I Was Never Just a Runner

23 Feb

I like to think that the real me is the me that emerges when I’m joyful and relaxed and healthy and content in who I am.

And I like to think that the me that emerges when I’m stressed and unhappy and injured is the fake me.  And it really doesn’t count.  Because everyone knows that this is not me.  That this is just an evil version that has come down in a UFO and taken me prisoner for a few hours/days/weeks/months.  Right?

But I don’t think there is a real me or a fake me.  Just me.  Lots of good, lots of bad, lots of gray areas.  And the people who have never known me in a good time have no way of knowing what good I am capable of.  And the people who have never known me in a bad time have no way of knowing what evil I am capable of.  And most people have seen both and know that I’m capable of quite the gamut of emotions and personalities.

And no, I am not special. We’re all that way.

But I’ve been realizing it more and more.  It’s been two months since I ran without pain (and the two times I ran were so unpleasant, it’s best to forget they ever happened).  Two months feels like a long time.  I am passionate about running, it fits me in a way that I needed a hobby to.  It makes me feel athletic and strong and it gives me a much needed break from work drama and school reading and life.

I miss changing into running gear for lunch runs with my coworker. I miss catching up on life with my coworker.  I never really appreciated just how much time we spent together training for my marathon. I feel guilty that I’m not logging all those miles with her while training for her marathon.  I miss the river.  I love the river.  My life has revolved around the river these past few years – biking, running, races, suicide, walks, the journey from work to class to gym to school that I have made umpteen times, the bridge between my home city and my work city.  I miss the sweat and how freezing cold you are for the first wintery mile and how quickly you warm up. I miss Sport Beans and power gels and electrolytes.  I miss the running jargon. I even miss all the runners who would smile and nod at my Reach the Beach and Ragnar shirts.  I miss feeling athletic.

And rather than settling into my new identity – the girl learning to live through IT band pain and focusing on strength and core and lifting weights and keeping my knee from buckling during squats – I’ve been grasping for the old one.  And failing.  And being a little miserable git who has no doubt annoyed a fair number of people.

“It’s not me,” I say, as an excuse.

And coworkers ask about my training and tell me that they’ve taken up running because of me (5!  5 people this month!) and HomeSlice asks what crazy event I am doing next.  And I feel boring and dull because I have nothing to talk about but this only-fascinating-to-me world of balancing and muscles and tendons and kinesio tape (I wear the black stuff but lately, it starts unsticking from my skin.  Apparently even my skin is defective.)  I crave early Saturday morning long runs.

Maybe this would make sense if I was a good runner.  Technically, I am. I run straight and true without kicking up limbs behind me or running knock-kneed.  But I am not a fast runner, I am not an especially talented runner, I’m just a girl who loves running.  And biking.  And boxing.  And soccer.  And lifting.  And apparently, even balancing.  But for some reason, my frustration over not being able to run outweighs the rest.

It really comes down to identity.  If I can’t run, can I call myself a runner?  Can I still consider myself athletic? Am I athletic?  Even after all these years, I still feel like I’m the childhood me who was never athletic, let’s be honest.  Maybe because I never tried.  Maybe because I didn’t have confidence in myself. Or  maybe because I am just not an athlete.

If I can’t run, can I call myself a runner?  Can I still read my running magazines and make my fruit smoothies and get excited over planning future races?

And if I am this sad about running, can I trust that liking things and losing them is still better than being apathetic to everything in general?  Is my love of running more important than other people’s needs for me to be happy and focused and independent when I feel moody and distracted and needy?

Unfortunately, no, it’s not.

I’m learning to let go of who I used to be and embrace this time of stumbling towards what I will be in the future.  Maybe a runner again.  I hope so.  But also, just a person with so much more to offer than miles per hour and foam rolling techniques.

I am a runner.  But I was never just a runner.  Just as you are _____.  But you were never just a _____.

We are more than the things we do.  Today, more than ever, I’m grateful for that truth.

“Give Me a Challenge, and I’ll Meet it with Joy”

22 Feb

Yesterday while doing some research at work for the space program, I found myself quoting the speech.  We all have one.  I was not alive to hear Martin Luther King Jr’s speech but it still stirs me.  There’s possibly nothing quite as moving as the Gettysburg Address.  But there is another speech, one I was alive for (if not old enough to fully appreciate), that has become a personal favorite.

Probably because it involves a president I love (Ronald Reagan).  A person my parents taught me about (Christa McAuliffe).  A speechwriter I find compelling (Peggy Noonan).  A program my current job is closely linked with (NASA).  And, as I learned yesterday, it is ranked as one of the ten best American political speeches of the 20th century. So at least I have good average taste.

Instead of a state of the Union address, Ronald Reagan has to speak about the tragedy of the shuttle Challenger.  Talk about a change in topic.

And I found myself quoting it yesterday. Not the ending, my favorite bit, where the poetry emerges: slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God.

But the bit where Reagan said “they had that special grace, that special spirit that says, “Give me a challenge, and I’ll meet it with joy….the future doesn’t belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the brave…”

Yesterday, there were plenty of challenges – giving up the thought of running a marathon in March (can’t say I met that one with joy), receiving some nastymail from a particularly insensitive manager (joy? What’s that?), being told one thing and then another thing and then yelled at for not doing a third thing, having to pose for some photographs in our Media department.  Even my daily challenges – PT exercises and foam rolling and being gracious with incessant work questions – were not particularly met with joy.  And instead of being brave, I was irritated and sad.  I cried while biking home from the gym which, let’s be honest, is not at all as cleansing and wonderful as women swear it is and is also a potentially hazardous activity during rush-hour Boston traffic.

But I remember the newbie engineer from yesterday.  ”I’m not sure how to do this” he said.  ”Well, you’re going to need to ask your manager some questions.  Maybe find a mentor.  Make a doable plan.”  ”It’s going to be challenging” he said.  ”Yes, which is exactly what you need.  You aren’t in college anymore, it’s time to stretch yourself.  You’re being gifted with a challenge rather than another mundane routine task and you need to meet it with joy.  The future doesn’t belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the brave. You’re going to be fine.”

Routing for the new college grad while simultaneously meeting my own challenges with apathy and dread and bitterness.  Not such a great role model.  Today I am going to shut up and take my own advice.

Challenges, meet joy. Joy will be working alongside me today to assist you.  So be prepared – we are going to win.

Winning is everything.

(I mean, it’s not.  That’s the truth. But sometimes, it kinda is.)


The Power of Functional Reserve

20 Feb

Reading Sports Illustrated is my guilty pleasure.  It’s time to be honest about it. Not only do I like the stats and the sports discussion but I like the stories about real people beating the odds, conquering their demons, becoming someone new.  It’s very inspiring stuff.

“Consider a scientific phenomenon called functional reserve. The human heart has a reservoir of unused ability, like a powerful car that can go 150 mph but never gets pushed above 75. A normal heart will pump about 60% of its blood volume with each beat. But one cardiologist tells the story of a bodybuilder who thrived for nearly a decade with a heart that could pump only about 10% per beat…The body finds a way to compensate, at least for a while.  Functional reserve is not just for the heart.  Every organ has this hidden power, this ability to outperform its perceived limits when the need is desperate.”  (From February 20, 2012 issue)

The human body is an amazing creation.  If I were more scientifically inclined, I could probably elaborate on what I read in a not-very-scientific-article.

Instead, let’s substitute the word organ for person and move into a realm I am more comfortable with:

Every person has this hidden power, this ability to outperform its perceived limits when the need is desperate.

We’ve heard the stories and seen the YouTube videos of women lifting entire cars off of their toddler’s legs. Of people running 72 hour races (if you really want to feel sick, go read about the TripleIronMan events – 7.2 miles of swimming, 336 miles of cycling, 78.6 miles of running all done back to back).  And we all know about Aron Ralston, having to cut his own arm off with a pocketknife.

Some of us believe it is the grace of God who gives people their functional reserve.  Others believe it is purely a scientific result.  Some of us believe those two aren’t incompatible.

Regardless, people do amazing things when they need to.  People outperform their own perceived limits and the perceived limits we put on them (in the sports realm, think Brady, Lin, Tebow, etc.)  But so does the woman juggling a household and three toddlers and the unceasing demands of it all.  So does the man working long hours at his career but still showing up at all of his son’s sporting events.  The woman scared of traveling who goes on a missions trip. The man scared of public speaking who agrees to talk about his entrepreneur successes at a local non-profit.

If I spent less time judging people’s limits and more time encouraging those I see who are surpassing theirs, I think I’d be a more joyful person. It’s time to expect great things from those we know and cheer for, to not admit defeat before the clock runs out, to stay in the bleachers until the last second and see the game to its completion good or bad.

Because, as Theodore Roosevelt put it so eloquently:

In the battle of life, it is not the critic who counts; nor the one who points out how the strong person stumbled, or where the doer of a deed could have done better.

The credit belongs to the person who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; who does actually strive to do deeds; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotion, spends oneself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who at worst, if he or she fails, at least fails while daring greatly.

Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those timid spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.

The Truth About HR

17 Feb

Is that you are asked to resource humans.  All kinds of resources. All kinds of asking. All kinds of humans. All kinds of time.

The amount of stuff you end up doing that doesn’t fit into your job description could take a few pages to detail.  For instance, looking back at my past three HR jobs: Delivering a termination notice to an employee in prison.  Registering the president’s car. Cataloguing types of metals. Telling maintenance to dispose of condoms found in the stairwell. Telling new college grads how to use a washing machine. Participating in exploratory research for the CIA. Running along the Charles River with bunches of Navy Seals. Attending black tie Gala events on weekends on your birthday.  Filling in for the young hotshot sales reps (think Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire) when one of them gets fired for viewing pornography at work the day before a big sales closing.

Those are only the ones I can think about when I set my timer for 90 seconds.

HR is a lot of emotional intelligence and human interaction. It is part teacher, part student, part historian, part librarian, part data entry, part research and analysis, part engineering (if you want to understand what your employees actually do so you know better how to proactively help them), part sales, part charm, part true grit, part psychologist, part mentor, part counselor, part good cop, part bad cop. part paperwork, part IT, part parenting, part legal advisor, part employee advocate, part employer watchdog.

It is the best of jobs and the worst of jobs.  All in one job.

I always thought you had to work in a correctional facility to see the worst of mankind but nope, I’ve come pretty close in my little corner office.

And I always thought you had to be a Mother Theresa to have people genuinely think the world of you.  But nope, I’ve got that respect.  And I’m not a saint.

You do have to learn about boundaries.  About being tough.  About saying no. About using a lot of IRS legal code to defend your positions against wily and argumentative engineers.  You have to learn how to smile when you want to frown (still working on that one.  Got caught frowning about 7 times this week.) You have to learn how to stop eating your lunch or checking for data integrity every time someone walks into your office.  And that happens about once every 47 seconds. You have to learn how to always prioritize other people’s needs before your own but also make sure you take the time you deserve for lunch (when 5 people stopped me on the short walk to the bathroom and I didn’t have the courage to ask them to wait, then I was asked 2 more questions while in a bathroom stall, I realized that maybe I did deserve the right to ask people to wait a few minutes).

And you have to learn to take the bad with the good.  To not let the scumbags convince you that they are normal.  That everyone acts like they do.  We all have our person – that one person we think about when we need an example of someone normal and nice and the reason we still work at our job.  My person is Mr. Bingley.  Except he smiles more than Mr. Bingley.  Did you know that was possible?  Even when he’s having a bad day, he’s always smiling!  Sometimes, I say, “You’re making me feel bad.  Could you please stop smiling.” And he tries to. But he physically cannot. Makes me grin every time.  He’s the happiest 25 year old I’ve ever met and if he can keep smiling, well, I figure I can keep resourcing humans.

Still, and this goes without saying, thank God it’s Friday.

Remember the Day You Couldn’t

16 Feb

No one was born talking or walking, capable of holding their head up or microwaving their dinner. We all had humble roots.

And yet we forget it.

It happened to me in the MIT gym today.  The place is archaic and nerdy and adorable.  It’s probably the only gym that, instead of a sign saying “Wear enough clothing (shoes, shirts)” has a sign saying “Wear less clothing (no jeans, khakis or sandals on treadmills)”.  I saw someone try to wear Crocs on an elliptical.  Professors wearing shorts that were short even in the 70′s.  A girl chilled out reading “Busy Brides” while “stretching” on her mat.  A lot of MIT students intimidated by the free weights and mechanized weights and bosu balls and foam rollers.  And not one, but two, graphing calculators propped up on treadmills and stationary bikes.  You never know when a graphing emergency will hit you.

I found it very amusing.  And kinda sweet.  But the truth is that there was a day when free weights and mechanized weights and pulleys and aerobic steps were all new to me.  And I didn’t know how to use them.  I wanted to learn. But I was afraid everyone would see me for the newbie that I was.

Before I ran 39 miles, I ran 1 mile. Before that, I ran around the block.  Before that, I walked.

Before I learned to bike with traffic in the heart of Boston, the thought scared me to death.  There was a day when I couldn’t write in cursive.  A day when I couldn’t drive a car.  A day when I couldn’t look at clowns.  Okay, that day is today.

For every person staring at “I can’t” there is another person celebrating their “I learned”.  Learning leads to doing.  Everyone has to be a student before they can be an instructor.  So the next time you try to teach long division or how to knit or the art of parallel parking, remember that there was a day you couldn’t.  But now you can.

And there was a day when couldn’t bled into did.  A past failing or ignorance met a future hope or goal and became a present achievement.

It’s time to drop the n’t and help people move from couldn’t to could.  From didn’t to did.  From haven’t to has.

I took the road less traveled.  The one that challenged me to grow.  And that made all the difference.

When Women Fail Men

14 Feb

In our MBA class tonight, we discussed teamwork.  Even a high-performing team needs direction.  It is a manager’s job to provide clarification.  That can come in the form of goals, a vision of the end result, a mission statement, a specific group task.  The leader gets to define the what.  And the leader often gets to choose the who.  Maybe even the why. But it is the team that owns the how.

I think that women often fail men in this area.  We pick the who, the what, and the why (if we even know it.  Females are complicated.  The person who understands me the least is probably…me.)  But we also try to determine the how.

There is a place for honest and simple declarations of how we need something: “I really need a hug right now because _____.”

But often, let’s be honest, we hide the how.  We know what we want: affirmation, a compliment, advice, something fixed, a listening ear, feelings of security and safety, reassurance that we’re not alone/normal/pretty/interesting.  But we hide how we want that communicated.  Instead, we play this game where we ask a male (spouse, significant other, father, brother, friend, coworker, classmate) for something and then we get snippy or moody or sad when we get what we asked for but not in the way that we wanted it. Not only do we want men to be mind-readers but we also want them to be avenue-of-response-readers.  We expect them to guess what we need and the mode in which we want that need met.

It’s a lot to expect something from someone else when we can’t even define it ourselves.  We’ve all been frustrated by the “I’ll know it when I see it” phrase used when finding a street you need to turn onto or choosing a font for a wedding invite or shopping for an outfit.  If we don’t know the criteria, we can’t help in the search.  We are dead weight.

Men don’t like being dead weight.  They sincerely want to help.  Wouldn’t it be simpler to be clear in what we need?  And then sit back, no expectations, and allow them to be creative in their solutions.  Maybe I thought I needed a hug and it would solve the problem. I don’t get a hug.  Instead, I get an articulate response that reaffirms exactly what I needed to hear.  But I completely discredit it because it was not a hug and I am hung up on needing that hug. (Even though I don’t know for sure that a hug is the answer.)  Wanting a glass of milk, I disregarded the milkshake.  And the more we do that, let our expectations cloud the gifts we are given, the more guys will stop being creative and thoughtful and unique and wait for us to tell them what and how and when and why.

So let’s start treating guys like computers.  Let’s CTRL + ALT + DELETE and use formulas to get the exact response we want.  And then we will be happy.

Wrong.  Anytime we stifle creativity (in a relationship, on a team) we lose something unique.  Does a guy being able to read your mind and know that when you said “I need a compliment” you meant “Tell me, right now, that I look cute in these boots” mean that he cares more about you than the guy who hears “I need a compliment” and, a few hours later, praises your ability to always see joy in bad circumstances over dinner with another couple?

Let’s choose less expectations. No grading. Less judgment.  And more anticipation.  Excitement.  Gratitude.

Women fail men when they always tell them how.  And men fail women when they never consider that it matters.

Proof that I’m a Zelie

12 Feb

Other appropriate titles: Proof that I’m not adopted.  Proof that I’m my mother’s daughter.  Proof that I may be a tad OCD. Proof that it takes a whole lot of different personalities to make a fun village.

Today I set aside an hour to clean my apartment.  It’s not that large and I’m that person who cleans as I go (I’m a Zelie) so it didn’t take long to sweep all the hardwood floors, dust, clean the kitchen and the bathroom.  But I was listening to a 60 minute podcast on ultra running and thoroughly enjoying it. I was in the cleaning zone (I’m a Zelie) so I needed to continue.  I couldn’t do the things others might do: clean the microwave, clean the stovetop, go through the mail, toss expired coupons, because I do them on an ongoing basis.  Instead, I tackled my medicine cabinet.  Everything got removed and the cabinet got cleaned. Then I consolidated, tossed, and restocked based on type of product.  The finished result is a much cleaner cabinet where I can easily view everything I have.  This, for a Zelie, is about as good as it gets.

Then, post-podcast and taco soup (I’m a Zelie so I had to make it), I realized I had a great idea for a reflection paper due on Feb 28th.  Within 5 minutes, I had it all outlined in my head.  And, seizing the opportunity, I sat down and wrote the paper.  Then I edited it.  Then I smiled because it is finished.  Even though it is not due for 16 days and most people would think I am crazy.  I am not. I am just organized.  And a little OCD.  And fully aware that if you’re in the zone – to clean, to exercise, to write a paper – and you have the time available to do so – you should jump to it before motivation fizzles out.

Bringing out the trash, I ran into my neighbor.  ”How is your Sunday going?” he asked.  ”Well, it was bad.  My attempt to run at the gym was really discouraging but my to do list for the weekend is accomplished, I had a great conversation with a friend, planned a meeting I am leading in two weeks, cleaned the apartment, cooked for the upcoming week and wrote a paper not due for two weeks.”  ”What?” he said. “Maybe you will die in the next two weeks and have wasted time writing a paper that no one will ever read. Did you think about that?”

I did not. I am a Zelie.  My to-do list being completed AND getting a jump start on future tasks made me happy.  So happy that I immediately considered texting my sisters and my Mom and calling my brother because they would know exactly how I felt.  That warm glow when everything is clean, all the tasks are accomplished,  and I can go out for a drink or curl up with a book or experiment with my waffle-maker.  I’m sure other people know what I’m talking about.  There may be more Zelies in the world than the census suggests.

 

 

I Hate When You Apologize

9 Feb

1.

“I hate when you apologize. It makes you look weak.”

I’m not sure if I ever spoke those words to my brother or if I just thought them. I was predisposed to be proud of my brother. To want everyone to know that we shared a last name. But I was also competitive.  And those two factions were at war during the years we played on the same soccer team.  We rarely won a soccer game.  And I’m still proud of my brother.  So I guess we know which side won.

But the audacity at the time was galling.  My brother, a useful midfielder, was forever apologizing to the opposing team when he took the ball from them.  Me, a less than useful but determined forward, was embarrassed.

2.

“I hate when you apologize. It makes you look weak.”

My boyfriend spat these words at me. Since I was forever being accused of running faster than him, walking faster than him, having to be better than everyone else at things, I’m not sure if the real issue was that I looked weak.  Wouldn’t he have enjoyed that?  Or if it made him look weak by association?  Since I never apologized for things in front of other people, I’m not exactly sure what the problem was.

And yes, I did consider apologizing for apologizing too much.

Which just shows that maybe he had a point.

The irony, forever lost on him, is that I was actually in the wrong.  I was forever apologizing for doing the right thing, for being the adult, for thinking about others.  I never should have apologized in the first place.  I wish I could apologize to myself now – that younger, wishful, innocent self – for ever being led to believe that I was bad and not good enough and second rate.

3.

“I hate when you apologize. Because then I have to, want to, will always forgive you” he said.
“I hate when I apologize. But I have to, want to, need to know that I’m forgiven” I said.

And my love for being forgiven always trumps.

What 5:30 AM Looks Like

8 Feb

Boston.

Stay in the city for too long and you begin to see all of the cracks in the countertops and the quarters in the couch and the dirt in the bathroom corners.

This means you need to get out of the city.  Or wake up at 5:30 AM.

5:30 AM.

The streets are clear.  A little trash but no irritated Mass drivers.  No red lights (just lovely friendly the-sun-will-come-out-soon blinking yellow ones. You can bike down the middle of the lane if you want.

The delivery trucks are out.  The little Italian man is sitting in his lawn chair observing the unloading of the liquor store’s latest supply.  Even though it is 20 degrees out. Here is his little kingdom.

The smell of freshly baked bread.  Early morning noses are happy.  And early morning coffee drinkers, clutching their paper cups of speed, are beginning to bare those pearly caffeine whites in a grin.

Shop owners with aprons and brooms descend on their store fronts.  Brushing the detritus of the late evening crowd and the little icy snow crystals away from their entrances.

The runners rush towards the Charles en masse.  Long limbs encased in spandex, caps pulled firmly over ears and brows, all manner of gadgets (a GPS watch, a heart rate monitor, a water belt, an IPod) being clutched and cradled.

The Tootsie Roll factory being pumped full of the day’s chocolate-y syrup.  The workers are clean in their white uniforms.  Not smeared in sweets like they are by 10:30 AM when they take their cigarette breaks.  Yes, even chocolate workers need a nicotine fix.  Life is not a box of anything.

The city feels like a village.  It feels empty and personal and hopeful. At 5:30 AM. For those who get to see it.

The Man Who Lived on His Bike

6 Feb

If you want to see a man living on his bike for 382 days, go here:

The Man Who Lived on His Bike

Showering. Shaving. Eating. Checking his email. You name it, he did it while biking. It was a grand gesture in support of a cause. The sort of big gesture that gets a lot of publicity and followers and “Likes” on Facebook.

There’s nothing wrong with big gestures.  They can be pretty important in garnering support or proving allegiance or proposing marriage.  (Which are all basically the same thing, now that I think about it…)

But this year I am finding joy in the small gestures.

The security guard who doesn’t treat me like a nameless employee but greets me by name with a smile every single day.

The coworker who manages to work Dumb and Dumber and The Office Space quotes into a Monday lunch.  Laughing at a Monday is highly underrated.

The busboy who patiently explains some of the hidden rules of expensive restaurant waitstaff etiquette.

The engineer who accepts it good-naturedly when he asks what “his” chapter will be titled when I write a book about engineers someday.  It’s going to be called “The Engineer who couldn’t close a deal.”  It basically explains his entire life.

The handwritten card in the mail with a photo from a fun December memory.

Ibuprofen being hand-delivered to my desk when I put out an SOS.

My Tuesday-night-house-guest keeping me fed with Panera salads and Mexican burritos and Thai dishes (I eat well on Tuesdays!)

The emails.  The texts.  Even the boys who, in their attempt to make me laugh, go a tad too far.  The woman who held our apartment door open as I carried my bike in. The race official who decided I deserved entrance to the beer tent without an official bib. The friend who stayed up watching the Super Bowl with me even though he’d worked a double-shift and neither team was his. The maintenance worker who kicked my bathroom door down to rescue the Southern-damsel-in-distress.  A Mom who drives the getaway car after I commit a murder (ok, that was only in my dreams).

None of these moments will be featured on YouTube.  Probably very few are even remembered by those involved. Except me.  Small gestures need to be acknowledged because if I had to choose, say, 1 big gesture a year or a myriad of small gestures every single day, I’d want the latter.

So if you don’t have the time or energy or desire to live on your bike or your roof or your toilet seat or the top of a very tall pillar, don’t despair.  Keep it simple.  Keep it small. It still counts.

 

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