the idea of saving all our changes for one designated time of the year. If something isn’t working in your life, why not address it right away? Why put it off? Still, a new year is a time for reflection, and it seems that, despite my disdain, I tend to accidentally jump on the bandwagon. I just don’t make any hard and fast rules and go with it. Then if it doesn’t stick, I don’t have to beat myself up over it later. Self preservation.

So, yeah, head cold. Misery. Smoothies. But I can’t seem to ever make them myself. My blender is too underpowered to do much more than make a mess of things, leaving chunks of kale and other things that make them far from smooth. Gag. But I’ve really grown to love Bolthouse Farms‘ offerings, and have been supplementing my lackluster diet with them lately to ensure I’m getting at least some fruits and veggies in my diet. The Green Goodness‘s color was a little off-putting at first, but it tastes pretty darn good. I just pour into a fancy glass, add a snazzy straw, and look the other way. I’m also a big fan of the Multi-V Goodness. I wonder how it would taste with vodka…?

Then I stepped it up a notch. Because I’ve been paying for my gym membership and haven’t gone since April. (I swear, that’s what Foursquare told me!) Because most of my friends are far more physically active than I am. And because they were talking about this 100 Days of Miles thing for 2014.

100 Days of Miles… It’s supposed to be that you run 100 miles in 2014, spread out over 100 days throughout the year. I ran my mouth off on New Year’s Eve and announced that even a gimp-footed girl like myself could do this. I mean really, it’s only 1 mile at a time, 3 times a week. I used to run 3 times that! Piece of cake.

Except that I’m not really supposed to run. One of my frequent sources of frustration post-discectomy was that every time I asked my orthopedic surgeon if I could run again, his response was evasive. With good reason–I have the honor of having the most disc removed out of all surgeries performed by that man–but annoying, nonetheless. Running represented far more than physical activity to me. I came to it at a time in my life when it felt like all the walls were crumbling down on me. It saved me. It taught me that I could do so much more than I thought I ever could do. It gave me confidence. It gave me strength. It made me proud of myself. And it kept me sane. All that was taken away with it.

So no, I’m not running 100 miles in 2014. But I figured I can at least walk them. That’s extremely manageable. And so I have begun this new journey…again. Combined with attempting to join my friend in her new round of daily exercise. I’m on Day 4 and have racked up 8.73 miles so far. Today was the worst–I absolutely did not want to go to the gym at all. I wanted to lie on the couch in a DayQuil haze, watching old episodes of Girls preparing for the new season starting tonight. By 3 PM, I had to draw the line. There would be no more episodes until I earned them. No more Hannah or Marnie or Jessa or Shoshanna until I had worked up a good sweat and worked off some of those Doritos I ate in a moment of weakness. So I did it. I dragged my butt out the door, down the street, and into the gym. I got myself up on that elliptical and powered away. I even added 5 minutes on to my program. And I’m happy I did.

Tomorrow? I’ll try again. It’s easy to avoid. I work a desk job. I blog at night. And the Charlie horses, nerve pain, and backaches that continue nearly 3 years post-surgery make it easy to come up with excuses. But I hate that rusty Tin Man feeling I get when I don’t incorporate some level of activity in my life. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and see where the path takes me. That’s all I can ask for.

What changes are you making in your life for 2014?

Have you watched that show Awkward? I probably shouldn’t admit that I have–or that I consumed the entire first season over 12 hours when I first discovered it–but I have, and I did.  You see, the A. that’s my middle initial–it may as well stand for awkward. Not in the TV series sort of cute-awkward-girl-still-gets-the-guy(s)-way. I’m no Zooey Deschanel. More in the doesn’t-fit-in-even-18-years-after-high-school manner. Yup, my dirty little secret is out–I’ve never really been in. I probably never will be either.

What were supposed to be the “best years” of my life weren’t exactly a day at a Cancun resort. I imagine that’s true for many people. You couldn’t pay me to go back. And since then? Well, that’s been pretty full of awkwardness, too. Not really knowing what to do with myself in social settings. Overcompensating with mixed drinks and a loud mouth. Still feeling like the piece to a different puzzle altogether.

Tonight’s catch-up episode from Season 2? Reminded me of an experience I had 3 years ago. Right before this blog started, when my creativity burst free again, and I decided to do something with it instead of ignoring it like I had for far too many years. A high school acquaintance crossed my path and, at the time, was trying to get people to attend a weekly poetry night he hosted at a local juice bar. It reminded me so much of the mid nineties coffee house scene that I couldn’t miss it. And after my first visit, I was hooked. This is what had been missing in my life. This is what I had been overlooking. This needed to be a part of my life again.

The idea of standing in front of a crowd, baring my heart and soul, terrified me though. My friend understood that was exactly the kick in the derriere that I needed. One night he called me up on the makeshift stage and I had no choice but to do his bidding. And while my arm wouldn’t be still and my voice wavered with fright, I survived. And then I craved more. It was scary. Oh, being in front of a crowd, even if it only consisted of about a half dozen souls, was an anxiety attack waiting to happen. The adrenaline boost, however, exceeded any alcohol-induced buzz I experienced, and what came after can only be described as an awakening. The prince had placed his kiss. My slumber had been broken.

The more difficult part came 9ish months later. The birth of an idea that was fertilized that summer; a poem that won a creative writing award during my last semester of school. I was 32 and I was about to recite a poem about things most of my classmates had no frame of reference for. Shaking like a leaf is an understatement. I managed to speak every word, to attempt eye contact at intervals across the room, and all because nobody I really knew was in the room (other than my favorite professor and his pet student, who was helping run the event). These people didn’t know what all those birds stood for. They didn’t understand the feelings behind the poem; the internal struggle that waged, finding its way out in these words. It was subtle enough for the uninitiated to remain clueless. It was soul-baring enough to make me feel naked in front of the faculty–those who had lived enough to probably know exactly of which I spoke and probably have their own tales to tell. It was one of the bravest moments in my life.

Now? I’ve traded my rare moments in the spotlight for a few random, intermittent, semi-drunken karaoke sessions. Other than that, I keep to the back of the crowd. Where I belong. Do I need to be a part of it? Well… sometimes it would be nice. It would certainly make some aspects of life easier. But do I need it? No. I have two awesome kids. I have a husband with whom I’ve shared 18 years of my life. I have some great friends who are my support system. That’s all a girl really needs, right? So I didn’t outgrow my awkward phase. There are worse things in life than that. (Like my television viewing, apparently…) At least I’m choosing to be me. Whoever she is. That’s what matters… right? I’m too old to be Jenna. And too old to be bothered by that either.