I work at a bakery. A pretty amazing bakery. Which means there's loads of tempting goodies persistently at my gustatory disposal. And when people come in and ask me how I stay "so thin," I smile politely and try to change the subject. Sometimes I attempt to alleviate myself from tripping down the path of exchanging discounted objections, vacuous niceties, and awkward remarks about lucky genetics or self-control (because, frankly, I don't know how either of those things work) and simply offer up the innocuously reasonable explanation that I run. I am a runner. Kind of.
I cringe a little bit any time I end up ascribing a designation to myself that implies both action and practice. Reader, writer, bass player, songwriter, and artist.........-er, among other categories that mangle the suffix pattern, are things that I would say I have a passion for and engage actively in. But even for my most favorite pursuits the drive comes in fits and spurts, and it should be noted that running is certainly not something I'm passionate about - at least not in any way that I have control over. It is something I do because somehow my drive to avoid spending summer days piled on my couch in front of a never-ending wellspring of Dr. Who episodes (grievances with Netflix and Stephen Moffat to be filed at a later date) morphed into a determination that carried me far beyond my usual two week "just a phase" lifespan and past the guilt ridden point of no return.
I decided to start running a little less than a year ago after I spent a month bushwhacking my way up and down dusty desert mountains, lecturing myself on the benefits of being in shape, especially for the oh-so-common occasion when a humanities student finds herself on an archaeological survey. I figured the best way to ensure that I of little willpower would stick to the plan (a term I use very loosely) would be to start small - an obstacle that has been the constant, bore-inducing stumbling block of any undertaking that becomes the hot focus of my obsessive little brain. But starting small meant that all of that pent up tendency toward excess had to come out somewhere, this time in the form of preparation. I did days of research, studying endless articles on training plans and proper stretching, mental conditioning, form, and diet, sifting through tired rants about ill-kept municipal trails and inconsiderate road-sharers, and learning about beneficial properties of man-made materials that wicked moisture from places I didn't want to think about.
I created a web of crutches, engaging a ritual of tracking and interval apps, playlists, stretch routines, and digestive coordination that would surely make it impossible for me to get out the door. But somehow, in spite of myself, I managed to not only hit the pavement, but do it repeatedly, day after day marking my progress, getting faster and going farther, and feeling that my usual inclinations toward great meals, great booze, and great relaxation, for once, had been earned. Part of me felt really great about myself... although the louder part of me hated every second of it. I battled with increasing contempt the rules that were popping up all around me: You can't go for another two hours until you're properly fueled up and hydrated; You've waited too long and now it's too hot; You don't have time to run the fully scheduled distance for today; My app doesn't function properly, how am I going to time my splits? the likes of which would send me into a time consuming tailspin of anguished analysis before finally concluding that it would be best to skip it and punish myself with double-duty or deprivation of some gloriously calorie-laden reward (Oh, I didn't go running today... I'd better not). Periodically, that contemptuous side of me would win and I would quit running altogether just to ensure myself that my increasing self-confidence was not purely dependent on upon my daily workout, that I was not becoming that woman.
I hate running. Nine months of this cyclical start and stop, physical and mental bludgeoning in pursuit of self-betterment has taught me that. But my better, non-guilt-driven side feels there's something inherently good about the potential of all of this, so I want to like it, or at least be at ease with it. So I've decided to start over, start small for real. No goals, no playlists, no apps, no schedule restrictions, no judgement, no punishment. Just me and my two legs. We'll see how it goes.
I cringe a little bit any time I end up ascribing a designation to myself that implies both action and practice. Reader, writer, bass player, songwriter, and artist.........-er, among other categories that mangle the suffix pattern, are things that I would say I have a passion for and engage actively in. But even for my most favorite pursuits the drive comes in fits and spurts, and it should be noted that running is certainly not something I'm passionate about - at least not in any way that I have control over. It is something I do because somehow my drive to avoid spending summer days piled on my couch in front of a never-ending wellspring of Dr. Who episodes (grievances with Netflix and Stephen Moffat to be filed at a later date) morphed into a determination that carried me far beyond my usual two week "just a phase" lifespan and past the guilt ridden point of no return.
I decided to start running a little less than a year ago after I spent a month bushwhacking my way up and down dusty desert mountains, lecturing myself on the benefits of being in shape, especially for the oh-so-common occasion when a humanities student finds herself on an archaeological survey. I figured the best way to ensure that I of little willpower would stick to the plan (a term I use very loosely) would be to start small - an obstacle that has been the constant, bore-inducing stumbling block of any undertaking that becomes the hot focus of my obsessive little brain. But starting small meant that all of that pent up tendency toward excess had to come out somewhere, this time in the form of preparation. I did days of research, studying endless articles on training plans and proper stretching, mental conditioning, form, and diet, sifting through tired rants about ill-kept municipal trails and inconsiderate road-sharers, and learning about beneficial properties of man-made materials that wicked moisture from places I didn't want to think about.
I created a web of crutches, engaging a ritual of tracking and interval apps, playlists, stretch routines, and digestive coordination that would surely make it impossible for me to get out the door. But somehow, in spite of myself, I managed to not only hit the pavement, but do it repeatedly, day after day marking my progress, getting faster and going farther, and feeling that my usual inclinations toward great meals, great booze, and great relaxation, for once, had been earned. Part of me felt really great about myself... although the louder part of me hated every second of it. I battled with increasing contempt the rules that were popping up all around me: You can't go for another two hours until you're properly fueled up and hydrated; You've waited too long and now it's too hot; You don't have time to run the fully scheduled distance for today; My app doesn't function properly, how am I going to time my splits? the likes of which would send me into a time consuming tailspin of anguished analysis before finally concluding that it would be best to skip it and punish myself with double-duty or deprivation of some gloriously calorie-laden reward (Oh, I didn't go running today... I'd better not). Periodically, that contemptuous side of me would win and I would quit running altogether just to ensure myself that my increasing self-confidence was not purely dependent on upon my daily workout, that I was not becoming that woman.
I hate running. Nine months of this cyclical start and stop, physical and mental bludgeoning in pursuit of self-betterment has taught me that. But my better, non-guilt-driven side feels there's something inherently good about the potential of all of this, so I want to like it, or at least be at ease with it. So I've decided to start over, start small for real. No goals, no playlists, no apps, no schedule restrictions, no judgement, no punishment. Just me and my two legs. We'll see how it goes.
