Falling (back) in Love with Running

If you want to fall (back) in love with running, volunteer with an organization such as Girls on the Run. I have fortunate enough to be a part of this amazing program and was able help two very special girls complete their 5ks and shatter goals.  I ran with Abby, adorable, admirable, awesome Abby, as she pushed herself to beat her time from last year's 5k and to run the whole thing. Abby, who always raised her hand high and gave a heartfelt, insightful and genuine answer, couldn't believe she had run for 10 whole minutes straight!
"I didn't stop yet!" Then, she couldn't believe she ran 20 whole minutes straight! Then she couldn't believe she ran 30 whole minutes straight! When we realized that we might not beat her time goal, the girl dug deep inside herself and found bursts of speed. She finished strong and with a huge smile. That is all we ask. I loved running with her. 

I got to run with Sophie and her mom as they participated in the ETS Firecracker 5k. Sophie is excitement personified. She is honest, talkative, innocent and just a joy to be around. She saw me across the parking lot and instantly was smiles and hugs. I cannot get enough of this girl. I found Sophie, her mom, and her friend around the first mile and decided to hang with them. Sophie gave it her all in the final .1 of the race and finished with a bright red face, sweaty smile and simply beaming pride. That is all we ask. Be proud of yourself. Try your best. Have fun. Be yourself. 

I've crossed many finish lines and have a rack of medals hanging on my bedroom wall. Sometimes, I take it  for granted. These girls reminded me of the sheer joy of crossing a finish line, of beating a new record, of pushing yourself to do things you didn't think were possible. These girls set goals, worked towards them, and pushed hard to achieve them. There were no excuses. We ignored heat, hills, and heavy breathing to get to that finish line. That accomplishment of  their goal, the look on their faces, the oversized t-shirts, the crocked numbers, all brought that enthusiasm, that feeling back to me. I can't wait to race race again.

If you want to fall (back) in love with running, run with someone you love. I love my boyfriend for many many reasons. And sometimes for no reason at all. On Sunday, we set out for a simple walk on the lovely towpath. I took my Garmin watch because it's one of the coolest gadgets ever--next to maybe God's remote as he calls it. I gave him the watch at the halfway point. Apparently, that was all it took. He became obsessed with the pace and time readings. "We've walked one-tenth of a mile!," "Quick! It's dropping to 15 minutes!" I laughed and kept up. I had to stop and readjust my shoes and told him to go ahead. I ran to catch up and when I got to my rightful place on his right side, he started to run! I think my heart just about burst with pride, joy, amazement, surprise and um...he's kind of fast. 

When we started dating one of his first impressions of me was, "this girl needs something more than running." Imagine how I felt to see him running. He had a really impressive pace for a good amount of time. We stopped and walked and then he pointed to a landmark and said, 'we're going to run to there." Yes, sir! 

Just like finish lines and free t-shirts, I take for granted the those first steps. I remember those steps but I forget them too. It's an incredible thing to watch a loved one take those steps, to lace up those sneakers and to set out to do something that is uncomfortable, new, challenging and unknown. I didn't push him to do it. I didn't say, "I"m a runner and so you have to be too." I would love to help, coach, assist, teach, and run along with him if he chooses to run again. I would never force it because just seeing him try and acknowledge my hobby meant more than a marathon to me. 

..it's the new black.

I was called a bitch by a testorone-driven moron a few days ago. I really don't mind the term. I am, in fact, a bitch. I own it. I'm opinionated, ambitious, strong, passionate and all of those things that a weak minded and chauvinistic male such as the name-caller would be threatened by. I also had called his girlfriend out on some pretty annoying and unnecessary behaviour. He had to jump in to 'defend his woman' and scratch his balls in my general direction. It's so clear that in one statement he thinks so little of woman that he can't even afford a second to think of valid insult and assumes his 'woman' can't fight her own battles.

It's been a few days and the event is still lingering in my head. Do I care about what I was called? No. I certainly don't have high enough regard of the guy who called me this to give his opinion or existence validation. I have been called far worse names by far better people. People of substance and value, with education and valid reasons for theirr accusations, but a dumb redneck does not warrant my attention.  I think I'm just bothered that that mentality STILL exists. I'm sad that the girlfriend, who claims to be a feminist, hid behind a caveman. I'm sad that the words I spoke, though admittedly not said in the most eloquent of voices, were dismissed because a giant alleged insult was flung in hopes of dismissing my points.

I see this all the time, the reaction to a woman is to cut her off at the knees by using terms like 'bitch'  in order to protect the men's balls (or egos if you don't get the metaphor). But this is an age old tactic and really isn't anything worth bitchin' about.

What I really don't like is the new way men have found to diminish the value of a woman. Media headlines have been plagued with the tales of ego-driven, ethic-less politicians getting caught doing unbelievably stupid things. Cheating on their wives, having multiple affairs, sending stupid photos of themselves to teenagers. If one were to take a lesson from the behavior of the male leaders of this country, it could be that women are good only for entertainment value, to inflate inferiority complexes, to pose in pictures, to blame for your own shortcomings (sex addictions, really?) but certainly not worthy of respect or validation. For every celebrity and politician (and isn't it sad that those two job titles are what we consider leaders?) who does this, there are a string of women who are dismissed and erased.  The governor didn't respect his wife enough to stay home? His daughter isn't worth keeping it in his pants for? The women he is sexting or risking his career and his constituents voice in government for has a father, too.

And while all the headline hooplah swirls about sexting and sex addictions, can someone tell me if any progress has been made on the health care bill? Are Republicans still making it a point to let women know we have no choice or say in our own health care as long as they're around because clearly we are not humans with rights--we are simply decorations and toys.

I wish they'd go back to calling us "dolls" and making a point to describe our outfits and use objectifying terms such as bitch or ambitious instead of this new level. I can combat bitch. I figure I'm doing something right when I get called that. I leave you (reader-singular) with my favorite clip from SNL and the mantra that has stuck in my head since Tina Fey first said it, "Bitches get stuff done." 

TL:DR: Life is too short to deal with people you don't like

I confess. I am not cool. I've never been cool or popular or part of the "in crowd." I used to try to be cool and to fit in and to make everyone like me. I was never successful and usually ended at the end of a string of gossip or embarrassment. Eventually, (like yesterday or so) I learned to accept my natural dork and that being me is way more fun -- and easy-- than trying to be anyone else. I have a group of very strong and unique friends who can not possibly be categorized. And there is nothing I wouldn't do for any of my friends and I would not be able to do anything without them. :-)


 As I move through this thing called life, I'm learning more and more the types of people I do like and those I (usually instantly) do not care for. I like authentic people, those who know who they are at their core and rarely stray from that. I like people with passions. I like people who like themselves, but with an acceptable amount of self-deprecation. (As this blog's namesake says, "Humility has buoyancy, and above us only sky.") I like people with loud laughs, light spirits and big hearts. I like people who refuse to be unhappy. 


I stopped trying to make people like me and I stopped worrying about liking everyone. It's perfectly ok to not like a person. There are people in this world who I simply do not care for and I try to avoid them. I've also learned that I cannot fake it. It is very hard for me to hide this. I call it being genuine, others call it bitch. It was kind of surreal to realize I had gone from doormat to bitch. But again, I'm totally fine with that. Whatever. Life is too short to deal with people you don't like.


I can usually pick up on "squiggly lines" vibes from a person relatively quickly. Call it intuition, call it judgement, or call it a low tolerance for bulls&^(.  Sometimes it's a feeling, sometimes it's an action or a string of actions, or one bizarre statement that will get a person on the "You Suck" list of my book. 
Let's follow the formula of "You Might Be a Red Neck if "

• you are not a stripper but think that dancing on tables or bars (outside the college experience) is socially acceptable...I'm not going to like you. 
• feel the need to tell every male in a bar that you're not so innocent, are capable of really bad things or like black guys.....I'm not going to like you. (And that has nothing to do with black guys, it's not racist. You can like whomever you want to, just don't drunkly declare it from the top of a bar while trying to take your shirt off. ESPECIALLY IF YOU'RE OVER 30!)
• have ever tried to make me like you....I'm not going to like you. A very wise friend once told me that friendships are organic, not manufactured.
• pretend to be something or someone you're not.....I'm not going to like you.
• relive past victories or defeats over and over and over again in an attempt to either garner admiration or sympathy...I'm not going to like you.
• make excuses for your own shortcomings....I'm not going to like you. 

I am a bit conflicted openly expressing that I don't love everyone. I volunteer with an organization that promotes self-esteem building and healthy lifestyles for young girls. The motto is, "Try your best! Have fun! Be yourself!" Clearly, that last line is my favorite. Because if you're not being true to yourself, it's much harder to have fun.  Try your best is the first part of the triangle;, if you're not being yourself--true to yourself--than even the best efforts are futile.

My Post Graduate Life

It's taken close to three years, thousands of dollars, at least 150 Microsoft Word files, 2 jump drives, countless hours of schoolwork, 12 parking tickets, several happy hours, and a significant part of my mental stabiliity but I can finally say that end of graduate school is near and a shiny new Master's Degree will soon be mine for the bragging. I have an independent project to complete over the summer which, compared to the other massive amounts of work and stress of the past 2.5 years, will be a walk in the park.

 

While the cap, gown, boring ceremony, and goofy photos do symbolize the achievement and finality, I'm just happy to be d-o-n-e. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I first applied to Drexel in the spring of 2009 and while I do not regret anything from this experience, I'm ready to be done. Two nights a week for the past two years have been dedicated to driving to classes. The other nights have been spent trying to cram in all errands, training, and extraneous life things. (Ever go grocery shopping, get a pedicure, shop for a weekend outfit and fit in a 5 mile run in one evening-- I have). Weekend plans have been dependent on course loads and any down time at the office has been spent with my nose (discretely) buried in a textbook, scholarly article, or staring at screen waiting for that analysis idea to come to me. Dinner has consisted of either a granola bar/pb&j sandwich/Starbucks treat consumed during a class break or on the commute home. Every minute of the day was scheduled to allow ultimate amount of productivity.

This term has been light on the workload and there have been some evenings when I'm quite perplexed at having nothing to do. No chapter to read, nothing to write, no Powerpoint to prepare, what's a full time editor/part-time graduate school girl to do?

 

I've been preparing a list of all the things I'm going to do once I get my "life" back. I'm an active person with a very short attention span-- I don't consider watching movies or countless hours of television to be entertaining or worthwhile. (Like, you just sit there and watch? I don't get it). Below is my list of my possible post graduate life activities:

 

• Decorate, organize apartment. (Boxes hidden in closets do not equal unpacked)
• Dedicate more time to this bloggy thing
• Watch all of the Harry Potter movies (I stopped at #4)
• Volunteer more with GOTR, Back on my Feet or one of the many organizations that collaborate with ETS. I've been very blessed in life and need to connect with my community
• Train for 2011 Philadelphia Marathon August--November
• Explore other areas of fitness outside of running. I've heard of these things called 'bikes'.
• Read fiction books- for fun-- any recommendations?
• Reconnect with friends, be social and spontaneous again
• Travel

 

I can't plan my "What's Next" List without giving praise to those who have helped me along the way. I met some very amazing ladies in my graduate program who were dealing with almost identical issues. It's empowering to know that there are other women my age at the same stage of their careers going through the same drama in their work and personal lives. Having a group of powerful women to relate to, sympathize with, advise, compete, network and support was invaluable.

I have to thank my family for dealing with a very stressed and edgy daughter/sister/aunt while always being supportive. I'm surprised my mom still has her hearing after the hours of bitchin' I did during my drive home from classes. I thank my friends for allowing me to go into hiding for 10 weeks at time. I thank my bosses for not firing me for blatant abuse of resources and for providing the flexibility to leave early several times a week for two years. I promise to use this fancy book-learnin' for good.

 

Onwards and upwards. But first, a nap!

 

"In the Real World"

Dear Graduate School Professor


Please stop referring to the 'real world' and the experiences I'll have when I get there. I've been in the real world for several years now. I am not paying you $3,000/quarter to fill a syllabus with real world type situations. You're filling the undergrads (and unemployed graduate students) heads with false notions of editorial analysis and linear review processes that are simply fantastical.

I'd love to have the control and importance to actually receive a manuscript with time to thoroughly review, consider, and edit it. I dream of a conference with the writers when we can discuss the organization and structure of a publication and even spar over the serial comma. What 'real world' does this happen? The majority of the time I'm handed twelve pieces of pre-approved content in nine different formats three days after it was due to the printer and told to make it happen yesterday. I don't worry about complex sentences, I worry about deadlines and SLAs. My biggest issue is not  a stubborn writer; it is a page that dropped off of a PDF in the fourth draft but didn't get caught until press time. I'm fully embedded in this 'real world.' 


 Furthermore, Graduate School Professor, when were you in this 'real world.'? As an editor for a relevent publishing company, I have not yet had to justify my actions to the writer. I've had to cover my ass to the client on countless occasions. My explanations are usually followed with emails and PDFs to prove that I was told to make a change to document.My interactions with writers and clients are CC-ed to at three supervisors (yes, I have three supervisors and maybe four bosses) and all have end goal of  on time and error free. 

In what 'real world' did you exist before joining the cult of the academic where editors were revered as experts? You should rename that section to "The Editor as a Scapegoat." The only time I've had to explain the alternate uses of the passive voice is when trying to defend my ego against a particularly rude email and/or missed order. 


So while we sit here in class at 8:23pm and undergrads are asking mundane questions such as 'so, what if the writer, like, you know, doesn't like listen to you and then they're stuff is like, wrong and people, readers, whatever like read it or whatever. Like, what do you then?" I'm silently screaming, YOU DO IT! THEY PAY YOU AND SO YOU DO IT AND YOU MOVE ON AND WITHIN TWO MONTHS YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT SEMICOLONS ANYMORE. 
And I'm also making to do lists and strategies for how I'm going to handle the 20 emails in my inbox, the 200 pages of an Economics proof I need to check, and the 2 chapters I have to read for your class. Graduate school has been more of an exercise in time management than it has been in professional development. 


Professor, your 'real world' and my real world conflict. My real world is funding your current world. Please join me on the side of practical, true experience and restrain from ideals and theories. The only place ideals and theories work are your 'real world' of old. 


Sincerely,


The-tired-looking-frazzled-student-in-the-corner-with-her-ID-badge-still-attached-making-death-stares-at-the-kid-eating-a-meatball-sub-in-the-middle-of-class.

Lessons from 7th Grade

My seventh-grade field hockey coach, Ms. Hammond, used to tell all of the girls on the team, “You’re beautiful.” She didn’t really care if we won or lost the game. She wanted us to know, and sometimes repeat it with her, that we were beautiful. This didn’t always sit well with some of the athletic, competitive girls on the team. I remember thinking it was hokey and was probably trying to either fit in the group or stand out among the other girls on theam. I think this is one of the few times in my middle school/junior high/high school career when I remember hearing the word beautiful in reference to myself. When I heard ‘beautiful’ then, my insecure tween mind instantly said, “whatever.” I saw only my bushy hair that my friends always made fun of, my mouth full of metal, the red splots all over my face. It probably made me uncomfortable.
I recall some kind of political move to have Ms. Hammond removed as coach for being ineffective and telling girls they’re beautiful instead of how to hit a ball.

Let’s fast forward 15 (*gasp!*) years. It’s a crisp spring morning and I’m sitting with a group of eight to ten-year-old girls. We’re discussing what makes us beautiful.

“I’m beautiful because I’m a good friend!”

“I’m beautiful because I’m energetic!”

“I’m beautiful because I’m fun!”

“I’m beautiful because I like to read!”

Yes! Yes! Yes! These girls didn’t roll their eyes and get annoyed that we weren’t talking about ways to win or run faster. Parents enrolled their daughters in this program to hear this message.

When I think about Girls on the Run and the impact it’s having on girls, I find my mind wondering back to that open field in southern Chester County where a loony coach made us profess our inner beauty. A few years later, Molly Barker has the same idea only goes about it differently and to a younger group and a revolution begins. Maybe it wasn’t an idea as much as a revelation. No, I don’t like revelation. What would you call it when you just suddenly get it? Why did it take so damn long for people to understand that beauty doesn’t mean ‘pretty’ and that it’s a good idea to tell young girls this?

So when is the correct time to teach this? Always. It matters. Girls on the Run is at times a bit hokey to me as an adult. I thought it was strange as a kid too. But, as an adult I don’t need to recite the alphabet to spell a word and as a kid letters just looked like funny shapes. Eventually, it should become as common as reading to know that our physical appearances or abilities have little to do with our personal beauty.

I’ve realized that not being told things like “you’re beautiful because you’re fun, smart, energetic, a good reader, a good friend, caring, strong, helpful, intelligent,” has the effect of making a woman believe she is either only beautiful because of her appearance or that she nothing because she is not pretty. There are so many issues that women battle with daily that are caused from this ridiculous disconnect.

Please, let’s tell our daughters they’re beautiful because they’re kind, funny, smile a lot, give good hugs, are good friends, laugh, think, cry. Tell them it’s ok to fail and it’s ok to be different and that life is a lot more than other people’s definitions.

I don’t know if Ms.Hammond wanted us to do anything more than have fun and learn the game of field hockey. She probably wanted her lessons to sink in a lot earlier. It only took 15 years but I finally get what she was saying.

PS: Middle school sports were the very start of my relationship with running.  I was not a great field hockey player. I'd say average on a good day. But I wanted to be on the team because all my friends were and there really wasn't much else to do in our school district during the fall. I lacked talent but I had heart. When the coaches would tell us to run laps, I'd take off like a bat out of hell to get a lead on the other girls. I'd sprint for the first lap and then slow to a bearable trot for the rest.  I may have been guilty of cutting corners and even went as far as to stand towards the outside of the circle so I could get that much more of a jump.

Steps. Effin' Steps.

There are few things more terrifying to runner after a race than a flight of stairs. Sore legs, achy backs, aggravated knees, and  blistered feet join forces to make a usually simple motion into a pain fest of annoying proportions. The medal around my neck suddenly felt a lot heavier as I stared at the flight of stairs in front of me.
"Do I really need to go upstairs? Could I live in this hallway?"
"Would it be easier to walk up backwards?"
"Why did I move to the second floor?"
"If I go up there, I'm never coming back down."
"This. is. going. to hurt."
"Ok, quick like a Band-Aid, just go!" 
"Oww! No more quick! No more quick! Slow and steady. One more step."
"Holy crap. Never running again."

I conquered the stairs of pain and was in my second-story sanctuary when I was faced with another runner's nightmare. Little mini steps such as curbs, sidewalks, any elevation change that requires contraction of the demolished quads in my legs. The legs holler, NO MORE! STOP MAKING US DO THINGS!
"My god. Who put the steps in this apartment?"
"Oh sure, the sunken living room was adorable at the time, but now I just have to bend my knees and apply pressure to go to the bathroom!"
"I can just sit here on the couch for the rest of my life. There is no pain on the couch."
"Oh, dear god never running again."

Other things that will strike fear into the heart of post-race runner:
-getting in to the car
-getting out of the car
-sitting down
-standing up

-crossing your legs

-uncrossing your legs

-the first few steps
-heels
-unpacking
-that this pain will never fade
-an empty fridge
-never running again