I’ve talked about Alicia before - a friend I originally met back when my kids were still itty bitty on the internet, in a mom’s group web forum that is now defunct after being swallowed whole by CafeMom.  Since then, we’ve stayed in touch through various other forums - most recently on Facebook, and I’ve met her and her family a couple of times now. 

We started our weight-loss mission at the same time.  I hit maximum density around the time she did, so we both signed up for weight watchers and did what we knew how to do best:  set up a support forum online for us to share our struggles and wins, post our goals and our progress, and generally have fun on the ride. 

You can see (and read) about Alicia’s results here . . . her before and after pics are amazing.  I figured I’d do the same, but I was so camera shy before that there are very few pictures of me at my heaviest.  I’m still not all that great about having my picture taken, but I’m getting better. 

I’m one of those annoying people who gained weight while training for the three half marathons I did.  I was so busy training and feeling so cocky about the calories I was burning that I’m actually up 10 pounds from my lowest weight.  Time to take that off, plus another 15 or 20 for good measure.  So it’s back to:  “if you bite it, write it” - the good old Weight Watcher’s mantra about tracking your food.  And I’m relying heavily on my newest forum for recipes and advice.  Some of my good friends are in the group as well as new people I didn’t know, and so far it’s been great having the gang mentality. 

(note:  I shouldn’t have to explain how hard it is posting fat pictures of myself, but I’m gonna anyway.  This is REALLY hard.)

Before: 

Vegas 2008, sitting next to one of my most beautiful (inside and out) (and tiny tiny tiny) friends Cathy . . .

Richmond 2009, with Annita:

After:

Last summer, with Trevor, Dan and Nicole:

With one of my besties, John - November 2010 at the Turkey Trot:

Yep, working already.  The fat pictures are motivating me.  Off to the bus stop followed by a run. 

Oh, how I love boundaries.  I’ve gone from having none to having too many to having what I like to think is a healthy mix of open gates and closed doors.

(source)

I’ve always struggled with boundaries, codependence, and hyper-sensitivity to other people’s moods.  I guess it goes back to the desire for everyone around me to feel happy and good and loved.  It took many decades to learn that at the end of the day I really can’t help them feel that way; the only thing I can do is be myself and be comfortable with myself.  Everything else has to follow in its own time. 

The guy I’m dating (and will hopefully, eventually, be able to call by his given name instead of ‘The Guy I’m Dating’ or ‘Runner Boy’ or “Dude”) is a great example of a good fence.  Our time together is limited, though we make the best of it.  Because of that, the majority of our conversations revolve around the current needs of the moment.  The usual pithy stuff of parents:  when do you have the kids this week, who is going to slack on doing their laundry in order to go on a date, who’s going to get a babysitter and when, the current status of his divorce, minor annoyances of the day, what’s for dinner, who is more injured from running and therefore who is more deserving of a rub.

The big, heavy stuff trickles out slowly.  It comes out at weird times - in a car, on the way back from somewhere.  At dinner, while the kids are watching Scooby Doo.  In the smallest moments, a brief conversation between loads of laundry or while the kids are running around in dress up clothes and we are the audience at their mismatched fashion show. 

This pause isn’t natural for me.  I’m more prone to ripping the bandage off and letting the things that I still drag around with me out - I figure if I can drop that baggage at the doorstep and the boys still choose to walk over the threshold, we’re off to a good start.  It’s not like there’s a murder in my background, or some dark family secret . . . but there have been some major events in my life that have made me who I am today, for better or worse. 

I like this pause.  It helps me keep my healthy boundaries - my fences - in place.  It allows me to slowly put my toe into the water of a newly-formed relationship, and it lets me ease into a level of comfort where I can actually discuss something important to me rather than exposing it quickly, wincing, then waiting for the backlash. 

Unfortunately for Dude, he’s accidentally stepped into some of my poo. These days I don’t get irate or angry, but I do get hurt feelings and he’s had to find out the hard way what I’m sensitive about.  He’s unusual in that he says what he feels; it’s unusual because a.) he’s male and knows what he feels and b.) he has the confidence (or cockiness?) to say it without fear of reproach.  I’m not sensitive about much, which is great because I used to be sensitive about everything.  The two areas that send me into the outer space of insecurity and anger are comments about my physical body (i.e., unless you’re saying “You look perfect just the way you are”, I don’t want to hear it) and about my mothering skills with Arden.  I’m not in a place where I can handle the kind of “helpful” suggestions or criticisms that strangers and not-so-strangers dole out, having no basis on which to form an opinion.  Running Boy loves my kids and because of this, the second isn’t really a problem.  Plus, he’s a dad himself - he has automatic street cred in giving advice. 

Good lord, now it sounds like I’m about to rag on him (again!  on my blog!) about his direct way of speaking.  And I’m not.  I love it.  98% of the time. 

I finally figured out a good analogy for comments about my physical self.  It’s a clear way of expressing the level of hurt and sensitivity I have about it, but in a way any male can understand.  It goes something like this:  “I think you’re great despite your small penis”. 

Yes, yes, of course you can change your physical appearance and unfortunately for men, you probably can’t change the size of your manhood, despite what the spammers say.  The point is . . . the reaction I feel is what I imagine a guy would feel after hearing the above statement. 

Back to my original point, had I blurted out all of my insecurities and neuroses within moments of our first meeting, he probably would have been turned off but he would have known what he couldn’t say.  It’s been the opposite of most of my relationships from the beginning.  Although I am still an open book, the pages are harder to turn and I’m more selective in what I share.  I’m not hiding anything, but I generally wait for a question to be asked now instead of answering preemptively.  Running Boy loves to conversate (not a real word but should be) and we have great ones frequently, but I’m letting him set the pace for what he wants to know.  I have no problem pelting him with questions; he doesn’t seem to mind. 

I wish I had practiced this much earlier.  It makes for a healthier relationship, and it draws out the fun, heady days of new love.  It makes the moments when we both share things more important, and I listen harder for the core of his statements and I watch harder for his body language.  I imagine he does the same. 

For the first time, perhaps ever, I have good fences.  And my good fences make me a better person. 

This weekend, I traveled to Virginia Beach with a bunch of fun women for the Virginia is For Lover’s 14K. 

This is what I looked like after: 

And I have the type of friends who photograph me when things like this happen.  Gotta love friends.  . .

(making the now-infamous “Cheetah Claw” in honor of our 1/2 marathon training team)

This morning, I ran the Sweetheart 8K.  I set a personal record - which is a big damn deal for me.  It’s the second time I’ve run back to back races and had good results. It defies logic.  How can I run hard and then turn around and do better the next day?  No idea, but it seems to work for me.  I ran the 8K in 51 minutes and some change.  (note: speed is relative.  This is VERY fast for me.  When I started running a year ago, I was a 12-minute mile person)

After the race I had a fun brunch with the old gang . . . including the guest(s) of honor Dan and Nicole.  Weezie’s came through this time and delivered actual french toast instead of Wonderbread with egg on it. 

I miss Dan and Nicole. A LOT. 

Interesting stuff about all of my running.  It’s made me more confident.  These days I feel pretty good about myself.  I feel healthier and stronger than I ever have, but it’s amazing how easy it is to slap my self-confidence down with just a phrase or well-intentioned comment.  It can be something like not “drinking my calories” to seeing a picture of me finishing a race and realizing that yes, I’ve come a long way but no, I am still so very far away from being okay with what I look like.  I know I have areas of improvement, but it is so frustrating when I think that I’ve finally made peace with the physical person I am and a tiny comment reminds me that I’m not at peace - I’m still very much at war. 

Guys are a great example of this.  If you ask them a question, they will give you a straight answer - most of the time.  Remember this commercial? 

Dude, you ASKED.  And he told you.  You have a fat arse.  Don’t be all crabby about it. 

So when I ask questions, I should be fully prepared to hear the answer.  Unfortunately the answers are not always couched in the kindest language.  One adjective has now got my head on backwards and will take me the better part of a week to stop hearing it.  What’s ironic is that it was meant in a complimentary way - sort of like someone saying to me, “You’re voluptuous” when all I’ve ever wanted to hear is how thin I am.  Apparently I need to put together a cheat sheet for the people in my life that differentiates “wrong” words from “right”:

USE:
cute
petite
tiny
small
curvy
feisty
sarcastic
intelligent

DO NOT USE:
short
flighty
flaky
busty
wide-hipped
heavy
big rack
squat
pleasantly plump
or anything along those lines.

Until I provide the cheat sheet, well, I deserve what I get. 

In the meantime, I’d like to just get over all this crap and focus on what’s important.  The people in my life that I love the most aren’t perfect, whatever that means, and don’t come from magazine photo shoots.  So why expect that I do too?  Ahhh, the conundrum of my messed up head.  I’ll draw up a truce with it when I’m dead. 

(source)

Some of my friends think that if you’re gay, you should have excellent gaydar.  I’ve found that rule isn’t always very accurate, but then again, I’m the one who thinks every gay guy is straight which I suppose is further proof that I’m full of wishful thinking along with a healthy dollop of sarcasm. 

I will put some money on E-dar, however.  That’s shorthand for my ability to know who in a room is or has been afflicted with some kind of eating disorder.  I swear, I can sniff it out from 10 miles away.  I can tell by the way someone eats their salad, or doesn’t eat their salad.  I can tell by the voraciousness and pure love with which they approach their dinner.  Certain words or phrases are dead giveaways.  If I could get paid for pinning eating disorder diagnoses on people, I’d be a freakin’ gajillionaire.  My accuracy score is in the high 90th percentile.  Sounds like I’m bragging, but it’s actually a bit sad that I’m so very good at that.  It takes one to know one. 

The clues are not really that hard to pick up if you’re watching and listening.  Most old women like me who still suffer from the actual disease or the after-effects from years of negative associations with food have learned how to hide it really well.  Those in their 20’s still think they can hide it and no one will know.  Fortunately for them, most people don’t want to know and would rather eat glass than acknowledge their son or daughter or friend or neighbor isn’t eating anything at all. 

I recently met a woman much younger than me.  Aside from the fact that she’s a variety of drop dead gorgeous I never was, I felt like I was meeting myself 20 years ago.  I could almost see what others found attractive in me.  It’s an odd mix of competency and self-confidence, mingled with a whiff of insecurity, self-loathing, and confusion.  I remember wondering if guys went out with me for my “brains and intellect” (snort) or if it was for something else.  I could be exceptionally self-assured when debating an issue, standing up for someone else, or asserting myself.  Alone in the evenings though, or on cold long walks to class, I was wracked with self-doubt and a healthy dose of sheer venom about the body I’d been stuck with.  I hated everything about it - the curves, the skin tone, my nose.  I hated shopping for clothes, but could never get enough shoes because I had pretty feet. 

(running is ruining that for me right now)

It’s hard for me, when meeting a so-called kindred spirit.  I want to simultaneously bear hug them - which would be weird, especially if it’s the first time we’ve met - and smack them upside their head.  I want to say to them, “Look!  I’m 30 pounds heavier now than when I thought I was fat!!! HA!  To be FAT like THAT again!  Step away from the food issues - they will hunt you down into your mid-life like a dying zebra in the middle of a pride of lions!” 

But I can’t.  I might get lucky down the road and she’ll sniff out my own icky history, and maybe ask me something, and maybe - just maybe - I can help her avoid some of the huge potholes I hit in my own life. 

She’s way more together than I was at that age, so I’m fairly certain she’s going to be just fine.  Let’s hope that she won’t be writing this same blog entry at 39 and having to admit those old issues still bug her.  That is my definition of success. 

I made personal history today by running for an hour and a half straight (minus two short stops at SAGs).  It was 8 miles (1:30:28) and it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, though once I realized I was 2 miles away from finishing it became incredibly difficult.  One of my running friends on the training team held a verbal gun to my head, reminded me that it was just my brain saying I couldn’t do it, and my body certainly could.  Through sheer force of will I got through mile 6.  I also tried Accel Gel (I’m getting to the point where I have to eat something during the run) today.  Let’s talk about the gel first, shall we?

Imagine running.  Your mouth gets dry, your innards are all jacked up, and your legs want to stop.  My stomach always feels like it’s in a mixing bowl and something not very tasty is about to come out.  When I’m not burping up air from my gasping swigs out of the fuel belt, I’m trying not to vomit or die.  So you can probably guess that when Kevin and my team coach started talking about nutrition while running, I was not excited. 

As a former anorexic and bulimic, I am not shy about admitting that I love - ABSOLUTELY LOVE - the empty feeling running gives me.  I never eat in the morning, so I’m already empty.  When I run, especially longer distances, it’s like everything in my body has been burned up and I am completely and perfectly clean.  It’s a good thing I didn’t know back in the early 90’s how running would make me feel.  I would have been one of those crazies running 10 miles one day, 20 the next (oh wait, I know that guy - hi Kevin). 

Stanley resisted the idea of putting fuel in his body as well.  He asked the guy at 3 Sports the whys and hows of eating while running and finally gave in.  I figured if not eating something would ruin me on race day, I had to suck it up.  Literally.

How to describe the gel?  I bought 5 different kinds, figuring I’d try one during each of my long runs to determine if the gel would make me vomit or poo on myself.  I started with Accel because they are a sponsor of the half marathon and they are handing it out during the run.  At the 6 mile SAG, I ripped it open and toasted Sarah.  First I squeezed too hard and the thing exploded over my hand, making the last 2 miles extra fun.  My hand felt like it was coated in wet sugar and I could almost hear the flies buzzing around me.  Even better, my first gulp - no such thing as sipping something the consistency of a gritty pancake syrup - made me nearly heave into the trash can at the station.  Once my body got over the shock of the texture and the flavor, I swallowed the rest and chased it with as much water as I could get down my throat. 

The good news:  I managed not to puke immediately.  It didn’t make me run for the Portajohn.  And it probably enabled me to get back to the finish without face planting on the Boulevard.  Stanley also had a good experience - but he took one with caffeine so he was annoyingly perky at the finish. 

I was all cocky during the usual post-run Starbucking . . .“I’m not sore!  What’s the deal, I used to ALWAYS be sore!  It must be the AWESOME training I’ve been doing, or just my AWESOME AMAZING RUNNING PROWESS that is keeping me from that total newbie problem of muscle fatigue!” 

I’m sitting on a couch right now and I cannot - truly cannot - lift my legs.  Driving a stick shift right now is akin to shoving my left leg into a wood chipper.  Mercy, please . . . .and no more cocky talk when my muscles are still too numb to send pain signals to my brain. 

But it’s over - I did it - and my next milestone will be 10.  Only 6 weeks or so until the actual race . . . and I’m starting to believe I might actually be able to do this.