My Third 5K

Today, I ran the Folsom Shamrock 5K in my old hometown. I woke up tired after a so-so night of sleep, and a little nervous from the lack of running I've gotten this week. However, it wasn't raining (yay!) and the sun even peeked out for a while, so I drove to Folsom bright and early to shamrock-and-roll with other running nerds.

The race wasn't terribly well-organized, but I don't hold it against the event organizers. The original organizers were killed in December, and the fact that this race happened at all is due to people stepping up and taking over a few weeks ago so that it could go on. If it started late and the organizers were shorted a box of t-shirts, I don't really care (I never really want the t-shirts anyway).

Part of the route was flooded out, so a quick change was made this morning that had us running across a street. "But don't worry," we were told. "It's not a busy street. You should be fine."

Umm, it was East Bidwell Street, which is a main thoroughfare through the main business district of Folsom, but we all made it across with no incident. I had to laugh, though, when I got to it and thought, "Not a busy street?! Hello!"

I don't have my official time yet, or any idea what neighborhood it might be in, except that it had to have been slower than my last race (34:50). I walked a lot this morning, but I don't feel bad. The last time I got outside to run was last Sunday, and aside from a few short warm-up sprints on the treadmill, I've stuck to other forms of cardio this week as the rainy weather drove me indoors.

Overall, it was a good effort. I had some cramping in my calves and since I've arrived home, my glutes and hamstrings have been a bit sore.

Now I need to find a race for April and step up the running times!

My green striped socks clashed with my Mizunos, but I won't run in
any other shoe.

I wore Snoopy and Woodstock on my shirt...

...and Cali Swimmy on my wrist. I don't have the luck of the Irish, but I
do have the luck of the rubber ducky!

Fitspiration Friday

 

I've got a 5K (in the rain) tomorrow...what will you do for your body this weekend?

Bruised

I've been driven indoors this week by the crazy rainy weather this part of California was supposed to have in November and December. Back then, I should have been grumbling about the treadmill and not being able to get out and go for a run (and back then, I would have been happy to do the cycle instead...how things can change). But November and December were unseasonably warm and dry, and now March is rainy and dreary.

Anyway, on Tuesday, I found myself wandering into the gym, very much NOT looking forward to doing sprints on the treadmill when I would rather be outside in the (gone far, far away) sunshine running the mean streets of Lincoln. M. the Reasonable was nearby, working out on his own time, so I stopped to ask him if he could recommend any workout that would save me from boring myself to tears on the treadmill. He suggested ten 30-second sets of jump squats and ten 30-second sets of the ropes (think driving a stagecoach, only in the middle of a crowded gym). After ten minutes on the treadmill, I got started, thinking that this would be not only fast, but far more entertaining than endless loops on the treadmill with Fox News and ESPN on the TVs in front of me.

And indeed, it was.

Fast-forward to Wednesday morning, when I woke up with some seriously sore calves from all of those jump squats. I had an appointment with M., so off I went to the gym, moaning slightly with each step. When I got there, I went off in search of a foam roller. Alas...they all seemed to have gone walkabout.

I limped up to the trainer area, where M. was talking to another trainer. He let me borrow one of his own personal rollers, one with little nubby, finger-like things on it that really works those sore muscles. (Like this one.) I spent about 20 minutes rolling my calves over it and letting out little whimpers of pain-pleasure as I worked some of the knots out.

Later, after another intense workout with M., we had a few extra minutes left in my session, so he had me sit down in a chair so he could help me further work the knots in my calves. I got a little worried when he settled himself on the floor, saying, "This is going to hurt a little." But I'm a bad-ass gymbo and I laugh in the face of pain...so I shrugged and relaxed. M. got to work.

HOLY!

There was gasping and hissing on my part, and a lot of apologizing on M.'s. My calves were very tight, indeed, and he was using a technique he's learned to get in there and isolate each little knot to work it. Every once in a while, my trainer--usually so kind and sweet and reasonable!--would let a satisfied little "Oooh, that's a good one!" slip out of his mouth as he tackled a particularly painful knot the size of a basketball. I could only jump about a foot off the chair and gasp incoherently.

The whole process was very uncomfortable, and it left me bruised and sore today, but it works. I'm nowhere near as tight as I was.

But yes, I did say "bruised." See?

Admit it, you love my purple striped pajama pants.

Today, I arrived at the gym again, having just passed my state exam (yes, yes, I passed, mazel tov to me and all that) and feeling 14 different kinds of exhausted. Again, the thought of climbing aboard a treadmill left me wanting to chew rusty nails instead, so when I had a chance to seek M.'s advice, I did.

"How about Tuesday's workout? That was a good one, right?"

"Yes...but my calves are still sore!!! I have M.-finger-shaped bruises on my legs!"

I received a quiet laugh and satisfied smile in response. We agreed that maybe the rowing machine would be fine for today. Before I left, he mentioned a web site I should check out, MobilityWod. It has suggestions for exercises and activities that can increase an athlete's mobility, and he thought I might benefit from going to the very start (a 10-minute squat. Yes. Squatting. For ten minutes. Ten.) and giving it a try.

Well, of course, by the time I got home, I had forgotten the name of the site, so off went a text, and I may have even said to M., "...Holy 10 min squat, Batman! Challenge accepted."

See, I may whine about the pain, and the bruises, and the associated discomforts of working out...but deep down, I'm always asking for just a little more.

Grandpa Bean

Today would have been my grandfather's 97th birthday, had he lived this long. Grandma and Grandpa Bean were a huge part of my earliest years; very few childhood memories don't include them. They were of that Greatest Generation that has been dying off in the last twenty years; the generation that rolled up their sleeves and fought a massive world war simply because it needed to be done.

Grandpa Bean was not a particularly educated man. He wasn't destined to be a shiny politician or a rich mogul. He was simply a hard-working, honest man who saved and spent wisely his whole life. The grandfather I knew was quiet, but he loved Aaron and I and seemed to enjoy our antics. He was able to enjoy his retirement because he had worked hard all of his life, even doing jobs he may not particularly have wanted to do.

A couple of evenings ago, Mom, Dad and I got into a discussion about a couple of books I read recently, both set in World War Two. The conversation moved on to a discussion about how fascinating that time in history is; how incredible that so many atrocities and shameful historical incidents like the Holocaust and the many atrocities of that time could occur (even, yes, in the United States, with the Japanese Internment) and yet, so many regular people could stand up and fight for others.

Grandpa Bean, and my Grandpa Cooper, as well, were both too old to go off to war, but both joined the military effort here at home. I'm sure neither particularly wanted to be soldiers--they had wives and families to think about--but the need was there, and they just rolled up their sleeves and did what needed to be done.

I started thinking about this last night. I have, of course, been self-absorbed of late about my own career prospects the last few weeks. For whatever reason, I am stubbornly clinging to this attitude that I will not like my new gig, selling insurance. My gut has been telling me it's all wrong, it's not a "good fit," and I'm honestly and truly terrified to go for it. But something occurred to me last night. What would Grandpa Bean have done in my situation? If faced with very few job prospects in his usual field, and an opportunity to start making a living in a new field he didn't particularly want anything to do with, what would he have done?

Simple: He would have taken the job, and done his best at it. He would have been glad to have something to pay the bills and keep food on the table.

And I am, too. Deep down, the thought of having an income, not to mention a purpose, again, is satisfying. I can't necessarily help that twisty feeling inside that I won't be happy doing it, but I can go in with the attitude of, "I will do this because I must. And something that is even better for me may come along soon." As one very wise friend pointed out last night, just having a job will make me appear more employable to the rest of the world than being unemployed does. So maybe taking on this job I don't really want will be the catalyst towards moving me out of two years of stagnation and unemployment to something that is even better for me.

I have very little hope that education will be a door that is open to me this year. Every day, I hopefully check Ed-Join, and there are so few jobs, and I know there are so many unemployed teachers in this state. But perhaps, as I get out in the community selling for my new job, a more reliable career path will be opened to me. I'm hopeful that opportunities will start appearing so that I can grab hold of them.

In the mean time, I need to take a lesson out of Grandpa Bean's book. I need to roll up my sleeves and do what needs to be done.

Happy Birthday, Grandpa. Thanks for being a great example.

Grandma Bean, my Aunt Donna holding my mom, and Grandpa Bean.
Circa 1946-47

This must have been taken in the 1960s.

This would have been sometime between 1987 and 1991, in our home
in Folsom.

August 1978

Monday Music: NEW Keane

This album isn't even released yet--not so much as a single! But somehow, this song has leaked and everyone seems to have it. I absolutely adore it and can't wait for the rest of the album to drop here in the US on May 8 (my Keane-o-versary, too!).

Anyway, while I mop up the drool over this awesome song--the piano! The synth! The vocals! The lyrics! SO AWESOME!!!--please, enjoy the video someone has thoughtfully provided.

Sunday Review

It's been ages since I've done a Sunday Review!

I've recently read two books that warrant a mention--Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay and Hotel On the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford. Both books go back and forth between World War Two and modern-day, and both books center around the horrors that Allied countries helped to inflict on two distinct races of people.

Sarah's Key spent some time on the New York Times Best-Seller list; I've seen it on display at Target and Barnes and Noble for so long, and I was intrigued by it, but never committed to buying it until December, when I bought it as a Christmas present for Mom. I figured she would probably enjoy it, and I could borrow it when she finished--a perfect gift, right? A book that a mother and daughter can share.

The story starts in July 1942, in the heart of Paris, where Sarah, a 10-year-old Jewish girl, is rounded up with her parents--by the French police, not the Nazis. The incident, known as the Vel' d'Hiv Roundup, is a little-discussed incident in French history that tends to be loosely passed off as a Nazi horror, but was, in fact, perpetrated by the French police. Sarah, in a desperate attempt to save her 4-year-old brother, and convinced that she will be returned home later in the day, locks him in a secret cupboard in the bedroom of their Paris apartment, keeping the key with her as the rest of her story unfolds.

The book alternates chapters between 1942 and 2002, the 60th anniversary of the roundup, which is covered by an American journalist living in Paris. Julia Jarmond is approaching middle age, married to a charming but difficult Frenchman and raising her preteen daughter. They are set to move into her grandmother-in-law's recently vacated Paris apartment as Julia researches the tragic circumstances surrounding Vil' d'Hiv, and suddenly, a stunning connection between Sarah and Julia's in-laws comes to light.

Sarah's Key is heartbreaking and unforgettable, and it was difficult to put down. It's not an easy read, emotionally, but if, like me, you are fascinated by the World War Two era, it's well worth finding a copy. I enjoyed de Rosnay's writing style, especially the back-and-forth between the two time periods, as it made the horrors of Sarah's story jar even more against the life that Julia lives in modern Paris.


Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet takes place in Seattle, going back and forth between 1942, when Henry Lee is a 12-year-old Chinese boy befriending and falling for Keiko, a Japanese classmate, and 1986, when he is a middle-aged man reeling from the death of his wife and being revisited by old memories of the terrible injustice that was the internment of Japanese-Americans.


Ford takes the reader through not only the horrifying reality that thousands of innocent Americans were rounded up and taken from everything they knew to live in ramshackle camps, but also the tensions that existed between Americans of Chinese and Japanese descent, the strong sense of family honor that can cause a man to disown his son for having a friend from the Japanese part of town, and an innocent love between to young children through a dark chapter in American history.

Both Sarah's Key and Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet are thoroughly readable page-turners. For those who have a difficult time reading about the Holocaust, I advise care when deciding whether or not to read de Rosnay's book--simply because the story is so heartbreaking.

I read these books one right after the other, and it was interesting to read about the same time period from two completely different perspectives--a ten-year-old Jewish girl witnessing first-hand the horrors of the Holocaust and a 12-year-old Chinese-American boy navigating the racial tensions of being Asian in the United States at the time of the internment. Both stories vividly portray how war and its politics can destroy the innocence of childhood, and both deliver profound messages that encourage the reader not to forget the darker side of our history.

Finding Calm In Stormy Weather

It should be apparent, if you've been keeping up with the LPB, that lately, when I'm not bragging about my fitness accomplishments, I'm stressing out over an upcoming insurance licensing exam I've got this week (Thursday). And a career change. And everything that comes with being a typical Leo, which is a fixed fire sign (Holy Stubborn Streak, Batman!!). For a woman who moved to England to take a teaching position, I am remarkably resistant to change sometimes.

Let's not lie. I'm terrified of starting a new career. What if I hate it? What if I'm bad at it? (Leo pride is famous, you know.) What if I can't manage my time working for myself? What if I can't get my morning workouts in? What if?!?!

I have this tendency to worry about things long before I need to--I realized that this week and I'm consciously making an effort to knock it off.

I'll let you know how I do.

The good news is that I have a lot of fantastic, stabilizing influences in my life--friends, family, my cats, running, and my twice-weekly workouts with M. the Reasonable. Choir. Listening to Keane. Angry Birds on my Kindle. Reading romance novels. (Don't judge. It's escapism.)

The even better news is that while I have my moments of anxiety and I've had a few too many crying jags in the last few weeks, I'm not balancing on a ledge or anything like that. I'm just stubbornly refusing to admit that hey, maybe this could...you know, turn out alright. Better than alright--maybe even really, really great.

A week or two ago, Mom and I were discussing my lack of belief in myself. Mom said, "Why don't you believe you can do this? Everyone else thinks you can! Why not you?" To which I replied, "Why don't you believe in yourself sometimes? Everyone else thinks you're awesome!" Mom paused, smiled, and replied, "Touche." Turns out that part of being human is being our own worst critics.

As I acknowledge my weaknesses, I find I'm achieving a greater sense of calm. I've been able to really focus this weekend on the online course, and I'm not a basket case over wrong answers and my own perceived lack of understanding. I'm learning the tricks of the questions and how to read and look for context clues (something I spent 8 of the last 10 years teaching my students to do, how 'bout that?) and I'm finding that so much of it is common sense and careful reading...hey, I can do this!

Yesterday, I was driving from a training with my soon-to-be company to the gym when up ahead I saw a car with "Trust God" scrawled on its back window. Normally, I roll my eyes at such things, or ignore them all together, but yesterday, I simply smiled. And I thought, "Yeah. Trust God." Yes, my definition of God is, perhaps, different than the (I'm assuming) Christian driver of the car ahead...but as I drove towards the gym, a sense of calm settled over me as I realized that as long as I do everything I'm supposed to do--work hard, keep on eye on "my six" when I can, and go out there and do what needs to be done, the universe will return in kind. And when things are difficult, God or the universe still have my back. I just have to trust that all of this is pointing towards something better, and set about making it so.

I just keep putting one foot in front of the other. The new career will either work out, or it won't. The bottom line is, I owe it to myself to give it a try, and to do everything in my power to stay calm. (If you need me, I'll be out running my anxiety off.)

Fitspiration Friday

 

What's it going to be this weekend? Are you going to get out there and do something active?

Meg and the Very Bad, Er, Not So Good, Well, Maybe It Was Okay After All Day

Longest blog post title ever? Maybe...maybe...

So, here's what happened. I woke up this morning, well-rested, I suppose, but there was just something off today. Maybe it's the full moon, or maybe I just flipped over wrong on my bruised ribcage (thanks to yesterday's workout with M. the Reasonable, my ribcage is bruised and battered--he used a roller on it, and, well, ouch). Maybe I didn't put my socks on right. Whatever it was--I still haven't figured it out--I spent most of today feeling so very BLEH.

In all caps.

I went for my run. During my longer-than-usual walking warm-up, I felt almost queasy, as though my breakfast might not stay put. My run was sluggish, slow, and short...and my stomach didn't feel too much better throughout. I plodded home, feeling discouraged, teary, and oh-so-BLEH.

A shower helped a little. My protein shake perked me up a bit. I did some studying for my oh-so-boring insurance exam. I cuddled my cats. And I just could not shake that BLEH-ness.

It came to a head this afternoon, when I was randomly thinking about how well I've been doing in my fitness and weight loss (a happy thought, indeed!) and I suddenly burst into tears--those loud, drippy-nosed tears that come out of nowhere, have no discernible reason, and leave one feeling drained and grumpy and morose. Mom and Dad were out, so I had time to calm down before they came back home...a good thing, because I know they worry about me.

Finally, at 6:00 or so, I could take it no more. After Mom's query of, "Why so gloomy?" was met with a half-hearted, "I really don't know..." I knew I needed to take some kind of action.

So off I zoomed in Rosie Pro to Barnes and Noble...figuring some time in a public place, surrounded by the smell of books, might cheer me up. I parked in front of the store, and glanced over at the nearby Old Navy. A thought entered my head: "I wonder," it mused. "I wonder just how close those size 6 jeans are..." I decided to dart over to Old Navy to find out.

Since I started my odyssey, I've been buying the same pair of jeans, in decreasing sizes. The size 18s I now marvel at are a pair of light blue Sweetheart jeans by Old Navy. I've worn the Sweetheart in the same color in 16, 14, 12, 10, and now 8. Tonight, I grabbed a pair of size 6 Sweethearts off the shelf and strolled over to the fitting room, thinking, "Well, I doubt they'll fit just yet, but it's good to see how close or how far I am, how much work I have to do..." My 8s are a wee bit loose in the waist and I figured it couldn't hurt to try the 6s on...just to see.

They fit.

They fit.

Yes...they fit.

Sure, they're a teensy bit snug in the thighs and I'll probably wear the 8s for another 5 pounds or so just to be comfortable and flattering...but those size 6 jeans slipped over my body, buttoned, and zipped...without any sucking in or uncomfortable maneuvering. They simply worked.

For the third time today, tears came to my eyes...but this time, they were happy tears. I wanted to laugh out loud in delight. Instead, I covered my mouth with both hands and felt tears prickle my eyes...and I stared in awe at my reflection in the fitting room mirror.

Spirits buoyed considerably, I danced over to Barnes and Noble to immerse myself in books and joy. A text came through from M. the Reasonable while I was flipping through a book--responding to an earlier inquiry I'd sent him about a chicken recipe he'd told me about yesterday. Of course, I had to share my news. And of course, he is delighted for me, and "impressed."

I still have work to do. My body doesn't want to be 150 pounds at 5'2". There's weight yet to lose, and some fat around my middle and my upper arms. It's a process, and celebrating the steps along the way is a big part of helping me to keep going.

I had rather imagined getting to a size 6 at my lowest weight, but it looks now like a 4 isn't out of the question in another month or so. Maybe, eventually, a size 2. Boggling.

In the end, today wasn't so bad. Even better...tomorrow is a clean slate. 

Hurts So Good

You know you're really a gymbo when you start to sort of enjoy the pain that comes with a really great workout.

Yesterday, M. the Reasonable introduced me to a few new moves, including Turkish Get-Ups, which are impossible to explain, so I'll just insert this video here:

Yesterday, I only learned the first HALF of the exercise, to the point where you sit up with the arm extended over head. Today, my wrists are bruised from the little teensy-weensy kettlebell M. had me using banging against them ("Yeah, that's normal," was M.'s nonchalant response to my initial whiny, "Hey, this is going to leave a bruise!" Obviously, he's a more seasoned gymbo than I am.)

I also did a new exercise that required me to bend forward quite a bit with a kettlebell in my hands, using my hip-thrust (for lack of a better term to describe it) back upright to make the weight swing up. It was a bit more difficult for me to get the form of this one right, and left my hamstrings feeling the burn today. I've been walking funny and randomly reaching behind myself to massage the stiffness from my thighs. This has elicited a comment or two from Mom and Dad, but honestly, after foam rolling and doing two-and-a-half miles on the treadmill today, what's a girl to do with her sore hamstrings?

Getting back to the point of this post, I find it funny that I almost revel in the soreness and discomfort that follows a new workout, or a really good one. Not, of course, the pain I had in December with my back issues (sciatica, no matter how you slice it, is not fun). No, that was just frustrating and horrid.

So here I am--sore hamstrings, bruised wrists, and satisfied. There was a point in my life when any sort of work-out related pain was not tolerable, but somehow, I've leaped over that hurdle and left it far behind me. I invite the soreness that tells me my muscles are getting stronger, and burning the excess fat off of my body.

Hurts so good.

Monday Music: Simply Red

When I visited Italy in 2003, I watched a fair bit of MTV Italia whenever I was in the hotel room (which wasn't often, but I'd have it on sometimes while I was getting ready in the morning, or just before bedtime). I wanted to see what was popular in Italy, and one of the songs that was repeatedly played was "Sunrise," by Simply Red.

I love the sampling of the old Hall & Oates song "I Can't Go For That" and the rest of the song is quite sexy. I bought the CD while in Italy and have since put this song in my iTunes library. I found it recently and remembered how much I like it...even though the video is pure gratuitous model writhing. Ugh.

Stuff and Things and Changes and Whatnot

Life has a funny way of twisting and turning on you, and before you know it, there you are. Sitting at your computer learning all about life insurance, preparing for a state insurance exam so you can begin your latest career selling supplemental insurance for a company that is represented by a duck.

I never, ever dreamed of selling insurance.

But here I am. Earlier this week, I had a huge crisis in which I was convinced I was making the biggest mistake of my life. I've calmed down since then, but I'm still quite apprehensive about everything that lies ahead. Despite the compliments from friends, telling me I have a great personality and a very trustworthy air about me, I'm still not convinced I can sit down with business owners and convince them that they ought to provide what I'm selling to their employees. I've been told that I actually have exactly the type of demeanor that will not only get me in the door, but also selling very well...but I'm not 100% sure that I want to spend the next six months, year, two years, whatever doing this.

Maybe I'll love it. I know the earning potential is much better than teaching, and I will be my own boss. Now that, I really love. Imagine, no principal telling me what to do. Lovely, right? I can work from home when I'm not out setting up new accounts, and I can set my own hours. If I want to work out with M. the Reasonable at 7:00 in the morning, then come home and run, I can do that. I can work in my pajamas, or my workout gear (though I'll probably be more productive if I shower and at least stick some jeans on. On the days I'm going out to businesses, of course I will dress up.

There are some huge advantages to what I'm doing, and from everything I've learned so far, the company is incredibly supportive of its associates in the field. I've spoken with two ladies who have worked for them for many years--a friend of my parents, and her daughter. Both were candid with me, not sugar-coating anything. And both are convinced that if I put 100% effort into it for the first couple of years, I can have the same kind of success that they have.

Friends are already telling me that the product sells itself, and I'm quite lucky to be selling a product that has been marketed with pure genius. Everything about the marketing has ensured that people don't find the commercials offensive or off-color. People know the company, they know how the product works, and selling it shouldn't be all that difficult--especially as California is still a somewhat-new market for it.

The bottom line is...I'm terrified. Since high school, my mind has centered on the "I'm a teacher" mentality. It's what I wanted to be, what I studied to be, what I became, what I held on to through almost two years of unemployment. Changing that line of thought is downright terrifying. I have felt, this week, almost like I'm mourning the death of a career path.

Another source of anxiety has been my fear of being stuck. Once I get going in this, what if I find I hate it? What if, six months from now, I'm miserable? Will I be stuck? Heavens no, but I forget that sometimes.

So forward I go. I'm learning about life insurance, and I am scheduled to take the state exam on the 13th. Most of what I'm studying won't apply to what I'm selling, but I have to get the license. It's a lot of information, and it's quite stressful memorizing it all. I find most of it quite dull. But I've passed many a test to be a teacher and I know I can pass this one, too.

Then I can go forth and still be a teacher--only this time, I'll be educating people on why my product is something they can benefit from. I hope to be good at it.

Show and Tell

Today I dragged those size 18 jeans off to the gym, in the hopes of getting a moment to show them off to M. the Reasonable. He happened to be in the trainer desk area, talking to another trainer, when I arrived, and he had a few minutes to chat, so I asked him if I could show him something.

I pulled my folded-up jeans out of my gym bag and asked him, "Are you ready for this?"He simply smiled and said, "Yeah."

His smile turned to a look of shock as I unfolded the jeans and held them up in front of myself. M. is not a particularly loud person to begin with, but his very quiet, "Oh, my God." made me laugh out loud in delight.

A big smile spread across his face. "You could fit two of you in those!" He stood there, shaking his head, smiling, as I laughed and told him of my own reaction to pulling the jeans out for the first time in a long time. Finally, he said, "I just...can't imagine you ever being able to fit into those!"

"Neither can I, and I did, indeed, used to fit into them!"

M., of course, met me about 20 pounds ago, when I was a size 10/12, in decent shape but slipping a bit. He's seen quite a transformation in me since November, but he never knew me when I was at my biggest, or my least fit. So for him, seeing evidence from my earliest days in this odyssey is shocking, even though logically, he knows I started at 220 pounds, and has even seen pictures.

I do so love showing off. ; )

Fitspiration Friday

Will you get out and do something good for your body this weekend?

Size 18.

Today, while rooting through my storage unit, I grabbed something out of my dad's old military-issue foot locker that I use as a memory trunk of sorts. It's got a bunch of old crap, like my high school letter jacket, papers, etc. My childhood blanket, "Fa-fa." And it is also home to one pair of jeans...the one remaining item of clothing left over from the days I weighed over 200 pounds.

In those days, I wore a pants size of 18. Tonight, I tried on my size 8 jeans and they fit.

Of course, I had to get pictures, and I will be taking the old 18s to the gym to show them to M. the Reasonable. (I recently told him about showing them off to G. the Meanie at one point in my training in Stockton, and how it was the only time I ever saw G. speechless.)

Jeans: Size 18. Body: Size 8 (Can you see the ever-present cat on the bed?)

Just a comparison.

The whole time I played with my camera and my too-large jeans,
Harley showed zero interest. Gah, I love those wittle feetsies!

Stressed Spelled Backwards Is...

I stood in front of a vending machine last night at Sac State, half an hour before choir rehearsal, eying the peanut butter cups and the chips and the pretzels and every other piece of sugary, salty goodness offered therein and muttered five words to myself under my breath:

"Do NOT eat your stress."

Five years ago, in Antioch, when the high school kids got me down or the parents were on my back to give little Lola a better grade even though she was absolutely refusing to be a human being in my advanced choir class, I would stop at Safeway on the way home and buy a box of Kraft Mac & Cheese. Maybe one of those little double-serving cakes in the bakery. Hey, I deserved a little comfort food after such a bad day! I drank more Bailey's in those two years in Antioch than I care to admit.

I knew, of course, that this was supremely unhealthy and only contributing to my high blood pressure and weight problems. But life was so stressful sometimes, and it just felt easier to comfort myself with food instead of with a workout.

Obviously, things have changed since then, specifically in the last three years. I have learned better coping skills and I manage my stress far more healthily than I used to...but that urge to feed my inner demons has never really gone away. I don't think it ever will. I allow some treats in my life, especially when they're simply a treat--not a balm for a bad day. I love my dark chocolate, and when I eat it, I savor it (it's especially lovely with a hot cup of tea).

I'm proud to say that last night, I made the healthy decision. I walked away from the vending machine, clutching my protein smoothie in one hand and promising myself I'd feel better in the long run for skipping the junk food.

Big changes are happening in my life--if last night's "Vent Ahead" post didn't clue you in, I'm coming to terms with a career change. I'm leaving something I love--teaching--due to a horrible economy, and moving into something I never really had any interest in doing--selling insurance. I'm not happy about it, but I'm doing it, because unemployment doesn't last forever and I have bills to pay and a life to live. Right now, the coursework for passing the state insurance licensing exam is causing a lot of angst, and I can't wait for that part of things to be over in two weeks.

I figure I'll give it six months, and if I'm miserable, I'll do some substitute teaching and retail work. Maybe I'll actually be good at it. Who knows? Just get me through this stupid exam.

Today, I came home from a training group feeling overwhelmed and very near a panic attack. I knew, the minute I got home, that I had to do something good for my body before proceeding with anything else. I put my running gear on and told Mom, "I just need to run." And so I did.

What do you know? I ran a sub-10-minute mile for the second time in my life. The first time was in July 2010. That time, it was hard, but today felt easy. I was breathing hard and sweating, but I also felt a little like I was flying. When I reached my stopping point, I looked at the stopwatch on my iPod--I'd made it 1.04 miles in 10:03! The nearby houses may have been surprised by my surprised yelp, and the odd sight of a short brunette in a red shirt walking along the pathway with her arms in a V-for-victory. I just couldn't help myself...despite my stress, despite being tired, I went out there and owned that run. And when I got home, I had a smoothie, not junk food.

So many small victories--saying "no" to the vending machine, running that mile today. They all add up...and they all feel huge.

Vent Ahead

I am tired tonight. I am so very tired, and emotional. And I'm sitting here thinking I made a huge mistake signing on to this Aflac stuff, because here are some key truths:

1. Insurance is boring.
2. I made it through half of the first chapter in my course today, my first day (I'm supposed to be finished with two whole chapters by now), and I do not understand any of what I read. I can't even regurgitate answers like a trained monkey.
3. The thought of trying to make a living by talking to people on the phone trying to sell them on providing Aflac for their employees makes me want to cry.
4. I hate the phone.
5. I'd honest-to-God rather work as a retail drone at Target.
6. If I'm completely honest with myself, I only signed up for this because I don't want my parents worrying about me. 
7. So now I'm miserable and making them miserable with my misery.

Regrets? You have no idea.

My parents are cheering me on, saying things like, "You can learn this!" and "You'll be great! You have great people skills!" and I am just sitting here struggling not to cry. Day one of trying to learn about insurance and I am miserable.

But I'm also desperate. Because my parents are also constantly reminding me that I won't get a teaching job this year (thanks for the vote of confidence!). I am still applying like crazy because right now, if I can land a teaching job--any teaching job--I will gladly take it over selling insurance.

Even substitute teaching.

Anyway, I think I've made a huge mistake. But I'm going to finish the training the best I can (including the Aflac one I have to be at in Folsom in...yikes, 9 hours) and hope I don't embarrass myself on the state test. But honestly? I'm writing down the chapter word for word and still not understanding or retaining any of it.

Case in point:

The Law of Large Numbers: The larger the number of exposures considered, the more closely the losses reported will equal the probability of loss.

What the hell are exposures? I hadn't even encountered that word yet in my reading. And read that sentence. Even Dad had to pick it apart for a few minutes before he could explain it to me. And this is just one teensy law in half of a chapter about the "basics" of insurance. I feel like I've just been handed a paper grocery bag with a blanket, a couple bottles of water and some tins of Spam and told to climb Everest.

Desperate.

70 Pounds

It's official. I weigh 152 pounds today, making my total weight loss 70. I got M. the Reasonable to take a picture of me holding a 70-pound weight, and you can see that I'm having a hard time holding it up. I'm also laughing because M. had asked me what angle he should take the picture at, and before I could respond he said, "Oh, just take the picture already!!" because apparently, he can read my mind or something.

I was having a hard time holding that weight up (you can see I'm bracing it against my leg), even though today I dead lifted 95 stinkin' pounds (I rule!!) and I used to actually carry that much weight around on my body every single day.

Monday Music: Keane

So this morning, Keane formally announced the upcoming release of their new album, Strangeland, via this awesome video:



Excited? You have no idea. I may wet myself.

I'll just point out that the album comes out May 7--May 8 is my three-year Keane-o-versary, when I went to that Oakland gig with Summer and fell hard for this amazing band from Sussex.  I already love the sound of what I'm hearing on this teaser video, and I know I'm going to LOVE this album. Bring it on!!

My Second 5K

Last month, I ran my first 5K, and I was quite pleased with myself for 1) finishing and 2) finishing in a respectable time of about 37 minutes. Today, I ran the Getty Owl Foundation's local run to support families with children with Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA). I had two lofty goals:

1. Finish the race, and
2. Beat my time from January's race.

No, I don't really set the bar that high.

In all honesty, I was hoping to finish in under 35 minutes, but a sluggish week of running and a general tiredness this morning made me wonder if that would be possible. Still, I donned my leggings and baseball cap (the irony of showing up at a race that is advertised as "family friendly" in a hat that says "It's 5 o'clock somewhere" is not lost on me, but it's the only baseball cap I have and it was bloody cold out there. For my part of California).  I told myself that anything under 37 was good, and under 36 would be great.

I drove the thirty minutes to Sacramento and checked in...then promptly returned to my car and tried to stay warm. Finally, with about 20 minutes to the start, I wandered over to the starting line and did a little side-step dance back and forth to keep my legs from freezing.

Finally, it was time. I had positioned myself at mid-pack to be ahead of the stroller crowd but behind the faster runners. I had to dodge a few people but then things started evening out. I set an easy pace and got going, determined to run as much as possible.

The first half was pretty uneventful. The cold air made breathing a little painful, and running on cold mornings makes my nose run, so I'm that disgusting person constantly wiping her nose on her sleeve. (I really must remember to buy a cheap bandana to tie around my arm for this purpose.) I periodically glanced down at a makeshift paper bracelet I'd made for myself that said, "I believe in me." After the halfway point, I allowed myself a little bit of walking...a slight queasy feeling had descended on my stomach and I figured I'd rather walk for a minute or two than have to stop entirely down the road to be sick. The walking (and breathing) helped, and I got running again, and felt pretty good for most of the rest of the course. I walked a few times more, but never for very long.

Towards the end of the course, as I left the Sacramento River trails and came closer to downtown, I played my favorite song--Keane's "Somewhere Only We Know" on my iPod. It's not a particularly fast-tempo song, but it inspires me and makes me push myself. As I rounded a bend in the path, I saw the finish line ahead--and to my delight, the clock read 34:40! My mid-paced stride became a faster, more confident run as I came in for the finish--I wanted so badly to come in under 35 minutes! I uttered a little, "Hell yeah!" and felt a smile come over my face as I pounded my way home.

The nearest runners were yards ahead and yards behind me. I was in a little pocket by myself finishing, to the cheers of the bystanders who were there to cheer and make the runners feel good. I crossed the finish a little past the 35-minute mark, feeling triumphant and...

Uh-oh.

For a couple of minutes, I was convinced I was going to be sick--that last push to the finish was, perhaps, a wee bit too hard. I normally run about two-and-a-half miles, so an extra seven-tenths, pushing my pace, is a lot of work for me. Fortunately, I managed to calm my heaving stomach with deep breathing and some bottled water. I wandered around to cool down and checked out my official time on the computers the race management people had thoughtfully provided.

Imagine my huge delight when I found that with the difference between when I crossed the start line (remember, I was mid-pack), I actually finished today in 34:50!

I beat my time from January by a whopping 2:10...this, my friends, is amazing for someone who still feels like she's coming to terms with being a runner. Coming right after the three-year anniversary of my starting this whole weight loss and fitness adventure, I can't tell you how proud I feel, how huge a victory this is.

Of course, I texted M. the Reasonable right away. He's very proud of me, and his response to my almost getting sick was, "It's ok, it happens sometimes when you're kicking butt!"