One Day at a Time

Blogging has really taken me outside my comfort zone.   I am used to journaling in private where my perfectionist self doesn’t have to worry about anyone else seeing my imperfections.  I am taking it as a lesson in letting go and relinquishing some control.  So far it’s thoroughly uncomfortable which makes me feel like I am doing something right.

I also made a pact, with myself, that I would be honest.  It’s easy to lie, especially when I know the alternative makes me look lazy.  So here it is: I took a hiatus from physical activity Wednesday.  I was supposed to cross train but the thought of moving any muscle in my body was too painful.  In the event that I had no choice but to bend down, I counted to ten and exhaled like an old woman.  I even surrendered a loonie to the streets of Vancouver because the thought of exerting myself to pick it up was too terrifying to bear (for those of you who know me, you know I would typically cross the street and go completely out of my way for an abandoned loonie…who am I kidding…a quarter would suffice).

I made every excuse in the book as I waited for the bus to take me home yesterday.  Everyone would understand, I worked all day, it was cold and rainy and my safety was definitely on the line at this time of night.  The reasons to avoid my run played in my mind like a broken record until I got a text message that brought them to a screeching halt.  Claire rejoiced, “I’m going for my run now!”  Well damnit Sherman, now I have no excuse.

I got home, geared up and hit the pavement.  The rain steadily increased with each stride until it was beating down on me.  It felt amazing.  I don’t mean that running itself felt amazing; I am nowhere near enjoying the actual act of running.  I mean that I was doing it, that I got my butt in motion.  Aside from calculating the fact that I have approximately 170 more runs ahead of me, I am taking it one day at a time and patting myself on the back every time I don’t let my excuses win.

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An Up Hill Battle

When Claire proposed the idea of training for six months, to run an 8k for diabetes, I couldn’t help but wonder if she knew me at all.  I am not a runner.  My relationship with the treadmill has been rocky at best.  We commit and then one of us, I blame the machine, always seems to give up well before the relationship is even given a fair chance.  The thing that kills me is that I have always wanted to be a runner…no correction…I have always wanted to be one of those waif like, long legged, gazelles that seem to float as they run by you without a bead of sweat and a smile that says, “I legitimately love running.” For some reason these women are always blonde.  Basically my antithesis. 

So, when my dear friend Claire requested I join her in the very activity I equate with those who are my exact opposite, I had to pause to think.  I knew if I said yes there was no turning back.  Unlike my on again, off again, relationship with the treadmill, a dedication to Claire meant something.  I decided to do something that scared me senseless.  I said yes.

I dug out my, first generation, ipod shuffle.  You know, the long white one that has acquired a vintage status.  My playlist is as old as the player itself and my headphones have one working ear bud.  So, myself and a very crackly Brittney Spears went running.  It was painful and tiring.  I ran for two miles and with every step continued to remind myself that Claire was there with me. 

I returned home huffing and puffing.  That was day one.  Today is day two and the only thing on my body that is not sore are my fingers…hence the blog.  I will keep you posted.

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