2007 - Not All It's Cracked Up To Be...Yet

It's now mid-February, and so far, 2007 has been awful. With the immune system of a scrawny three-year old, I have managed to catch every cold and flu bug whizzing through the 6 train. I work twelve to fourteen hour days, and often work weekends. I am single and absolutely in love with my ex-boyfriend. I am, unequivocally, a mess. Isn't it beautiful?

So, here's the deal. There are nine and a half months left in 2007 (keep your 9 1/2 weeks references to yourselves, please), and I mean to turn this sucker around. I'm 28 years old, and in my former life, I was a reasonably happy, content person. This time, I'm going for phenomenally fantastic. I will post updates on how close I'm getting to phenomenally fantastic, and I welcome advice, tips -- whatever -- that will help me along the way.

If a blogger falls in the forest, does anybody hear her?

I haven't posted on this thing in so long that I doubt I have any readers left. I suppose that makes this post more like a diary entry.

Dear Diary,
How have you been? I'm sorry I have not written lately...SERIOUSLY, this is how I used to start diary posts when I was little. I never had the attention span to write in a diary every single day, but I was wracked with guilt when I did actually sit down to write something. I felt like I was just using the diary, only to cast it aside once something more exciting came along. This offended my sense of fair play and substantial justice (yes, I just went there law kiddies), and I find myself wracked with similar guilt now as I write this blog entry.
None of this has anything to do with anything other than my obvious paranoia and guilt issues.

Here's what I really want to talk about...Train Station Stalkers. I am a commuter who rides the train Monday through Friday. I have been doing this for about a year now. In the last two months (and I can only attribute this to spring fever), I have been followed, talked to against my will and finally asked out by three men. The first was a quiet, mild-mannered guy with curly black hair and kind blue eyes. He started by telling me that this was his last day commuting on my train because his residency at the local hospital was finished. We exchanged a series of pleasantries about our commute, the city where I work and the weather. As we neared the point where our paths would diverge, he asked me if I'd like to have a drink with him sometime. I politely told him I had a boyfriend. He said we could just be friends and asked for my number. I gave him my work number and he never called. In hindsight, this was the perfect scenario. I was flattered, but never had to deal with the awkwardness of being friends with a guy who I knew wanted to date me. The second guy, who in his persistence has become known to all my friends as "Train Station Guy," took a more aggressive tack - one that I will detail in my next post.

Alone in a crowd

As I train my often unwilling legs to run a marathon, my runs typically take place in Central Park. The good people at New York Road Runners have posted the exact distances of every possible variation on the loops circling the park. As the runs get longer, the loops become more numerous and the hours spent multiply. The weather, for the most part, keeps getting better and on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, the park is often packed with people looking for an oasis from concrete and pollution. Many of these oasis-seekers are runners, too. You'd think we'd form some little community of people who could feel one another's pain. In a two hour period, I often see the same runners more than once. Nobody would ever accuse me of being outgoing, but I'm generally friendly. I've been known to say hi to passersby, or give a nod if I recognize a face.

Want to know what I get in return? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. People rarely if ever reciprocate my friendly gestures. In fact, one woman recently tried to engage me in a game of chicken, refusing to get out of my way and moving to put herself in my way until we nearly collided. Then, she turned toward me, scrunched up her face like the girl from The Exorcist, and growled at me. Believe me, I'm not capable of making stuff like this up. The bottom line is that despite the increasing number of park runners this spring, my runs are still mostly solitary experiences. I usually like it that way, but every once in a while, running with the oblivious masses can make a girl feel very lonely. It's one of life's great mysteries.

Long time, no blog.

So, it's been a little while since I have added anything to the blog. Where have I been? What have I been doing? Running until I can't run anymore. Why am I back? Obviously - because I can't run anymore. After following a training plan that included one progressively longer run per week, my body finally screamed for mercy. It started as a nagging pain in my right heel. I should have listened then, taken a break and bought some new sneakers. I'm stubborn and, evidently, way over-confident.

I continued training, icing intermittently afterward, until last night when I could only run two miles before tears were involuntarily streaming down my face. The pain was just more than I could bear. I have a relatively high threshold for physical pain, so this was definitely bad. I'd love to say that I'm cured, feeling good and heading back out for a run. Instead, I'm sputtering with frustration, feeling like a useless lump, and pitying myself like there's no tomorrow.

In order to avoid depressing others (probably too late), I'm off to, well, not run. Sigh.

Boston

Boston is a great city. This statement is all the more convincing given that I grew up outside of New York City - the center of the civilized world. Fashion radiates from NYC outward, and my shopping obsession is probably due in part to my birthplace being so close to this mecca. Still, when I went to college near Boston, I was curious about this other city. Did it measure up? What was the deal with that accent? And really, why do people care so much about the Red Sox? They never had anyone on their team that's as dreamy as Derek Jeter anyway (apologies to Rain Delay who is excommunicating me from his life...now).

Anyway, I fell in love (that can be most closely likened to an illicit affair, because Manhattan will always be my true love) with Boston very easily. It's an easy city, and by that I mean that the people are friendly; the public transportation is easy to navigate; it's clean and rarely smells like urine; and it's got an early American vibe that I worship. I recently spent a few days in Boston, and my time there reminded me of all these qualities, and a few more that I didn't appreciate until now:
(1) They repaint that Freedom Trail all the damn time -- and I appreciate that, because I have zero sense of direction. However, if I know the Trail goes by where I'm headed, I will circle around any number of historical sites to avoid getting lost.
(2) No sales tax on clothes under $175 AND anything over $175 is only taxed by the amount in excess of $175. GENIUS!
(3) Preppies abound. 'Nuf said.
(4) If you even look lost or confused, it's only a matter of moments before a nice stranger stops and offers directions. They might not be right, but the offer is sweet.
(5) Beer is cheaper - usually.
(6) Newbury Street - a less obnoxious and scary 5th Avenue.
(7) The "T" -- $1.25 a ride. Every time I got on, I internally smiled at the $.75 I was saving per ride by not being in NYC.
(8) Boston Cream Pie.
(9) Hah-vard -- they actually have their own museums.
(10) Did I mention that sales tax thing??

Fearing fear

Fear is such a strange and varied emotion. Lately, I've been more and more afraid of running a marathon. I've been following the training program and doing the things I should, but there are times where the whole idea seems so impossible and I'm scared I won't be able to do it. Part of this fear is due to the embarrassment I will feel if I have to tell family and friends that I couldn't do it. Another, bigger piece of it is my fear that what I'm physically capable of might be definitively limited. Given the option, I'd probably be more content not knowing my body had limits, and allowing myself to believe I was able to do anything I attempted. Then again, what fun is running, or anything else for that matter, if you don't see how far you can go?

My curiosity has gotten the better of me. I've been bitten by the running bug. Insert all other applicable euphemisms. For better or for worse, I'm doing this -- and damn it, I'm gonna like it!

Running In the Rain

I ran my first race on Sunday. The race was only four miles, and though I've run many more than that on my own, I was nervous. I woke up that morning with the same jitters I used to get on the mornings of final exams. When I got to the park where the race was being held, I immediately began sizing up all the other runners, which was completely absurd given that I was not trying to win anything. I just wanted to get a feel for what a race was like. As I lined up in at the minutes per mile marker I felt most appropriate, my heart started racing before my legs did. The horn sounded, and I was off.

Prior to the start, it had been drizzling, but as I approached the first mile marker, it began to rain steadily - big drops pelting my face. I was so focused that after noticing the rain, I blocked it out entirely. I finished the first mile in good time, but I knew I could be going faster. I steadily increased my pace, bobbing and weaving through open spaces between the other runners. Eventually, I was keeping pace with the runners a full minute per mile faster than my usual pace. I was exhilarated as I hit Mile 3, full of foolish beginner's pride. I got a little cocky, as I sped up even more in that last mile, rounding the last few bends in the path like Speed Racer. In a flash, it hit me. I was gonna hurl. The waves of nausea washed over me faster than the rain, at the extact moment that I reached the crowds waiting near the finish line. Out of necessity, I slowed down and prayed that I would not throw up in front of JB, my sister, her boyfriend and countless strangers. I coughed without meaning to, managed not to yack and made it across the finish line with what was barely a jog. I don't know if it was nerves, my inability to eat much that early in the morning, that I pushed myself too hard in Mile 4, or stage fright in front of the spectators. I can't even think about the time I lost in the last tenth of a mile or so, but I am so obscenely proud of myself. I did it!