Happy Sunday!

We try to keep Sundays as a sort of secular sabbath:  a day of rest and reflection, a time for relaxation and reconnection.  I love Sunday mornings especially, with our coffee on the sofa in the early morning light.  It feels like the we are waiting to greet the day.  And if we're lucky, we can find reruns of "90210" on SoapNet - an old early-dating-days favorite.  It's a chance to regroup and reset, and get ready for the next six days.

If the weather is nice we run outside; when it gets colder, like it is now, I prefer to run at the Y on the oval track.  I like it.  There's a peace in the pace, in the routine of the run around in a circle.  I count my laps and find that my mind focuses on the numbers, instead of the pain in my arch or the inability to catch my breath.  I miss the sun and blue sky, but I get more work done on the oval track.

The first time I ever ran, I was 46.  Before that fateful day, the farthest I had ever run was the 50 yard dash - when I was 10.  So I'm getting older and feeling the need for more activity, and running seemed natural and relatively inexpensive.  The first time out called for me to walk for 5 minutes, then run for 1, then walk for 3.  I walked for 5, feeling strong and confident and determined!  Adrenaline pumping, I take my first step of my very first ever run.  My lungs start to explode, my legs shake; I want to vomit, and then just fall over and die.  I look at my watch, and I still have 30 seconds left to go.  I cursed every runner I've ever known (including my husband) and vowed that if I survived the next 30 seconds, I would never run again.

I ran three 5ks that summer/fall - then I stopped running.  Winter came, and I just didn't want to go outside.  I was consumed with writing a thesis and getting ready for graduation.  I was never good at it anyway, and I was not losing the weight I hoped to.  I had hated running from the first step I took, and it was easy to give up.

I started running again this spring, when the weather turned warm.  I paced myself training this time - didn't overdo it so I hated it, was gentle and patient with myself, had a more positive outlook and realistic expectation.  Even Ken noticed the difference; I wasn't an angry runner, this time I was a happy runner.  I think I even fell in love - just a little! - with the freedom of the movement.   I ran a 5k in October, but wasn't happy with my time.  I had plenty of reasons for my shitty time - I'm too fat, I'm too slow, I don't care enough, I'm too old, I don't have enough determination, I really just can't do it, why don't I just give up?  As I sat on the sidelines watching runners cross the half-marathon finish line, complaining and whining in my head, I saw every one of my "excuses" at that moment - a woman in her 70's, another woman twice my size, someone crying, another person moving barely faster than a slow walk.  I realized that I am my own worst enemy - I am the reason I cannot run.

I know I will survive this fight, and I will do it in style.  And all the while I will be training for a half marathon - because if I can do that, I can do anything.