Fear

I recently returned to my yoga class.  Or at least my yoga teacher.  I attend the 'beginner' class after Charlie goes to bed.  I have only made it three times in three months so 'return' is a loose description but I made it two weeks in a row.

Tonight I did two poses I was never able to do before I was pregnant, or at least not confidently.

Maybe the fear is gone, because let's face it, after having a child what's scary about a few yoga poses, or maybe I'm stronger than I thought after lifting Charlie all these months or maybe I found a way to really be in my yoga practice.

Whatever it was, I did these poses without thought or fear and did them confidently.


There's a lesson there, I think.

Bump in the Night

**warning: the following contains 'belly' photos


Last week, at a birthday party for a one-year-old, at least two mothers informed me, with much scorn in their voices, I was not 'showing' at all.

They then went on to tell me 'not to worry,' with my second one I will be showing straight off the mark.



How does one respond to this kind of comment?  It's like planning a wedding all over again.  Everyone has an opinion and feels within their rights and even obligated to pass on that opinion.  In this case, I am doing it all wrong because I have not 'popped' to their satisfaction.  That the 'belly' is a mark of some kind of achievement and I have failed.

It should be said, these women and I had never met before this occasion and so have no reference on which to judge whether or not I am 'showing.'

This was my first experience of a kind of 'mummy shame.'  I'm not a fan. Surprise, surprise.

To be honest, my changing body is one of the hardest bits of this experience for me thus far.  At the time I got pregnant, I was the fittest I have ever been in my life. I had worked for over a year to get there and it was finally a part of my everyday life.  I'm not talking about being 'skinny.'  I'm speaking of feeling fit in my body and mind.  Knowing what my body can and can't do.  Being aware of what was going in and how it affects my mood and energy.  Knowing that I could run across a train terminal with a full backpack and not die on the concourse.

I was in tune with my body.

Or so I thought.

Now, my body is harboring an almost completely independent being and it is really bizarre.  My body can no longer manage simple tasks like bending at the waist.  Getting dressed below the waist requires the kind of concentration I normally reserve for yoga balances (I have fallen over putting on my underwear more times than is comically allowed).  I give myself a mini pep-talk before descending the stairs EVERY TIME as I am now a tumble risk and I am inexplicably tired after a few mundane tasks around the house.

I have had to learn a lot of patience with myself and my body.  I am learning this little by little through my yoga class.  I attend a pregnancy yoga class but it's more a place to practice breathing than anything else. I still attend my usual class and this is where my 10 years of yoga practice and body awareness is becoming really important.

In the past, I had no question that my body could do what my instructor asked of it.  Now, I am amazed at what my body can no longer do and how frustrated I become when I can't follow the class in the same way I did before.  However, in that frustration I have found a deeper connection with my body.  I truly have to listen to my body and what it can't do.  Instead of serenely following along with the class I am mentally involved in creating variations of each pose based on those 10 years of practice.

Surprisingly, not being able to follow along in class is strengthen my yoga practice and my patience.  I find I am much more patient with myself and others.  It also allows me to take care of myself for myself as well as for the little being inside.  It's not a one way street.

All body connection talk aside, I still get a bit freaked out when Pruin starts kicking and wriggling.  At times it literally takes my breath away.  Not in a TOP GUN kind of way but in a what-the-hell-is-that? kind of way.

What will happen after Pruin enters the world?  How important will my fitness be to me then?  I don't know. I hope it is still a priority.  My fitness levels directly affect my mood levels so I hope it becomes a priority again. But we shall see.


Until then, dear reader, I leave you with the following evidence that I have in fact started showing...something.

Starting point

Halfway point

(preggo bum & thigh cellulite mercifully cropped out)

The impossible dream

Can we talk about pregnancy fitness for a moment? (she asks while heating up three (yes, three) butter croissants in the oven)

Before I fell pregnant (a term I love as it was like falling sick) I declared, more than once, I would be a fit preggo woman.  I was determined to stay in my jeans and just use those button extenders/belly band things.  I would keep running and doing yoga and this would make the unimaginable pain of labour a bit easier (all things being relative, so I hear) and we would have a healthy kid before it was even born.  I would have to give up the half-marathon but, who are we kidding, I wasn't that into it anyway.

HA!!

I just spit part of my croissant across the room laughing at myself.

As I said, this was before I fell pregnant and was immediately leveled by mourning sickness and incredible bloating.  I naively assumed the body gently worked its way into pregnancy and I had time to get used to the idea of being inhabited by something eventually the size of a watermelon.

HA!! HA!!

Almost immediately after those lines showed up on those sticks (because I took more than one test, just to be sure, who doesn't?) I was sick and bloaty.  Now sure, I have in the past made myself sick purely through mental stress and anxiety (hello, PhD viva and almost any job interview) but I have never made myself, or even heard of, bloating caused by mental anxiety.  This was unbearable.   Only six, maybe seven, weeks gone and I can't fit into 90% of my trousers and jeans!!!!!

Needless to say, I wasn't running anymore.  If I could make it out of bed it was a good day and if I only had one conference call with the toilet it was a great day!

Cue everyone telling me to get some fresh air and take a walk.  It took all I had to not throw the nearest toilet roll at them.

I'm now 17 weeks gone and the sickness is gone and yoga is regular once again but those jeans aren't seeing the light of day again for a long, long time.  I can't torture myself, it's just too mean.  I've only 'gained' a few pounds but all the muscle in my thighs and bum is gone and the cellulite has returned.  So much for being a fit preggo lady.


Two nights ago I dreamt about a midwife/scan appointment.  It was drawn out and a lot was going on but the one 'test' I remember watching them perform was to suddenly poke a pregnant woman's bladder (from outside, just a short jab to the belly, you know, nothing invasive) and measure how much urine she released. Of course, they gave no warning of this test and I watched two women flood the floor before I woke up.


My fitness goal now is to not pee my pants when I sneeze.  Pie in the sky, I know, but it's all relative.


Pelvic Floor Muscles: 5  Sneeze: 2

Not too shabby but definite room for improvement.

Thresholds

This past weekend I dug out my flip flops.  They were still covered in Morocco.  That last night in country when we walked back from dinner at the vegan cafe (because we just couldn't handle anymore tagines) through the pouring rain.  Weaving our way through the medina's alleys and passages now familiar after three days of exploration.  Our legs and feet slowly caked in rain and red mud and whatever else ran through those streets where horses, donkeys, feral cats and motor scooters shuffle the teaming crowds of humanity, even at that late hour.  


Those last three days in Marrakesh transformed our experience of Morocco but also transformed our vision of ourselves.  We had returned to Africa with the same mindset in which we left six years prior, rough and ready and willing to experience some hardship in the pursuit of the travel experience.  Then came two weeks of driving in a stuffy hot car for hours on end every day, hot hotel rooms above pumping night clubs, waves of sickness, fear of water and the inability to wash.  When we arrived in Marrakesh at the end of our tour, all we wanted was a shower and a plane home.  I wasn't interested in exploring any more, I couldn't look at another carpet or leather bag or handcrafted shoe.  




That was when I knew something had changed.  I had no desire to ogle shoes and handbags.  Something was definitely wrong and it had nothing to do with the searing cramps in my abdomen.  




In the most 'backpacker' moment I have experienced thus far in my life, we loaded up, (front and back) and hiked through the crowded alleys of the medina to a quiet corner, deep in the rabbit warren.  The directions indicating turns at the 'corner carpet shop,' 'fountain,' 'mosque' completely useless as they apply to every corner within the Old City.  Behind the big wooden door in a dark underpass was a beautiful and calm space we willingly fell into, covered in grime and sweat, bowels churning.  


In those last three days in Marrakesh, when we had access to working showers and quiet rooms and the freedom to roam as we pleased, we got comfortable with the fact that we had changed.  We weren't the twenty-somethings that ran away to Africa for adventure six years before.  We were thirty-somethings with obligations and responsibilities that had replaced 'exotic' adventure and we really were just too tired to try and replicate those magical weeks/months we experienced six years ago.  


This realisation, that I am no longer who I was, is a difficult double-edged sword for me to swallow.  One edge is 'thank goodness that time of insecurity and arrogance and ignorance is over' the other edge 'what fresh hell is this 'grown-up' thing of responsibility and obligation and constant effort?'


It's the constant effort that is catching me up lately.  There is no resting.  And while this is a lesson best directed at somewhat intangible goals, it is one that has come home in a very tangible way in the form of my physical body.


Three months ago I signed up for a half-marathon.  




I'll give you some time to let that sink in.  


A half-marathon. 


Me.  


At the time of signing up I had never run farther than 6K (about 3.75 miles).  A half-marathon is 21.1 K (13.1 miles).  I'm not sure what I was thinking.  


Three weekends ago I ran 10K.  


I got very cocky about it.  I tweeted and facebook-ed status-ed about High School gym stinking-that-in-its-pipe-and-smoking-it. 




I have yet to do it again.  After that I stopped running three times a week and have only gone for runs on the weekend and have yet to reach 10K again.  This is not how you train for a half-marathon.  


There is no real reason for this sudden apathy.  The weather hasn't been great, but it never is and I still managed to run three times a week throughout the entire winter.  The same thing with my weight loss/gain.  This past winter I reached my goal weight and then slid back into unhealthy eating patterns.  Coupled with less running, I have put back on about 10 pounds.


No.  There is something else going on with me.  For eight months I have been crossing a threshold without really being aware of the process.  It started with that realisation in Marrakesh.  I am moving toward a different version of me.  A grown-up version.  But every time I get close to embracing this next transition, I stop.  Almost afraid to continue through the door and leave the previous me behind.    


Two steps forward, one step back.  Reach a goal with 'grown up' responsibility and accountability, and then expect to reap the benefits without effort with 'childish' arrogance and entitlement. 


Intellectually, I know this is how life works and I think I am excited about the possibility of new-ish Ariel.  How horrible to stay the 'same' your whole life.  

But, damn.  It would have been nice to figured that out before we booked the 'rough and ready' Morocco tour.  Working showers and night club-free hotels would have made a world of difference. 




Photos: Tomb of Moulay Ismail/Meknes, flip flop full of Morocco/Sahara Desert

Loose Ends

The remains of a meal in Fez.

 A new month.  A new goal.

Remember back in January when I said I was keeping myresolutions to myself?

I still am.  But I will let you in on one.  One that I think is probably the most important and the stepping stone for all the rest.

Be Mindful.

It’s that simple.  Be Mindful. 

I find that when I operate on auto-pilot I tend to end up in behaviour and thinking cycles that are less than productive or helpful.  I find myself anxious and antsy. 

Being mindful sounds easy enough, but is much harder in practice.

Being mindful, for me, is considering each action and thought.  Purposefully marking each action and thought and deciding whether or not it is the right one for the moment. 

I started this practice, unknowingly, when I joined Weight Watchers in December of 2010.  Then again, when I decided to start running. 

The practice was immensely helpful in more ways than I can count.  But most important for me was the feeling of control over some aspects of my life.  At the time I joined Weight Watchers I felt that I had lost control of some major aspects of my life.  My academic career had come to a screeching halt, my weight had ballooned and my health (mental and physical) was spiralling.

Taking the small step of being mindful of my food choices and noticing the effects those choices had on my body and health was the start of my healing process. 

Three months later I was 15 pounds lighter and running 3K on a regular basis.  I was feeling more confident and healthy.  Most importantly, I was feeling happy and able to see possibilities. 

This winter, for reasons I still am not sure of, I stopped being mindful.  Or at least I stopped taking the time to check in with myself.  I had made a lot of progress with my fitness and health and I had made a few small in-roads in getting back to work. 

Maybe these little steps, which were successful, let me think I could take a break. 

I now know, as with running, so it is with mindfulness.  I need to keep at it.  The positives gained through both are not permanent.  At least not yet.  They require vigilance and constant work. 

This past month of illness brought that realization home. 

Now that I am finally feeling better I have come back to my mindful resolution. 

First up, tying up a some loose ends I left dangling here. 

Mission: Declutter came to an unexpected stop when I worked my way through the flat to my ‘research.’  Boxes and boxes and shelves and shelves of book, articles, bits and pieces of my research from six years.  Research I spent a lot of time on and with.  Research that I have since stepped away from with no real plan to return.  However, I can’t get rid of it.  While I have decided to leave academia for the time being, I don’t think I am ready to leave that research.  It doesn’t feel done.  That journey, my circus/storytelling journey is not at an end and until it is I can’t get rid of all those bits and pieces. 

I became overwhelmed and stopped. 

Mission: Declutter ended abruptly, but it was successful.  It resulted in at least four trips to charity and quite a bit of recycling.  There are still bags of clothes waiting to be swapped and I still have yet to sell off the nicer pieces of clothes and stuff, but the overall declutter was helpful. 

And so I declare that mission complete. For now.

The sewing that was meant to accompany the declutter never started.  Or at least never got beyond collecting the clothes and cutting up some t-shirts.  This stalling is mostly down to a space issue.  I haven’t given up on it but I have accepted that it is going to have to wait until I have some space.  I will be sure to inform you when it starts back up again.

Morocco Motoring was abandoned just as I got started.  We went to Morocco in October and I have yet to tell those stories.  To be fair, there aren’t a lot beyond being ill and learning a bit about desire (hint: It’s suffering).

But not suffering as we normally think of it.  More like reality vs. expectation.

There are stories to tell, however and I intent to get on that.  If for no other reason than to preserve some of the good moments of those two weeks.  Despite the sickness, there were very good moments.  So I will endeavour to share those with you here and over in the Attic. 

It always feels good to tie a neat bow. 

5K to Couch

I got very 'self-help' about my resolutions and goals this year.

I made a vision board and hung it in my kitchen/office.

But I'm not great at follow-through or being inspired so mostly I just appreciate the look of the thing and continue making that third cup of coffee or breaking off that fourth piece of chocolate.

Take last week for instance.

Friday was a perfect running day. No rain or wind, medium temperature, nothing on the agenda but some cocktails with the girls in the evening.

I knew it was a perfect running day. I had been telling myself all week that I would go for a run on Friday. Then Friday morning came, I slept in. And when I finally got around to the point in my morning where I should have gone for a run. I had a mild, very mild, panic attack and gave in to the lure of the couch duvet and my boxset of Fraggle Rock.

For the next few hours I berated myself about not going out for that run. I convinced myself I had a sore throat and my knee hurt*. I did have a sore throat but it was just dry and my knee had been sore for weeks but it doesn't hurt when I run. I knew I would feel better once I got back.

But I stayed on the couch.

I reminded myself of the weekend before when I was inexplicably mad at the world and a half hour on the treadmill with the Beastie Boys blaring in my ear made everything better.

But I stayed on the couch.

I would like to tell you this story has a happy ending. It doesn't. I never went for the run. Even after a week of despairing about my loss of fitness and the return of cellulite and pounchy knees, I didn't go for the run.

So I didn't go for the run. So what? I hear you say. You go the next day. A battle lost is not the war.

But I don't.

I have these internal battles every day about almost every task I set myself. This is why depression is exhausting.

Of course I have my days where I do get through the list of tasks and it isn't a struggle. I do go for the run and sit down and write and take care of those phone calls and do the dishes and laundry, etc.

Those days are not consecutive and are still behind the 'other' days in the overall tally. Only slightly behind. This is progress. This is what I have to focus on, the progress.

I don't think I am relapsing. I am cutting myself some slack due to the soul-sucking-ness that is the London winter. I think I am out of the worst of it. I have been for awhile. But it's not gone. It may never be completely gone. Days like Friday remind me all to clearly that it can be a slippery slope.

Just like my physical fitness, my mental fitness is something that requires work everyday. Mindful work.

You can't expect to stay fit when you stop running and start eating bigger portions and dessert every night. You can't expect to keep the dark at bay if you don't keep the light burning.

It's the stoking of the fire I find so difficult. I can get excited about a task or a goal. What I find difficult is the extended excitement, attention and effort necessary to maintain or even reach goals.

I'm not telling you this in search of advice. I have my list of strategies and exercises which help me through the hardest bits. I know I have a history of accomplishing tasks that seem monumental, but this doesn't mean much to me when I'm at my darkest.

So when it gets too much, when the littlest goals seem to require effort I just don't care to do, I have to find something I can care to do. Usually it's something simple. Putting on some music and treating myself to a magazine and a hot chocolate in a new location in the house. This little effort doesn't seem like a chore. In fact, it feels like a cheeky reward. But the important part is that it is breaking a pattern, even slightly, and that helps.

Friday, I didn't go for the run. I did, however, eventually get in the shower and even sat down and did some writing. When I headed out to meet the girls, I was feeling better.

Was it the inspiration board? Maybe.

Whatever it was, I count it a success. I didn't go for the run, but I did win a battle with the bigger beast. That is worth adding to the 'productive days' column on the tally board.







*I did head out for a run on Sunday.  Good time, good distance, bad knee.  I hobbled for the next two days.  I guess it wasn't as BS an excuse as I thought.  

Jet-Lagged Thanks

WOW!!!!

Are you still with me? 

Apologies for my absence.  The past weekend and week were a bit hectic and I didn’t make writing a priority (bad blogger/writer).

Now I am safely ensconced in my parents’ house in SouthWest Cleveland for the next month.  Without transportation.

Lord, what have I done?

Why did I think leaving my husband for a month would be a good idea? 

When I booked this trip, I thought a month away on my own would be a healthy and empowering experience.  And maybe it would if I had actually made some plans.  In an unexplained brain-dead moment I pictured spending my days catching up with old friends and doing some writing, maybe starting on that project I keep thinking about. 

But then I realized all my friends and family members have jobs and/or children.  I am the only ‘carefree’ housewife around with time to spare. 

So here I am, hanging out with the cats in my parents’ house, all the time in the world and nothing doing.  The cats make very boring housemates.  All they want to do is sleep.  Until I decide to make something to eat, then they want to fight to the death for my sandwich. 

Days of Thanks

I am behind.  Let’s see if I can get caught up quickly without too much waffling.

26. Internet Friends

This is a weird one, I know.  But in the last year I have made a few wonderful girlfriends all thanks to the internet.  Crazy.  On Saturday I met up with a few new friends in a pub to enjoy some cocktails and talk about a book.  Or at least that was the premise of our meet-up.   We didn’t do a lot of book talk.  We mostly just got to know each other and find some common ground.  Many of the women are displaced Americans which is always interesting to me.  I find it fascinating to see how other expats are blending culture and identity.  But what I found more fascinating was how many of us were currently identifying as housewives and feeling a bit ashamed about it. 

To be fair, I was ashamed about it at the beginning as well (as many readers will remember).  But the more women I met and the more I throw myself into being a housewife, the more uppity I get about that shame.  In the context of the book on the table and its thesis of declaring yourself a feminist because the work isn’t done, I will no longer feel shame or less-than for being a qualified woman that enjoys making a comfortable and happy home for her family of two.  And yes, I do enjoy it most days.  Sure there are days I resent the constant routine of housework, but how is that any different from my husband resenting the office he goes to every morning.  It is work that must be done and I am doing it.  Because it is ‘behind-the-scenes’ and unpaid it can be easy to fall into a trap of feeling like I’m not contributing.  And lord knows I have fallen into that sticky trap quite frequently.  But that trap is one that needs to be avoided.  If recent world financial history has taught us anything it should be that money does not equal ‘important’ or ‘meaningful’ contribution. 

I will not fall into that trap anymore, and I thank my new internet friends for showing me that I am not alone in my distress/enjoyment at this turn of events.  I see many housewives unite! meet-ups in our future.

25. Coupledom

Or more specifically, couple habits. 

This was our last day together for a month and between my string of minor freak-outs about packing at the last minute, we managed to throw in a few regular weekend activities to make the day seem a little more usual and spend some quality time together. 

The day before I apologized to the ladies at book club because I wanted to duck out early to spend some time with my husband before I went away.  I guess I felt that I was betraying my sex a bit by wanting to spend time with my ‘man’ over them.  They put me right straight away.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with enjoying the company of your husband.  Why did I feel I needed to apologise? 

(do you sense a theme developing here?)

There is a narrative out there that after a few years husbands and wives transition from loving partners to tolerating co-habitators.  I don’t know where this comes from, but I suspect TV is to blame (it’s always a safe assumption).  How many sitcoms have we watched in which the main comedic arc has to do with some ‘relatable’ domestic argument/misunderstanding? 

Just as I will no longer feel shame at being Dr. Housewife, I will no longer be ashamed of preferring my husband’s company over anyone else’s.  We chose together forever for a reason.  Each couple has their way of operating and Pete and mine simple habits are an important part of our coupledom.

24. An extra two feet

My Monday morning flight to Cleveland via Charlotte was made all the more easier by gently encouraging my seat neighbour to take advantage of the other empty aisle seats dotted around the plane. 

This may have been a bit selfish, but I see no reason why I (and my seat neighbour) should be miserable if there is a way to make us both comfortable.  I politely refused to give up my aisle seat due to my usual travel sickness and a need to be able to escape my seat when necessary for my tiny bladder.  Luckily, the elderly gentleman to my right was just ornery enough to not ‘carry on’ in the usual British fashion but take some initiative to secure an empty aisle seat for himself a few rows up. 

Lovely.

The extra two feet of personal space made all the difference in that eight hour flight and made coping with a 3+ hour layover in Charlotte slightly more bearable.   I arrived in Cleveland exhausted, but in a much better mood than usual following a trans-Atlantic flight.

23. Unexpected good weather

My first day in Cleveland was an unexpected sunny and mild day.  After waffling around for three hours in the morning and finding it was still not even 9am yet (thank you body clock?) I decided to take advantage of the weather and head out for a run.  It was Tuesday Fit-day after all and I thought some morning exercise would be a great way to get into the right time zone and flush out any residual bloating from the plane. 

It wasn’t my best time or effort and the scenery along my route through a southern suburb was not as impressive as the Thames, but exercise is exercise and I was very thankful that I was able to keep up my fitness without having to find a gym.  And, if I’m completely honest, I was surprised and proud of myself for taking the initiative to make my fitness a priority. 

I’ve come a long way, baby. 

Which brings us to today…

22. Trinculo

My cat.  He resides with my parents so I only see him when I visit and it takes him a few days to figure out who I am, but he is a cutie.  We are still in the remembering phase right now, but we had a good cuddle yesterday and he is slowly resigning himself to repeated interruptions to his day-long nap. 

He has also provided a particular poignant illustration in the complex relationship between parents and adult children.  He gets grumpy with me when I relate to him in the same way I did when I left him here as a kitten.  He has obviously matured into a grumpy old cat/cheeky adolescent with new habits and preferences and I am ignoring the changes in an attempt to relive/reclaim our past relationship. 

He is only a cat, but in order to have any relationship with him I have to pay attention to his new ways and preferences and accept that he is no longer my little boy. 

Today I am thankful for my cat and the lessons he continues to teach me about family dynamics. 

My Body, My Self

30.   My Body

 

It has taken almost 33 years, but I am thankful for the body I live in everyday. 

Sure, I frequently wish it was a bit taller or my legs a bit longer or leaner.  I curse my thick calves almost daily.

But lately, my body and I have come to an understanding and I am very thankful for this new relationship.  Awhile ago I wrote about how, until recently, I didn’t connect with my body.  I viewed it as a separate entity.

Slowly, I have come to love my stick straight hair and unevenly long torso.  The more I run, the more I appreciate the muscle of my legs.  I spent years cursing the curvature of those thighs and calves.  Then I remember that those legs and accompanying muscles made me dance.  Those muscles made it possible to do something that I loved and those memories keep me very warm.    

Yes, those curves make it difficult to find trousers that fit to my liking.  At times I still get hot and bothered trying to squeeze into jeans that were not made for my particular curves, despite the marketing.  Okay, honestly, I always get hot and bothered trying on trousers.  I get increasingly frustrated because I am convinced I am not the only woman with curvy legs trying to find a suitable pair of jeans.

But today I had a thought.  Instead of becoming frustrated, maybe I should revel in the fact that my body is unique.  This particular set of measurements and lengths and curves is all my own.  And perhaps, as Karen would tell me, they are beautifully different. 

With all my complaints and angst and Weight Watchers, I am incredibly lucky in my body.  Yes the knees are knocked about a bit, the wrist is a bit weak, one thumb is permanently the size of an eight year old’s, but it is healthy.  It has never had any serious problems and the more I connect with it, the more it gives me in return.  Each of the minor ‘flaws’ I see are stories of my life.  The knocked knees from dancing, the wrist from dancing and writing, the thumb from a childhood bike accident.  (The thumb precipitated my husband’s first conversation with me.) The numerous scars contribute to the story.  A cat scratch, elephant skin, web burn, honeymoon snorkelling, a band camp accident. 

Today, on the first Day of Thanks, I thank my body for its work and am grateful for its continued support. 

The Map Edge

It’s Tuesday Fit-Day.  An occasional  meditation on physical and mental fitness goals, successes and failures. 

Yesterday I went for a morning run.   It was unseasonably sunny and warm.  It was a little windy. 

And by a little windy I mean I was almost lifted off my feet at one point, ran in place at numerous points, and had a mouthful of sand grit on my return.  Apparently a hurricane was heading for Ireland, and I decided it would be a good time to go for a run along the River Thames.  I think my self-imposed news ban might be getting a bit dangerous.

I imposed the ban a few month ago when I found that I got too worked up over stupid politicians and transport strikes.  It served me well over the weekend when the news was inundated with 9 Sept. ‘memories.’  I remember every time I watch a Friends or Sex and the City repeat.  I remember the terror, the disbelief, the sorrow at seeing the names of co-workers I left the week before on ever-growing lists.  I remember.  I don’t need a reminder.  Time stands still on 9 Sept. for me.  I don’t flip the calendar.  In our house we go directly from 10 Sept to 12 Sept.  On the morning of 11 Sept I got up early to watch the Eagles take on Ireland in the Rugby.  I missed the National Anthem.  Which turned out to be a good thing, because when Pete asked if I caught it, I started tearing up. 

Living in London with the love of my life is a dream come true.  But when Autumn starts to roll in I get a bit homesick for the MidWest.  Hearing the National Anthem on 9 Sept. may have driven me over the edge.    

But that isn’t what I wanted to write about today.  I wanted to write about running and direction. 

About half-way through my run yesterday I began thinking about pushing forward.  I admit this was at a point when my head was tucked to my chest and eyes squeezed shut as the wind kicked up a swirl of sand from the river banks.  Lately I have had to admit that I enjoy running, at least when it is a nice day.  Running in the sleet storm a few weeks back sucked hard core!!  I won’t be running a marathon anytime soon.  I have no desire to run a marathon.  No, I like running because it gives me time out and is a bit of a zen practice for me.  At numerous points in the run I realize that my mind and body are operating independently.  This is not the same as me approaching my body as a separate entity but about it giving in to a rhythm and my mind being free to wander.  My legs keep pumping and carrying me forward, navigating the rises and falls and bumps with minimal direction. 

A lot of the wandering has to do with being amazed that I am even running.  But that quickly turns to marvelling at the path my life is taking.  It wasn’t very long ago that I was mourning the direction I was heading.  It was heading away from a lot of external expectations that I had come to think of as my own and I was feeling lost.  I see now that it was heading in the ‘right’ direction, I just wasn’t looking at the map properly.  My life kept pumping, pushing where it knew I should go while my head tried to scream that it was missing the exit. 

Maps are very powerful things.  They come in a variety of forms and I love all of them.  When I used to teach, I introduced maps to my students with a simple exercise. 

Draw a map of the campus.     

When they compared maps, they were amazed that everyone’s map was completely different.  Commuters centred their map on parking lots, resident students on their dorm.  Some buildings were missed out entirely and North was rarely at the ‘top.’  It is my favourite lesson.  Right up there with the orange peel globe.

Yesterday on my run I realized that I have been working off someone else’s map.  Many features are similar to mine, but key buildings and paths were left off.  I think I am back on track now. 

Or maybe I’m at the edge of the map.  That hazy bit where the lines and features turn into a blur and unknown.  Into the seemingly impossible or unimaginable.

‘Here there be monsters.’ 

I like it here.  I am an explorer after all.  The edge of the map is exactly where I am supposed to be. 

Enough with the cartography metaphors.  Here are some views from my running route.

'New Road Layout Ahead'

Holding back the floods

Crepuscular Rays

Yacht Club and Found Art

* all photos taken with iPhone on an evening walk.  I don't run and shoot.

Taking a compliment

It’s Tuesday Fit-Day.  An occasional  meditation on physical and mental fitness goals, successes and failures. 

A few weeks ago a friend and I were chatting about stretch marks.  I don’t know how we got onto the subject.  We were in a ‘lotion & potion’ shop so maybe we say something that claimed to minimise or maybe we were discussing our personal moisturizing regiments.  It doesn’t really matter how we got there.

ME: I don’t think my mum has stretch marks.

FRIEND: That’s good genes. Lucky you.

ME: Actually, I think it has more to do with a hippy potion of vitamin E, patchouli and sandalwood  (Actually, it is probably just the vitamin E, but I always assume that every hippy remedy has a base of patchouli and sandalwood) because my thighs are pockmarked with stretch marks. 

FRIEND: What!!?? I’ve seen your thighs! I don’t remember stretch marks.

ME: That’s because you have only seen them from a distance and in flattering low light.  You would change your tune if you were up close in scary florescent lights. 

FRIEND: Whatever. You’re ridiculous. Ooohhh, this smells nice.

I’m not writing this to complain and/or celebrate my thighs or my questionable stretch mark genes. (Although, I have noticed that while they are jiggling more than usual on my runs, they seem to be slightly smaller. SCORE!) I’m sharing this brief conversation because I have trouble taking a compliment.   I don’t think I am alone here.

Why do we throw compliments back in our friends’ faces?  I know we have all been on the receiving end of a ‘Jellyfish’ compliment;  one that stings.  One that you would rather pee on yourself than accept.  But we usually see these coming.  We know which ‘friends’ hand these out on a regular basis.  Laughing these compliments off is part of a defence mechanism.

But this compliment came from a friend I trust and I still threw it back.

This is something I do too often.  I deflect compliments on clothing/outfits by quoting prices and sources.  I deflect compliments on cooking by relating the hidden mistakes.  I deflect compliments on academic writing by saying it’s too different, too creative to be successful.  A compliment on my hair, deflected with ‘its too straight/greasy/scraggly.’

I always find the flaw in the success.  My parents’ call it the  “Yeah, but….” 

Look at the exchange above.  When will anyone see my thighs up close in florescent light?  Where would all those conditions collide anywhere other than your yearly Gyno appointment?  And at that point I would relish a close-up examination of my….thighs, I think you’ll agree.   I don’t even think my husband has seen my thighs close up in florescent light.  Not because he hasn’t been around, but because I think he is probably distracted by my other bare bits.  So why present an impossible scenario instead of accepting the compliment and reaping the rewards of months of healthy eating and exercise?

Is it false modesty? Do I really believe I play no part in these ‘successes?’ Do I believe that I don’t deserve these compliments? 

I don’t know.  What I do know, is that it is time to stop.  Accepting the compliment with grace will not make me look conceited.  Accepting a compliment with grace and accepting that it is given truly, is not selfish.  I think.

Maybe it’s about being mindful.  Being mindful not only of how I feel, but how my insecurity makes my friends’ feel as well.  It can’t be nice to have compliments thrown back in your face.  It’s almost like an insult to the friend that took the time to notice and comment.  Like telling them they are foolish to admire or compliment something about you.  Like they are foolish to be your friend.  Because isn’t that why we cherish our friends?  They support us, they tell it like it is, they celebrate our successes and hold our hands when we fall.

Maybe it’s about selling yourself, but not in an annoying job-interview-way, but in the I-believe-in-the-best-of-me way.  In the I-accept-I-am-not-perfect-but-I-rocked-this-way. 

What do you think?  Do you gracefully accept compliments or brush them aside?  Do you find it a hard balance? 

Running faces

It’s Tuesday Fit-Day.  An occasional  meditation on physical and mental fitness goals, successes and failures. 

The other day I went for a run.  In between gasping for air and forcing my legs to keep pumping, I noticed that I get a collection of responses from the passer-bys.  I run along a fairly popular path with a variety of users.  There are the business folk, taking the scenic way home, with their suit jackets slung over the shoulder.  There are the proper runners with lycra and spandex and water bottles.  There are miscellaneous couples in various relationship stages.  There are the groups of young moms and large strollers.  There are young ‘hipsters’ on break from the O2 or Ravensbourne.  There are students.  There are cyclists.  There are environmentalists.   There are construction workers.  There is a random scattering of lost tourists. 

As I weave between these groups I encounter particular facial expressions.  From some, it is a nod of acknowledgement.  This is usually from the other runners or cyclists.  This brief acknowledgement makes me feel like I am part of the cool kids.  I have no desire to run in any organized sort of race, but this a rare experience for me and I'll take it. 

Then there is the blatant stare.  This comes from a cross-section and I’m not sure what it means.  It is just a following stare that doesn’t register that I am returning the gaze.  Is it really that unbelievable that I am out running?  I mean, I know I am moving incredibly slowly so maybe it is astonishment that I am moving forward, or maybe I am foaming at the mouth.  Actually, that might be a viable option.

Then there is the encouragement.  At times this is a ‘you can do it’ kind of nod and smile, maybe even a little air punch.  In my oxygen-deprived state I might have hallucinated the air punch, but I don’t think so.  I have also received the verbal encouragement.  This is weather-specific.  When the weather is overly hot or torrential downpour I have been on the receiving end of ‘You go girl!’

Then there is the laugh.  Now, in all fairness, this is probably brought on by my running antics.  I have recently been forced to change my route due to a path closure (for some cable car/sky walk shenanigans) and it means I have to run along a boring stretch of road.  However, this piece of road has a line of blue poles running parallel along the sidewalk.  The colour is irrelevant, and I don’t know what the poles are actually for, but I have devised a way to make this section of the run a little less boring.  As I run this stretch I weave in and out of the poles.  I figure it counts as ‘changing up the routine’ and I have to admit I get a little vision of myself in a training montage of some sort.  The laugh comes from the guy that sits at a gate along this stretch of road.  I like to think it’s the highlight of his day.

Then there is the wistful smile/glance.  This is usually from the mums loaded down with a few kids and the related equipment.  I don’t know, but maybe they are thinking of the days when they used to have the free time to run.  Or maybe they are wishing they could follow me instead of removing their child from the fence for the tenth time in 3 minutes.  Obviously, I have no idea what their kid is actually doing since I am past in a flash, leaving them tumbling in my slip-stream.  OK, that was a bit of an exaggeration as my passing barely produces a breeze strong enough to knock one of those baby fine hairs out of place. 

Then there is the mocking, haughty, scorn.  I get a kick out of this one as I used to produce this same face at passing runners.  As I have previously covered, I used to be of the opinion that exercise was for the vain.  Moderation was all that was needed to keep us nicely in the ‘healthy’ range.  I was on board for regular exercise in the form of dance, yoga, circus skills, etc.  In short, anything that didn’t resemble actual exercise, or gym-class.  Of course, I then decided to become a professional student and my caboose began to expand in direct proportion to the amount of years spent ‘studying’ while my skin got progressively more and more pale and pasty.  And while all that makes for an even better mocking and scornful face (like something in a Tim Burton cartoon) it doesn’t lend itself to haughty.

I would like to take this moment to apologize to the many runners, cyclists, etc. that were subject to my mocking, haughty, scorn.  I now understand that you were on to something and I was a naïve, brooding, secretly jealous, voyeur.  As I get older, my body likes to remind me that it is calling the shots and the only way to keep a relative peace is to engage in regular exercise.  Phooey.

Then there is the stringy hair, soaking wet, blooming red and exhausted shake of the head.  Me, in the mirror, appalled at my physical state of dampness but pleased that it is all over and hoping the endorphins from all this running will kick in soon.  

Still waiting for those endorphins. 

Any moment now.