There is something so cool about running in the rain. 

Wait. Who just wrote that? I am checking myself to see if I have a fever. It is not because I just ran in the rain (I did). It is really because I expressed deep love for doing that. It is genuine, though. 

The first time I ever ran in the rain we were in San Antonio on vacation. Hang on a second. Who just wrote that? Who ran or did any intentional exercise while on vacation? Who am I? I am a person who found something I love to do. 

I digress. It was July. San Antonio is hot all of the time, but in July it is really a whole, new dimension of heat. I woke up early, specifically to get in a training run. My husband looked at me like I was insane. He was a little concerned about me running in this unfamiliar city, early in the morning, in the rain. And, he thought I was crazy. 

I did it anyway. Sure, I didn’t know where I was going.  Sure,  I was slow. Sure, I was a new at running, and a little less than graceful.  It was like my own personal little “just do it” ad.

I splashed through puddles.  It was exhilarating. People looked at me as though I had lost my mind. Each time I got one of those glares, I just imagined the person was giving me a high-five. There were plenty of people who smiled that “good for you” smile. I was clearly a klutzy athlete, but one who had found my bliss. It was great. 

When I returned to the room, soaked to the bone, my husband gave me a “high-five” look. It was okay by me. Runners high?  Maybe. I also realized in that moment that I did not have to be the best at, or even great at something to love it. The joy came from me doing things I said I would never do- more importantly, things I had always believed I could never do. Sure I could. 

All I have to do is lace up and hit the pavement. I have a choice. I can see the dirty looks and feel the rain  beating down on me. Or, I can see high-fives and feel the rain washing over me.  I get to experience how I see the world around me. 

This wonderful memory came to me as I ran through drizzle this morning. I actually just before, when I  had an, “I can run now, it’s all drizzly and cold” moment. Then, I remembered San Antonio. As I hit my stride, the Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony” came on my shuffled iPod. One line stuck out: “I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now”.  That’s what I did. I tuned out all of the “I can’t change” lyrics in that song and let the rain wash over me.

 

“Great job!  Here are some donuts!”

“Sorry for your loss.  Have some cake.”

“Thank you for watering my plants. Enjoy this candy.”

“Awesome! You lost 5 pounds!  How about a celebratory pizza?”

You name the emotion, situation, or circumstance- nothing says whatever it is quite like food.  Are we sure the three wise men did not bring Jesus a Happy Meal?  How did food get to be all things, from comfort to congratulations?

Just so we are clear:  I have never turned away the food.  I can’t. In fact, I will eat this food, especially if it is strategically located on a desk or credenza at work- even if it is something I do not like. Why? Because it is  there.   Who turns down free food? Sadly, I don’t.  Someone could send over a trough of those creepy orange “Circus Peanut”, styrofoam-esque candies and I would eat them because they are readily available.

I am not blaming the people who provide these seemingly endless celebratory, or otherwise gift-oriented, treats. I am the one who is mindlessly eating the stuff.  It is me. These generous benefactors do not include greeting cards suggesting I, or anyone else,  simply “forget” to include these snacks in our food journals.

It is something in my mind that tells me that this sort of grazing is nothing-  little nibbles that do not really add up to anything in the grand scheme of my daily net 1400 calorie count.

Think again.  I tracked a recent day’s gifted impulse indulgences.  Handful of potato chips, 100 calories. Half of a chocolate bar, 140 calories.

A quarter- no wait, I’ll go back for one more bite. Oh, make that two.  Oh, damnit!  I’ll eat the whole donut. It will just go to waste, if I don’t. No one will eat it now that it has been mangled. All of those poor kids in faraway lands who do not have free donuts at work.  Cha-ching another 500 calories.

The inconsequential total turns out to be painfully significant: 740 calories.

It would be one thing if this happened occasionally, but it doesn’t. There is always someone who is grateful for something, sad about something, happy about something, sympathetic about something and wants to feed you until you feel it too.

It is the thought that counts.  The funny thing about food as reward, thank you, gift, etc, is that it takes almost no thought.  I am guilty. If I do not know what sort of trinket to get for a birthday or housewarming- you are getting chocolate. 

Wow. This is rant. If you have ever given me food as a gift, I assure you, I loved it. I devoured it. I was so grateful for it. Now, cut it out.

 

“You are so talented, but you have no drive,” said my high school drama teacher, Virginia Hill. 

I remember thinking, “what the hell does that even mean?” 

Virginia was not the only person to say that, or something along those lines, during my formative years- or  in my 20’s, 30’s or 40’s. 

Who needs drive when things seem to fall into your lap? Plus, I was told in college, “C’s get degrees.” I had permission right there to just sort of hang and let it all flow. Groovy, right?  

If you are someone who has busted your butt to achieve goals, you probably want to sock me in the eye right now. “What kind of ridiculous, BS blog is this, Leslie?” 

Stay with me. 

The world is full of “C’s get degrees” people. We are the ones who let you do most of the work on projects, then show up at the last-minute, frantic and trying to look useful. (note I said trying to “look”, not “be” useful)

There are a few things happening here. The last-minute effort, I can explain.  I am guilty and have to work very hard at not being so completely self-absorbed that I actually honor commitments and put forth an honest effort to help. 

I am not proud of this. My lifelong challenge will be to remember that it is not all about me. There, I said it. I am being honest.  

But, not putting forth my best effort, not seeing what I could actually accomplish or contribute if I honestly tried my best is also partly selfish. I will always go out of my way to do something I want to do. Holy crap, I just re-read that last sentence, and I swear it is as if my father took over my hands and typed that himself.

The thing is, wanting to do something being a motivation to do my best is still not always enough. Crazy, isn’t it? 

It turns out, fear often keeps me from doing my best. If I don’t give my all, then I can always say, “yeah, probably would have done that- won that, whatever the challenge was- better, but I didn’t really have time”, or whatever other excuse I can up with. That takes all of the egg off of my face and/or feelings of “failure” away, doesn’t it?

I am not saying I have consciously, all of my life, said to myself, “I am not going to try my best because, then if I fail, it will not feel as bad.”

No need to grab your notebook, Dr. Freud. I don’t think that I am a bad person because of any of this. I do not think that it is because my parents spanked me. (They let ’em do that in the 70’s and 80’s- usually after kids walked barefoot, through broken glass and snake-infested flood waters, to and from school.) I just am just human. I have flaws, just like  everyone else. 

So, when I finished weight training and a run this morning, and thought, “I am just going to give this everything and see what this does for me when I do that full marathon in February”, I got this twingey, awesome feeling. I am not going to let fear stand in my way. I am just going to do this- and give it my best effort. 

I am not just going to take this approach with my health goals,  I am going to make a real effort to notice all of the ways “C’s” are getting degrees in my life and lay down the law. Yes, if you wish, you can point out my selfish, narcissistic tendencies to me, when you spot them. *No need to tell me writing a blog is in that category- I’m painfully aware.

There is a new grading curve, and C’s only get the degree if they come from my best effort- not from how I do on my exam after a night of playing quarters with moonshine.

Yep, this is a shirt with a bunch of names on it. This is the shirt I wore for my very first ever road race. The names, well, they are what got me across that finish line. I am not just talking about race day, but every step of the way from my very first run.

So, just what do everyone from Cameron Albin to Theresa Betts have in common? They each faced down disease or injury, without whining. There was no, “I’m too hot”,  “I’m too fat”, “I’m too uncomfortable” to fight this cancer, this paralysis, this threat to the life I love.

Here is how my name game started:

I was at Crim training one night. The Crim is the aforementioned road race. The training starts in the late Spring. Runners and would-be runners are assigned to groups. Training is every Tuesday night at 6 pm. This is a time of year in Michigan that is frequently also hot-thirty. HOT:30.  I don’t do hot. I loathe hot. If ever there was a perfect out for me in an attempt to do any sort of fitness related thing, hot was it. Ask anyone who has ever trained with me.

On an especially hot evening, early in training, Whiny Fred hopped out of my cool, moisture wicking sportswear and said, “what the hell are you doing? I am hot. We can’t do this. Cut it out. Let’s go get a Coke and a pizza. Let’s start smoking again. This is overwhelming.”

It really sucked to be Fred that night.  He was up against my friend, Darlene. Just as some “life-threatening” sweat started to trickle down my face, I coughed. It was one short, almost a bark, really. Suddenly I thought of Darlene. When I told Darlene I quit smoking, she was quick to demand that I be screened and monitored for lung cancer every year.

My beautiful, young friend, Darlene, was a little impassioned about lung cancer. I guess that is what happens when you are diagnosed just two years after you give up smokes. Her diagnosis was new. She was told the cancer had spread and that her prognosis was not good. Still, somewhere,  from deep inside Darlene’s soul, a still, soft voice whispered, “whatever. Shove your prognosis!”

She got a second opinion and was put on some intense chemotherapy. Her oncologist warned her that it would be rough. He offered no guarantees. Darlene lost her hair, she lost weight, she was miserably sick. She NEVER stopped fighting.

So, here I was, running along with a group of amazing people, all there to conquer their own inner critics and run this ten miles, and I was letting Whiny Fred tell me it was too hot. Thinking of Darlene struggling to keep food down, shaving her head when enough hair had fallen out, and telling Dr. Crappy Prognosis to suck it, made a little heat seem so insignificant.

So, that is where it began. Each time I ran, this idiot Fred would try to infiltrate. Each time, one of those “names” on the back of my shirt would sock Fred in the eye. Each time, I felt stronger. I also felt connected. I realized that this whole running thing was not about me as much as it was about not giving up. So many people I know, and people I have never even met, have kept going when so many other voices have told them to stop.

Here is the deal:  just in case you are thinking- as well you should- “hey drama queen, it’s a ten-mile run. It is not life or death and you are a regular chick who isn’t really that old, and you are pretty healthy.”

This is all true. I agree. I concur. I just typed it out, for Pete’s sake. I get it. I also know that every time anyone does something they thought they never would do, it makes it easier for the rest of us. That is all, really. These little road races, these little personal Goliaths are what ultimately connect us all. Any time I can stop myself mid-whine and remember that a lot of people, all over the world,  are handling far more difficult challenges with substantially more grace, it takes me down a peg.

So, tomorrow is my third Crim day. I will be walking this one with my friends,  Amy and Joanne. Oh, and Brian will be there. Amy and JoJo will never see him, but he will be next to me, or leaning against a tree, or riding piggy back. He never misses one of my races. No worries. You will get to meet him here tomorrow.

Before you say, “what a blurry, lousy picture to use on your blog”, I already know that. This photo was taken after I crossed the finish line in a race. Yes. A race. I was stunned. I am crying in the picture.  I am also in pain. None of that matters. I finished. I ran The Crim, Flint’s most beloved annual road race.

I know that millions of runners cross finish lines around the world every year. This finish line was not just a rubber thing with a line and a clock on it that I ran over. This was a moment I never, ever imagined I would experience, unless I somehow accidentally wandered across a finish line at a race somewhere because I was lost or something.

I am not an athlete. I really was the kid who could miss the gigantic kickball when it was served up. By miss, I mean miss. Completely. I was even worse in the outfield. I can still smell the rubber from the numerous times the ball hit my face.

Running the bases? That was not even on the radar for me. That was one of those things people did who were able to breathe especially well.  I feel certain that if I had ever been able to kick the ball and had an opportunity to attempt running for a base, that would have been disastrous.

I always knew I was not an athlete. I figured it out when someone told me I was not an athlete. I believed it. It had to be true. I was not good at kickball. Clearly, this whole sports thing just was not for me.  That became my truth. We all have them, don’t we?

If I choose to believe something it becomes the truth, at least it becomes my version of the truth. So, how does a 41-year-old “never ran” find herself intentionally crossing the finish line in a ten-mile road race? I decided to believe that I could.

This whole thing did not come easy. It started with me quitting smoking. I quit smoking, then two weeks later, I did live reports during my station’s coverage of The Crim. As I watched thousands of people line up on the streets of Flint, something hit me: I could do this.

I looked around at these runners, who came in all shapes, sizes and ages. I watched their faces a couple of hours later as they crossed the finish line. I talked to some of them. Many of these ten-mile race finishers were also “not athletes” from way back. They all had something in common; they told themselves they could do it, and they did it.

Yes, I had to train. Yes it was hard. Yes, I was teary eyed as I posted my Facebook status proclaiming that I had just run my first mile “in a row”, for the first time ever in my 41 years. Hey, it was around about the time I did something else I never thought I would do in my life.  I had also gone six months in a row without smoking for the first time since I started at age 14.

In two days, I will do my third Crim. I just had surgery, so I am going to walk it. That is okay. Hey, I might walk it faster than I was able to run it the last two years. Doesn’t matter.  Slower or faster, I still win. Yes, I am honestly talking smack right now and saying I am going to win. Every time I allow the voice that says, “you can do this” to drown out the one that says things like, “you’re not an athlete” or “you can’t quit smoking”, I win. I win.

Truth be told, this is not just about me. I had help. Tune in tomorrow, and I will elaborate. (What a lame attempt at getting you to come back to my blog. Subtle much?)

 

“This is really good, I love it, but it has too many colors, so I will not eat it again.”   Twenty simple words that have come to define my insecurities as a homemaker.  My husband was just being honest. I asked, didn’t I? Well, even if I hadn’t asked, he would have pushed the enchilada around his plate for another 15 minutes, trying to make it look more “eaten”.

The chicken enchiladas were fan-freakin-tastic. I was so excited. I actually tried the, gasp, healthy recipe while my sweetheart was on the road. I knew it was good and could not wait to serve it up when he got home. Unfortunately,  I had not yet heard the color rule.  Apparently, foods with more than two colors are strictly prohibited on the plate of my mister. In order to keep things simple, a good reference is simply the color of beef. If the food item is beef or beef-like, and combined with few other colors, it is going to be a hit.

Potatoes are also acceptable, provided they are only garnished with butter, sour cream or some other healthy, full-fat natural dairy product. Don’t get me wrong, I love the man. I LOVE him, but he is a healthy eating nightmare.

He has always supported my diet attempts. It has to be exhausting. Honestly, I get confused. Carbs, no carbs. No fat, good fat. No Dairy Queen, step away from my Blizzard or I’ll cut you. The most dangerous of all is actually deciphering if I am trying to lose weight, or in one of my, “I’m 44, and lovin’ me the way I am” moments.

What I really love is the adaptation of rules. My husband really should write a diet book of his own. I especially loved his whole concept of bread and pasta being okay at dinner when I was doing South Beach. I really love the cute way he will comfort me with Cold Stone Creamery or a big fat Blizzard when I am at a weight loss plateau, or to celebrate reaching a goal.

Honestly, the best thing my husband has ever done for my attempts at getting to a healthy weight is ask, “do you want to do this, or not? Just tell me what we are doing and stick with it.”

I know, right?!  But, it is only fair, after all. He laid it all out on the line for me. “Too many colors.”  That is that. If I ever need clarity, it is easily attained. When I pick things up at the grocery store, like quinoa,  I can just show him a picture on the package, and he will say, “I’m not going to eat that.”  It is helpful. I do think red quinoa looks a little like beef, but he did not agree.

So I say quinoa (keen-wah) and he says pickled ring bologna. I say tomato, “he says, oh, I don’t eat tomatoes, except in ketchup.” But we make it work. I just cook a pice of chicken and a steak and make a very monochromatic salad and some half buttery/half olive oily potatoes and watch my portions.

I am down two pounds this week. It ain’t rocket science. It ain’t too many colors, either.