The Colorado air is dry.

This parched feeling is all-pervasive, making itself known in every part of my body.  My skin is the Sahara, my eyeballs, sandpaper.  I smile, and my bottom lip splits like the back of Chris Farley’s coat.  My hands are cracking, my cuticles flaking.  I cannot drink enough water.

Short from slathering myself with lard, there’s not much I can do about it.  Still, I will take dry over humid any day.

Denver is incredibly sunny - over 300 days a year of sunshine.  Right now, even though it’s 16 degrees outside, the light is intense.  Seattle being my one true love, this brightness is an adjustment for me.   My eyes are wimpy and require sunglasses basically all the time.  I’m wearing sunscreen like it’s my job; being a mile closer to the sun than I was before, I walk down the block and come back pink.  I need to get a hat - I’m sensitive, folks.  Even my lips are freckled.

I am suspicious that every person I see out and about is an Olympic athlete.  Denver is a ridiculously active city - even more than Seattle, it seems.  Everyone looks young and healthy and fit and strong.

And having run 7.6 miles at a Mile High altitude yesterday morning, I dare say that I fit right in.

Speaking of health, on Friday night, I got a bee in my bonnet.  And after a 2-hour wait at the very fabulous Root Down, I GOT MY BEET SALAD THANKYOUVERYMUCH.

It was not nearly as good as Fuel’s.  But the cheese plate and wine made up for it.

So… scratch that thing I said about “health.”

My parents recently enrolled in a gym called Fitness 19 – named such because it’s open 19 hours a day.  Oh, Coloradans – you are so clever with your words!

Due to her recent surgeries, Mom hasn’t been to Fitness 19 in awhile – leaving her membership card available to yours truly.  My workouts on Saturday and Sunday were awesome – convincing me that I might actually acclimate to Mile High altitude, finally get the runner’s booty, and basically win the Nashville half-marathon that I’m registered for in April.  So last night, I went again.

I handed my (mom’s) card to the man behind the counter, and he scanned it.  “Thanks, Susan,” he said.  I smiled at him, and went to the magazine rack to choose some smut to read while on the treadmill.

“Wait – Susan?”

I froze.

“Susan, I think there’s a problem.”

I slowly turned around and faced him.

“Susan, when is your birthday?”

My mind raced.  “June 21.”

“What year?”

My mind raced even faster.  “Nineteen fifty-fii… SHOOT.”  I said it out loud.  “SHOOT.”

“You were not born in the fifties.”

And then, some bizarre calm overtook me.  Like a sociopath, I cooly stated, “You are right.”

He was serious.  “This is not your card.”

Again, conscienceless, “No.  It’s my mom’s.”

He was adamant.  “You cannot work out using another person’s membership.”

“Okay.”  Pregnant pause.  “But can I work out right now?”

He let me run for 40 very awkward minutes on the treadmill.  I ran like I have never run before.  It will be the last that Fitness 19 ever sees of me.

The cruise ship is a battle zone, and I am at war.

I refuse to gain a pound a day.

But this is proving to take some serious combat.

I wake up each morning and put on my armor: a reasonable breakfast of one egg over easy, a small bowl of cereal, and an Americano.  But after that, it is clear to me that the ms Zaandam wants me guillotined.

Their battle cry:
Free food! All day!
Stuff yourself at the buffet!

Over and over.  And over.  And starts again at 11pm.

I am notoriously thrifty, hate to waste anything, and to hear that something is free makes me want to take full advantage.  You mean to tell me that I can order three appetizers, an entrée, AND dessert?  Get down on it, mama.

Thankfully, there is a gym at the front of the ship, and I’ve been running off 19,000 calories every day.  I have also taken on the identity of Elevator Hater, and walk the 8 flights of stairs at least 12 times each day.  In heels.

This is my martyrdom.  Because if you haven’t gorged yourself on mussels, bread, scallops, cheese trays, salmon, filet mignon, cookies, papaya, guacamole, pasta, and hot fudge brownie sundaes, washed it all down with wine and mojitos and margaritas, and then navigated 8 flights of stairs on a swaying ship in a cocktail dress and heels, then I’m sorry, my friend.

You do not know sacrifice.

One of the East Nasties has a bumper sticker that says “Run Happy.”

I don’t.  Run happy, that is.

Some people are built to run – I am not.  I really do not enjoy running.  Even after dedicating myself for months, pulling myself out of bed every Saturday AND Sunday morning, and watching my mileage go up and up and up, I still don’t LIKE to run – especially because I never got the runner’s booty of my dreams.

NOT. FAIR.

But after months and months of training, the Country Music Half-Marathon is upon us.  The starting line is in sight.  The gun fires (or whatever it is they’ll do - fog horn? yell really loud? I’m going to yell really loud) at 7am tomorrow.

I’ve been having stress dreams about it – that I show up and don’t have my number, or my shoes have no laces, or it’s 90 degrees outside.  That’s maybe my biggest actual fear about tomorrow – that it’s going to be really hot, which is not only a possibility, but the forecasted reality.  It is unseasonably warm in Nashville right now.  Even though I don’t enjoy it, I can TOLERATE running – unless it’s hot outside.  Then it’s truly miserable – if not impossible.

I am terrified that I’m not going to succeed – that it’s going to be too hard, too far, that all of my hard work won’t have been enough.  And at this point, it’s truly a case of mind over matter: my body is strong.  I’ve put in the training.  I know that I CAN run 13.1 consecutive miles.  But my brain isn’t so sure about it – and as soon as I let those thoughts start creeping in – I’m tired, I can’t do this, this is too hard – then it’s over.  I quit.

But then, I have to remember that before October, the furthest I had ever run was one lap around Green Lake in Seattle.  And the fact that I can run 5 miles, let alone 11.2 (which was my longest training run), is ridiculously amazing.  I’ve spent the past 4 months training with an incredible group of people of all running abilities - people who have encouraged me and pushed me - and it’s a very cool thing to be a part of something larger than myself.

And there’s no way to say this without sounding completely cheesy, so I’m just going to say it: everyone who has trained for this race is already a winner.

AAAAAAGH I AM SO SORRY!!!!!!!

I hereby fire myself as the writer of this blog.

But truly, ready or not.  Tomorrow it is.  I’ve worked too hard to give up now.  May my will be as strong as my legs.

Yesterday, I experienced true grace.

To back it up: last week, I really slacked on my training schedule for the half-marathon – meaning, I ran one time. ONE time! If I am hoping to run 13.1 consecutive miles in a few short months, then I need to keep up with the program. After such a lousy week, I started to feel like this whole running “thing” was not for me: there’s no way that I can do it – I’m not a natural runner – I’m behind on the training – I can’t catch up – I’m unmotivated – there went my $85 registration fee.

But never fear: as is becoming a regular occurrence, PZC to the rescue.

Paul called me on Sunday morning after I missed the group run, and said, “This is unacceptable. You haven’t even done your time trial yet. What are you doing tomorrow night? You’re coming running – no excuses.”

So Paul and Josh and I met at Centennial Park to do my time trial – basically, run as fast as you can sustain for 3 miles, which becomes a benchmark pace for other training runs. I hate to run fast, because what if my thighs rub together so much that my underwear catches on fire? Running fast equals being severely uncomfortable, and I don’t have a high tolerance for uncomfortableness; this is why I hate the beach (sand in all the wrong places), the wind (totally blows), Nashville summers (sweaty misery), and hangnails (self-explanatory). But Paul and Josh gave me a pep talk as we jogged to warm up for a half a mile, and told me that they would run with me at whatever pace I set.

So we started. I ran fast – a lot faster than I am used to running. The first mile and a half were fine, but when we approached the 2 mile marker, it felt harder to breathe. All of my childhood memories of asthma and panic attacks came racing back, and in a terrifying instant, I found my windpipe closing off – a purely emotional reaction, since my legs were keeping up just fine. I felt the same alarm that I felt on Mt. Sneffels – I can’t breathe.

But Paul talked me down, and I finished the run, and Josh and Paul told me that I’m doing a great job. And although they could have abandoned me as soon as I started slacking with the training, they came back to get me and said, “We’re not letting you quit.” They stooped to my lesser level of fitness, and gave up what might have been a better workout for my sake. I don’t deserve friends like them.

But I’m so glad that I found them.

Thank you, Paul and Josh, for demonstrating grace in such a tangible way.

I was in the dairy section of the grocery store last night when a crisis hit me like a rake to the face. Reaching for my usual quart of Dannon Light & Fit vanilla yogurt, I noticed three terrible words: “Great New Taste!”

What.

Why do they need to go changing my favorite yogurt? I don’t need it to have a “great new taste” – I loved the old taste. And! AND! What’s worse: it has increased from 80 calories per serving to 110 calories per serving. I DO NOT LIKE THIS. This is almost as bad as the day that they started packaging Tampax in bright orange wrappers – an absolute betrayal. How is one expected to be inconspicuous with something orange – the color of panic devices, like flares and Coast Guard buoys and the terrorist attack level “High”?

It’s not quite as bad as the day I found out that they no longer produce Burt’s Bees Lip Shimmer in “Coffee”. But still. Completely unjust.

I come from a long line of calorie counters – it’s in my genes. At various points in my life, I have been absolutely ruled by the regimented balancing act of caloric consumption/expulsion. Last summer, I achieved what should have been a dieter’s nirvana, reaching the lowest weight of my life and fitting into the tiniest pants I’ve ever owned; however, I still felt a panic and a desperate need for control. I still saw my pipe-cleaner arms to be flabby, my thighs to be trunk-like, and my flat stomach to be completely unworthy of a bathing suit.

I couldn’t relish the accomplishment of it all. I was too busy worrying about gaining an ounce.

Since then, I have considerably loosened my tight rein on calorie counting. While my mind feels a little bit freer, my body is also a little bit heavier. What’s a girl to do?

I want to live in freedom from the oppression of low self-esteem, terrible body image, calorie counting, exercise obsession, and general control freakage. I’m not there yet. But I want to be. And for me, I think that “freedom” is going to have to mean weighing a few pounds more than I know that I could weigh. It’s going to mean not beating myself up over my caloric failures of the day when I crawl into bed at night. It’s going to mean recognizing and living out a healthy balance of enjoying food, and being active, and getting enough sleep, and having a glass of wine if I want one, but not having too many.

It’s going to mean eating the extra 30 calories of yogurt. And it’s going to mean not flipping out about it.

On Saturday, Julie and I felt due for an adventure – one that would get us out of the concrete and steel of our harsh city living – so I picked her up at 7:30am and we drove an hour east of Nashville. We located the completely unpeopled trailhead for Bearwaller Gap, and just walked into the wilderness. I know – how Christopher McCandless of us.

Five hours, one lizard, one turtle, two snails, and a deer later, we re-emerged, victorious and disgustingly sweaty. It was great. We hiked about 12 miles – on a largely unmaintained trail, with lots of ups and downs, and peanut butter and jelly for lunch.


Apparently I didn’t want to get too close to this vicious little guy?

The Tennessee wilderness is lush and green, with plenty of bugs. Julie and I frequently experienced “spider web to the face,” which is horrifying. I took the most thorough and meticulous shower of my life that afternoon, scratching my scalp to make sure that no ticks had taken up residence in my hair.

In closing, this is what my legs should feel like:


After Saturday, this is what they actually feel like:

In the spirit of the ever-elusive hottness, I have decided that I have gone long enough without exercising. It is time to recommit. Never would I have guessed that this was going to be the last time I ever moved a muscle, but sadly, I have been confronted with the truth that deep down, in my corest of cores, I am positively slothful.

The Big Trip, which encompassed the days between September 10 and January 4, was a glorious lethargy, a near-4-month hiatus from all things health related. Drink wine at least 5 nights/week? Check. Eat nothing but cheese? Check. Quit exercise cold-turkey? Yes, please.

The result was a gaining of 12 pounds, and I know that it was precisely 12 pounds, because I keep an eye on the scale. I watched each pound as it schmooped itself onto my body, and before I knew it, I didn’t have a single pair of pants that fit me. This didn’t stop me, though, because believe it or not, it is quite pleasant to do nothing but consume wine and cheese. And there are always skirts, right?

Eventually, I landed here in Nashville, and for the past 2 months, have been getting myself back onto a healthy diet. I’ve been calorie counting, and eating from the food pyramid, and trying not to eat too many brownies. This has helped get the number on the scale back down to where it should be, but ultimately, my body has been crying out for a challenge. My muscles have atrophied, but more depressingly, my spirits have been at a low that can only be attributed to a lack of endorphines.

So, when I found out that there is a gym in the building at work, I told myself that now was the time. I signed up.

It’s an amazing thing to feel muscles begin to work again. They remember! They remember how to be strong, even if they’re not back to fighting form yet. My bum hip is crying out, but as I stretch it and work it, it’s feeling better. My lungs feel positively mighty. My heart can’t quite keep up with my will yet, but the day will come when I’ll be back to my mega-workouts.

This is the only body I get, flaws and all. I choose to treat it well. This is my recommitment.

Listen up, Pounds,
I knew you would show up – it was inevitable. Throughout my life, you have come and gone as you have pleased, but The Big Trip in particular has been made of conditions favorable to you: travel, friends, 4,000 miles of sitting, delicious food, celebratory drink, and a complete and utter lack of routine or discipline. A few of you were welcome for a little while, but now? Really, Pounds? There are too many of you.

You have taken up residence wherever you have seen fit: a little here in the thigh, a little there in the waist. You never asked if I welcomed your company; you simply arrived, and then invited your friends. You have been sneaky - never fully crowding me out of my clothes, but just making them fit differently. And I did not pay a ridiculously high price for jeans only to have them optimistically tugged and stretched.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with you. With one halting hand at the end of a stiff arm, and the other beckoning you to come hither, obviously you may have been confused. I have sent you mixed messages, and for this, I apologize.

But how could I have acted any other way? How could I ever resist you? You have come cloaked in chocolately-fried-goodness, and have been effortlessly washed down in a deluge of red wine. We have had a love affair every night for weeks, but I have been dumbfounded and irritated to find you still at my side (and on my side) the morning after. You are annoying. You cramp my style. I do not want to share my young, single, glamorous existence with your vexatious kind. Get out of my bed, and off of my body.

Sorry, Pounds. It was fun while it lasted, but your day is over. I will destroy you with an arsenal of aerobic activity. One or two of you can stay, but the rest of you: prepare to perish.

See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya,
Annie